#i tried the eyelid highlight thing and i like it but it looks like eyeshadow

[badatsleepbadatawake]

A silly meme I made, trying to draw more and I'm experimenting w/ my art style

[pinkcreamypeach]

Short and sweet moment.

First time writing a mareach story so forgive me. It's like hella short.. 😭

He was mesmerized by the sight of Peach, his heart fluttering in his chest as he was drawn in by her beauty. He couldn't help but stare, his eyes fixed on hers and the way her soft lips curled up into a gentle smile. Her hands held the flower gently, and the light reflected off the blue irises of her half-lidded eyes. They reminded him of his favorite things, the clear skies and ocean, and he found himself lost in her gaze. In that moment, everything else seemed to fade away, and all he could see was her.

“Oh Mario, you know what my favorite things are?”

Mario was startled out of his thoughts by the sudden sound of Princess Peach's voice. He rubbed his head, realizing that he had forgotten about the fire flower in his hand.

“Eh..the sound of quietness?” He said with nervous smile

The Princess looked at Mario with her trademark warm smile, which seemed even sweeter given the fact that she was not in her usual royal attire. She was not wearing any makeup, aside from a touch of eyeshadow, and Mario noticed what appeared to be light wrinkles under her eyelids. Mario was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he almost missed what she was saying. He snapped back to reality and quickly focused on her lips, which he saw were moving. Mario felt a twinge of embarrassment, realizing that he had been acting oddly. He tried to focus and listen to whatever Princess Peach was saying, hoping that he wouldn't miss anything important.

Mario's mind wandered, lost in his thoughts, until a soft voice snapped him back to reality. "Mario," the voice echoed, accompanied by a gentle smile. Mario took a deep breath and cleared his throat, his nervousness beginning to show. He offered a nervous smile in return, glad to be back in the present moment.“Sorry heh..you can continue”

Peach noticed Mario was zoning out, his thoughts far away from her. She suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering if she had something on her face, food stains in her teeth, or wrinkles. She jumped up, ready to fix whatever was distracting him. Peach was about to perform an action, but she suddenly felt two strong, gentle hands holding her hands tightly, causing her to stop her movements. Glancing down at the hands, she turned to look at Mario, who was the one holding her hands.

Mario paused for a moment, clearly overthinking things. Peach could see the stress and anxiety on his face as he opened up to her about his feelings. Finally, he spoke up, "No, no, Principessa. I have been overthinking a lot lately. You know, I visited my family in Brooklyn recently. That reminded me of my promise to show you where I'm from. And honestly, Princess, you're beautiful. I mean, you're astonishing."

P

Mario's face flushed as he nervously chuckled, feeling embarrassed by his choice of words. He couldn't help but look away, unable to meet Peach's gaze as he was riddled with insecurity.

"I, uh.., well, Princess. There's nothing wrong with you, and that's all I'll say." Mario's heart raced as he noticed her expression change. Her eyes shined brighter, and her ears perked up with a tinge of pink on her cheeks. Her hair became even fluffier, with curls poking out as if she were a cloud. As Mario felt a tight grip on his hand, Peach's smile returned, a radiant one that could brighten anyone's day.

As Peach moved to take a fire flower and place it behind Mario's ear, Mario could feel her nails lightly touching his sideburns. She gently placed the flower behind his ear, with the orange-red-yellow colors highlighting his hair a little. She then pulled back slightly.

"Thank you for accompanying me and making me feel at ease. I want to repay you for so many things, but please, let me finish speaking." Mario was about to say something when he was shushed by Peach, and he immediately quieted down and allowed her to speak.

"I know you've told me countless times that you don't need to repay me, but I still want to show my appreciation for everything you've done for me. You're so important to me, and I value you as a special person in my life. I'll always do what I can to make sure you feel loved, cared for, and prioritized…”

Her blush only grew deeper with each word she spoke, while Mario's heart raced as he processed all the things she was saying. He could feel the pounding in his chest, that felt like someone beating a drum inside his chest.It was a feeling beyond a simple crush; there was something more between them, something deeper and more meaningful.

“Mario, thank you for everything.”

Peach embraced him tightly, wrapping her arms around his waist as she rested her head on his shoulder. Mario could smell her peaches and vanilla aroma, with a hint of cinnamon and coconut from her lotion, making him feel a bit embarrassed for inhaling it. As he rested his face on her shoulder, he couldn't help but giggle, causing Peach to giggle back.Their arms remained wrapped around each other, as they stood there enjoying the moment and each other's company. Peach could even smell Mario; his familiar fragrance that included apple-scented shampoo, old spice aftershave, and a hint of light cologne. The scent made her feel lightheaded and cozy, drawing her in. She caught herself midway through inhaling, mentally checking herself for being too creepy.

As they hugged each other, Mario and Peach felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over them. They remained in each other's embrace for an extended period of time, enjoying the moment of quiet intimacy. As they slowly separated, they both thought to themselves, "I love you," but didn't have the courage to say it out loud. As soon as they separated, Mario's stomach let out a loud growl, causing them both to burst out laughing.

“Guess my hero needs a meal?” She lightly grins

Mario takes a deep breath and smiles even wider, this time. His nervousness was gone, replaced with confidence.Patting his stomach lightly.

“Getting to eat any of your cooking is a blessing, besides my Madre. She'll always be number one”

“What does …mad..re mean?” Confused on what Mario was saying, thinking it was a girl's name of sorts.

He smiled up at her

"And I'll teach you, Mio amato . I'll make sure you learn everything you need to know." And with that, the two of them set off towards the castle, with Mario sharing his knowledge and teaching the princess the Italian phrase for "my mother”.

//Tags- @bberetd @maceincognito @house-of-xiii @magnas27 @peaches2217//

[late-to-the-party-81]

I feel the rush, addicted to your touch

AN: sorry, not sorry - Have some brain rot filth courtesy of that scene from Crowded Room and Tom Holland’s slut era….As always an aged up Peter Parker…

Beta’d by no-one, bwahahahaha, but enabled by @buckyismybicycle

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me, with images from The Crowded Room courtesy of www.TomHolland.org

Master list

Summary: Peter’s on a mission. Whether he gets what he’s expecting is a different matter.

Relationship: Peter Parker x Sam Wilson - No powers au

WC: 1.4k

CW: Disaster Gay Peter Parker, Strangers to lovers, drug use, unsafe sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied previous SA, hooking up, anal sex, spit as lube, daddy kink, oral sex, face slapping (once) being shared, angst. This is messed up - you have been warned.

I’m so fucked up right now!

As the thought crossed Peter’s mind he giggled to himself at the dual meaning. Because he was fucked up - his life so far had seen to that, but he was also high as kite, tripping his balls off after the two lines he’d done at home before heading out, so doubly fucked up.

He supposed he’d been a normal kid once. It was so long ago that he didn’t remember much. He got flashes now and then, memories of his mom singing to him, his dad reading him a story. But that part of his life hadn’t lasted long, courtesy of a drunk driver. He remembered being scared and confused when he went to live with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Things had settled down, at least for a bit, and he’d had some semblance of happiness. 

However, the universe decided that it hadn’t tortured him enough, so it sent a mugger who accosted and killed Uncle Ben over the $47.32 cents in his wallet. That’s when things really went downhill. The reduced income, the cost of the funeral. To say he and May had struggled financially was an understatement.

Peter had had prospects before then. He was smart, capable, excelling at school, but he’d had to get a job to help out, and his school work suffered. He got angry at everything and everyone around him and made bad choices. Choices which lead him to trust people he shouldn’t have trusted. People who gave him things, did things��

Peter shook his head. Tonight wasn’t about being maudlin. Tonight was about having fun. He might be fucked up, but he was planning on just being fucked too. 

Black eye liner rimmed his dark hazel eyes, smokey eyeshadow spread across his eyelids. He’d tried to tame his milk chocolate curls by slicking it back - there was still a cowlick at the front - and it curled at the nape of his neck.

He sashayed into the club, hips swinging as he pushed through the crowd, so obvious in what he was after that the only way to be clearer would to have a light-up sign over his head like a cab. His black jeans were so tight they were almost painted on, moulding his pert ass and highlighting his slim waist. His matching black shirt was almost sheer and barely buttoned, giving a full on view of his toned abs and pebbled nipples. 

With the bass thumping and the red lights pulsing, Peter shucked his leather jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and making his way to the bar. He straddled a stool, and started to look around, peering out from under his long dark lashes, and chewing on his thumb. He wasn’t exactly sure what - who - he was looking for, but he knew he’d know it when he saw it, or rather, him.

A-ha!

Eye contact was made and not broken. Two knowing gazes locked together, assessing each other. The man walked over, dark skin shining like mahogany under the club lights, and leant over, lips close to Peter’s ear.

“You want a drink, sweet thing?”

A large hand rested on Peter’s thigh, squeezing gently.

“Whisky please, daddy…”

A shudder running through the body next to him let Peter know he’d played it right.

“You old enough for the hard stuff, sugar?”

Peter turned on his stool, even as the man signalled the bartender. He hooked his calf around the back of the man’s thigh, pulling him between his legs.

“I’m old enough for all the hard stuff.”

A raised eyebrow, and then the hand on his thigh was tightening.

“Good to know.”

Two whiskeys were ordered and quickly knocked back. Peter slid down from the stool, letting his body rub up against the one in front of him. Now he was on his feet he could fully appreciate the height and breadth of the man, and he could feel the lust rushing through his veins alongside the coke. With his hand fisted in the man’s shirt, Peter walked backwards onto the dance floor, wholly enraptured by the sparkling eyes and knowing smirk aimed in his direction.

Once he’d got into the middle of the throng, the press of bodies almost as intoxicating as the whiskey, Peter turned his body, pressing his back to the stranger’s front. Two large hands grasped at his hips, grinding them back, and Peter let his own arms raise up over his head, so his hands could rub over the cropped dark hair of his soon-to-be lover.

Peter felt dizzy, beautifully out of control, as he gyrated, letting the music flow through him. The hands left his hips to rub over his abs, sneaking under his shirt to feel his heated skin and to skim over the front of his pants. He arched up into the touch, sucking in air and rolling his body.

It was only a few minutes later when Peter found himself pressed face first against the wall of a stall in the men’s room. The music from the dancefloor, although muted slightly, was still loud. His pants were pulled down, and rough fingers, only lubed with spit, were rubbing at his tight hole. He gasped as one, then two, were harshly pushed inside him, a mere nod to prep, and then oh! 

His lover’s hands covered his, fingers linked, and Peter cried out unabashed as his body was thrust up against the thin wall. He was so full! The stranger flexed his hips, thrusting his cock in and out, hitting that spot that made Peter whimper and clench in pleasure.

It felt so fucking good! He could almost forget everything.

It was over too soon, their fervour, their feral lust, pushing both of them over the edge, and Peter gulped in air, head still resting against the side of the stall.

“Come home with me, sweet thing. I got some more sugar for you, Sugar.”

Peter inhaled through his nose and threw down the rolled $20, before falling backwards onto his ass. What day was it? How long had it been since he left the club? Did he even care? He was high again - or was it still? - and he’d been fucked seven ways from Sunday. He giggled, rolling over and getting to his feet, to bop around to the music playing through the stereo. He only had on his underpants and a t-shirt given to him by his lover, but he didn’t care. For once the voices in his head were quiet and he felt so fucking happy. 

He put on a flirty little show for the man in the chair, but after spinning too fast, he fell back over onto the floor. Laughing again, he came up onto his knees and crawled over towards his lover.

The sun coming in through the thin curtains made the man’s skin glow golden as he slouched, relaxed in an easy chair, smoking a joint and puffing perfect rings into the air, watching Peter dance. As the young man got closer, he spread his legs.

Kneeling between them, Peter undid the belt that was stopping him from getting to his prize. That damn knowing smirk had returned, and Peter smiled back before ducking his head and taking the thick, cut cock into his mouth. Fingers tangled into his curls, holding him in place as he swirled his tongue and hollowed his cheeks.

Somewhere, on the periphery of his consciousness, Peter heard a knock on the apartment door, and noticed it opening from the corner of his eye, but he was too caught up in own blissed out state to pay it much attention. That was until an enquiring voice broke through the fog swirling in his brain.

“What you got there, Sam?”

A grunt, and a flex of hips made Peter gag for a moment, but it didn’t deter him.

“Got me a sweet little thing.” A sharp tug  on his hair made Peter lift his head up, and he looked around, mouth agape and eyes wide. A tall, dark haired man was leaning against the shelving unit. His arms were crossed and he was observing Peter with his crystal blue eyes.

A light slap across his face brought his attention back to his lover.

“You listening, Sugar? This is my main man, Bucky. He’s a good friend and I share all my shit with him, sometimes while I’m still using it, so just relax, honey. We’re gonna send you sky high…”

Tag list: @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @talia-rumlow @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel @kmc1989 @mrsmischief209 @sebstanwhore @preciousbarnes @jobean12-blog

[themarcspector-hasmovedblogs]

tagged by: @multiverse-of-themind (thanks! ✌️☕) to show what my characters look like with this tag game.

i tried to shake it up by not using my usuals. i also had so much fun with this one because while it's really easy for me to visualize things, i'm not the most visual writer. so this was fun!

i'm tagging: @gothamrains / @fayelistic / @moonsaints / @thelittlestspider / @theaisstillhere / @deathlessfable / @softgayera / @outfromthesea and anyone who wants to do it. you can say i tagged you.

BODY

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Lean arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Small breast. Average breast. Big breast. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Narrow shoulders. Broad shoulders. Average shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. she's like 4ft9in. i do not know how cm works.

SKIN

Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scars. Birthmarks.

EYES

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Violet. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Close-set. Wide-set. Deep-set. Narrow. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Afro. Jaw length. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Past hip-length. Buzz cut. Under cut. Shaved. Bald. Weave. Hair extensions. Mohawk. Dreadlocks. Box braids. Faux locs. Mullet. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Red. Auburn.

TATTOOS/ PIERCINGS

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. Back tattoo. Shoulder blade tattoo. One tattoo. Face tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercings. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Top of the ear. Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Lip balm. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. BB cream/tinted moisturizer. Wears make-up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Rarely wears make-up.

SCENT

Floral. Herbal. Earthy. Fruity. Fresh. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain.

CLOTHES

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/Form-fitting dress. Cardigans. Tunic. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports-T-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Leather jacket. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sundress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Waistcoat. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers/Boxer-Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Light colors. White. Black. Dark colors. Fur/Fauxfur. Revealing clothing. Heavy armor. Medium armor. Light Armor.

SHOES

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes

lunanera rosano

BODY

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Lean arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Small breast. Average breast. Big breast. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Narrow shoulders. Broad shoulders. Average shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. that woman is 5ft9in LUNA IS TOL

SKIN

Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scars. Birthmarks.

EYES

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Violet. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Close-set. Wide-set. Deep-set. Narrow. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Afro. Jaw length. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Past hip-length. Buzz cut. Under cut. Shaved. Bald. Weave. Hair extensions. Mohawk. Dreadlocks. Box braids. Faux locs. Mullet. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Red. Auburn. Blue. Dyed. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows. Plucked eyebrows.

TATTOOS/ PIERCINGS

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. Back tattoo. Shoulder blade tattoo. One tattoo. Face tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercings. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Top of the ear. Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Lip balm. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. BB cream/tinted moisturizer. Wears make-up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Rarely wears make-up.

SCENT

Floral. Herbal. Earthy. Fruity. Fresh. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain.

CLOTHES

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/Form-fitting dress. Cardigans. Tunic. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports-T-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Leather jacket. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sundress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Waistcoat. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers/Boxer-Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Light colors. White. Black. Dark colors. Fur/Fauxfur. Revealing clothing. Heavy armor. Medium armor. Light Armor.

SHOES

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes

[realcube]

eyeliner, baby!

♡ timeskip! kyōtani x f!reader

♡ tw fluff, parent! reader, swearing, step-child warms up to step-parent trope, child calls kyōtani ‘kyō-chan’/’dad’ & reader ‘mom’

it had been a long day at work.

you were extra tired, probably because you spent the whole day working extra hard just so you could get off early and surprise your daughter. usually she never gets to see you on weekends because you leave before she wakes up and arrive home after she has fallen asleep, so you couldn’t wait to see the shocked lil’ look on her face when she realises that you’re home early.

kyōtani never works on weekends hence he gets to spend time with his step-daughter on those days, but every night he mentions that (k/n) constantly whines about how she wants to see you more. so you laboured your way through your work hours just so you could spend a little more time with her before she went to bed.

slipping off your coat, you tried to be as quiet as possible as you crept up the stairs towards her bedroom, where you heard two voices chattering away. the door was hanging open slightly, so before you barged in to surprise her, you snuck towards the gap and peered through it.

your heart melted at the sight.

there sat (k/n) on the end of her race-car bed, directly in front was kyōtani kneeling down on the floor so he was level with her. many rings adorning his left hand — yet his wedding ring seemed to glisten the brightest — which he used to manoeuvre the eyeliner pencil on (k/n)’s closed eyelid.

her face was being squished adorably by kyōtani’s grip, presumably so she wouldn’t flinch or move. although, this soon came to an end as your husband finally jerked both of his hands away from her face, humming, “okay, done.”

her lips curled up into a bright smile, outstretching her arms and gesturing for the mirror that sat by kyōtani’s knee and of course, it was in her hands within a split second. her eyes lit up, precious gasps and awes were all (k/n) could muster at the sight of her new look, “woahhh..thanks, kyō-chan!” she squealed, her legs swinging back and forth with excitement. 

“anytime.” kentarō muttered, averting his gaze momentarily so he could rummage through your make-up bag which also sat next to him, “eh? what’s this?” he questioned, pulling out a power highlighter and tilting his head to the side as he inspecting it’s contents. 

“i think it’s eyeshadow!” your little one chirped, and of course kyōtani simply shrugged and believed her. “cool, want some?” he asked, continuing to dig through your make-up bag until he found — what he thought was— an shadow brush, but it was really an unused foundation brush. 

“yeah! but won’t mom be mad that we’re using her make-up?” 

he faltered, blinking rapidly as he took a moment to revaluate his response; on one hand, he clearly didn’t want to lie to (k/n), but on the other he didn’t want her to view him as a horrible role-model that promotes theft and using things without other’s consent. so the most suitable response he could come up with was, “uh, let’s just keep this between you and me, huh?”

with hesitation, (k/n) nodded happily in agreement with her step-father. “okay!” she sung along with the movement of her pinched fingers across her lips, indicating that they were sealed shut. to which kentarō reciprocated with a thumbs-up before flicking open the container, swiping the bristles against the highlighter and wiping them on (k/n) lid. 

“hey, kid, you’re birthday’s coming up, right?” he mused, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and furrowing his brows in concentration as he worked with precision on (k/n)’s skin, careful not to ruin the eyeliner or allow any to fall on her lashes. 

“yup! i’m turning seven.”

“woah, seven, that’s old. you’re gonna have to start doin’ taxes soon enough.”

“what’s ‘taxes’?”

kyōtani chuckled, retracting the brush from her eye to move onto her second one, “don’t worry about it. anyway, i was wondering if you wanted--” he cut himself off when he heard snickering from the hallway. under any other circumstance, he would’ve gotten defensive and stormed out there to beat up the fucker in his house; but he recognised that laugh all too well. 

“(y/n)?” he called out, his lips dropping into an unamused frown as you poked your head out from around the door with an animated ‘hi!’ which  prompted cheers from (k/n) as she darted towards you, burying her caked face in the leg of your trousers as she gushed on about how much she missed you. 

“you’re back early?” they both said in unison with varying levels of enthusiasm. 

you nodded, patting her head and trying to pry her off your new outfit which she was smearing her make-up on, “yep, but it seems as though you were having enough fun without me.” you giggled, scooping (k/n) into your arms and shooting kyōtani a warm smile, “with my make-up.”

he simply rolled his eyes, trying his best to resist the smile tugging on the corner of his lips, “would you rather i ‘ave went out and bought her make-up of her own then?” resulting in (k/n) nodding rapidly while you blew a raspberry onto her cheek to make her stop. 

“we had so much fun!” (k/n) chirped, swinging her legs to be let down before skipping over to kyōtani, tackling him in a brief and unexpected hug, “i did my maths homework then we went out for ice-cream! and i got my make-up done!” 

you nodded, hand hovering over your mouth to hide your amused smirk at kyōtani’s dumbfounded look in contrast to your angel’s precious beam, “that sounds like quite the treat. did you say thank you?” 

she hesitated, recalling saying thanks for the ice-cream but deciding on doing it once more in front of you. spinning on heels, she launched forwards to wrap him in yet another hug, “thanks, dad!” she bubbled, inadvertently smudging her make-up even further on his shoulder, not that he minded. 

now you were both utterly astonished, staring at each other with wide eyes while (k/n) innocently raved on about how great her day was, with her chin hooked over her father’s shoulder. 

[ihatebnha]

GIRLY I CAN'T WITH KIRI NAMING A HAIR COLOR AFTER YOU THAT'S SO FUCKING CUTE SJDHJDHFJ

Just to make things even I feel like you as a pro hero having like a special edition eyeshadow palette or lipstick line or whatever and naming a red shade after him would be like. Top tier romance. Just "this is my partner's color and the whole world must know that this color is the person I love." I'm going to SCREAM

(also yes girl go blonde it's so fun)

(kiri hair dye drabble here!) 

No be quiet because this is making me think... Like both you and Pro Hero Red Riot being the two Heroes that companies absolutely love doing beauty collabs with specifically because you’re a couple... Like you probably always go into things together just to create complimentary products... with, like you said, COLORS NAMED AFTER EACH OTHER.... 

Like bITCH SHUT UP!!!

And yes, cheesey, I know, but... you also probably start making a bunch of ads together, and lowkey go viral for doing a video with a vogue company that’s like, “Pro Hero Red Riot and Pro Hero y/n do full face on each other!!!” with one of your collections... with him looking all beat and you looking like a hot mess... but of course fans EAT IT UP... 

And then, because of the popularity of this, it sorta just morphs into making fun videos by his own agency that are like, “Pro Hero Red Riot telling us about new collection!!!” and it’s just Kiri sitting there for 13 minutes being like, “And this is, a uh... red shade, duh, called Manly Spirit... because red is manly... I guess, okay wait, let me swatch this... *rubs fingers on his eyelid* How do I look? *cue you laughing in the background*” or OMG wait, when he’s talking about one of your palettes, he’s like “See, this one is called ____ because.... it’s for me... *literally tears up* y/n baby, c’mere...” and you have to go hug him while still recording...  

Anyway, anon... you’re so big brain and yes, I’m crine. 

(and I’m definitely gonna try but it’s hard bc my hair is dark brown so ik it will take a lot of work... I actually tried to last year and got a balayage but it looked kinda rank lmfao... so i might just go with chunky highlights reeeee)

[leoneslover]

𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 ☆

Leone Abbacchio x reader(gn!)

Synopsis: The one time Leone actually agreed for you to do his makeup.

Warnings: the reader is into makeup as well and is shorter than him, but besides that, none!

A/n: I just wanted to write Leone letting you do his makeup, so enjoy!

• “Pleaaase, just one time” you begged for the thousandth time.

Abbacchio looked at you through the mirror, a mildly stern gaze met your pleading eyes. Being a fan of makeup yourself, there was nothing that you loved more than watching your boyfriend get ready every morning. Specially after the little rutine that you both had slowly fallen into, which was doing your makeup one next to the other in front of the full length mirror in your room.

However, you always wondered what would it be like if he let you do his makeup for once. Everytime you saw him smudging the thin layer of black eyeliner under his eyes gave you a whole bunch of ideas on how to spice up his day-to-day look, if only he would let you do it.

“I promise I won’t fuck it up!” You insisted, scooting towards the edge of your bed, “and you can wipe it off right away if you don’t like it anyways, but please just once”.

He pressed his lips in a thin line, still a little unsure about the idea. It wasn’t the he didn’t trust you enough for you to his makeup, it’s just that the whole thing seemed like a step further into your relationship. And he was a little scared of it. He was about to open his mouth to refuse one more time, but you interrupted him before he could even begin.

“Please Leone, for me?” You gave him the best puppy eyes you could master through the mirror, the combination of his first name and the look on your face being the ultimate ace up your sleeve.

He sighed, mumbling something in Italian under his breath, turning around to sit next to you on the bed. You squealed in excitement, getting off the bed to grab your stuff.

“I promise you won’t regret it” you smiled at him, letting your makeup bag down on the bed and climbing up to straddle him.

“You better don’t make me regret it” he groaned, the familiar feeling of anxiety creeping up his spine at your proximity.

You grabbed a headband to push his hair back, giggling slightly at the sight of your big scary boyfriend with a fluffy cat headband. His eyes were on you the entire time, watching every little one of your movements.

He had to physically restrain a small smile forming on his lips as he stared at you. The concentration in your gaze as you tried your best to accomplish one of the many looks that you thought that would look good on him made him feel giddy inside. The fact that somebody cared about him enough to spend their time doing something so silly as makeup blew his mind.

The stood completely still for a while, having you so close to him still made his brain a little fuzzy even after being together for so long. Scared that you would back away or regret the whole thing if he reminded you of his presence, he kept his hands on the mattress beneath him, the way you softly touched him as you worked your magic slowly helping him to relax.

“Oh wow” you whispered, catching his attention. He opened his eyes, which he didn’t even realized he had closed before.

“What?” He questioned, in a slightly concerned tone as he studied your expression. You were looking at him almost in awe, brush in hand, as you tried to back away to get a better look of him.

“You should start wearing contour” you mumbled, smiling slightly, going back to your previous position, “it really brings up your features even more”.

“Oh..” you continued your ministrations, leaving him at loss of words.

Was that a compliment? He wasn’t sure, but he still tried his best not to blush at it, specially not with you being so close to his face already.

The rest of the experience went fairly normal, on the outside. Abbacchio tried to stay as still as he could, doing what you told him to do without a second thought. He didn’t really know what you were doing to him exactly, but the eyeshadow and eyeliner in your hands didn’t go unnoticed by him. At some point he got a hold on your hips, keeping you still in his lap as you added the finishing touches.

“A little bit of highlight...” you mumbled, pressing the shimmer on the tip of his nose and cheekbones with your finger, “And we’re done!”

You smiled up at him, completely satisfied with your final product. He smiled slightly as well, seeing you so excited made his heart flutter.

“Can I see?” He asked, gesturing for you to stand up so he could go and look at himself properly, though he didn’t particularly mind the position you were in that much anymore.

“Sure, hold on” you got off his lap, letting him stand up and stretch a little, before stopping him from going any further, “close your eyes”.

He frowned, but did as you told anyways. You got behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, the feeling of your shorter frame pressing against his back making the corners of his lips twitch upwards.

“I’m gonna guide you to the mirror, but don’t open your eyes!” You spoke behind him, “I want it to be a surprise ‘til the end”.

He snorted, the idea sounding too silly for him. However he played along anyway, letting you guide him on the short path towards your full length mirror. You unwrapped your arms softly, moving to stand beside him so you could get a full view of his reaction.

“You can open them now” you said, suddendly getting nervous about what he would think of it.

He opened his eyes with a sigh, meeting his face in the reflection. He raised his brows, almost completely blown away by what you did to him. He stepped forward to get a closer look, noticing how the winged eyeliner changed the look on his face completely, in a good way. You were right, the contour did bring up his features more, yet he wasn’t sure whether if he liked it or not. The eyeshadow sat perfectly on his eyelids, and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to hate it; your choice of colors fitting him like a glove, managing to make his amber eyes pop even more. He noticed how you used his usual lipstick, adding some black in the edges to bring the whole look together.

He stared at himself for a while, admiring quietly how talented you truly were. He couldn’t see himself wearing a look like this everyday, however he didn’t hate it at all, in fact, he loved it, and he mentally cursed himself for not letting you do this sooner.

“And? What do you think?” Your sweet tone took him out of his thoughts, finally breaking eye contact with himself on the mirror to turn to look at you.

“Honestly, it’s not bad” he stated, taking a step back from the mirror, “you’re really good at this”.

“Aww, thanks” you went up to him, wrapping your arms around him one more time with a smile, “does this mean that I can do your makeup more often then?”

“If its what you want then I guess...” he trailed off, looking at both of your reflections.

You squeaked in excitement, squishing him slightly as you giggled. And he couldn’t help but smile as well, giving you a couple of head pats before wrapping his arm around your shoulders as well.

“But only if you give me that black lipstick of yours” he added, only half joking, he actually really liked how it looked on him.

“It suits you better than me, so go ahead” you looked up at him.

He tore his eyes off the mirror to look at you, smiling sweetly before coming down to press a kiss on your lips, completely ignoring your complains about how he was messing his look and dirtying your face.

[chrwrites]

SOFTober day 28: Blush

“Are you sure you trust me with this?”, Luka asked as he waved a small make-up brush in the air and held a palette in his hands, inspecting the colours.

Marinette nodded reassuringly, “Yes, you can put eyeliner better than me!”, she said as she sat on the chair in front of him, dangling her legs happily.

She was the one who asked him to help her do her make-up, after all, and they still had to wait an hour for the rest of Kitty Section to join them.

Luka had gotten there early since he was done with his deliveries for the day, and Marinette had welcomed him into her house rubbing her left eye with a wipe, still trying to take the pink glittery eyeshadow she was experimenting with off.

“I wanted to try something new”, she justified herself after throwing away the last wipe and looking at him.

Luka nodded in understanding, and Marinette remembered admiring the way his skillful hands effortlessly drew thin even lines of eyeliner on his eyelids before a show, how she slowly got lost in studying his features time after time and noticed how the dark colour never failed to make his eyes shine a brighter blue under the lights, or how the glossy lip balm he put on smelled like apricot and it ended up making her wonder how it would feel on her mouth.

That’s why she decided to ask Luka to help her with her make up.

To… you know, spend time together. And stay close to him. Really close.

Have his hands on her face, feeling his breath on her skin… The usual things friends do when they are together. Nothing much.

And Luka agreed only because he wanted to help her, there wasn’t any hidden reason behind it.

He grabbed two hairpins from her vanity and used them to keep her bangs away from her forehead before he started applying a light eyeshadow as a base, adding a shimmery golden eyeshadow to highlight her eyes. Not that she needed to, her eyes were beautiful just from the way they twinkled when she was happy.

Marinette took a deep breath when she felt Luka catch her chin between his fingers and raise her head delicately, she relaxed under his touch while he hummed soft melodies, his work only interrupted when he had the had to check it in its entirety to make sure that he wasn’t making her look like a clown.

At least his hands didn’t shake as he put on the make-up on her, she didn’t complain when he made her head move the way he needed to, and he was happy to see her finally calm and relaxed.

Luka had to take a deep breath to steady himself when he asked Marinette to open her eyes, revealing the bright sapphires he had fallen for so long ago.

He still managed to draw even lines of eyeliner on both her eyes, and when he was done he couldn’t help but unintentionally whisper a “Beautiful” that made Marinette’s cheeks turn pink as he took a bigger brush to apply some blush on her cheeks.

He smiled fondly at her, his knuckles ghosting her cheeks before he shook the brush in front of her eyes, “I don’t think you need this”, he teased, causing Marinette’s cheeks to turn into a deeper shade of red. Her hands covered them as she squeezed her eyes, shaking her head. “Stop it!!”, Marinette whined, making Luka chuckle.

“I’m sorry, I just really like to see you blush”, he said, his eyes widening at his unexpected boldness. It’s cute, was what he wanted to say.

“Soooo... Do you want to wear any lipstick?”, he asked, trying to change the subject.

Marinette opened her eyes and let her hands fall on her sides, her cheeks still flushed. The make-up he gave her was something she could have easily recreated and didn’t look too heavy on her soft features. Her eyes were framed by gold and brown eyeshadow and a thin sharp line of eyeliner, but her face was clean and delicate as always. Beautiful and mesmerising as always.

She gave him a shy smile before looking at her reflection in the mirror, and her smile widened as she admired his work, “This is amazing, Luka!” she said, making him look down and bite down the smile that was forming in his face as he tried not to think about the butterflies dancing in his stomach.

Marinette’s lips twisted in thought as she valued which shade of lipstick she would go for, and hummed in satisfaction when she eventually picked the deep red she was too shy to wear outside of her room.

She wasn’t very accurate when it came to putting on bright shades on her lips, she always ended up ruining the lip outline because she spent too much time trying to make it perfect, which led to her taking the make-up off and sticking to light colours or her strawberry flavoured lip-gloss.

She waved the lipstick in the air, and Luka had to focus on stopping the voice that started singing in his head about wanting to wear her lipstick because it meant he got to kiss her lips before he took the small  stick in his hands. Only then he noticed that they were shaky, and he took a deep breath as he studied the lipstick and tried to gather himself before moving it closer to her mouth.

“Don’t make me look like the Joker, please”, Marinette teased, and her voice soothed Luka’s nerves, he shook his head and felt his shoulders relax. He went on applying the smooth blend of lipstick on her lips delicately, concentrating on the task and trying to avoid the thoughts forming in his mind.

The tiny smile gracing her lips got wider when she looked back at her reflection in the mirror, and Luka couldn’t help but smile with her as he admired her in silence. Marinette scrambled to get up, ignoring how she almost tripped on her own feet, too focused on reaching Luka and hugging him. He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and enjoying her sweet scent as she thanked him. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling away, giggling as she pointed at the lipstick stain on his cheek.

Luka frowned as he realised that some of the lipstick had smeared under her lower lip, and his thumb automatically reached for it to clean it. He let it rest there, too entranced in admiring how good the colour looked on her, fully taking in her beauty. It made him feel breathless.

Marinette’s eyes were fixed on his, leaving him unable to move. Her lips were slightly parted, and she put her hand on his, slowly making it move away from her face and intertwining it with hers at their sides.

Luka felt his heart pound in his ears as Marinette pushed herself on her tiptoes and leaned to his face, he followed her movements, leaning in until their lips finally met.

She kissed him, and he kissed her back, following her slow hesitant pace before guiding her into kissing him the way she wanted to. He could feel an unfamiliar warmth spread through his body as he got lost into the kiss. Luka smiled on her lips, his free hand tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss. It was slow and soft, and Marinette felt her skin tingle as he kissed her with all the love and care he had always kept for her.

She reluctantly pulled away when she needed to grasp some air, and Luka let out a breathless giggle before pulling her in again. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling on her lips, and as he kept kissing her he felt like he was falling more and more in love with her.

It was perfect, her hands cupped his cheek, and she guided him to the chaise longue at the back of the room with gentle pecks on his lips, leaving him chasing for more. Then he finally fell on the soft surface and Marinette adjusted herself beside him, not hesitating to kiss him again and sighing happily on his lips.

But then the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of their friends. Luka groaned as Marinette scrambled to get off him and grabbed a cleaning wipe from her vanity before rushing downstairs to open the door, leaving a star struck Luka in her room. Was it real? Did he really kiss Marinette?

He kept replaying their kisses in his head as his fingers reached for his lips, the dazed smile not leaving his face until he felt Marinette’s voice call for him and he had to shake himself from his hazy state and walk downstairs. He greeted his friends with more enthusiasm than usual, and sat next to Marinette.

Silence filled the room as everyone looked at him with an amused expression, “What?”, he asked, but the laugh that escaped Marinette’s lips was enough to make him realise that he forgot to take her lipstick off.

He blushed, lowering his head at Juleka’s snickering comments. He knew that she was going to give him a hard time about it, but as the afternoon passed, Luka found himself not to care about it.

Marinette was by his side, and that was all that mattered.

[rarebritney]

Hi! Sorry for the question but do you have any good makeup recs? Everyday and special occasion. Thank you!

i do! Here are some things I love recently:

Complexion-

Maybelline 4 in 1 perfector- this is a drugstore dupe of auric glowlust, Charlotte Tillbury Hollywood flawless filter etc. I use it as a sheer glowy base layer and dab extra on my nose and cheekbones to highlight.

Laneige glowy makeup serum- the only primer I've ever loved. Makes my skin juicy but also helps my base makeup stay longer.

Elf flawless brightening concealer- a very sheer satiny concealer in a clicky pen which I love bc I hate cakey concealers. Perfect for undereyes or to cover light texture or redness. Not a high coverage concealer, it's like drugstore touché eclat.

Erborian Skin Hero- this is kind of like a primer but it's meant to be worn alone on no makeup days. I love to put this on after a sheet mask and just add a lip color and go. It brightens a little and smooths pores.

Cheeks-

Glossier solar paint- the only bronzer I've ever enjoyed using. I have the fairest shade and it looks so natural, I love how luminous it is without being a heavier cream.

Patrick Ta doubletake blush duo- I love this bc it comes with a cream and a powder, they are not the same exact shade but are meant to work together effortlessly. I have the shade "do we know her" it's a soft peach powder with sheer coral cream. This is perfect for a longwearing juicy cheek as the powder provides more longevity.

Sunnies Face face gloss- a glossy highlighter in a doefoot wand, this is a very easy to use glossy highlight that I like to put all over my eyelids as well as on my cheeks/nose. I have the shade Barbarella, an opalescent lavender shade (very sheer).

Eyes:

Maybelline sky high mascara- this is my favorite drugstore mascara currently, I like a light elongated fluffy lash and this does this well without flaking or wearing off.

Jones road pencil eyeliner- my favorite black eyeliner, it's not the best for graphic lines but ideal for smudging. It has the best texture and is so easy to use.

Jones road just a sec eyeshadow in "icy pink"- a very sophisticated silvery pink glitter paste. Demure but very sparkly.

Kosas brow pop pencil + airbrow- super fine pencil in a million shades (I have taupe) I find it very easy to use. The airbrow pomade is the best eyebrow gel I've tried, I love the natural fluffiness and light shine it gives.

Lips:

Laneige lip glowy balm- I have the shade pear which is clear- it's soo juicy and shiny and satisfying to apply. I think I've almost finished mine. Daily I switch between the lip glowy balm and the laneige lip sleeping mask in gummy bear for lips that are always shellacked with moisture. Next time I'll buy the peach or berry shade.

Sunnies Face fluffmatte lipstick- the best matte lipstick ever imo. Thin light silicone-y smooth and comes in a million shades of nude, pink, rust and one or two reds. I have Milkshake (nude pink) girl crush (terracotta rose) and hot sauce (bright warm red). I buy sunnies face from PNY beauty as they're a Filipino brand.

Essence soft contour lip liner- this is my favorite lip liner! I think it's discontinued on their website but can still be purchased on drugstore websites. I love the shade "under my skin" for overlining. Should be like $1.50.

Hope this helps and wasn't too long! I wear all these things for every day and special occasions :-)

[artificialqueens]

Crying In My Prom Dress (Cracker x Jujubee) - Mumu

AN: Couldn’t get the Prom Queen Fantasy runway out of my head, so I wrote something for it! Read on AO3 here.

Summary: Jujubee knows she’s not winning prom queen. Brianna makes her night better.

Jujubee is bored out of her mind. Whoever said that prom is the highlight of your life must not have had very much of a life to begin with, because Jujubee has been to basement parties better than this. Then again, school dances are always boring, so maybe she should have known.

She’s been standing at the edge of the dance floor for what feels like hours, swirling a cup of punch in her left hand. Thank the heavens the stoners had the good sense to spike it a few hours before. If not for the alcohol, Jujubee probably would have ditched by now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Shea, head thrown back in the middle of a laugh. She looks absolutely gorgeous tonight, with red petals clipped into her hair, her pink dress shimmering under the cheap neon lights. She looks like every little girl’s dream.

Jujubee can’t help feeling childish in her own gown, an 80’s inspired tulle number. She loved it when she first picked it out, but now, eyeing Shea’s form-fitting choice, she sort of feels like an over-decorated cupcake. Jujubee’s stomach twists watching Shea, and she chugs the rest of her punch to cover the jealousy. It’s not like Jujubee isn’t popular, or pretty, but every school has a hierarchy. For as long as she can remember, Shea’s been at the top, and Jujubee has been playing second fiddle to her. The worst part is that Shea is genuinely a good person, which makes her impossible to hate.

Jujubee checks her phone again. The screen lights up: 11:55. Five minutes until prom queen is announced, and then Jujubee can slip away and get some real food. She’s been through three cups of punch by now, and all she’s eaten all day is some popcorn because her dress has a built-in corset and she’s not about to test the universe by risking a popped zipper. Maybe her empty stomach has something to do with her sour mood. Regardless, she’s craving fried chicken really bad right now.

“Girl!” Raven stumbles over, grabbing her arm. “You look stunning!”

“Fuck, did you pregame, Rav?” It’s a rhetorical question, given the fact that the girl looks absolutely slammed. It’s a miracle the administration even let her in. “Back up a step, your breath smells like vodka and I’m not tryna get that all on me.”

“Sure did, and fuck you,” Raven giggles. “C’mon, come dance with us!”

That sounds like the last thing Jujubee wants to do, especially cause she can barely breathe in this dress, but she knows it’ll be impossible to convince Raven to let her mope around on her own. Jujubee lets herself be led into the huddle her friends have made in the middle of the dance floor, plastering on a friendly smile.

“Juju!” Shea immediately wraps her in a warm hug, talking at a mile a minute. “Where have you been? This song is such a bop! I love your dress, purple looks so good on you.”

Jujubee feels a flash of guilt, realizing suddenly that she’s kept herself isolated this whole night.

It’s not Shea’s fault, really, that she’s a shoo-in for the prom queen title. It just hurts that Shea doesn’t even care about popularity or crowns and yet she’s constantly winning those things. Jujubee doesn’t trust herself not to be a bitter bitch about the whole thing, so she’d figured it would be best to avoid Shea for the night. It would be completely on-brand for her to make some petty little jab as a way to bring attention back to herself and soothe the blows to her ego. Jujubee doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment for her best friend, no matter how rocky their relationship.

Lucky for her, Shea has the attention span of a goldfish, and the girl is already back to grooving along to whatever the DJ is currently playing without Jujubee having to answer her question. Small mercies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention?” A voice booms from the DJ booth. Everyone turns to face it. “The time has finally come. It’s my pleasure to announce to you the nominees for this year’s Prom Queen!”

Jujubee feels the bile rise in her throat. Shea grabs her hand and she flinches at the unexpected contact.

Shea shoots a concerned look at her. “You good, girl?”

“Yeah,” Jujubee lies. “Just nervous.”

“Mhmm,” Shea murmurs. “Don’t be, yeah? We got this.”

Easy for you to say, Jujubee wants to snap. She doesn’t. Shea’s done nothing wrong. It’s not her fault that the girl is prettier and nicer and more charismatic than Jujubee can ever hope to be, and it’s certainly not her fault that Jujubee’s being a bitter Betty tonight.

“Farrah Moan!” The DJ bellows.

A light swings over to a pink-haired girl to Jujubee’s left. Jujubee thinks she remembers her from French class last year. All she really recalls about Farrah is the pounds of highlighter she came to school with every day. By the looks of it, nothing has really changed: Farrah is practically metallic under the spotlight.

Jujubee applauds politely and resists the urge to roll her eyes at the girl’s fake smile. Everybody knows Shea’s going to win. Why do they even bother announcing the nominees?

“Shea Coulee!”

Shea shifts, stepping away from Jujubee so the spotlight falls solely on her. She smiles brightly. She looks radiant, and Jujubee feels that pang of jealousy again. It’s not fair that Jujubee has had to try twice as hard to even come close to the level of popularity Shea attained during her first month here. Then again, nothing is ever fair with Shea. The girl is just god’s favourite.

The light swings away from Shea after a few seconds, falling onto Raven next, and Jujubee lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

“Juju,” Shea says, mistaking her envy for nervousness. “Chill. You’re an amazing person. This doesn’t define you, okay?”

Jujubee doesn’t trust herself to respond over the lump that’s in her throat and the jealousy clawing at her insides, so she just offers the other girl a soft smile and a nod.

“Jujubee Inthyrath!” The light settles on her, finally.

Jujubee tries not to squint against the brightness. She squares her shoulders, flashing her most dazzling smile and blowing a kiss into what she thinks is the general direction of the DJ booth. The direct light is blinding, and Jujubee sees green and red spots at the back of her eyelids when she blinks.

After a few counts, the light shifts back towards the DJ booth again. She tries to recenter herself, shaking her head lightly.

“Bright, right?” Shea laughs good-naturedly at her dazed expression.

“That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Jujubee jokes in response, swallowing over the jealousy that seems to have made a home in her throat tonight.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” The DJ says, dragging out the last word.

God, hurry up, Jujubee wants to complain. She fixes her best ‘runner-up who’s happy for her best friend’ look on her face instead. She’s been practising her graceful loser smile in the mirror for two months, and she’ll be damned if she lets any of her pettiness show now. As much as Jujubee thrives off of attention, she knows she will never be able to forgive herself if she messes this moment up for Shea.

“Your St. Charles Prom Queen is…”

Jujubee digs her nails into her palm.

“Shea Coulee!”

Besides her, Shea gasps, face breaking into a wide smile. The awful part is that Jujubee is absolutely sure she’s genuinely surprised. Shea’s never been one to expect anything to be given to her.

She forces her fake smile even wider, hugging Shea fiercely. “Congrats!”

“Oh my god,” Shea lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god!”

Jujubee feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest. She wonders if it would be suspicious to start crying. Probably, she decides. She’ll save her tears for later. Her cheeks hurt from maintaining the face-splitting grin she’s glued to her face, but she keeps it there anyways.

Shea shuffles towards the DJ, who drapes the sash around her and places a crown on her head. She still looks absolutely shocked at the outcome, tearing up a bit. Their friends gather around her, squealing their congratulations and crushing Shea in hugs.

Jujubee watches the scene unfold in front of her and can’t suppress the bitter chuckle that passes her lips. Everything is happening in slow motion. The neon lights dance across Shea’s features. Her eyes shiny are shiny with tears, and she’s slightly shaking as her hands go up to touch the crown on her head.  

Jujubee gets the feeling that all her friends are having their glorious teenage coming-of-age moment and she’s just an audience member sitting in the theatre. They’re only a few feet away, but they seem to be in a whole different world.

There’s a soreness building at the back of her throat. She has to leave, now, before she ends up having to explain why she’s crying over Shea’s win. Jujubee’s eyes dart around the banquet hall. Everyone seems to be occupied with congratulating the newly crowned queen.

Now is a good time as any, she supposes, so she slips out of the back doors and into the night air.

Jujubee takes a seat on a nearby bench, flinching at the cold steel pressing into her thighs. She shivers as a breeze blows by, suddenly acutely aware of how unpractical her dress is for San Francisco’s late-night weather.

The tears have been building all night, and now that she’s finally out of Shea’s sight, Jujubee lets them fall. Once she starts, she can’t stop, and before long she’s fully sobbing. She grinds the heels of her palms into her eyelids with complete disregard for her eyeshadow. Her hands come away a mess of glitter, mascara and pink pigment.

“Um, are you alright?” A voice asks.

She whips her head around so fast she almost breaks her neck. A girl is standing there, in a hot pink gown. Her platinum blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a voluminous updo.  Fuck. This girl fully just witnessed Jujubee having a breakdown. She sniffles, wiping at her eyes and trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

“Yeah, uh-” Jujubee’s voice strains on the word, and, to her horror, she feels another wave of tears coming. She opens her mouth to reassure the girl that yes, she’s totally fine, thank you so much, but ends up bursting into tears again. Her dignity is officially gone. Every bit.

“Oh no, please don’t cry!” The girl slides onto the bench next to her.

She pats Jujubee awkwardly. After Jujubee shows no signs of stopping, she just sits quietly next to her, hand still on the small of Jujubee’s back, letting her cry it out. Jujubee has never hated someone as passionately as this girl right now. Can’t she just leave her alone? This is mortifying.

The girl pulls her hand back from Jujubee like she’s been burned. Fuck. Did she say that out loud?  A sidelong glance at the girl’s hurt expression confirms her suspicions.

For what feels like the millionth time tonight, Jujubee feels guilt pooling in her stomach. This time it crawls all the way up, burning as it builds in her throat.  Jujubee half-falls off of the bench in her haste, stumbling over to the bushes. She proceeds to hurl her guts out. Well—it’s more of a dry heave, really, since Jujubee hasn’t really eaten anything in the past few hours to throw up, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” The girl rushes to her side, doing her best to hold Jujubee’s hair out of her face.

Despite her condition, Jujubee still manages a sarcastic, “Just peachy, thanks.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing as it comes away smeared with hot pink gloss. The girl helps her back to the bench, taking a seat next to her.

“I’m Brianna,” The girl offers.

“Juju,” Jujubee says.

“Wanna talk about it?” Brianna asks.

Jujubee almost snorts at her. In less than five minutes of meeting this girl, Jujubee’s managed to sob, throw up, and make a bitchy comment towards her. Brianna still wants to play therapist?

“Okay,” She says quietly, surprising herself. That was not what she meant to say, at all. But Brianna brightens considerably next to her, and suddenly Jujubee doesn’t have the heart to take it back. Besides, she sort of owes it to Brianna after being a bitch, Jujubee reasons. It’s not at all about the fact that Brianna’s kind of pretty and Jujubee needs to vent.

“Where do I even start? This night has been a mess.”

Brianna takes her hand gently. Jujubee tenses, but lets Brianna brush her fingers over her own. It’s strangely intimate. It’s also far more comfortable than it should be, given she and Brianna are complete strangers.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you aren’t comfortable,” Brianna whispers.

Jujubee feels something unfamiliar swell in her chest. She almost feels like crying again, but out of a different reason than before. She can’t really remember the last time someone was willing to listen to her feelings, nevermind being as gentle with her as Brianna is being right now.  Usually, Jujubee would scoff and call herself pathetic for even considering opening up to this girl, but something about the mess that tonight has been has made her stone-cold exterior crack a bit. She takes a shaky breath in and out.

“No, I want to,” Jujubee says. She feels the other girl’s gaze but doesn’t meet it, staring down at the crystals on her shoes instead. She worries a loose cobblestone with her left heel. “I didn’t win prom queen.”

Brianna makes some kind of shocked noise next to her. When Jujubee peeks up at her, the girl looks like she’s trying her hardest not to laugh and to stay supportive.

“You think it’s ridiculous,” She says, a touch of amusement behind her words. It’s an accusation, but there’s no bite behind it.

“No, I don’t!” Brianna shakes her head. Her updo wobbles dangerously at the movement. Jujubee quirks a brow at her, and Brianna flushes. “It’s just… you look absolutely beautiful. Why let some stupid popularity contest ruin your night?”

“Oh,” Jujubee says, slightly reeling from the compliment. “This old thing?”

Thank god for her quick wit, because otherwise Jujubee definitely would have been stammering some sort of awkward “thank you.” She’s suddenly hyper-aware of how Brianna is pressed close against her side and how their fingers are laced together in the blonde’s lap.

“It’s just, my best friend, Shea? She won, and I know it sounds terrible, but I can’t help but feel super jealous. She’s just perfect, you know? She doesn’t even have to try. And I’m just-”

She laughs self-deprecatingly, gesturing at herself, “Well. You see me.”

“Juju, don’t downplay yourself,” Brianna says. “You’re amazing.”

“How do you know?”

Brianna furrows her brow. “Oh. Oh! Uh, you don’t remember me, do you?”

“Remember you?” Jujubee racks her brain for any memory she might have of Brianna. Nothing. Surely she would have recognized this barbie look-alike if she ever ran into her in school?

“Jesus,” Brianna reddens. “I must have seemed so creepy then, just coming up to you out of nowhere?”

Jujubee must still look confused because Brianna explains further. “We’ve had classes together since seventh grade. I was in your homeroom this year.”

This time it’s Jujubee’s turn to feel embarrassed. God, she’s such a bitch.

“Oh my gosh,” She buries her face into her hands. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“Don’t sweat it,” Brianna laughs. “You know who I am now, so that’s what matters, yeah?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The music leaks out of the banquet hall and wraps around them, bass throbbing. Jujubee breaths in the night air deeply. It’s always the after-party silence that she’s liked the best. That feeling of shivering in the chilly breeze and walking home barefoot, heels in hand. The atmosphere always makes her slightly nostalgic for an experience she’s never had and can’t quite name.

“Do you want to dance?” Brianna asks.

“Hmm? I like it out here,” Jujubee says. “If you don’t mind.”

Brianna smiles at her. She looks pretty when she smiles, Jujubee decides. The corners of her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches up.

“We don’t have to go back inside,” Brianna says. “We can just dance here.”

“Oh! In that case, uh, sure!” Jujubee stammers. She’s barely gotten through the sentence before she’s mentally kicking herself. Of all the times to be socially awkward, of course it happens to her while talking to a pretty girl.

Brianna stands, brushing down the feathers on her dress. She extends a hand that Jujubee takes. Brianna’s palm is warm, and the skin-to-skin contact makes fireworks go off in her chest. Jujubee meets Brianna’s eyes tentatively, snaking a hand around the blonde girl’s waist.

She hears the song change into something slower, and Brianna guides her into a gentle sway. She can feel her cheeks flushing, and her teeth tug on her bottom lip. It’s quiet, save for the leaves crunching beneath their heels and the faint music leaking from the hall, but Jujubee doesn’t mind. It feels peaceful.

She’s always been hopeless romantic, has dreamt of slow-dancing at prom since she was five. Her younger self watched those Disney channel movies that cumulated with a girl being swept off her feet by the football captain religiously.

This is different from all of the scenes she dreamed up when she was younger. There’s no parting of the crowd, no spotlight illuminating her. There’s no crown on her head. But somehow, Jujubee doesn’t really mind.

“This is so cheesy,” Brianna laughs softly.

“This is our rom-com moment, I guess,” Jujubee agrees, grinning. “I don’t mind though.”

“I’ve liked you since seventh grade,” Brianna admits. “You walked into class with a pink streak in your hair and immediately cracked a joke that made everyone laugh.”

“You remember that?” Jujubee’s impressed. She remembers that hair. It was such a pain to have to re-dye her roots every few weeks that she’d sworn to never touch a semi-permanent colour again.

She tells Brianna this, and the girl laughs, gesturing to her updo. “You’re lucky you don’t touch your hair! I’ve been dying mine this icy platinum forever.”

“What? I totally thought that was natural,” Jujubee marvels. “What’s your normal colour?”

“It’s more of a honey shade,” Brianna explains.

Jujubee cocks her head, trying to imagine Brianna with a warm-toned colour. She’d look nice with it. “That sounds pretty.”

The song playing from inside the hall finishes, and the two girls step away from each other. Jujubee shivers, already missing the warmth of Brianna’s hands around her waist.

“Cold?” Brianna asks sympathetically.

“Yeah, my dress is fluffy but it’s still really thin,” Jujubee answers. Her stomach growls, loudly, and she flushes. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten anything in a while.”

“We can go get Denny’s if you wanna leave?” Brianna offers hesitantly. “I drove.”

Jujubee pauses at the request, considering.

“I’d like that,” She says, finally. “I think we have a few years worth of stuff to catch up on.”

“Yeah, well, conversation always flows easiest over pancakes,” Brianna says with a wink.

The action gives Jujubee butterflies. Yes, she would very much like to get to know Brianna better. Something tells her they’ll be awfully close in the future.

[lastluvbug]

Okay I've got another one! How do you think Leona, Vil, Rook, Idia and Malleus would react if their fem reader asked them to dress up as the beauty and the beast for Halloween BUT! She wants to be the fem!beast and them as the male! beauty. Will they agree? And how will they dress up? Thanks!

Is This My Trick? (Feat. Leona, Rook, Vil, Idia, and Malleus)

Rook Hunt-

How fun! You want to dress up as the beast to his beauty? He’d agree without a second thought, believing you to be beautiful no matter what you wear.

He’d sweep you into the bathroom, where you two would do the other’s makeup and hair, a sweet melody of compliments streaming from Rook’s lips as he played with your locks, and you his. Let’s say only one of you took the night seriously, and it wasn’t Rook.

You’d given him a wide smokey eye, blended with a little gold to flatter his hair color. For a little extra pop, you painted his lips with a clear gloss, and his cheeks with a fair anount of blush, making him look more princess-like than princely.

There wasn’t much you could with his hair, so you settled instead with curling it slightly, giving him waves instead of the pin straight bob everyone knew.

His outfit was fantastically flamboyant; an indigo colored overcoat with a tail that split into two ends, with matching colored trousers leading to black dress shoes. A vertically striped vest was beneath, covering a button up white dress shirt, a blood red bow tied around his neck.

“You’ll be almost as spectacular as Vil when I’m done!” He’d clap as soon as you were done marveling at him. And with that, he set to work.

He’d tease you mercilessly, throwing you for loop after loop as he sung little rhymes laced with complex adulation, just to turn around and lightly poke fun at you. At first, he painted on a cute little button nose over yours, with whiskers flaring out over your cheeks, biting his lip as he tried and failed to muffle his laughter at your shocked face.

Wiping it off, he’d truly go all out, giving you the face you desired after you shrugged on your dress.

It was so spot on, you almost questioned if he’d done something like this before. Your eyes had been framed in a dusty black eyeshadow, creased with white to bring out your elongated lashes. Your face had been shaped with blends of browns, blacks, and white, making your cheekbones and jawline appear sharper, the makeup around you nose connecting down to your lips in a V shape.

Your dress was almost as exquisite. Long sleeved with mesh gloves, it was an ombré of blue to black, coming to a soft v-neck across your chest that was half concealed with the same mesh as your gloves. The skirt was knee length, folding over itself to create the twirling look. And, to point out your waist, a thin black belt looped around you, the same color as your boots.

As soon as you were done thanking him and gushing over your makeup, Rook bowed as he laughed, extending a hand towards you.

“Your beauty far surpasses that of a beast, but just for the enchantment of the night, let us play the roles of prince and cursed princess! We shall sweep the crowds off their feet!”

Vil Schoenheit-

Excuse me? Did—Did he just hear you correctly? You want to dress as a beast for Halloween? No, absolutely not!

It doesn’t matter how much you beg or ask, his answer remains a solid no. He can’t afford to be unsightly, and neither can you. Though, he can’t help but feel bad when you disappointedly walk away, so he comes up with a compromise.

He’ll take your hand and lead you into his extremely large bathroom, and as soon as the perfumey smell hits your face, you know something is about to happen. “I can’t allow you to walk out of my dorm looking like a beast, but I can allow you this very special offer,” he’d say curtly, sitting down before his mirror, “only for tonight, you have permission to do what you please with my cosmetics. Do it well enough, and I’ll give you the opportunity to style my hair.” He’d grin, reaching for his makeup remover to give you a clean slate to work with.

You were ecstatic. Vil never let anyone into his room, let alone do his makeup! You eagerly set to work, using his brand name materials and trying to keep yourself from bursting.

It was a little insufferable, as Vil would criticize you ever two minutes over the way you held the eyeliner, and how hard you were pressing against his skin, and—oh, for the love of the queen, stop shaking!

At the end, he deemed it of passing quality before allowing you to style his hair, of which you accepted without question. You were quite proud of how it all turned out at the end, and honestly, you didn’t really care what Vil thought.

You’d given him a thick cat eye, using a black mascara to extend his lashes and bring out the highlight of the look; the golden eyeshadow. You’d picked up a few tricks here and there, and had executed a flawless glittery eyeshadow that blended into a dark crease, the vibrant color dotting the inner area while circling under the eye. You went plain with his hair, styling it into a sleek looped updo and letting down a few strands of hair to finish it off.

Vil was in charge of dressing himself, which he’d done prior to your little makeup adventure. He’d chosen to wear a jacket of stark white, a black silk button up shirt under and a frilly cravat tied around his neck. He’d slipped on a pair of lace cuffs, the thin mesh falling around his hands, similarly to the way his white trousers fell over his golden heels, risen a good five inches from the floor.

“Don’t worry dear, you’ll be the starlight bright princess to my prince soon.” He’d smile, raising your hand to his lips as you resisted the urge to kiss him right there.

He’d use a gross amount of pink shaded items, some for only a second, and others for what felt like an hour. Though, after all of the materials had been piled onto the countertops, he’d announce that he was finished, much to your delight.

You were astounded by his skill, though really, what did you expect? This is the Vil Schoenheit, anything below exceptional was an insult!

He’d used a rose gold eye shadow to color your eyelids, darker towards the outer ends before shading into a more salmon-esque color. He’d used the tip of his finger to dab on silvery glitter, emphasizing the natural sparkle in your orbs. Your lips were covered with a petal pink, matching your dress, which of course Vil had chosen specifically for you.

It was more of a ball gown than a costume, with a billowing ankle long skirt and a tightly fitted bodice, flowy sleeves falling around your arms while nature-esque embroidery was threaded into the torso. You looked close to a fairy, practically radiating glitter and light as you excitedly clung to Vil’s arm, thanking him up and down.

“Anything for my little forest flower. As my princess, I promise you to give you an evening that will be magically gorgeous.”

(Of course, he wouldn’t really do anything. He has to keep his skin baby soft, and that hair? Oh honey, you wouldn’t know the half of it.)

Idia Shroud-

He’d be against it at first. He really didn’t want to leave the comfort of his room, especially on Halloween, where there’d no doubt be a huge party just waiting to grow his anxiety ten times bigger than usual.

Seeing your expectant face paired with Ortho’s encouragement was what broke him, though he was reluctant to dress up. “Babe... do I have to...? Can’t we just stay here?” He’d uselessly try as you’d pull him into the bathroom, Ortho bouncing happily after.

Neither of you listened as Ortho went searching through Idia’s closet, looking for the clothes to suit the occasion, while you pulled out your makeup, both of you smiling wickedly as Idia sweat dropped.

One busy hour later, Idia stood self consciously in the mirror, inspecting himself as you and Ortho made the room glow with your smiles.

You’d given his eyes a cut crease look, using a metallic blue-blended-with-gold to compliment his hair, as well as hide the bags created from too many night stayed awake playing video games. You’d chosen a mauve lipstick to match, making his lips appear full and plump.

Ortho dressed his older brother magnificently; he chose a pair of high waisted tights that hugged his hips and calves, four golden buttons glinting off the light. His shirt was rather decorative, with a frilly collar and chest, the sleeves flowing over his pale skin before being trapped in the tight wrist cuffs.

“Hmm...looks nice. But I’m not going to be the only one doing this.” He’d grin, mischief written on every frame of his face.

Against all of your protests, Idia would refuse to allow you do your own makeup. He’d snag your pallets and anything else you brought, laughing out loud when you finally sagged in defeat. In short, it was a mess.

The dress you wore, probably the only thing that wouldn’t draw a laugh from onlookers, was plain black, with a fitted off-the-shouldered top and lacy sleeves that wrapped around your arms. The asymmetrical skirt fell down to your calves, before looping back up to reveal your legs as it stopped around mid thighs. Your midnight shoes lifted you about three inches, though you were still shorter than Idia.

Now you’re makeup... that was a completely different story. Since Idia had insisted, he gave you a cute little pink nose, a line of black leading down to your lips that were colored a dark red, black dots sprinkled across your cheeks as a set of three whiskers flared out across each one.

Idia made you a cat! A cat’s not a beast, at least not usually!! When you complained, all he did was laugh and drape his arms around your shoulders in a hug from behind.

“Sorry... I just painted you as you are. You’re too cute to be a beast... I love you for it though.”

Leona Kingscholar-

No. No no no no. Nuh uh. No way.

He’d honestly be a little offended by the question, though he’d be a dead man before he let you know that.

“Isn’t the trickery supposed to wait until later?” He’d nonchalantly ask, tail whipping in the air. He may be a royal lion, but dressing in those tight clothes was an absolute no-no. He was the beast here, he even had the ears to prove it.

It would be near impossible to convince him, but after enough of your wide eyed attempts, he’d eventually break, allowing you to waltz him into the bathroom so you could tame that wild mane and dress him however you pleased. It took a long, long while before you finished, but it all was worthwhile in the end.

The result was breathtaking, in your opinion. You managed to tie Leona’s hair into a half-up half-down style, embellished with a rose pin, a simple product threaded into his locks to create waves and curls instead of the frizz you were so used to.

He was stuffed into a yellow blazer over a long sleeved white dress shirt, the laced cuffs brushing over the middle of his palms. To compliment, a pair of black pants with a gold strip down each leg followed, black dress shoes finishing the getup.

“If it were anyone else, they’d be running for the hills right about now. Let’s see how beastly you can be, my little mouse.” He’d growl, clearly unamused by your laughter as you ran a hand down his arm.

Leona would stand by, watching curiously as you transformed yourself into the beast to pair with his beauty. After you finished, he’d quite literally be speechless, even more so blown away by your choice of dress.

The makeup wasn’t anything special, you just used a little bit of eyeliner and black facepaint to paint over your nose, dragging a slim trail to your lips, which were covered in black lipstick. You used darker browns to blend around your cheekbones, and made your eyes look a touch larger than they were with a risky cat eye that paid off in the end.

Your dress was magical, to say the least. Floor length, with silky fabrics of gold and blue twisted into elegant arched and loops over the gown, the bodice fitted and off-the-shoulder to expose your collar.

By the time you were done, you caught Leona’s intense stare, maybe a hint of a blush darkening his already tan cheeks. When you said something about he, he’d merely pout before taking your arm and pulling you close, so that his cologne and your perfume mixed into an entirely new scent.

“I don’t know if I’d call you a beast, my beautiful little herbivore. Let’s go, I’d like to show off all this work. And for the record... you better give me my treat later.”

Malleus Draconia-

Oh? You want to dress up as a beast? He’d done his fair share of research on this human tradition, and had wanted to try it out for an embarrassingly long time, so he had no problems agreeing.

He didn’t have much of a designer’s touch, so he watched with an intrigued grin as you excitedly ran around gathering your materials. “Careful, we don’t want to waste that energy before the party, do we?” He’d laugh, sitting on the chair you brought and allowing you to do your work.

He was a little jumpy, but by the end, it didn’t matter as he marveled at the outcome of your delicate work.

You’d expertly woven his thin black hair into a loose braided crown that fell around his horns, half of it still cascading down his shoulders and shining in the artificial light. His eyes were rimmed thinly with eyeliner, accentuated with a dark eyeshadow.

He was dressed in a deep blue overcoat, a white button down dress shirt underneath. Around his neck was a pristine white cravat, the ends laced with black, matching his dress pants and shoes. It was rather simplistic, but suited Malleus all too well compared to his usual attire.

“Stunning. I can’t say I’m upset with how you’ve pampered me, dearest. What ever shall you do next?” He’d grin in a closed eye smile, sitting patiently as you worked on yourself.

You worked diligently, applying so many different types of makeup that he’d become a little dizzy trying to wrap his head around the names and colors. When you were done, you hardly looked like the same person. You’d used an assortment of greys and browns to rim your face, two lines cutting down your cheeks to create pronounced cheekbones. You’d painted your eyes in a thick layer of black, shimmery silver blended up to your eyebrows and highlighting your irises. Your lips were a delicious fuschia, so bright against the rest of your face.

Your dress was immaculate, a single shouldered black-and white apparel. The sleeve was made of a thin line of black lace shaped like various flowers, snaking over the colorless bodice and skirt before rounding over the hem. It was rather short, ending just above mid thigh, a calf high pair of strappy boots at least five inches tall doing basically nothing to promote your height compared to Malleus.

When you gave him a little twirl as you put away your cosmetics, he let his eyes wander over his every part of you, thoroughly enjoying the temporary view.

“My, my... You’re truly a sight, dearest. Come, let’s show them all the beauty that will surely make history.”

There we are! Honestly, it was so fun designing all these clothes, except Rook’s. Sorry loves, I had no brain juice left and could only think of his Ghost Marriage outfit.

Thanks so much for reading, and thanks to @blackstrawberrynightmare for the ask! I hope you enjoyed!

Stay lovely!

[kusunogatari]

[ Happy Holidays ] [ @uchiha-madara ​] [ Uchiha Madara, Suigin Ryū ] [ Verse: Make Ends Meet ] [ Alcohol ]

“So...any plans for the holidays?”

Shrugging out of her coat before taking her seat, Ryū pauses to give her companion a glance. Holiday plans…? “Well...no, nothing specific. Honestly I was just planning on staying home and...doing whatever it is I usually do.” Not exactly a practitioner of any main Winter holidays, Ryū herself doesn’t have much reason to celebrate. Add in that there’s no family to share it with, and friends are a scarce commodity, and she just...didn’t think to make any plans. “Why?”

“Just wondered if there was anything you’d like to do.” Already seated opposite her, Madara’s posture is lax as he watches her do the same. “I have a party or two I’m expected to attend, and I’m sure Izuna will want to do something...but otherwise I’m rather open for once. Which of course means I must first offer opportunities to you,” he finishes, giving her a hint of a smirk.

Her eyes give a subtle roll. “Well I wouldn’t be opposed,” is her reply, tucking a napkin over her lap politely. “Did you have anything in mind, or…?”

“Hm, not particularly. I’m not one much for holiday frivolities. That’s more Izuna’s speed, most of the time. But given I have additional company this year, I believed it would be polite to ask.”

“I might have to start calling you the Grinch,” Ryū gently teases, a smile curling her lips.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes you did.” Her head tilts, thinking. In truth she has a little trouble thinking up what might be suitable. She’s always been a bit of a shut-in...what do people like to do this time of year? “I’ll...think it over. See if I can come up with something.”

“Very well. I’ll text you the days I’ve got something else scheduled. Though I suppose you could always come with me, if you’d like.”

Greys widen slightly in surprise. “Oh?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I...I don’t know.” She’s still getting used to this whole...arrangement, after all. It’s been a few weeks, and while she’s gotten acquainted and accustomed to Madara’s presence, him wanting to be seen much in her company still takes her by surprise. Part of her still sees his position as far above her own. Being invited to stand at that level - even if only temporarily - is just a little unexpected yet. “Would it be okay…?”

“I think I’m hardly disqualified from bringing a date,” Madara replies, taking a sip of his water as they await a server. “And there’s scarcely anyone else I’ve any mind to bring.”

That brings a sheepish tinge of pink to her cheeks. “Well...all right then.”

“Perfect. We’ll have to find you something to wear.”

“But -?!”

“Is that not part of our agreement?” Mouth hidden behind his glass, she can nonetheless tell he’s smirking at her. “Monetary exchanges can also be purchased items of equal or greater value.”

The color in her face darkens. He’s...not wrong. But him bringing up the finer details of their arrangement always makes her feel...awkward. She agreed to it. Understands it. And yet…

“I guess there’s little use in trying to tell you no,” is her mumbled concession, glancing aside as he chuckles.

“Then it’s settled. We can scope out a shop or two after we eat, hm?”

Her subtle reply is a nod.

As has quickly become a tradition, the pair of them are out for what Madara affectionately calls a ‘date’. Given their arrangement, Ryū can’t help but feel like the title is a little...misused. While there’s certainly a well-established mutual attraction between them, the contract they signed after those first meetings seems to nag at her like a collar around the neck. A weight that reminds her that - at least to some degree - this isn’t as genuine as it could be without that tricky little document.

...and yet, she finds it hard to complain. She enjoyed her job well enough, but freedom from it isn’t exactly something to sneeze at, either. Rather than a club of patrons, she only has one party she’s responsible for now: Madara. Her bills are paid, her worries all but dashed. And so far, there haven’t been any snags. Beyond her own self-consciousness, it’s actually been...rather nice.

So, she tries to put that thought aside, for now. Instead, between snippets of conversation, she attempts to plan out something for the pair of them to do.

“I think maybe, for your new gown, we should look for something red.”

Ryū’s eyes can’t help but widen slightly as they stroll along a sidewalk after lunch, arm in arm toward a shop Madara knows. “Red? Why?”

“It’s a holiday color, and I’d much prefer it over green,” he replies blithely. “We could do white, but you seem to dress it in so often already. A change of pace might be good for you, hm?”

“It just seems a little, uh…”

A brow perks, waiting for an explanation.

“...bold,” she decides to offer, looking sheepish.

“I’ll have my date be nothing but,” is his retort, given with a smirk. “How am I to attend a party unless you’re the centerpiece of every room we walk in?”

“But -?!”

“You’re too modest,” Madara cuts in, not allowing her to argue. “You deserve to be fawned over, admired. Besides, I’ll not refuse the boost to my own ego.”

Ryū threatens to pout.

“I’m jesting. At least, in part.” Reaching the proper door, he holds it open for her, following her in as warm air meets their faces. “Now...let’s get you outfitted.”

She lets him take the lead, unable to help balking a bit at the grandeur. Before meeting him, she’d never even bother stepping into a shop like this. But anymore, it’s becoming her new normal. Yet she finds herself unable to fully adjust, even now.

Browsing with a critical eye, Madara eventually finds two gowns to loop over his arm, heading toward the fitting rooms for her to try them. “Whichever you prefer. The rest, I think, aren’t quite suitable for what we’re aiming for.”

Unable to argue, Ryū accepts them and heads into the changing stall. Well...here goes nothing.

The first is a knee length, form-fitting gown with a split up one side to her hip. A rather daring neckline plunges down and makes her blush. She’d...rather it be a little more prudish if she can help it. Still, she emerges to get Madara’s opinion.

“Hm...I like it.” Eyes move up and down her form openly, earning a bit more color in her face. “But let’s see the other.”

His second pick is, admittedly, more her style. This one sweeps the floor, the skirt long and flowing as she moves. A white sash ties in the waist. And as it’s strapless, it hugs above her bust, leaving far less to the imagination than the first one.

Immediately, she can tell he agrees. His gaze alights as she steps out. “There...perfect. What do you think?”

“It’s more my speed,” is her smile-tinged reply.

“Then it’s yours. Let’s get it all paid for, and I’ll let you go for the evening. I’ll find the invitation at home and text you the details. Otherwise, you need to think of our own little escapade, hm?”

“Mhm!” She’s been mulling it over while modeling, and a few ideas are starting to come to mind. Whether or not they’ll work is another question, but...they’ll have to start somewhere.

Madara sees her brought home, Ryū hanging the gown along her bedroom door, visible through its clear bag.

...it is really pretty, but...she’s never worn anything so...so bright in her life. Madara’s right: she’ll certainly draw eyes in it. She might not be certain that’s a good thing, but...no turning back now. So instead, she settles atop her bed to do some reconnaissance for her ideas on her phone, scribbling notes in a little notebook she keeps by her bed. A while later she gets Madara’s text.

So the party is Christmas Eve, Thursday. Six o’clock. Agreeable?

She looses a small snort and replies, Not sure I have much choice at this point, do I?

I’d like to at least give you the illusion. May I pick you up at five-thirty?

Sure! I’ll be ready to go by then.

Have you planned out our own day?

Maybe~ Any preferred date, or…?

Anything but Christmas or its eve. Izuna lays claim to one, and the party the other. Otherwise I’m at your disposal: simply say the word.

A smile curls her lips. How about the Saturday after?

Perfect. And what is on our agenda?

Ryū adjusts her position atop her bed. Well...I thought we could try some ice skating in the morning. I’ve never been, but I want to learn! Then maybe retreat to your place for cheesy holiday movies and cocoa…?

It’s dripping with clichés, but I can agree to that. I can sit through bad movies for your sake.

Then it’s settled!

Brilliant.

With that arranged and an excited smile on her face, Ryū powers down her mobile and continues about her evening before calling a night, and crawling cozily into bed.

The week that follows crawls by at a snail’s pace. Both looking forward to and yet dreading the coming days (if only because she’s nervous), Ryū finds herself checking clocks often. At times they barely seem to move, and at others she feels she’s been flung into the future. The duality leaves her feeling on edge for most of the days preceding.

And then, it’s Thursday.

Unsure how much time she’ll need, Ryū starts getting ready...far earlier than she really needs to. A shower sees her all tidied up, drying and carefully styling her hair. The mess of waves is usually just that: a mess. But some product and attention sees them turned to ribbons of ringlets down her back, bangs carefully coiffed over her brow. Then on slips the dress, and a few tiny highlights of makeup. A hint of blush is, at first, all she wants to bother with. But after a very heated internal debate, she opens a tube of lipstick she’s never dared to touch: bright cherry red.

At first, the sight of it makes her balk. It’s so...loud! But then her eyes adjust. And she...takes out a barely-used eyeshadow pallet. Dusts a little red along her eyelids. Dares to add a little dark eyeliner.

In the end, she has a bit of trouble recognizing herself, but...it actually looks...good?

Huh.

And then she...has an hour to kill. Well, better to be ready early than scrambling as he knocks on the door. Ryū takes to lounging in her sitting space, absently browsing her phone: the best way to kill time. Forty-five minutes later, she gets a warning text: he’s almost there.

Her heart crawls up her throat, threatening to break out through her teeth when he later knocks.

No backing out, now.

A few moments to steel her nerves, she then pulls open the door.

Madara looks...well, perfect as always. A midnight black suit is perfectly tailored, the vest beneath and the tie over his chest both a deep crimson. The petals of a red rose peek out of a button hole, and he looks back from fiddling with it to her.

Her gut clenches.

...and to her surprise, he freezes.

“...is it that bad?” she jokes, flashing a nervous smile.

A moment longer, and then he seems to reboot. WIth a blink, he replies, “I’ve half a mind to demand you replace your entire wardrobe with red.”

To match, her cheeks flare with color.

“You look stunning,” Madara then adds, regaining his composure fully and offering a hand, which she takes. “But enough of my ogling: we’d best be off.”

Apartment locked, Ryū finds herself whisked to the car, a short ride across town finding them at a rather lavish home along one of the city’s hills. Modern and sleek, it seems to tower over her, as if knowing she doesn’t belong.

“We won’t have to stay long,” Madara then offers, breaking her thoughts. “Just make an appearance, say we were here, rub a few elbows.”

“...but -?”

“As much as I like free food and liquor, I’d rather not eat up my entire evening.” He doesn’t look at her, but she wonders if he knows she’s a bit...overwhelmed.

“...all right.”

There’s a bit of a wait to get in, other guests lined up at the door and talking in murmurs. Ryū, for the most part, just focuses on not looking as nervous as she feels. A few passersby do give her rather obvious looks, and she can’t really stop the heat that builds in her cheeks every time.

“Told you you’d be a centerpiece,” Madara teases, chuckling at her flustered mumbling.

Inside is only more crowded, food and wine everywhere. The home, like something out of a magazine, is decorated perfectly with white lights, tinsel, ornaments, and other trappings. A two-story tree stands in the middle of the open space of the house’s belly, gleaming with decorations.

Ryū doesn’t even have any lights up in her apartment…

“A bit gaudy, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” is her quiet reply, looking it all over.

“All for show. Which I suppose isn’t a bad thing, just..frivolous.”

“Most beauty is.”

“Mm...not all.”

That earns him a hint of a look, laughing softly as he tows her around by the arm. A few people stop to talk, Ryū mostly listening. Seems Madara knows his share of the guests, but Ryū doesn’t recognize anyone. Not that she expected to.

“Love your dress,” one woman randomly compliments, catching her off-guard.

“O-oh...thank you! It -”

“Suits her perfectly,” Madara cuts in. “I think red really is her color.”

Trying not to balk at the attention, Ryū just lets the subject lie. There’s little winning that war, anyway.

Two hours later, feet starting to get sore and her social meter just about run dry, Ryū says a silent prayer of thanks when Madara declares the outing over. A glass or two of champagne has her a little warm, and all in all she just wants to get home and off her feet.

“Thank you for your patience,” he offers as they reenter the car.

“No, it was fun! A little...out of my usual league, but I liked it.”

“Careful, I might invite you to more of them.”

“Just remind me to wear flat shoes, next time.”

By the time they get back to her building, she’s nearly dozing. Only once Madara drops her off at her door does she dare to kick off her heels, wincing a bit as she stands flat.

“Oof…”

Her fridge provides leftover Chinese food, her form flopping unceremoniously atop her couch. A buzz of her mobile then shows a text from Madara.

Thank you again for accompanying me.

Ryū can’t help a tired smile. Thank YOU for taking me. See you Saturday <3

The next morning, Ryū feels oddly...empty.

She’s never really celebrated Christmas. The few foster homes she’d been in had done so, but...it had felt rather disconnected. They hadn’t been true family, so a holiday so based in your loved ones and giving never felt quite right. It’s never really bothered her before.

And yet…

Her thoughts are broken by a knock at the door. She blinks. She’s...not expecting anyone. Or anything. What is…?

A peek through her door shows a delivery man. And in his arms is the most ridiculous bundle of red roses she’s ever seen in her life.

“Wha-?!”

“A delivery for you, ma’am!”

Speechless, Ryū just...stands aside, letting him in to set the arrangement on her little kitchen table. “...uh…?”

“There’s a card attached for you,” is the only additional explanation she gets before being left to her devices.

...this has Madara written all over it. And a peek at the card confirms as much.

Red really is your color. Consider this a final thank you, and a gift for the holiday. -Madara

...but she hasn’t gotten him anything!

The flowers are so numerous, they practically dwarf her table. Well...so much for sitting here for the next...while. But her real conundrum is what on earth she’s going to do to repay him! There really isn’t time to get him anything...and in all honesty the short notice leaves her unsure what to get him, anyway.

...maybe…

Unsure what else to do, Ryū instead busies herself in the kitchen. Flowers won’t last forever, so...she’ll gift him something in a similar vein: food!

A few hours later, she has several different batches of cookies made, the variety all bundled up into a basket she has on hand. Doing it all up in a bow, there’s a curt nod of satisfaction.

Perfect!

To her phone she then goes to text Madara a thank you (now...several hours later) only to see an email that makes her heart sink.

...well, drat.

Hey! You know you didn’t have to get me flowers, but...they’re beautiful, thank you. Hope you know that means payback, though :P But I have bad news: the skating rink is closed tomorrow. Something about frozen pipes. Ironic, huh? Should we just have the movie day instead, then?

She pouts at her phone. There are probably other rinks, but...it seems a bit short notice to change things now. And maybe she just wants a quiet day, all things considered.

Flowers are always appropriate. As for tomorrow, I’m perfectly fine with keeping things simple. Shall we adjust the time a bit later in the day?

Sure, sounds perfect. See you then!

Well...time to munch extra cookies and whittle away the evening.

Noon the next day, Ryū stands on Madara’s doorstep, kicking some snow from her boots and knocking, basket on her arm.

When it opens, he looks first to her face, and then to the cookies. “...are you trying to make me fat?”

“Maybe,” is her teasing reply, stepping in and removing her shoes. “How was your Christmas?”

“Perfectly adequate. Izuna was here, along with a good bottle of wine. He’ll be upset to know he missed the cookies.”

“You could always save him some.”

“I could,” he admits, taking the basket toward the kitchen. “But I won’t.”

“So cruel!”

“It’s what elder brothers are for.” Instead, he goes so far as to snap a pic and tease Izuna via text. “...oh yes, he’s fuming.”

Ryū just laughs.

“Go pick us a movie, and I’ll get on that cocoa. I’m sure Netflix is full of cheesy holiday films.”

“Roger that.” Browsing the selection, she grins at a certain find. Oh yes, this is perfect.

“Make a decision?” Madara asks a few minutes later, ferrying a tray complete with cocoa, some of the cookies, and popcorn.

“I think so.” She cozies herself up beside him once he sits, the movie beginning to play. But it’s not anything live-action. Oh no...this is How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

“...you did this on purpose,” he accuses.

Her only reply is a grin.

And so, they sit and watch as the Grinch bemoans the holiday before hatching his plan, elaborating stealing it away only to find regret, and restore all he stole.

“I don’t remember this being so short,” Ryū pouts as it finishes.

“Hm, nor do I.”

“Ooh, that one next!” She points at the screen, where Rudolph is recommended.

“Are you going to plague me all day with children’s movies?”

“Aww, but they’re classics!”

Exaggeratedly rolling his eyes, Madara nevertheless queues up the next film.

The entire afternoon passes as thus, the pair of them getting through a handful of Christmas movies before he finally calls it quits.

“Shall we do dinner?”

“You’re hungry after all those cookies?” is Ryū’s disbelieving counter question.

“Who’s fault is that?”

“I didn’t make you eat them!”

“And yet you would be offended if I didn’t.”

To her chagrin, it seems he already had the meal plotted anyway despite not covering it in their plans. So Ryū sits to a crab dinner, giving Madara a look. “...you’re spoiling me.”

“As is my current primary want in life. Get used to it.”

By the meal's end, she’s thoroughly stuffed and content.

“So, how would you rate your day?” he asks from across the table.

She hums. “...nine.”

“...only nine?”

“We didn’t get to go ice skating.”

That earns a snort. “...maybe next time. For now, you’d best head home if you’re going to. Of course you’re free to stay if you’d like. Up to you.”

Ryū’s head gives a thoughtful tilt. In truth she doesn’t have any obligations tomorrow. “...I won’t be in the way?”

“Not at all. My schedule is wide open. We can do the cheesy thing and sleep late, have breakfast...whatever seems agreeable to you.”

“You know, you can make some of the decisions sometimes,” is her reply, smiling.

“I make plenty of decisions in my day to day. So I’ll leave at least some of them up to you.”

“...well all right then. I’ll stay.”

That gets him to smile. “Perfect. Now...how about some wine? And it looks like it’s beginning to snow, if you’d like to step out and watch some.”

Ryū perks up. “Sure!”

Pouring two glasses, Madara makes for a rear door that leads to a balcony. “...ah…”

“Forget something?”

“It seems I did.” Hands full with their drinks, he instead gives an indicative glance upward to a plant hanging above the door.

Mistletoe.

In spite of herself, Ryū flushes pink. “...you did that on purpose.”

“Was my acting not convincing?”

She doesn’t answer, lips pursing.

“Don’t want to break traditions now, do we?”

Despite her efforts to fight it, Ryū finds herself losing to the urge to smile, sighing in defeat. “...I guess not.” Stepping up a bit closer, there’s a flicker of her eyes from his, to his lips, and back before obliging, slow and smooth.

Only once they part does Madara add, “I suppose that means we’ll have to do it again when we come back in.”

“Very clever.”

“Thank you.” Handing her her glass, Madara toasts them before offering, “Happy holidays, Ryū.”

“...happy holidays, Madara. The best I’ve had in a long time.”

“Then I’ll have to try even harder next year.”

She just laughs, sipping her wine as the snow begins to flurry. “Y’know...I think today is a ten now.”

“The only score I’ll accept.”

     Well, almost a month after the actual g.iveaway, I’ve finally got all the gifts done :’D The other two are on the art sideblog, @sylveradrake​ if you want to see them! But this is the one written request I got, which was a drabble for Phoenix of our muses!      I’ll admit I’m a little rusty writing this verse, hahaha - so hopefully it still came out all right. Borrowed an idea from a friend to make this sort of a Wintery-themed piece, as is appropriate given the time of year here in the northern hemisphere lol. And torturing Madara with Christmas movies was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up x3      Anywho, I hope you enjoyed it Phoenix, and apologies for the wait. Here’s our dorks being holiday cuties, haha~

[schrijverr]

I do my Husbands Make-Up

Dean attempts to do Castiels make-up.

Part of the Famous Husband verse, which is also a series.

On AO3.

Ships: Destiel

Warnings: none, but tell me if you want me to tag anything and I’ll do so happily!

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh no, I’m fucking this all up.” Dean said, in his hand he held a mascara and Castiels face had a big black smudge on it.

Then the intro rolled, it was a drawn impala that came down the road, it stopped in the middle of the screen and the drawn Dean gave a wink to the viewers, then he sped off again and the smoke was bridge back to the video.

They were sat next to each other, Castiels face now still free of black smudges as Dean started the video: “Hi Hunters! Welcome back, today I am making my already beautiful husband even more beautiful, which is frankly impossible, but I’ll try, with make-up.”

He looked at Cas and said: “I have no skills in make-up.”

“I’ll guide you.” Cas told him with a fond tiredness.

Dean grinned: “Great! Lets start and get you glammed up.”

“I knew showing you the beauty vloggers was a bad idea.” Cas groaned.

“What? Don’t you want me to beat your mug and spill the tea.” Dean smirked, only for Cas to groan louder and thunk his head on the table. Before the jump cut you could hear Deans cackle as it slowly faded.

Then they were facing each other and Dean was applying foundation with a beauty blender as he muttered: “This still looks like a buttplug.”

“And still it isn’t one.” Cas told him.

“Could be.” Dean argued.

“If I shove it in you ass, you’ll find that it really isn’t.” Cas said deadpan, making Dean choke before he laughed.

The deadpan expression changed into shock as Cas said: “You’re cutting that out, right?”

A mischievous grin came on Deans face as he replied: “No.”

“Dean.” in an obviously warning tone.

“Are you willing to do the laundry for a month?” Dean asked, either ignoring or not picking up on Castiels tone.

Cas squinted and the screen faded to show a picture of Dean folding shirts with underneath the text: He wasn’t willing

Dean had gotten Castiels permission behind the scenes and if Cas really hadn’t wanted him to put it in, he wouldn’t have, but this was funny, so he framed it as this.

The foundation was done and Dean sat back to admire his work and commented: “That was the easy part, look at your face now angel, cause it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Cas raised an unimpressed eyebrow and asked: “What happened to making me even more beautiful?”

“I remembered I cannot do this.” Dean told him with an open honest grin.

“Assbutt.”

“Live to please, darling.” Dean looked back to the table, “So, what now?”

“Contour.” Cas said.

Dean lit up and exclaimed: “I remember this, it’s the shadows on the face cause it’s flat now, right?”

“Yes.” Cas encouraged enthusiastically.

After having located the contour, Cas carefully explained what Dean was supposed to do with it, Dean listened closely before he started. He was about halfway through when he stopped to look and said: “This is terrible, sorry angel. I swear I’m trying and not deliberately fucking this up for the video.”

“I know, Dean.” Cas smiled at him before casting a quick look in a mirror, “It is quite difficult, god knows I struggled with this when I first started. Just try and blend it in so it isn’t so heavy.”

Dean smiled back, before trying to fix it. Cas now had two dark stripes on his face, because Dean had put on way to much, so he took a big brush and desperately tried not to fuck it all up even further.

With as much saved as possible Dean grabbed the concealer and held it up to Cas, who nodded. Dean mumbled under his breath: “Still don’t think you need it.”

That got him a kiss on the nose along with a: “That’s very sweet of you, Dean.”

The blush that spread on Deans face had been edited out by Dean and the video resumed when Dean was blending the concealer.

“You can press harder if you want.” Cas said.

“But I don’t want to hurt you accidentally.” Dean sounded worried.

It made Cas smile, who assured Dean: “It’s a sponge, a pretty solid sponge, but still a sponge. I don’t think you can really hurt me by beating me with a sponge.”

You could visibly see worry leave Deans shoulders, but he didn’t show it otherwise instead boasting loudly: “You forget that I would not only be beating you with a sponge, but also my enormous arms.”

He flexed for show, keeping it up until Cas snorted, before also laughing and returning to his task, this time a bit less like Cas was something too fragile to touch.

When he was done he said: “I think you also did blush right around now, but I think I will not be able to do that properly, so I’m not giving you a blush, not matter how much I’d love to see you with a cute blush on your face.”

Dean actually sounded quite sad that he would have to miss out on Cas with a blush, so Cas offered: “I can do it, you can edit it out and no one has to know.”

“Hmm.” Dean thought about it, then said: “I’ll keep it in, but please do.”

He held out the blush and Cas took it as Dean held a mirror in front of his own face wrong way ‘round, so that Cas could use it apply the blush. Dean asked: “How do I look with your face on my body?”

“Twice as handsome.” Cas told him.

Immediately the mirror dropped and Deans offended look emerged from behind it, Cas suppressed a smile and said disappointedly: “Ahw, it’s still you.”

“I am appalled and offended that my own husband, who has willingly married me and did so happily as I can recall, would just turn around and wound me like that. Stabbed in the back by the man I trusted most, I cannot believe this injustice.” Dean exclaimed loudly.

He was putting on a whole show and after a while Cas broke and laughed, before saying: “I’m joking, Dean. You are very handsome and I love your face.”

With a grumbling pout, Dean wearily asked: “You sure?”

“Completely.” Cas gave him a peck, then asked: “So what do we think of the blush?”

In his theatrics Dean had forgotten to look, but now he took the time to inspect Castiels face with the blush. It was subtle, but cute. He had even put a bit on his nose, so it looked like he was slightly cold. Dean couldn’t help, but pull him into a hug as he said: “You’re so incredibly precious, sweetheart.”

Cas allowed Dean to do this, clinging to Dean as well as it cut to Dean saying: “Now comes the hard part. I am doing simple things, like glossy lipstick with little color and white glittery eye make-up, the only difficult thing I will attempt is eyeliner and mascara.”

“Maybe put on power first, to bake the face.” Cas reminded him.

“Ah, yes. That. I was already planning on doing that.” Dean tried to put down the highlighter as subtly as possible as he grabbed the powder.

Cas rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment, because he didn’t face a mouth full of powder.

It cut to Dean applying highlighter, it had actually gone well and he was very proud of himself over it. He took the lipgloss and carefully put it on. He slipped at one point and looked up at Cas with wide eyes as he froze.

Patting his head distractedly, Cas wiped it away, before turning back and allowing Dean to continue even more carefully this time.

“I really don’t think me doing this is safe.” Dean said as his eyes flitted between the eyeshadow and Castiels eyes.

“It’ll be fine, I’ll close my eyes and you’ll put it on gently.” Cas assured him, before closing his eyes.

Dean hesitated for one more moment, before starting and saying: “Okay, but I’m sorry in advance if this goes entirely wrong.”

It didn’t even look like Dean was touching Cas with how gentle he was. His hand shook a bit and the end result was quite bad. The eyelid was covered for the most part, but so was the area surrounding it.

“Keep them closed, I doing eyeliner next.” Dean warned.

The line was horrible, it went practically over the middle of the eyelids and one went out too far and the other barely and they definitely didn’t have a shape. While he was applying it he kept up a constant stream of ‘oh noes’.

When he was done he said: “That looks completely shit, sorry. Can you tell me how to do mascara before I ruin that completely as well?”

It then cut to how the video had started: “Oh no, I’m fucking this all up.” Dean said, in his hand he held an mascara and Castiels face has a big black smudge on it.

Cas opened his eyes slowly and made eye contact with Dean, who look apologetically at him. He asked: “Want me to fix it?”

“Please.”

Then it cut to a few shots of Castiels make-up. It was pretty bad with too much contour and entirely fucked up eye make-up, but it could’ve been much much worse.

Cas had already seen the make-up throughout the video, so there wasn’t a reveal moment, but there was a brief clip of Cas looking into a mirror and saying: “This is not as bad as I expected, congratulations.”

And Dean beaming proudly at the complement.

It cut to the endcard and Dean said: “That might not have been the most entertaining video, because I was focusing a lot on the make-up and not on the banter, but I hoped you liked it anyway.”

Cas piped up next to him: “I enjoyed it.”

“Thank you, angel.” Dean smiled, “If you enjoyed it too, please leave a like and a comment down below and click the subscribe button and ring that bell to see when I upload again. There will also be links to click to see more of me and more of Cas, so click on them if you want to. And that was pretty much it. Wanna do the outro?”

“Uh, sure?” Cas said very unsure, then turning to the camera he smiled awkwardly: “Bye Hunters, see you on the road.”

“Bye!” Dean called out, then the video ended.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I love how much Dean actually

tried, what an A+ husband

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

cass doing the outro was so cute

we stan an awkward cute nerd

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

DEAN ACTUALLY WATCHED THE BEAUTY VLOGGERS LOLLLLLL

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dean was so gentle with Castiel

and I’m literally crying, I want

someone who treats me like that

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

the beauty blender buttplug

moment, i cant

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

is he really not going to say

anything about the fact that he

has a fucking kid? alright….

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dean using gay beauty slang

both added and retracted ten

year of my lifespan

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I wouldnt mind if dean beat me

up with his enormous arms ;)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This was so incredibly mushy,

would 100% get a tooth rotting

fluff tag on AO3, and I loved

every second of it

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

SO CUTEEEE

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

[7-wonders]

Shatter pt. 12

Summary: The end. Or, alternatively, the beginning.

Word Count: 2,834

A/N: This is it! The last chapter of Shatter. Depending on feedback, I may or may not do an epilogue, but the story ends here. Thank you so much for reading. Feedback is always appreciated, as are likes and reblogs. If you enjoyed, I have a lot more writing that you should check out on my masterlist!

The sun shines high in the sky, a stark change from the smoke-filled, ashy skies that dominated the original timeline. Those that still inhabit the Earth (most of them), however, have no memory of that timeline. For them, this is their only timeline. This is all that they know, and all that they will know. Only a privileged few are privy to the knowledge of how this timeline came to be.

Cordelia Goode is dragged through the desert by the guards that once swore their lives to protect her. She refuses to scream, remaining silent and defiant as she’s thrown onto her knees in front of what will be her demise. Her white robes become sullied with the reddish-brown dirt below her, nearly being pressed into the ground by one stoic guard as the other gets the ropes ready to restrain her to the stake. The worst part about this method of killing her, Cordelia thinks bitterly while she’s hauled back up and marched directly to the stake, is that she knows exactly what’s going to happen.

Michael had made good on his promise to make Cordelia watch as the world came to an end, making her painfully aware of every little thing that happened throughout the course of the apocalypse. At first, she had tried to just ignore the television that was constantly turned into the news and the newspapers that were in her prison everyday. For a while, it had worked as well as desensitizing oneself to a stream of droning voices that never shut up can be. Eventually, Michael had gotten bored of letting her think she was winning, and had much more fun manipulating her dreams so that she had no choice but to know everything that was happening outside the four walls she had come to know as her home over the past three years.

Cordelia tilts her head to the side, watching as her beloved mentor, Myrtle Snow, is dragged to her own stake. She’s dressed in the same white garments as Cordelia, not having been allowed the concession of picking her death robes like she had for her second burning at the stake. Unlike Cordelia, Myrtle refuses to remain silent, questioning “why must you be so brutish towards a lady?” and if “there will be refreshments provided prior to our executions?”

They file in slowly when the bell tolls at noon, all dressed in their finest black attire. Some of Cordelia’s former students, such as Coco and Queenie, refuse to look their disgraced Supreme in the eyes. Whether it’s because they can’t bear to face the thought of possible betrayal or because they won’t look at someone who attempted to murder one of her ‘girls’ in cold blood, Cordelia can’t be sure. Other students, like Madison, stare smugly, triumphantly at Cordelia. Still others, like Mallory (sweet Mallory, who was supposed to be the one to save the world, to defeat the great evil that is Michael Langdon), look at Cordelia, but only hesitantly and when she thinks nobody’s looking. The idle chatter of those who will observe the executions stops, and Cordelia knows that can only mean one thing: the Antichrist has arrived.

Cordelia senses him before she sees him, can feel the heavy air that accompanies his presence. If she listens closely, she swears that she can hear the agonized screams of souls being tortured in Hell with every step the son of the Devil takes. When she does see him, she has to fight to stop the shudder that threatens to wrack through her body.

Michael Langdon makes his triumphant entrance clad in all the finery that one would expect the ‘king’ (Cordelia refuses to actually refer to him as such) of this Hell on Earth to have available to him. His red suit jacket and black shirt give Cordelia an odd sense of deja vu, but she’s not sure where it comes from. The luxurious red-lined black cloak that’s draped over his shoulders is fastened with two ornate pentagrams, the silver perfectly contrasting the onyx crown that sits atop his golden locks. His bright blue eyes, only accentuated more with the deep red eyeshadow that highlights his inner eyelid, twinkle with mirth as his full lips pull up into a smirk.

Michael takes his time swaggering up to his chosen position in front of Cordelia, standing mere feet away from her. She wants to punch him, kick him, scratch him, hurt him, but she can’t. Even if she could free herself, it would be impossible for her to use her magic. She hasn’t been able to use her magic since the night she was imprisoned, Michael locking up her abilities just like she had been planning to lock up (Y/N)’s soul.

Idly, Cordelia wonders what’s become of you. She had managed to get the knife in deep enough that you were bleeding pretty heavily; maybe Michael was too late? She doubts it, but she doesn’t see you, which gives her hope. Surely, if you were alive, you would be right by Michael’s side as his ‘queen.’ There’s no way that he wouldn’t take the chance to rub it in her face that she failed.

“Myrtle Snow,” Michael says teasingly, relishing in the sweet taste of victory, “Cordelia Goode. For the attempted murder of your queen and fellow witch, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), and conspiring to commit treason against the new world, I, Michael Langdon, Antichrist and king of this new world, sentence you to death by fire.”

Two of the guards pick up cans of gasoline, emptying them onto the condemned women. Cordelia coughs and sputters as some of the gasoline gets into her mouth, but Myrtle refuses to even look down at them.

“Our people have long stood by an agreement that no warlock...or other male magic user,” Michael smirks, knowing as well as everybody that he’s no ordinary warlock, “may kill a condemned witch. Only your sister may light the flame. I do not intend to break with that tradition today.”

Bitterly, Cordelia realizes that he’s reciting the speech she had given before the attempted execution of Ms. Mead. She looks expectantly at Mallory, assuming that the girl she’s trained to become the Supreme will light the flame that consumes her.

That assumption goes flying out the window the moment that you appear via transmutation, your darkly-painted lips turned up in a sickeningly misleading smile. Your black dress, long and form-fitting, flows behind you in the wind as you take Michael’s outstretched hand. A matching black crown, daintier than Michael’s, is perfectly placed on your head. You look everything like the queen Michael has proclaimed you to be, and Cordelia notices with a sinking stomach that the power seems to almost visibly spark and crackle around you.

“I’ll allow you to do the honors,” Michael says softly to you, stroking the hair that surrounds your face and smiling at the sight of you in a crown.

“Are you sure? I know you’ve been waiting years for this.” It’s not that you’re hesitant; actually, you’d be more than happy to end the life of the woman who’s manipulated and ruined your life for the past five (has it been five? It could be less, but it’s felt like a lifetime has passed since that day Michael stormed into Miss Robichaux’s with an AI machine gun). You’re worried that you’re stealing Michael’s magnum opus right out from under him, the thought of which you almost can’t bear.

Michael, sensing your unease at possibly upsetting him, smiles reassuringly. “Nothing would give me greater joy than seeing you, my dear, take what’s yours.” With that, you nod and turn your gaze back to the two women in front of you.

Myrtle Snow can see the fire building in your eyes even before it begins to catch on the gasoline that she’s bathed in. You shoot her a pitying look, “don’t worry. Your death will be quick compared to Cordelia’s.” With only a tilt of your head, the fire quickly starts.

Myrtle’s screams echo across the sparse landscape, neither you nor Michael making a move for Cordelia until long after the red-haired witch has become merely a smoldering pile of remains. You both want to be absolutely sure that Cordelia feels the enormity of her looming death.

“As for you, Miss Cordelia,” you spit vehemently before flicking your wrist. Immediately, the Supreme cries out in agony. It feels as if the blood in her body has been replaced with molten-hot lava, a torturous heat coursing through her veins. If your power’s anywhere close to what she believes it to be, then she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s actually the case. “You’ve spent years dictating how my life plays out. You prevented me from seeing the love of my life, attempted to have my memory wiped, and not to mention the time that you almost killed me.”

“Everything I did, I did for your benefit!” Cordelia calls out, screaming when she feels deep cuts spontaneously open on the soles of her feet. With no way to sit or relieve the pressure, she’s forced to stand and exacerbate the wounds.

“No, everything you did was for your benefit.” You stalk closer to the stake, Michael more than happy to let you have your moment. “I used to idolize you, you know? You were everything I hoped to become. And then I saw you for what you truly are: no better than your greedy, vain, power-hungry, bitch of a mother.”

“You can’t kill me,” Cordelia starts to laugh, “I’m your Supreme, you insolent girl. Do you truly believe that the coven will let you get away with this?”

“We already have,” Michael says haughtily from behind you. “Look around you, Cordelia. Your ‘coven’ has long-since accepted their places in this new world order: as our loyal subjects.”

“You attempted to murder one of your own. Who’s to say that you wouldn’t do the same to any of them?” You shoot a false-sympathetic look at Cordelia, almost pitying her for her naivety towards this situation.

Cordelia looks around, sure that, at any moment, her girls will rise up and free her. Surely, this must be some elaborate ruse, some long-conceived plan to save their Supreme? All Cordelia finds in the faces of the girls she once called ‘hers,’ however, is varying looks of disdain, apathy, and disgust.

A whine slips past her lips before she can catch it, and she closes her eyes tightly to avoid seeing the faces of those she once mentored as she’s burned alive. Her eyes are, of course, then forced open by your magic. She can’t even look away from you, frozen on your face as you smile softly and lean in so you’re mere inches away from her.

“I want my face to be the only thing you see as you die,” your voice drops to nearly a whisper, your smirk evident as you back up and rejoin hands with Michael. You hold up your hand, poised to snap into existence the spark that will end Cordelia’s life. “Anything else to add?”

“Mallory will put an end to this. When I die, she’ll assume the role of Supreme and rise to her destiny, which is to defeat the Antichrist,” Cordelia spits. To her shock, your laugh peals through the air.

“You really haven’t figured it out? I am the next Supreme. I would have thought that the raw power flowing off of me was enough of a clue, but I guess not,” you shrug. “And I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Michael.”

“I do have one other thing to add, my love.” Michael smiles at you, before resuming his stone-cold demeanor to face Cordelia. “Give my regards to my father.”

The snap of your fingers seems to reverberate across the plane, Cordelia’s wailing following soon after. You can both feel it the moment her soul leaves her body, only yours is due to the influx of powers as one Supreme falls and another rises. Michael catches you in his arms as your knees buckle, your nose bleeding as your body taking a moment to get used to the immense power that flows through your veins. Michael smiles reassuringly when you look up at him, kissing you and taking pleasure in licking the blood off of your lips.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks.

“I wanna leave,” you mutter, eyes conveying just how difficult it’s been for you to put up this facade.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” Michael would move the stars for you if asked, so fulfilling your request to leave this environment is far-too easy. With a curt nod to some of his followers, conveying that it’s their job to see the execution through, Michael takes your hand and disappears with you.

//

Michael doesn’t bring up the day’s events until much later, when you’ve both had a chance to decompress back home at the Sanctuary. You’re sitting at a vanity in the corner of your room, combing through your hair after your shower. When Michael comes in, holding two glasses of what you assume to be celebratory champagne, you smile.

“Hi,” you say quietly, turning your head to kiss him.

“Hi. I’m sorry about today.” You can hear the pain in his voice, and you frown.

“Don’t be, I’m the one who asked if I could do it.”

“Still, I should have known that this naturally would have been difficult for you.” Michael grabs your hand, pulling you up from your seat so that he can be sure you’re listening. “I’m proud of you, though.”

You can’t help but to scoff. “For what? Killing people?”

“No,” he says patiently, “for facing your demons.”

“Cordelia wasn’t--” even after all she’s put you through, you still find yourself automatically jumping to her defense. “How do you do it so effortlessly? Even in the Outpost, when I killed Ms. Venable, I still felt bad. She had done nothing but abuse me for eighteen months, and yet I was remorseful after I snapped her neck.”

“It’s because you have a conscience. You have a soul, that’s so bright and beautiful and complicated and you. Killing, my love, isn’t in your nature. Of course, you can do it when need be, but you’re not a monster like I am.”

“Don’t,” you say sternly, “you know I hate when you call yourself that.”

“Is it not true?” Michael retorts. “I’m a killer, (Y/N). I kill these people, and I feel nothing. Maybe some relief, or a sense of satisfaction, but nothing more. I killed almost all of the world’s population without blinking an eye, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. That’s what makes us so different.”

“But it’s also why we work so well together, isn’t it?” Taking the glasses of champagne from him, you place them on the table as his hands go to your hips.

“It’s why you’re my queen,” Michael concurs. A smirk spreads on your face, all thoughts of death and destruction gone in a mere second.

“Mhm, say it again?”

“My queen. My sweet, beautiful queen whom I adore to Hell and back again.” You giggle as Michael sweeps you into his arms, tossing you on the bed. “Nothing can harm us now, my queen. We’re unstoppable together.”

“We’ve conquered every obstacle we’ve faced, and we’ll continue to do so”

Michael begins to crawl towards you. “We won. This world is ours now, to see to it as we please.”

“There’s only one thing I want to see to right now,” you say suggestively, leaning back on your arms as he begins to lay over you.

“Why, you couldn’t be insinuating what I believe you are?” Michael says in mock-shock, and you bite your lip.

“Maybe...we christen this bed?” Michael’s lips finally meet yours, both of you humming contentedly.

“And after that, we christen the bathroom, and the other bedrooms, and my office…” With each new location, he kisses a different part of your face.

“The kitchen, and maybe the balcony as well,” you suggest, earning a kiss to your cleavage.

“Excellent ideas, but I feel as if those locales will have to wait for tomorrow.”

“Shame,” you muse quietly, allowing Michael to start tugging your dress off.

“A true shame,” Michael agrees lowly, nearly ripping your dress off of your body. In this moment, as you’re here with Michael and with no responsibilities, is one you’d like to bottle up and capture forever. “First…”

He gets up from the bed, leaving you frowning as he grabs the forgotten glasses of champagne and hands one to you.

“Setting the mood?” you tease.

“I believe a celebratory toast is in order.” Michael raises his glass, trying to think of a proper toast for this occasion. “To…”

“To…” you murmur as well, thinking for a moment. “To us, and the rest of our forever.” Michael nods, his wide smile making it almost impossible to kiss you.

“To the rest of our forever.”

//

Tag List: @sammythankyou @queencocoakimmie @girlycakepops @sebastianshoe @pastel-cloudz @nana15774 @lichellaw @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @dandycandy75 @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @everything-is-awesomesauce @ccodyfern @jimmlangdon @langdonsdemon @langdonslove @omgsuperstarg @nsainmoonchild @mrsnegan25

[bluezey]

I thought this blue mascara would be one of the strangest things I've ever bought, and if you know me that's saying something 🤣 but I tried it on this morning before church, and it's so good! It's blue, but despite being a medium bright blue, it's so subtle! So subtle that I couldn't even get it to show up in a selfie! Ian Lightfoot doesn't have blue eyelashes, in fact he doesn't even have eyelashes! I guess to keep the characters a bit stylized, Pixar gave the characters black lines on their top eyelids, like eyeliner. It's fascinating how Pixar went all out and gave these characters in Onward veins, tendons, pores, hell when the lighting hits them just right you can see the tiny clear body hairs, they put tiny clear body hairs all over their body. But, Pixar decided not to give them eyelashes or nostrils in some weird form of restraint to keep them from looking so real it's bizarre. Anyway, I'm rambling, see Onward, it's really good, back to my point 😂 Anyway, Ian Lightfoot doesn't have eyelashes, yet I love the subtilty of this blue mascara that I want to use it in my Ian Lightfoot costume! I already have the blue eyeshadow, the lipstick, and now the unnecessary blue mascara, and I may attempt the highlight blush I have to make the pink blush in his blue cheeks. But as for his blue skin itself, I'm not going all out, I'm instead just going to find the right makeup to use as a light blue blush 😅

[chapitre7]

The heart at the tip of a brush

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

College / Drama Club AU

Read on AO3

Mo Xuanyu had always been their make-up artist. Lan Zhan had always been in charge of the costumes, ever since Wei Ying found the sketchbook where he kept the designs he came up with in the hours between sleep and homework, when he allowed himself to flounder the wings of his imagination. Embarrassed as he was of his hobby, he didn’t even know why he had carried the sketchbook with him that day (maybe confused it with his regular notebooks?), but after the initial shock of being discovered, he had relented to Wei Ying’s cries and pleadings and had agreed to be the last member in his brand new drama club. What set them apart, Wei Ying had told him with exaggerated gallantry, was that they’d write their own plays and enact them, instead of somebody else’s. Pretty big talk for someone who wouldn’t actually do the writing, Jiang Cheng barked, but he still joined the club anyway, the flair for the dramatic flowing in his veins as much as it did in Wei Ying’s; truly brothers, no matter the blood ties and several other differences between them.

 So the club started then, each one of them being responsible for too many things and also not much at all, in those early days of chaotic planning, until they gathered more members and set a clear goal in mind: the school festival. It was an embarrassment, as school projects often were, but Wei Ying’s joy at seeing all of their work fulfilled in an hour of glory (“What glory? MianMian forgot her lines and ruined my impeccable script, Brother Wei! It won’t do, it really won’t do!”) somehow emboldened them to try harder and strive higher. So, at Wen Ning’s suggestion, on their second year, they started enacting plays at the local orphanage. The reward of the kids’ starstruck faces fed them better than any feast, and so they continued, every year, sometimes twice a year, all the way till college.

 With such responsibility on their shoulders, it was natural for everyone to get pumped up, even going so far as to enlist some of their family members to lend their hands. Such as Lan Zhan sewing all of their costumes with his brother’s help, who had an eye for subtle details that Lan Zhan treasured, as he always did with all of his brother’s inputs throughout his life. Along with elder brother Lan came Meng Yao, who enriched Nie Huaisang’s scripts with twists and turns that made the fan-wielding boy think up even wilder twists and turns that Wei Ying’s creative mind ate up like his favorite spicy pumpkin-flavored cookies from the local coffee shop (that literally nobody but him liked). Jiang Cheng was their lead actor, Luo Qingyang, stage name MianMian, their lead actress, and everybody did a little bit of acting, even if they had no lines, as was often the case with Lan Zhan (at Wei Ying’s request).

 And Mo Xuanyu was in charge of their make-up.

 Not Lan Zhan.

 Never Lan Zhan.

 Yet there he is, covering for the sick man, standing in front of a smiling Wei Ying, who looks every bit like the evil sorcerer that they had perfected through the years, while Nie Huaisang, the second-best make-up artist of their little rogue troupe, frenzies over MianMian.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, the gentle tone of his voice coloring his name, holding the familiar hint of apology that he often uses when he drags Lan Zhan to adventures his friend doesn’t appreciate as much as Wei Ying had anticipated. “It’s really not that difficult. It’s not too different from coloring your designs, and you’ve seen the end results. This is nothing your brilliant, talented hands can’t handle!”

 Flattery could get him anywhere as long as Lan Zhan was involved, but the young man still swallows down around the anxiety that has installed itself at his stomach like acid, not having much to do with being able to pull off a decent make-up job and everything to do with leaning over Wei Ying and painting on him like a canvas.

 Unaware of the not-so-honorable battle that Lan Zhan fights against himself, Wei Ying places the eyeshadow palette in Lan Zhan’s palm and leans against the back of the chair, tilting his face up. It’s so innocent, so trusting and professional, and Lan Zhan leans over him for a brief second before remembering he’s not holding any brushes. How surprised would everyone be if Lan Zhan simply bolted out of the modest, well-lit bedroom that they used as a dressing room and screamed in the backyard full of children waiting for the play to begin? He can’t even process the mental image, but knowing that it’s impossible seems to ground him.

 Firmly holding a brush in his hand, Lan Zhan swallows again — doesn’t scream —, inhales, and sets himself to work.

 It really isn’t so difficult once he begins. He knows exactly what color Mo Xuanyu uses on Wei Ying, so accustomed he is to seeing his friend play the fearsome Yiling Patriarch. It’s a highlight of red on the crease of his eyes, to give him a sharper look, scheming and compelling at the same time. Lan Zhan uses his own thumb to smudge the same red on his eyelids, just a tiny bit, just a brush of color, a gradient of red that matches up with the color scheme that Lan Zhan set up for his character a long time ago, which was really just a fantasy take on Wei Ying’s own style.

 With a thin brush, he sets to draw a perfect black contour on Wei Ying’s lash line, for when he opens his eyes, he needs him to look as if he could transmutate into a cat at any given moment, so round and marble-like those brown eyes look then, mesmerizing the audience.

 Satisfied with his job on his eyes, Lan Zhan sparkles a peach color on his cheeks so he looks healthy and ready to gobble up misbehaving children. And then his lips...

 He curses Mo Xuanyu and his food poisoning, and then he mentally apologizes. All those years in high school trying to ignore just how pretty Wei Ying is as he tried to get Lan Zhan’s attention, how pretty he even was when he was asleep and drooling on Lan Zhan’s dinner table where they were supposed to brainstorm the theme of their next play. Years of trying not to betray the honesty of their friendship, because he could spend forever watching the endless capability Wei Ying’s ideas, and he liked being included in his group, doing something that he had been curious about but ignoring for the sake of his academic success, until Wei Ying taught him that he could have both the success and the fun of doing something you like. All of it, and also the dreams where Wei Ying kissed him (because he was never the one to initiate it), touched him, pinned him to the floor from where he fell in endless loops — all of his inappropriate desire falls upon a single, tiny brush of red.

 Holding Wei Ying’s chin, he glides the brush, shiny and glossy, over the center of Wei Ying’s lower lip and then out to the sides. Then he draws the heart shape of his upper lip, careful not to color outside the natural lines of Wei Ying’s mouth, slowly, slowly covering every corner with calculated precision. He’s mindful not to use too much product, knowing by its consistence that it can smear unsightly, but it still accumulates in the corners, and he wipes it away with his digit, using the tip of his nail to draw the proper line again.

 His gaze moves up and the eyes he framed are looking straight at him. How long had he been staring at him? How long had Lan Zhan even been working? And why can’t he hear the others getting ready around them?

 His breathing, that had been steady — and he had, by all accounts, been touching Wei Ying’s face as he hovered over him, trying to make him even more beautiful than the memory of their past plays — fails him as the tip of Wei Ying’s tongue peaks through, just the tip, before he touches his lips together. His teeth look whiter with that red framing them, and Lan Zhan can’t look away, he’s mesmerized by that mouth that loves to talk to him, pouring out considerations from topics Lan Zhan had never even considered but that he understands when Wei Ying talks about them. But now he’s not talking, his lips are just perfect and unmoving and parted, and Wei Ying still has his chin tilted up at him, and he’s so near. Why isn’t Wei Ying saying anything? Where is everyone? Why is he gripping the arms of Wei Ying’s chair—

 “Are you done there yet?!”

 Jiang Cheng’s call is very clear and very near, and Lan Zhan is aware that he has made an undignified jump away from his position in 0.1 seconds flat. He expects Wei Ying to laugh at him, as he does in almost every situation, but when Lan Zhan dares to raise his eyes back at his friend, he’s also standing and adjusting his cuffs before checking his reflection on a nearby mirror.

 “Wow,” is all that he says about Lan Zhan’s work, and Lan Zhan is surprised that, despite the panicked drumming of his heart against his chest that spells out all of his secret infatuation, he’s still glad that Wei Ying seems pleased about the results.

 “I... I kept it simple,” he says, and it’s true. Xuanyu uses a plethora of products that Lan Zhan doesn’t quite begin to understand the purpose of, and he still wouldn’t have taken as long as Lan Zhan did given his expertise.

 Wei Ying, however, just shakes his head and gives him an honest (and painfully distracting) smile.

 “These kids are in for an especially striking Yiling Patriarch today,” he says and smirks, and Lan Zhan wants to kiss him and die, and those ideas don’t feel as isolated as he originally thought they’d be. “Let’s go, Lan Zhan.”

 Lan Zhan is terribly relieved that they had decided to write him out for today, because he’s not confident he’d remember to say any of his lines, even if they were just mostly hums, with Wei Ying playing his flute in a particularly intense tempo, eyes glued on him, as if he was the one he wanted to enchant.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan, create my new character with me.”

 That is the sole reason why Wei Ying arrives early to one of the few classes they have together, the very next week after their performance. Their professor is never late, but that doesn’t keep Wei Ying from throwing his notebook at him, an old thing, full of scribbles that date to a place in time when they didn’t even know each other. Wei Ying makes a list of attributes, sitting in his own space but leaning over Lan Zhan’s desk with inspiration at the tip of his tongue. He looks up at Lan Zhan with eyes that might as well sparkle like in the comics he once convinced Lan Zhan to read.

 “I want to be a hero,” Wei Ying says, voice brimming with an emotion Lan Zhan can’t quite place, and they’re only forced out of their own world when the professor clears his throat loudly, quite pointedly looking in their direction.

 Although he takes his notes dutifully, Wei Ying keeps throwing him glances with barely contained excitement, and in the back of Lan Zhan’s mind, in-between the professor’s pauses, he’s already working on the design.

 ***

 The troupe doesn’t have to meet for some time, given they all also have to focus on their own assignments and upcoming exams. When they do, after New Year celebrations, it’ll be time to brainstorm, and Wei Ying, diligent for all the wrong things at the wrong times, plans to pitch his brand new concept.

 “He’s going to be one of two prides,” he says, sprawled on Lan Zhan’s couch, his hands raised high, as far as he can reach, palms splayed, as if he can already see the scenes playing out on the ceiling.

 “Prideful?” Lan Zhan questions from his place on the floor, leaning against the couch and looking at Wei Ying, his sketchbook on the low table before him, waiting.

 “Hmm, not his definitive trait. His brother is though — that’s Jiang Cheng, of course —, as the rightful heir to the kingdom. I’ll be...”

 “A general?”

 “A loyal servant and prized adviser? You know, sort of like Merlin. But I don’t wanna be a sorcerer this time, I wanna wield a sword. I love brother Mingjue’s props.”

 Lan Zhan huffs, and whether it’s about Nie Mingjue’s props or the idea of Wei Ying being an adviser, he doesn’t say.

 “Lan Zhan, close your eyes and imagine it.”

 He leans his head back, more against Wei Ying than the couch, and does so. One of Wei Ying’s hands sets over his eyes, for unnecessary effect, and Lan Zhan can’t help but allow himself to smile.

 “A prince and his right hand, the twin prides. One is the rightful heir, the other is... adopted, yes. Together they defend Lotus Pier against invaders, and their rising success brings them notoriety among the other kingdoms. What do you think?”

 “Purple.”

 “Hmm?”

 “The royal color of Lotus Pier should be purple. Pink is too light, purple is better. Like Yunmeng’s sky in the summer.”

 “You still remember that?”

 Wei Ying lifts his hand from his eyes, resting it on his hair as Lan Zhan turns his head around to look at Wei Ying, acquiescing with a hum. The last time he went to Yunmeng for the summer, he sent Lan Zhan dozens of pictures, including one from the beach at sunset, when the sky was a gradient of orange and purple, like a painting. Wei Ying thought Lan Zhan would love that one, and he did, making sure he told Wei Ying that instead of keeping it to himself.

 (Although he loved and saved all of them to his phone anyway, but he kept that to himself.)

 “Isn’t that what you were thinking about? Lotus. Yunmeng.”

 Wei Ying smiles and hums an agreement of his own, his fingers brushing Lan Zhan’s bangs away from his face. And because they’re both so easy to read to each other, and Wei Ying’s gaze is so unmistakably fond, and because he feels himself too open, Lan Zhan lifts his head from the couch and leans forward, fingers hurriedly taking up his mechanic pencil to scribble down a few keywords. Purple. Twins. Adopted. Adviser.

 “I haven’t figured out how to go about it yet,” Wei Ying says as he moves from the couch to sit beside Lan Zhan on the floor, “but I wanted to create a different kind of hero than we’ve worked with before.”

 “The adoption part will be important for the children,” Lan Zhan points out with a nod. “It’s good, Wei Ying.”

 Wei Ying lets out a strangled noise and takes hold of Lan Zhan’s left arm, rubbing his face on his upper arm before looking back at Lan Zhan. His cheeks and nose are red, but he has the same excited glint in his eyes that he had when he approached Lan Zhan in class the day before, and Lan Zhan thinks it simply belongs there. This is his favorite Wei Ying, creative and free, and though he’s bound by his academic responsibilities, as long as Lan Zhan is with him, he’ll make sure he succeeds in everything he does. Everything for that crescent moon smile, full of stars.

 “So, what else?”

 Lan Zhan’s mechanic pencil hovers over the paper as they think, scribbling down more keywords, until it becomes so late in the evening that Wei Ying misses his dormitory’s curfew and has to sleep at Lan Zhan’s flat, in a guest bedroom that holds more of Wei Ying’s forgotten possessions than those of Lan Zhan’s brother, who was supposedly the person he kept the room for.

 ***

 “Why did you keep the red ribbon?”

 Lan Zhan sets his red pencil down, lifting his sketchbook so both of them can think about it together.

 “Both Wanyin and Wuxian use the same clothes and hairstyle, as twins and members of the royal family. Wanyin, as the heir, wears the crown’s jewelry in his hair. Wuxian is a main character too, so he can’t look any less striking, so, the red ribbon.”

 It’s your color goes unsaid. His hair is long, past his shoulders, though Jiang Cheng keeps telling him to get it cut like a normal person, and he always ties it with a red velvet scrunchie. As the Yiling Patriarch, he wore a red ribbon in his hair, and when he played the dizi and a gust of wind blew by him, he was mesmerizing, the red unforgettable against Wen Ning’s hand-drawn background. There was always something red about Wei Ying; a red backpack, red converse, and that red lipstick... Lan Zhan still dreams about it.

 It should be there. Yet Wei Ying keeps his brows furrowed at the drawing.

 “But isn’t it too striking? I don’t think Jiang Cheng is going to like it.”

 “Wei Ying.”

 He takes Wei Ying’s wrist, bringing it away from his face, where he was chewing on his nailbeds. Sitting side by side without a space between them, he lowered their hands to their laps and his hold moved to keep his palm against Wei Ying’s. It’s a lax hold, unambitious, just sharing warmth.

 “You can be a hero too.”

 His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. He holds Lan Zhan’s gaze for long seconds (maybe two) before he bites his lip, huffs a repressed laughter, and lets his head fall on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

 “Lan Zhan,” he says it like a whine, like a plea, and he feels his fingers intertwine with his, the connection still comfortable, still known, still familiar.

 “This whole project is yours,” Lan Zhan speaks into his hair. “You should be able to do what you want.”

 Wei Ying snorts.

 “Isn’t that vain?”

 “...You’re not exactly humble.”

 He lifts his head from his shoulder and bumps into him with a pointed, “Hey.” Lan Zhan chuckles, almost without sound, and pats the hand that’s still holding his.

 They look back at the design. Lan Zhan can already envision the fabrics he’s going to use, the details that he wants to add, and he already regrets saying that both Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng’s characters are going to dress the same.

 Wei Ying sighs. “You spoil me with your designs, Lan Zhan.”

 And he can’t really deny that.

 ***

 It’s as difficult to keep Wei Ying focused on his studies as it is for Lan Zhan to not drop his books and go to his workshop to sew Wei Ying’s costume. Even though exams are merely weeks away, Lan Zhan still finds some time to secretly buy all of the material he needs while Wei Ying tries to keep up with his own study group. And it proves to be a wise decision because Wei Ying doesn’t last two days with his classmates before he shows up at Lan Zhan’s flat with thick books recently checked out from the library and teary eyes.

 “I hate studying,” he dramatically announces as he flops down face-first on the couch. Lan Zhan knows it’s true as much as he knows that Wei Ying actually really enjoys being practical.

 He opens Wei Ying’s bag and puts his books on the low table. “Why are you even taking classic literature?”

 “It’s inspiring,” Wei Ying says, eyes closed and voice muffled by the leather of the couch. “It’s food for the soul. It’s pretty like you.”

 Lan Zhan halts his movements, not daring to turn or do anything else; one hand lies atop Wei Ying’s bag and another on the advanced physics book he last set down.

 Wei Ying is by his side before he blinks twice, putting his bag away and apparently trying to choose which of the books he wants to open, but too rushed and flushed to be doing much thinking at all.

 “You,” Lan Zhan begins, swallows, inhales and tries again. “Do you want me to help?”

 Wei Ying’s head snaps in his direction. With big eyes and his lower lip hidden under his upper lip, he just nods, and Lan Zhan either saves or dooms them both as he sets all books aside and puts the Advanced Physics book in front of them.

 “Explain.”

 Flipping the pages to the subject that would be covered in his exams, Wei Ying takes out his notebook, and he explains.

 ***

 The end of the year is marked by heavy snowfall, the kind that has Wei Ying’s teeth clattering together outside, even if he’s covered in layers that are short from hindering his mobility and wearing a scarf so wound around his head that only his eyes peak out between the wool. It’s the only time of the year that Lan Zhan feels bad for his staying in Gusu, as if the city is like a stern parent testing the object of his affections and Wei Ying barely passes, or maybe bypasses it, by sticking close to Lan Zhan even when they’re indoors. He indulges in their practiced proximity, and if his body yearns for more, he sternly shuts it down, unable to sacrifice all the years of accumulated mutual trust for the gamble of a confession.

 As always, however, he’s saved from the trap of his feelings by Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng’s end of the year trip to Yunmeng. And on cue, he leaves his own flat to spend the turn of the year with his uncle and brother at the Lan estate, set in the part of the city where the hills are high enough to almost sit among the clouds.

 Between hot tea brewed to perfection by his brother, television cooking programs that his uncle has become oddly fond of in the past year, and the occasional reading (both required and unrequired for his studies), Lan Zhans works on Wei Ying’s costume in the studio his brother arranged for him when he first enrolled in Wei Ying’s drama club.

 “Did you make this jinbu, A-Zhan?” Brother Huan asks when he brings him tea and biscuits, picking up the accessory with a purple tassel, light and dark purple beads and a white lotus that could pass as jade. At his younger brother’s nod, Lan Huan’s smile is so delighted that Lan Zhan has to look away. “It’s beautiful work, A-Zhan. You could really make a profession out of it.”

 “Brother, it’s just...”

 He trails off as his brother chuckles and gently places the jinbu back down.

 “I know. It’s just for Wei Ying, isn’t it?”

 Lan Zhan leans even further down into the fabric he’s working on, pretending to check something in the sewing machine.

 “It’s just a hobby,” he admits instead. Lan Huan doesn’t discredit him, patting his head like he’s still a child, and Lan Zhan doesn’t have it in him to dislike the touch.

 “Just remember that if you ever question the serious profession you’re seeking, A-Zhan, the answer always lies closer than you think.”

 The older Lan Sibling tilts his head, taking in all of his little brother’s work laid out in the space of his studio. He looks at the design Lan Zhan is trying to bring to life and then at all the materials on the station, and an imperceptible frown touches his face, like a ripple on calm waters.

 “This fabric...”

 Lan Zhan sighs, knowing exactly what fabric he’s questioning, without even having to try and see it in his brother’s hands.

 “I know. I couldn’t find the one I wanted in time.”

 He works the machine to keep the frustration away, so he doesn’t notice his brother leaving with the offending fabric, only to return, hours later, with such a fine material that Lan Zhan breaks into a bright, grateful smile. During dinner, even uncle, so often taciturn, makes the table inviting with an amicable mood, the three of them enjoying a meal that their caretaker made with his own hands, the elder rambling on and on about every detail of the cooking process while his nephews pay dutiful attention and encourage the little passion that seemed to burn quietly in the heart of every Lan.

 ***

 Wei Ying’s praise for Lan Zhan’s work was ever grandiose, and any other man could let it get to his head like an invincibility potion. Lan Zhan, however, is a simple man, and only his heart swells with contentment at every exaggerated compliment that falls out of that beloved mouth.

 When Lan Zhan shows him the finished the prototype costume for his twin pride character, however, Wei Ying seems to be, maybe for the first time since they started collaborating, at a loss for words.

 “It’s so...” He starts, touching the rich purple fabric with hesitant fingertips. Lan Zhan knows it’s more than their budget, and that they don’t even have a proper story yet, just the core concepts that they came up with together. But Wei Ying had been so engaged, so inspired, and though he’s usually that way when he’s working with Nie Huaisang, it’s the first time he asks Lan Zhan to create a character with him. So he was impulsive. It’s not a crime. “Lan Zhan, it’s...”

 Wei Ying brings the costume to his face, rubbing it against his cheek, and the pleased hum he lets out makes Lan Zhan’s breath cease for a couple of seconds.

 “Make-up test?” Lan Zhan offers, a little weakly, a little shy, but Wei Ying practically jumps in place at the thought, electrified with excitement.

 “Make-up test!” He announces before he runs to the guest bedroom in wide steps and Lan Zhan, left with unwelcome nerves, nervously puts Wei Ying’s backpack away on the couch from where he had unceremoniously dropped it on the floor.

 When Wei Ying comes out of the bedroom, Lan Zhan was thinking about making tea after he had paced from the living room to his own bedroom, then to the kitchen to drink some water, to the window to check the weather, until he finally stopped to sit on the couch, where Wei Ying finds him. His best friend comes out of the bedroom in the costume Lan Zhan designed for him (just for him, he decides right there, he’ll simply have to rethink how to proceed with Jiang Cheng), sets a hairbrush, a red ribbon, and a big pouch on the low table, before twirling around himself.

 “So? What do you think?”

 Wei Ying had always favored black and red. They weren’t the sole colors he used, and Lan Zhan particularly liked when he wore white, the color brightening up his features like a beacon, but Lan Zhan is sure he had never worn something like the bright purple of the robes Lan Zhan made for him. When he twirls, the light plays tricks on the fabric, like a multi-colored bouquet of hydrangeas glistening after a rainshower. The inner robes are a simple black, but the outer jacket is more fascinating still, of a dark purple, almost black, iridescent, see-through fabric that he knows his brother bought from someplace outside of Gusu. Lanling, he believes. On the back, he embroidered a lotus motif with nine petals, the symbol of Wei Ying’s royalty.

 “I love it so much,” Wei Ying says, without waiting for his response, unknowingly almost sending Lan Zhan into cardiac arrest. His hands keep petting down on the costume, and he giggles when he touches the jinbu that jingles with a small bell that Lan Zhan added as a last-minute detail. “Lan Zhan, I can’t believe you made this. We haven’t even finished creating Wuxian, and it’s really...” He laughs, somewhat strained, covering his face with his hands, before dropping on the couch beside Lan Zhan. “How am I supposed to kill him now?”

 Lan Zhan immediately snaps out of his reverie, blinking rapidly.

 “Kill?”

 Wei Ying sighs, letting his hands drop and leaning his head against the couch backrest.

 “Yeah. I was thinking that Wuxian would sacrifice himself to save Jiang Cheng and the kingdom. Like, he runs out of good ideas in a crisis but the kingdom and his family are bigger than he is, so he makes his decision. The kingdom sings songs about him after he dies, and he’s widely recognized as an important member of the royal family.”

 Lan Zhan can read too much between the lines of that script, and the fact that Wei Ying has come to the conclusion that his death, however metaphorical, is the answer, sits heavy on his stomach.

 “Wei Ying,” he calls, a bit too sternly, perhaps, as Wei Ying looks up from fiddling with his jinbu like a child ready to be scolded. “Wei Ying, you can’t kill him,” he says, more softly. “You can’t kill the adopted son in front of an audience of foster kids. What kind of message would we be sending them?”

 “I know,” he whines. “But isn’t it heroic?”

 “Death is just death.” He takes Wei Ying’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Even in fiction. The ones that stay behind are never happy to part with a loved one.” Wei Ying turns his hand in Lan Zhan’s grasp so they’re palm to palm again, puzzle pieces fitting together. Lan Zhan inches closer, brings their clasped hands to his chest, and firmly says, “We’re not killing Wuxian.”

 Wei Ying’s laugh is just a huff of air, and he can’t hide his tears when he wipes them away from the corners of his eyes.

 “Okay. Wuxian lives in the end.”

 Lan Zhan nods, letting their hands fall between them, but not letting go. The silence that follows Wei Ying’s sniffles is not uncomfortable, but there’s something in the space between them, in the way Wei Ying is wearing that beautiful purple that Lan Zhan made for him, in the way Wei Ying keeps looking at his face, that Lan Zhan feels is both thick and fragile like glass. Or maybe he’s a coward, just a coward in the end, consumed by his desire to hold that man and touch him and kiss him, but ultimately defeated by the overbearing affection that wants him to make sure he never leaves Wei Ying, never lets him think he has to sacrifice himself for anyone, when he’s the brightest star in everyone’s lives.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls, and he seems to be closer than he was just a moment ago, the tears gone, leaving only a shine in his eyes in their wake. “Aren’t you going to finish our make-up test?”

 At Lan Zhan’s nod, Wei Ying smiles his wide, crescent moon smile and hops to the floor, handing Lan Zhan the hairbrush from over his shoulder. Lan Zhan, who has experience at both being a younger brother who played with his elder brother and a long-time drama club member, brushes Wei Ying’s hair without hesitation or clumsiness. Given the sheer volume of hair that Wei Ying possesses, there’s no way that the bun can be secured for long with just the ribbon, but Lan Zhan doesn’t want to get up to get any pins, so he just works with what he’s given, tying a pretty bow near Wei Ying’s nape, the ends of the ribbon still falling long, down his back. He had been right. The red looks almost mystical against the purple.

 “So, since the royal color is purple, should my make-up be purple too?”

 Lan Zhan climbs down from the couch, kneeling beside the other, and shakes his head. He takes the pouch from Wei Ying (that he’s sure is Mo Xuanyu’s, when did Wei Ying even take it?) and pulls a neutral-colored palette and a brush.

 “The clothes are already flashy enough, so we’re only framing your face,” Lan Zhan explains, although he’s more versed in colors than in make-up specifically, but it’s a test. If Mo Xuanyu has any better ideas once the story is pitched to the group, then he’s free to use them. Right then, Lan Zhan stands on his knees for a better angle to paint Wei Ying’s eyeshadow an earthy, reddish brown. With a thin, black pencil, he traces the line along his lashes in a much finer touch than the one he used for the Yiling Patriarch, just so the audience knows that his eyes are just as important as his clothes, that his person is just as big as his position.

 For his lips, he chooses a similarly neutral, peachy shade, just so he doesn’t look pale under the stage light, so his smiles can reach even the chairs in the furthest rows. The traditional lipstick makes less of a mess than the glossy, liquid red one he used before, but still the corners... No matter how careful Lan Zhan is, he still misses his mark when he gets to the corners. So he reaches out, just as he did then, to wipe the excess at the corner of Wei Ying’s lips with his thumb, and it’s so much easier this time.

 So much easier, and still... He runs his thumb along the lines of Wei Ying’s lower lip, as if there’s something there to correct, but there’s nothing, just his lips, parted and colored and waiting. Just his lips and that birthmark underneath, distracting, beckoning, a natural wonder that Lan Zhan can’t ignore, he looks, and he touches, and he’s lost, dazed again.

 Those lips open, form the syllables of his name.

 He looks up, wide-eyed, at a Wei Ying that is closely watching him. Eyes as round and attentive as they always were.

 “Lan Zhan. Do you want to kiss me?”

 He swallows and tries to look down, but Wei Ying takes his face between both of his hands and doesn’t let him.

 “Do you?” He repeats, and because he cannot lie, because he especially cannot lie to Wei Ying, he nods, and he closes his eyes, and he waits for his best friend’s judgment.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls again, and Lan Zhan can hear him shift his position. “Lan Zhan, look at me.”

 He opens his eyes and he does. Wei Ying is at his eye level, standing on his knees as well. Wei Ying, always so expressive, doesn’t look anything like Lan Zhan had feared; he looks kind and patient and good. Lan Zhan’s hands, without him even noticing it, have moved to hold Wei Ying’s wrists.

 “Lan Zhan,” he calls, and in Lan Zhan’s mind, it could be the last time. But it sounds just as melodious, just as full of Wei Ying’s sincerity as it always did. “Can I kiss you?”

 All of his thought processes, all of his observations trail off then. Wei Ying looks a little flushed, though Lan Zhan didn’t apply any make-up to his cheeks. And his mouth, his beautiful, glistening mouth, displays a half-smile. Expectant. A little scared.

 Once Lan Zhan nods, everything seems to resume at a much faster pace, as if they stepped too hard on the gas pedal and their car flew off the road with a loud screech. Wei Ying exhales before their lips meet, as if meeting two necessities at once. He throws his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and pulls, his lips opening and closing around the other’s as many times as he can before he needs to breathe again. And then breaks away just to catch his breath before he’s lounging forward again, forcing Lan Zhan into a sitting position so he can climb on his lap and rob him of all coherent thought. Lan Zhan circles his arms around his middle, underneath the outer jacket, securing Wei Ying flush against him. The kiss is messy, wet, open-mouthed and inexperienced, Lan Zhan just following Wei Ying’s lead, which isn’t much of a lead, as Wei Ying whimpers between touches. The sound is enough to make Lan Zhan lose the last grasp he had on control, and that sends him to fall backwards, all the way back where he has no support, and they only have a second to disconnect their mouths before Lan Zhan’s head hits the hard floor.

 “Oh my God, are you okay?!”

 Lan Zhan winces, seeing stars in front of his eyes, and Wei Ying is quick to pull him back to an upright position, helping him lean his back against the couch before climbing back on his lap.

 “Lan Zhan, does it hurt too bad? Is it bleeding? Do you have a concussion? We should go to the—”

 “I’m all right,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. Wei Ying touches the back of his head and he winces, but he reassures him again. “It’s okay. It’s just a bump.”

 Wei Ying pats his hair into place after the mess that his hands made.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t be.”

 Wei Ying’s lipstick is smeared all around his plump mouth (from kissing; from kissing him), and Lan Zhan be damned, he didn’t think Wei Ying could look more attractive and then he looks like that. It’d be unfair if Wei Ying wasn’t following a similar train of thought, thumbs touching around Lan Zhan’s mouth in a weak effort to wipe away the lipstick there. And because he wasn’t really trying, he just kisses him again, slow, unhurried, almost chaste, a kiss that lasts long, a whole time unit in its own.

 His hair is down, red ribbon lying somewhere on the floor. Lan Zhan pushes it away from his face so he can take a good look at him, his best friend, brilliant and full of life and beautiful around him, in his embrace, his cheeks flushing darker the longer he observes him, until Wei Ying throws his arms around him again and hides his face on his neck.

 “I have a confession to make.”

 Lan Zhan hums, his hand moving up and down Wei Ying’s back.

 “I didn’t really plan on writing a play with Wuxian... I created him as a way to spend time with you.”

 When Wei Ying takes a deep breath, Lan Zhan can feel it, against his chest, on his neck, the exhale making him shiver.

 “After our last performance, I— well, we never really...”

 Wei Ying sighs, and Lan Zhan’s hand moves to his hair, petting, fond. He barely ever allowed himself to think of touching Wei Ying, yet it feels like the right thing to do, a natural step from all the hand holding and working in each other’s personal spaces. And it’s just what he can do to tell Wei Ying to go on, that he’s there, listening, although he’s not done collecting all of the fragments of his own confession, shattered in the car crash of a kiss long suffered.

 “I’ve always really admired you, Lan Zhan. Your talent, your imagination, everything you do is so good. I wanted to make something with you, to spend all of my time with you, to create something out of nothing that was ours.”

 Lan Zhan can feel Wei Ying raising his head, his chin resting on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

 “You see, Lan Zhan, I’m really selfish. I’ve had a crush on you since I first laid eyes on you when we were fifteen but now I really wanted all of your attention. The way you looked at me that day, I... You don’t have any idea what you do to me.”

 Wei Ying tries to hide again, but Lan Zhan holds his shoulders, pulls him back to look at him. His mouth is still a mess of lipstick, but his eyes are wide, exposed. Lan Zhan tries to wipe the lipstick away, just to save Wei Ying some grace, because the weight of his their attraction pulling them together was nothing compared to the weight of the heart against one’s palms.

 “I’ve always admired you.” Lan Zhan echoes, eyes still focused on those lips, still trying to clean up their mess.  “Your talent, your imagination, and everything you do. I want to spend all my time with you, and create things with you, things that everybody will look and know it’s ours.”

 His hand, on Wei Ying’s face, moves to cup his cheek; his gaze moves up, without hesitation, because being there with Wei Ying when he falls is all he’s ever done, when people laughed at their plays, when their plans were foiled, when their ideas went nowhere. They’d come together, the two of them, and rise the whole group back up, one more time.

 “I really like you, Wei Ying. I’ve liked you for a long time now.”

 How could he be pretty even when he cries?

 “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 “You’re my best friend. The only one in this lifetime.”

 It’s only when Wei Ying touches his cheeks that he realizes he’s crying too.

 “You’re my best friend too, Lan Zhan. And I really, really like you back.”

 The kiss they share then is somewhere in-between the other two. It’s tender like a first kiss between their teenage selves, pecks that follow one after the other and another again, followed by kisses on each other’s cheeks, on noses and foreheads, marked with promise and lipstick. And when they finally regain their breath from their confessions, from their laughter, it’s open-mouthed and eager, ready to discover each other’s taste, and the best angles for their tongues to come together, to elicit delicious sounds from their throats.

 Wei Ying finds as much delight in delicately peeling the clothes Lan Zhan made for him open as he did in putting them on. And the view is almost too much for the designer, who both marvels and suffers at all the layers of his creation, sprawled underneath Wei Ying, still so beautiful against his skin, but ultimately forgotten.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan.”

 It’s a snowy night. Cold and white and long, sure to trap them inside when the morning comes.

 The answer to Wei Ying’s sensibilities, in the end, turned out to be simple; cuddle up as close as he can to his boyfriend, underneath thick and fluffy blankets.

 “Mn?”

 “I thought up a nicer end for Wuxian.”

 Lan Zhan doesn’t bother to open his eyes in the dark. He just turns his head to touch Wei Ying’s, his nose cold on the other’s forehead.

 “In the end he sacrifices himself for the kingdom but he doesn’t die. He ends up powerless but he meets someone who takes care of him regardless of the fact that he’s a royal.”

 Wei Ying plays with the collar of his pajamas and Lan Zhan could burst with contentment, but he only smiles against Wei Ying’s skin.

 “So when Wanyin finally finds Wuxian again, a long time later, Wuxian has become wiser because he realizes true strength doesn’t come from battles or sacrifices, but human connection. So he promises to be Wanyin’s adviser because he loves and supports him, but he’s not going back to the palace, he’s staying with Wangji.”

 “Wangji?”

 Wei Ying hums. Lan Zhan likes that ending. It’s a good message for the kids, to follow your heart rather than a life mission.

 It takes his sleepy mind a few seconds to remember his brother’s words. He’s going to like Wei Ying’s play, very much so.

 “Lan Zhan?”

 “Mn?”

 “Will you be my Wangji?”

 He kisses Wei Ying’s forehead and places his hand against the hand that lies on his chest, next to his heart.

 “Mn. I will be Wei Ying’s commoner wife.”

 Wei Ying snorts before nuzzling his shoulder.

 “I haven’t decided if he’s going to be a commoner yet. But you’re going to wear blue. Blue and white, like Gusu’s clear skies.”

 Lan Zhan doesn’t comment on how Wei Ying didn’t deny being his partner in the play, even if they had just confessed to liking each other. There’s still so much more to be said, and Lan Zhan loves the anticipation, will dream about them with Wei Ying in his arms all night, and all of the next day, too.

 “I thought you didn’t like Gusu that much.”

 “Of course I like Gusu. All of my memories with you are here.”

 Lan Zhan turns to his side, hugs Wei Ying tight against his chest, making him laugh. He kisses him all over his face before meeting his lips, then covers him up to his chin to protect him from the cold, and together, they fall asleep, the future holding a different shape in their creative, clasped hands.