Vil who paints your face so perfectly. She's more than happy to teach you to do your own makeup, but damn if she doesn't love to do it for you.
Vil who wakes you up early for a morning beauty routine, always getting the best products tailored for you skin type. She doesn't skimp on a penny or a second to get you all dolled up.
Vil who loves to dress you in gorgeous clothes. She'll let you wear whatever you want, of course, but it makes her heart soar to see you in such pretty ensembles she put together.
Vil who is so obsessed with beauty but finds you most beautiful at your calmest, when your makeup is off and you're perfectly serene, going about your day.
Part of a Spotify Wrapped challenge I never did. Oops.
520 words
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It was happening again. Of course. He felt the glare of the prostitutes around him, and a chill went down his spine. He should’ve kept his head down, he knew it- he shouldn’t have dared to look at her. She was above him in every way. From her soft fingers to clear skin, she was above him. There was no reason for her, for anyone, to feel anything but disgust for him. Because that's what he was. Disgusting. He was a disgusting, filthy animal. He wasn’t even deserving of a name, as his mother had taught him long, long ago.
But, he’d done it. He’d looked at her, stared at her, admired her. And she’d noticed. And she was not happy.
Naturally.
She screamed at him, called him a filthy pig. She’d laughed at how an ugly gyu would ever look at her, think he had a chance with her. The other oiran had joined in on the disgust filled glares a subtle, cruel laughter at his hideous form, his hideous being.
And then his angel appeared.
Of course she did.
It was pathetic, needing his younger sister to defend him. He knew that. But he was thankful either way.
Ume was perfect. She was special. She was beautiful. And she was very, very mean.
She wasted no time in yelling at the other women, chastising them for wasting time. Gyutaro listened as Ume told them to focus on their own looks, pointing out flaws in each one's appearance in a pitchy, whiney voice. No prostitute was left unscathed from her cruel remarks.
And then it happened.
A particularly scathed woman tried to hit Ume.
Gyutaro could only feel rage as he heard his dear sister yell out, quickly running forth and grabbing the woman’s wrist. He jerked her back in one quick, fluid motion, and threw her to the floor. He could feel himself slip out of control as fury blinded him.
This woman. This bitch. She had dared to lay her hands on the only good thing in Gyutaro’s life. And he would not allow that to pass. No, no, he would punish this fucking woman- punish this fucking whore.
The panicked gasps around him are deafening, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is he defends Ume. All that matters is he beat this woman to a pulp. It didn’t matter her status or her gender. All that mattered in that moment was that she tried to hurt Ume.
Men who worked the district were quick to stop him, there wasn’t much he could do very soon after. He wasn’t able to get in one hit, but Ume seemed satisfied enough.
And it is times like this, he thinks, that Gyutaro truly wished he was as special as Ume.
He wished for so much, as would be expected from someone born so lowly as he.
He wished he was pretty.
He wished he could be good.
He wished his sister had a better life.
He wished they had money to get out of this shithole.
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