✧ characters: Baelor Targaryen x Daughter!Reader, Valarr x Sister!Reader, Matarys x Sister!Reader
✧ summary: Baelor has never been able to say no to his daughter. Her older brothers choose to take advantage of this fact. Valarr and Matarys are like 12 years old in this.
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: she/her pronouns, children
The afternoon had settled into the kind of golden quiet that only came when lessons were finished and supper was still hours away. She had found her usual spot near the old stone bench, skirts spread around her in the warm grass, her doll propped carefully against her knee. Six years old and entirely content, unbothered by the heat, unbothered by anything at all.
The shadows that fell over her belonged to her brothers.
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. They stood over her with the particular energy of boys who had a plan and were very pleased with it.
She looked up.
“We need you to ask Father something,” Valarr said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“We want to go to the tournament next week.” Matarys crouched down to her level, which she had always found more convincing than being talked at from above. “All three of us. You have to be the one to ask him.”
“Why?”
The brothers exchanged a look. Valarr cleared his throat. “Because he likes you best.”
Tournaments held no particular magic for her. She had never once begged to attend one, never pressed her face to the window when the knights rode through the city, never cared much for the noise and the crowds and the dust. But Valarr and Matarys were looking at her the way they always did when they wanted something, that particular hopeful, slightly guilty look, and she loved them more than she disliked crowds.
“What do I say?” she asked.
They told her, carefully and in some detail. Matarys made her repeat it back twice. Their father was not an unreasonable man. It was simply that no one had ever worked out how to say no to her, least of all him. His sons had noticed. They were not subtle about having noticed.
She listened to all of it. Then she picked up her doll, stood, smoothed her skirts, and went inside without another word.
The study was quiet save for the scratch of quill on parchment and the distant sounds of the yard below. Afternoon light fell long and warm across the desk, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air.
Baelor looked up from his correspondence just in time to see his youngest come through the doorway at something between a walk and a run, cross the room entirely, and climb onto his knee before he had said a single word.
“Hello Papa!” she exclaimed settling in
“Hello my love,” he responded, setting down his quill
She looked up at him with great purpose. “Papa. Valarr and Matarys and I want to go to the tournament.”
He looked at her baffled. “You want to go to a tournament?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“It runs three days. The last day goes very late into the night, and it is very loud.”
“I am very brave,” she said.
“You are,” he agreed, because this was simply true.
She looked at him carefully, weighing something. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a considerable honour, “You can come too, Papa. If you want.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” A nod, “I will hold your hand the whole time so you won’t be frightened.”
His expression shifted entirely. This small careful child had arrived with what was clearly her brothers’ agenda and somewhere along the way decided to protect him. At that, the last of his resistance simply gave way.
“That is very kind of you,” he said
She nodded. It was only fair, her expression said.
He glanced toward the door. Two faces disappeared from the gap so quickly they might have been imagined.
“Valarr. Matarys.”
A beat. Then footsteps, nervous and shuffling. The footsteps of two boys who had absolutely not just been crouching at a door. The boys appeared in the doorway, doing their very best to look as though they had simply been passing.
Baelor regarded them over his daughter’s head. They had the grace, at least, to stand up straight.
“We go on the first day only,” he said. “You leave the moment your sister is tired and you do not argue with me about it.” His eyes moved between them, “Understood?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
He looked back down at his daughter, who had already returned to her doll, entirely satisfied with the afternoon’s work.
Baelor tucked a strand of hair back from her face and reached for his quill.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he told her.
“You’re welcome, Papa,” she said, content
From down the corridor came the muffled but entirely unmistakable sounds of celebration.
✧ a/n: I am simply trying to create as much Baelor fluff as possible before the pain of this week’s episode. Thank you for the likes, comments, reblogs, and messages. Send me your requests
honestly i completely understand why jk rowling has become such a huge troll when her original posts were so polite and respectful. i have definitely lost 99% of my remaining empathy for the trans community since creating this blog because of the things i've read and how horrendous the harrassment has been.
cause here's the thing: you start out on radblr with the purpose of sharing your views and being a voice of reason. you hold a position of empathy, and you prioritize civility and education while engaging in arguments. you bring in face-based evidence, scientific sources, and statistics to explain your viewpoints.
in response, anonymous users in your inbox tell you to kill yourself. blogs sharing fantasies about raping terfs leave violent descriptions on how they want to kill you under your posts. you discover the "terfbreaking" tag which leads you down a rabbithole of depravity targeting women.
you aren't exactly shocked, but you had no idea things were this bad. nobody told you that radfems were bombarded with such explicit rape and death threats, though you always had issues with how violent the trans community was toward women. this solidifies your choice to leave trans ideology for good.
still, you hold out hope that this reaction is from a small minority. maybe that's why there was never awareness made against it.
you were wrong. every post you make leads to more abuse against you. the radfem tag is filled with pro-rape posts and baseless accusations. you're called a nazi and a fascist and a pedophile on a daily basis for recognizing female oppression.
between two posts discussing afghanistan's legalization of male violence against their wives, there's a news article about a transwoman being arrested on charges of child rape. under your newest post about male-pattern violence, a user wants to remind you that transwomen are actually the most oppressed group of people on earth. female oppression does not exist. acknowledging male socialization is a terf dogwhistle.
in a few scrolls, you land on a post shared by your mutual that features multiple screenshots from a blog with "TMA" in the description about wanting to rape their little sister with their girlcock. each post has hundreds of notes.
when you refresh your notifications, you're bombarded with spambots calling you a pedophile and threatening to rape and murder you.
you close out your browser. you think you're going insane.
In the vein of being bitter and annoyed about the Zoerumi and Zoemira tags. Here. Content (silly content)
In-universe Zoey discovers the Zoerumi and Zoemira ships and she's so freaking delighted and smug about it. Because it's an internet rule that whomever takes the first name in a ship is the TOP one of the relationship (fictional or otherwise).
The smugness just dripped from her and she played the part. The fan service intensified, the butchness, stronger. She was having a lot of fun and making the others a little bit crazy. But the breaking point came when Zoey pointed out. That Mira was the bottom one in both ships. The Zoemira ship and the Rumira one to Mira's horror.
synopsis: you have always been clark kent’s sweet girl. after all, the heart never lies.
warnings: tooth rotting fluff, book a dentist appointment asap. fem!reader. lots of position changes(?) may be confusing. established relationship.
a/n: could be read as a pre-loml setting, or simply a one-shot. wrote it with loml in mind though. comments, reblogs, and likes are very appreciated, thank you for spending time out of your day reading this. 18+ audience only, kindly have age in bio.
true bliss has been reached.
krypto’s quiet snores were no bother, the constant pitter-patter of rain was soothing, meaning nothing can break this unadulterated love cocoon.
sprawled on your clark’s chest, his thick legs encompassing your body with their warm and wiry-haired presence.
all around you was clark, you were engulfed in his very essence.
his smell was all in your senses, it smelt like the laundry detergent ma uses, a clean linen scent with hints of you. it was your lavender and vanilla body wash he claimed to never touch.
but you paid that no mind, there are more important tasks at hand, and you are a woman on a mission.
“can you see my heart?” you murmur into his chest, intersecting the careful tranquility of the room.
“i can, yes. why d’ya ask, sweet girl?” punctuated with a kiss to your temple.
“so… you were able to see how much I liked you prior to dating? i wasn’t exactly the most secretive about my affection.” thrown in casually but intrigued by his answer, you raise your head and catch his eyes. they were already set on you. oh how you could get lost in those baby blues. the butterflies truly never do settle, even after years of being lovers and even more the closest of friends.
“you could say so, i just thought that’s how you were around me. tried to not pay it too much mind. funnily enough, I got attuned to your heart fairly early back home. could recognize it by sound alone - still can. just by the way your thumps come and go,” he reaches under your (his) metropolis u sweatshirt and caresses your back. up and down, up and down. “especially when in proximity with me…”
you don’t mind his cheekiness as your current occupation makes your mind go blank and ears heat. you could just go to sleep like this. or attack him with kisses. how his hands rub and scratch down your back. his hands oh so warm and big and calloused and gentle.
silently but surely his other hand - a sunken weight on the back of your neck - is carefully held and reaches your lips, receiving a plethora of the softest of kisses.
featherlight touches that spark both your hearts alight.
“i couldn’t ever control my heart in your presence. no matter how irritating your dimples were.”
“but you love my dimples!”
“am i truly that obvious?” you snarkily question, it was plain and simple to you both: the dimples were dangerous.
the very fact supported by your heart catching up speed when those very treacherous features gingerly crease his face, attuned with his utter glee.
you never could control herself around those. the perfect punctuation to his pristine smile, a boyish look that you’ll never tire to witness.
abandoning his hand, you sit up with both knees stretched over his wide hips, shifting till your chests are pressed firmly together and become one. both his hands now find purchase on your lower back.
your hands cradling his face, caressing his under eyes and melting as he leans into your hands and closes those beauties to the world. they never truly deserved them, or him for that matter.
“your heart’s going pretty quick, what feature the cause this time around?” he whispers against your palm, smile barely visible, but knowing exactly what he’s doing to you.
“not another word from you! but, if you must know… i simply love how you’re mine.” a quiet albeit honest confession. one that makes him crack his eyes open and hug you like no other - a melding of souls and heart beats syncing.
you shall selfishly horde him if it meant feeling him like this - unabashed and soft, picturesque of the shy boy you grew to love and cherish. you his and he yours.
Evan is very intelligent, like on par with Regulus or Barty, but he doesn't show it much
he's usually silent and staring at people without caring if it makes them uncomfortable
when he does say something it's usually a well-aimed insult, something memorable or unhinged (like he's been following his train of thought and he just randomly shares that out of nowhere)
he's very observant (he will recognise you changed your perfume, tiny changes in your tone of voice or the way you act)
he uses all that knowledge for future reference (he may or might not be keeping a doc on every person he knows with useful information)
he's manipulative in a very subtle way that you don't even notice, allowing him to turn situations to his favour and get what he wants - he's playing the long game
he rarely shows emotion and his face is usually expressionless
he's meticulous about everything he does and likes when things have their place (Barty drives him insane by inviting chaos into his life and he finds he craves his freedom)
he likes to study anatomy for fun (both human and animal), he likes to collect bones (maybe roadkill too and disect it to see how the body works)
he knows at least six ways how to kill a man
he probably has some insane self-defence moves? like, you'd raise a hand at him and suddenly you'd find yourself with your arm twisted behind your back without even noticing how it happened
he has a pet snake and keeps it inside his hoodie wherever he goes and loves spooking people when its head suddenly peaks out of his sleve or something
he is possessive and jealous, but - as with everything - in a silent way, he will let you know in a passive-aggressive way while planning the best way to hurt you back (and you can be sure he will use what he knows about you to his advantage)
he doesn't just notice things about people, he notices everything - how many people are in the room he just walked into, what are the escape routes, the lyrics of the song playing on the radio, the buzzing of the overhead light (and he can't turn that off, he's always aware of all of that)
he likes to roll his own cigarettes (the ritual of it comforts him and he likes the smell of the fresh tobacco)
he likes either tattooing or piercing or both because he just likes the idea of stabbing people (he might be a tad sadistic)
his flat/room is really clean and looks kind of cold like he hardly even lives in it, apart from his bone collection and like anatomy posters there's hardly any decorations
Evan usually acts responsible which is why people assume he's the normal one between him and Barty, but he can be just as reckless as Barty when he stops controlling himself
Evan is obviously not a people person and he doesn't try to be, he doesn't care if people like him, he has his friends and he's very protective of them (he'll threaten you to make sure you won't even think about hurting them)
Evan can act unfeeling and sometimes he really doesn't care at moments or about things he knows he should, but other times he actually feels a lot, he's just really good at hiding it
Evan also rarely talks about his feelings, but when he does he's usually brutally honest
on a different note, he's a good liar and can hide his feelings well
Okay, this is already longer than I thought it will be, so I'll end it here T-T I might add to this in the future though.
tagging @em0tionallymotionsick since it was our discussion about Evan's quiet insanity that inspired me to write this
and @the-heart-anon because it's mostly our rp that helped me flesh out Evan in my mind
**Alright folks we are so back! I am heavily inspired by K-Pop Demon Hunters (If you haven't watched GO WATCH IT! It is absolutely incredible), along with a sprinkling of some research on ancient Japan and came up with this little premise for a series. Hoping that it will get everything flowing for me to go back to my other series as well. Love you guys and I hope you'll like this little comeback series**
Summary: MC was bored and honestly just trying to get out of their never ending student council duties when they're drawn in by strange ... melody. Curiosity has always been their strong suit, but maybe there are some things that are better left unknown.
Ft. Teen MC
In the Devildom, life thrived in the shadows. There was no sun. No holy light to bless them with its warmth and kiss their skin good morning. Only bitter cold and darkness that sank its fangs into each of its citizens every chance that it got.
MC had long grown accustom to it, come to enjoy it even. It was nice not having to worry about sun burn or being blinded by the sun. The artificial ways that the demons had come up with to illuminate their kingdom of pitch were beautiful and elaborate; from wrought iron streetlights, to oil lamps that possessed a violet flame. it was all so whimsical and gothically enchanting that MC could hardly bring themself to look away.
Of course, they were human, and still required the sun. So when they needed it, they could always skip up back to the human world for their biannual visit to Earth before returning back to place they now thought of as home.
But it also meant that on nights such as this, when they knew Lucifer was probably turning red with frustration of their absence from yet another dreadful student council meeting, but they quite honestly didn't care. Three years in the Devildom had really made them grow bored of the daily ins and outs of the House of Lamentation, and they were on the search for something new, something exciting! Something-
A small plucking sound, like a droplet of water gently falling into a still pond, hit their ears and they stilled.
In the darkness, it was almost as if sound was amplified, echoing through their ears as another chord was plucked and then another, a faint trinkle of a strum, and yet another. The melody continued, and MC did not even try to stop their feet from being pulled in by it's simple beauty.
Their feet clicked against the wet pavement, and they muttered a small illuminating spell to themself as they entered. Iridescent light reflected from their palms off the alleyway walls.
It was only then they saw it ... or her, they supposed.
A lanky figure curled up in the far back corner, her back against the wall. Long ebony hair that faded into shiny gold as it got closer to the ends, as straight and silky as ribbon, covered almost her entirety from view, What could be seen was delicate hands with long, bony fingers, capped with sharp, elaborately embossed, golden points. From beneath the veil of hair, a rectangular rod with three pegs stuck out. Each black peg was wrapped tightly with golden wire that ran down the length of the rod to a square base.
A shamisen, MC recognized immediately, noting the flat, yellowed bachi sitting in the person's other hand, which she used to continue to strum her somber melody.
Each pang and twing rang sharply through their very soul, as if it was crying out to them and them alone. They would have to be utterly heartless to walk away.
"Excuse me?" MC called over.
The music stopped in an instant, and with a heart-dropping crack the person's head turned to face them.
It was not a face that revealed itself to them, but a mask. They had seen crow masks before; people wore them to festivals and they filled every tourists shop back home. But they had never seen one like this.
Most of the crow masks they had seen were black. Elegantly painted with perfect, seamless strokes that fluidly decorated the smooth wood. This was not that.
The base was bone white and it had golden designs on it that seemed more jagged and sharp than soft. The mask had a long pointed beak that covered the musician's entire face with angular slits for the eyes where dim balls of golden light reflected in the center. It possessed a playful aura that did not match the woman's eerie presence at all. MC could see no string or tassels holding the mask into place, as if it was fixed there by sheer will.
Aside from the mask, the person was dressed in a simple yukata. It had no patterns and was black with the exception of the white obi tied around her waist. The bottom of the yukata was torn and near transparent along its hem and cuffs.
MC was nearly positive that they were looking at a ghost, and yet they had never seen a ghost quite like this. Certainly not one that was masked.
MC swallowed thickly. It had been sometime since anything had caused them to be so shaken within the Devildom. They took a deep breath and reminded themself that they were 16 now, and no longer the scared 13 year old that had first entered into this place. They were strong. The shadows were scared of them, not the other way around.
They held up their chin and looked straight into the light pouring out of the eye slits. "I like your song. It sounds really nice. Where did you learn to play like that?"
No voice came from beneath the creepy mask, as a faint breeze from the streets lightly blew the woman's hair behind her.
Rude. Actually. If you asked MC. But they supposed it was also rude to interrupt someone during their jam session, so really that was on them. "Sorry. Are you not in the mood for talking? I really didn't mean to bother you. I just heard you playing and couldn't help but check come check out. I'm MC. What's your name?"
Again nothing. Not even a breath.
At this point, MC was beginning to feel awkward. I mean, most people at least had some kind of reaction to hearing their name at this point! Who the hell did this lady think she was?!
MC huffed, unable to help a pout from forming on their face as they raised their hands up in defeat. "Fine! Fine! I'll leave ya alone. Your loss. Who would want to know about some creepy, weirdo anyway?"
Them. They did. They so very much did.
It was all they could think about. They zoned out during class, and barely listened to the boys gossip during meals. They were too focused on what this strange new mystery of theirs was! They needed to know!
They tried doing research on ghosts, crows, hell even sirens! But nothing seemed to quite match whatever this person was! All they knew was that it had to be a person. Even without words or proper eyes, there was this air of deep, concentrated loss and shame that radiated off of her. Ever since coming to the Devildom, there hadn't been a single mystery that MC wasn't able to solve, and they refused to let that track record become tarnished now!
So MC did what MC does best - sneak out without permission to sleuth around the city. Honestly, you would think the brother's would've invested in better security by now.
Gloom, as they had taken to calling the unknown creature, wasn't in the original alleyway where they had initially found her. It appeared the ghostly woman was nomadic and would take camp in places with low lighting and no people around. MC was only able to find her over and over again because they knew this kingdom like the back of their hand.
They would go out and find her every night, and every night Gloom would stare at them through the eyes of her mask, hands stilling on her shamisen. She never spoke. The most MC had ever heard from her is a soft, yet haunting hum that she would occasionally emanate before noticing MC's presence.
MC grew braver with each visit. Where they initially kept their distance, they eventually brought themself to come closer and lean against the wall beside her as they asked her their many questions. Who are you? What are you? Where di you get a shamisen? What's with the mask? Is it haunted? Are you haunted?
But still, Gloom never answered. They got a groan of annoyance once, but that seemed to be the closest they could get.
Still, they could tell that she warming up to them. Sometimes she would lean closer to them while they were telling a story. Or her hand would twitch and almost reach out to them while they vented. Almost. There were all these little things that MC knew meant they were getting through to her.
They never gave up. In a way, it was almost nice to have someone else besides the brother's that they could talk to for once. With Gloom not doing any of the talking, she was subjected to do all of the listening, and boy did MC have a lot to share.
The brothers began to take notice of MC's disappearances. They tried to track them or ask them where they had gone, but MC was determined to keep this little secret. It was nice to have something in the Devildom that was entirely theirs for once.
Months passed, and their visits only became more frequent until one day, MC did not come empty handed.
"Here!" They chirped as they plopped down beside the woman, holding out a small envelope. She hesitated it before plucking it between two fingers and looking curiously at the cursively written Gloom on the front. "Dia and the others are throwing this huge ball to celebrate my fourth year here in the Devildom! It'll be super fancy and in the palace with all kinds of food and dancing and-" Gloom lifted her instrument a little, and MC chuckled. "Yes! And music! You should totally come. I know ya don't like crowds, but it'll be really fun." They explained with a smile.
Gloom paused, the lights blinking behind her mask as she stared down at the envelope before looking to MC in confusion.
They shrugged as they rose back up to their feet. "Come or don't come. It doesn't make a difference to me, but ..." they feel their cheeks burn a little as they look down. "I haven't had someone just listen to me without tryin' to shove their own ideas into my head in a while and ... I dunno. I guess I enjoy hanging out with you."
The lights blinked again behind the mask.
MC graons. "Look. The ball is next week. I'll see you then!"
MC didn't see it, having already left, but as she looked down at the envelope, the lights behind Gloom's mask squinted with an unseen smile as an unspoken promise laid on her silent tongue. She joyfully began to pluck the strings of her shamisen as the breeze dance around her.
Across the city, oblivious to what is to come, Mammon feels a shiver run down his spine. He sits up from his bed and looks out his open window as a whisper of a melody flows around him like an old memory. His breath hitches.
He slams the window shut without hesitation.
***And there we have it! Part one and my official return to this fandom! This has been a lot of fun, and I cannot wait to continue this story with you all! I hope you all enjoy "Gloom" and look forward to the upcoming ball in the next chapter! See you all then! I love you all ❤️ -B***
FemWinchester!reader x Bela Talbot (romantic or platonic)
Set during Red Sky at Morning (03.06)
Made in regards to this post!
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You've been upstairs trying to do your makeup for over an hour when an unexpected savior shows up.
Fluff, reader feels inadequate in her femininity, Bela might be a little OOC
2,590 words
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You sigh in frustration and fall into the chair beside you. It’s old, made of creaky wood and rusted nails, and it shrieks under your sudden weight. The chair was left in the house along with a dozen other compromised pieces of furniture. Including the water-damaged armoire your dress is hanging from.
Red satin falls gracefully from the fitted corset bodice on a hanger. The waterfalls of crimson are just as beautiful as they are simple. Strapless, elegant, and with a slit up the leg, it’s a dress that makes any woman look beautiful. Anyone except you, who’s more hunter than woman.
You turn back to the vanity and frown at the mess of makeup, bobby pins, and wet wipes. You try to sort through the piles of cream and powder while the drugstore labels stare at you, mocking your inability. You can kill monsters twice your size, track creatures with footprints smaller than those of a mouse, and research lore like no other. But, you can’t put on makeup. It’s pathetic, you think.
Though it's not really your fault. Growing up in a car with three men didn't leave room for the typical displays of femininity. Your life has always been more about gun power than setting power. In fact, most of your childhood was spent purposely avoiding things seen as feminine. The urge to prove your strength and skill to your father had grown every day, and your identity as a girl suffered because of it. It's nights like tonight when those thoughts of inadequacy bubble to the surface.
The thoughts that say you're nothing more than a hunter. Because it shouldn't be this hard to put on makeup. It's like painting… just on your face. Though, you’ve never been really good at painting either.
“Why aren't you dressed?” Bela’s posh accent cuts through the room. “Sam has left already. You need to hurry.”
You hadn’t heard her come up the stairs. Which was surprising, seeing that they’re just as old and creak just as loud as the chair you're in. Nonetheless, you roll your eyes and go back to sorting through the mess of products.
“Go away, Bela. I'll be down in a few.” You grumble and dig through the pile to pick up your foundation.
She ignores you, and with her arms still crossed, she makes her way to the desk. You try to ignore the click of her heels and the scrutiny of her stare. Her eyes linger on you before moving. First the tabletop, then the trashcan overflowing with used makeup wipes, and finally back to your face.
“Do you need… help?”
You barely suppress a groan at her smugness. The shit-eating grin can practically be heard in her voice. A slow turn of your head reveals a strong glare pointed at her.
“I’m fine.” You dismiss, turning back to the cracked mirror and attempting to start over. Again.
Your fingers, clumsier now under her watchful gaze, pump foundation into your other hand. A glob falls from between your fingers, landing on the table beneath you. You look up into the mirror to spread the foundation on your face but catch her eye in the reflection. Behind her, the setting sun shines on your dress, reminding you of the pressure to get this right.
The second you begin to rub the substance on your face, Bela’s hand catches your arm. She's cringing in the mirror. “Please stop; this is pitiful.”
“Shut up.” You frown at her through the mirror. With an exhausted exhale, you close your eyes, head tilting back. You want to argue with her. Defend your ability to do something you obviously suck at. But with a glance at the smeared liquid on your cheeks, the fight deflates from your body.
Bela’s hand lands on your shoulder. “Let me help.” Her voice has softened slightly, but she's still firm in her request. “It’ll go faster if you have someone as experienced as myself.” She justifies with a grin.
“Yeah, sure,” you rub the foundation off with yet another wipe and lean back for Bela to have access to your face. “Have at it.”
She picks up the foundation and puts a pump on the back of her hand.
“First of all,” she grabs a brush and dabs it into the liquid. “You’re using far too much.” Bela meets the brush to your skin in gentle strokes. Across your cheeks, over your chin, down your nose, and back up to your forehead. “Keep it light so you don’t get cakey. Always go down your neck with the product. And use a brush next time, your fingers look disgusting." She teased
You chuckled lightly, “Noted.”
She sets the brush down and digs through the mess. Her hands find concealer, blush, and contour.
“Pay attention to this part.” She uncaps the concealer and swipes the applicator over your face. “Concealer on your nose, forehead, and under your eyes. Blush on the cheeks. Contour under your cheekbones and on your jaw.” She gives the instruction as she adds the product to your face. “Close your eyes.” you felt a smaller brush in the areas where she put the makeup.
“Dont mix up the contour and bronzer. Generally, contour is cool toned to create shadows, and bronzer is warm toned to mimic a tan.”
You hum as she moves from your undereyes to your forehead.
It’s nice to be taken care of in such a way. Not that you'd ever admit that out loud. Gentle touches are few and far between in your life, but the way Bela strokes the brush across your skin has you sinking into the tenderness.
“You have very nice skin. Especially for a hunter.” She jokes.
“Oh yeah, a steady treatment of monster blood and gunpowder keeps my skin clear and youthful.”
You peek your eyes open to see a laugh on her face, and smile back at her.
“Your base is done.” You feel her dust power over your cheeks and chin. “I'm going to keep it relatively simple with the rest.” You try to take a glance at yourself in the mirror but bela turns your head away. “No looking till the end.” She says cheekily.
If anyone were to ask, you did not pout.
“Fine” you draw out the word playfully. “I'll let you work your magic.”
“As you should.” While Bela pushes around for products on the vanity she says, “Next I'm doing your brows. There isn't much to do but I'm going to fill them in a bit.”
She finds an eyebrow pencil in the mess and smiles triumphantly. “Tilt your head back.”
You do as she asks and feel one steady hand against your skin. Moments later you feel the pencil on your eyebrows.
“They're in good shape already. If you try this yourself, lightly outline them and color inside the lines.”
“I'm sure I can manage that.”
“I would hope so.” She leans back when both brows are done, making some small adjustments. “Or we'd have more pressing matters than your makeup struggles.”
You laugh. More of a giggle, actually. But it feels good. In the mists of a high-stakes hunt, with Dean’s deal hanging over everybody's head, it feels good to laugh.
Bela drops the pencil and goes back to searching the desk. Her hand finds the eyeshadow. It was the cheapest one they had in the store, with no more than a few dull shades of brown and one shimmery pigment. With a fluffy brush, she taps into the palette and brings it to your eye. You close them before she has to ask.
“The shadow can be difficult for beginners. Start from light to dark. And tap, don't swipe. You'll get more pigment that way.”
You feel the way she follows her own instructions, with small taps along your eyelid. There's a comfortable silence in the air as she works.
“You’re good at this.” You murmur, careful not to shift your face too much. “How did you learn?”
Bela’s movements halt momentarily before picking up again like nothing happened. “Taught myself.” There was a short, stiff pause. “It pays to be pretty in my line of work; makeup helps with that.”
You sat with that in silence. You and Bela fell so deeply into opposite sides of the spectrum. From both her small confession and the presentation of herself, you can easily tell she values beauty. Her fashionable heels, curled hair, and tight clothes contrast sharply against your work boots, ponytail, and hand-me-down jeans. Your life was comfort and functionality over style. For you, it paid to be simple and unnoticed, while Bela experienced the opposite.
And somehow, within that great divide, you’ve come together right in the middle. With Bela landing gentle pats along your eyelids, imparting her wisdom of girlhood onto you. The thought brought a flutter of joy to your stomach. Maybe there was still hope for you.
Before you knew it, Bela started talking again. “Open your eyes; I’m going to do your mascara.” You peel your eyes open and find a strange instrument in Bela’s hand.
“Hold up a sec!” You flinch back. “What the fuck is that?” The instrument is silver and shaped almost like a pair of scissors but with a rubber cushion and a clamp on the end instead of blades. “You are not putting that near my eyes. No thank you, I'd like to keep my corneas intact!” You put as much distance between Beal’s hand and your face as possible, back arching uncomfortably over the wood of the chair.
“Quit being a baby.” Bela reached for your head and pulled you close. “It’s just an eyelash curler. It’s not going to hurt you.” In the blink of an eye, Bela had the curler to your eye and was pumping it on your right lashes. It didn't hurt. But it certainly wasn't a pleasant feeling. When she was done, she swiped a few layers of mascara on your lashes and smiled with satisfaction.
“Where did you even get that? I swear I didn’t buy one of those.”
“It was in my purse. Open your mouth a little,” You keep your eyes closed while she grabs the ruby red lipstick. It doesn’t take nearly as long to find as the rest of the product had been because Bela’s been organizing as she went. Thank god. You really didn’t want to deal with that mess.
You open your mouth slightly, expecting to feel the velvety texture of the coloring. You don’t though. Instead, the rough touch of a pencil along your cupid's bow makes you jump. Opening your eyes you find the red lipliner you forgot you bought.
You watch Bela intently as she focuses on placing a smooth outline on your lips. Her brows furrow a bit then smooth out as she finishes the outline. Next comes the actual lipstick. She picks up the tube from the counter and uncaps it.
The red is the same shade as your dress. The color brings out your eyes and smooths your imperfections. You know the shade looks wonderful on your skin from applying and removing it a dozen times earlier.
Bela twists it up and tilts your head back. “Stay still.” You follow her command, looking at her eyes and parting your lips slightly while she applies the lipstick. Against your lips, the formula is velvety and smooth. It feels very nice for a drugstore brand, you think, as Bela leans back.
“All done.”
Butterflies settle in your stomach as you turn in your chair. You don't focus on yourself immediately, eyes going to Bela’s face first. If you hadn’t known any better, you'd say she looked nervous. Her eyes catch yours in the mirror.
“Well?”
That prompts you to look at yourself, and…
Oh
Your mouth drops open. Instead of blood and gunpowder smudging your cheeks, it's pink rouge and soft contour. Your eyes shine with the frame of brown eyeshadow and darkened lashes. Your brows are sharp and tamed, pulling your face higher. And your lips. The deep red pulls everything together, from the red undertones in the eyeshadow to the pink of your cheeks.
You reach up to touch your cheeks, fingers stopping just shy of your skin. You're so scared to ruin it. Bela’s hand rests on your shoulder.
“You look beautiful.” Her words are so sincere you don’t know how to handle it. Tearing your eyes away from your own skin, you risk a look at Bela again. There's a small smile on her lips and a shine in her eyes. “Come on, let me put your hair up.”
She reaches for your brush as she begins combing through your hair. Her skilled fingers feel nice against your scalp, but you can’t pull your eyes from your face. You can’t remember the last time you saw yourself in makeup, if you ever did. It was so foreign to see all the imperfections gone from your face. The small raised scars from hunts past are still there, but no longer a stark pink against your skin. There’s no cakey texture of messily done foundation or splotchy coloring from unkept skin. You look good, really good. Like a woman and not a hunter.
Bela finishes with your hair, a simple updo, both practical and beautiful, and steps back. She watches her from the mirror as she smiles and plucks her handbag from the ground. “I’ll leave you to put your dress on. Meet me downstairs.”
Bela goes to step away, but before she can get far, you jump from your seat towards her. Your arms wrap around her in a tight hug, chin placed upon her shoulder. “Thank you so much, Bela.”
Tentatively, like she doesn’t know how or doesn't do this often, she wraps her arms around you too. A small pat on your back has you smiling. “Don’t mention it.” You can see the sincerity in her voice. “Seriously. I can’t have your brothers thinking I've gone soft.” You laugh and move out of the hug, one hand still lingering on her arm. “Now get dressed. We need to get going.”
You nod and smile as she walks out the door, closing it behind her. A final glance in the mirror has you smiling like a little kid.
—---
Aside from a few mild setbacks, the hunt was a success. Washing your makeup off after the gala was probably the hardest part. It was difficult to say goodbye to the version of yourself that looked like a princess, but you knew you had to go back to your life as a hunter.
You walk down the creaky stair, duffle bag packed with the items from the room you claimed as yours, and see Dean at the bottom.
“Heads up!” He tosses something at you, and you barely catch it before it goes flying over your head. “Little gift from Bela. compensation for saving her life.”
You thumb at the stack of bills, and a folded piece of paper falls out. You pick it up from the ground, unfolding it with one hand.
You're beautiful with and without makeup, but should you ever want to do it again, I’ve written you some steps.
Beneath Bela’s swirling cursive are the same detailed instructions she gave while doing the makeup, with a few additions. A small smile pulls at your mouth, and you tuck both the cash and note into your duffel. With your head held high, you make your way out to the Impala.
♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡
Happy Valentine's Day!!! (I know I'm a little late) Here's my gift to you all, I hope you enjoyed Bela being a sweetie and thank you so much for reading!! (please let me know if there are any typos)
Don't repost, but comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
