☆♪UtaPri Imagines♪☆

The plan was to meet your boyfriend at the cafe on your lunch break since it’s closer to your workplace. Somehow you find yourself seated across from a complete stranger. Nervously hiding behind the menu in your hands, you take quick peeks at the person in front of you. Sitting where your boyfriend should be is this extravagant woman in a floor-length frilly white lace dress and a matching sun hat with a gigantic baby blue plume sticking out. Underneath the table you can just barely make out the designer red bottoms on those white stilettos peeking out beneath the hem of the dress.

It seems the princess bride’s egotistical mother missed the wedding and ended up at your table.

 She catches your eye just before you duck back behind your menu. It’s no use. Her voice booms over the top of the laminated paper. “Put that thing down and face me,” the woman demands. That loud voice, at least, is familiar in the way it reverberates off the cafe walls with sheer force. “Where are your manners in the presence of esteemed company?”

You lower the menu half an inch. “You call yourself esteemed company?” you retort, but it comes out mumbled and afraid.

Sharp blue eyes hone in on you. “What was that?”

The menu quickly goes back up. “Nothing.”

You hear a long sigh. “Put that down and look at me.”

Reluctantly you do look at her over the top of your menu. It’s hard to look such a regal woman in the eye, though, so you have to settle for one of the silver earrings dangling from her ears. “Well?” she prompts. She raises one eyebrow expectantly while one perfectly manicured fingernail taps impatiently on the tabletop.

You finally put the menu down and force yourself to fully study the strange woman in front of you. Half of her silky blonde curls are worn in braids that crown her head while the rest cascade down to her waist in rivulets. Today she chose outdoor seating. The warm spring sun strikes her face in a way that makes certain points and angles of her porcelain skin glow. It takes you a moment to recognize the blinding influence of highlighter. Beneath the highlights her cheeks are powdered faintly with dusty pink. So faint it makes her cheeks look frozen. Even her lips look frostbitten in a shiny coat of ice white glitter. Only her eyes tell a colorful story. Light blue coats her lids and a deep lilac chrome darkens the corners of her eyes. Fine white glitter highlights the center of the lid and her brow bone. Meanwhile her lashes nearly disappear in a shock of white mascara like snowflakes melting on skin.

This isn’t just the princess’s mother. It’s the Snow Queen herself.

Yet underneath the sculpture of makeup and lace frills is a distinctly familiar face.

“Well,” you say finally. “You look perfect. What else am I supposed to say?”

Satisfied, Camus puts down the empty teacup he’s been waving around in his hand. “It is perfect,” he affirms, as if you’ve answered the question with the only correct answer. You wonder why he even asked.

“So are you going to tell me…” You look for the right question to ask. Why? How? What happened?

“I won the wager against that fool.”

So you heard. Camus and his groupmate, Ranmaru, appeared on a game show together the other night in a food contest segment. As far as you know Camus was the only one between the two of them who knew the food in question was pancakes (he coerced that info out of a frightened staff member) and taunted (the word he used was “persuaded”) his groupmate into a bet backstage right before air time. In the end Ranmaru lost the contest and had to wear a skirt and lipstick.

Oh to be a fly on that wall.

“Right,” you continue, still not quite getting it. “So if you won, then why are you dressed like that?”

He glares at you as if that was a stupid question to ask. Maybe it was, you don’t know. “Because I will not allow the likes of him to upstage me.” He speaks slowly as if you should know this already. “Not even in the performance of a woman.”

You stare at him. Camus has the ego of a god. This quality translates roughly the same in a well-dignified lady, with only slightly more room for forgiveness.

The waitress comes with your tea and cakes before you can respond. It doesn’t escape your notice that the haughtiness on the noblewoman’s face has quickly been replaced by a dazzling smile, which the waitress receives with wide, mesmerized eyes and a shy smile of her own before she scurries away. The sparkles and glitter disintegrate as soon as she’s gone.

You keep staring at Camus.

He raises an eyebrow as if to say, See? As if you needed any proof that the getup is flawless. Now that the teacup has real tea in it, he–she raises it to her lips. Frosted lips barely touch the porcelain edge as she takes one tiny sip at a time. The pinky stays up.

Really, there’s no difference between the gentleman and the lady.

They’re both around the same degree of obnoxious.

You feel your eye twitch. There’s an assorted plate of macarons right in front of you and saliva pools under your tongue just thinking about them. You want nothing more than to dig your claws into the lemon meringue, but you have to perform your imminent duties first. There’s still an air of expectancy surrounding Camus, even as he appears to be relaxed with his teacup in hand and one leg crossed over the other. Any move on your part besides paying him his dues will be perceived as a slight.

“You look beautiful,” you try.

The teacup hovers restlessly midair. Ice blue eyes pin you to the spot. “Is that all?”

The iced milk tea is calling your name. You don’t dare look at it. “Of course not. Beautiful doesn’t even compare. You look lovely, exquisite, divine. My eyes feast upon your visage. A goddess amongst us mortals.”

Those eyes bear down on you for a heartbeat too long. Uh oh. Was it the deadpan voice? Then, a scoff, before the teacup resumes its course to Camus’s mouth.

 Though hard to tell, this is his version of a “well done.” Less than a “well done” and more like a “good enough.” Really, really hard to tell, though.

Assuming that means you can eat now, you dig in immediately. Another scoff, this time condescending. Before you met him you didn’t even know scoffs had tones. Now you just ignore it. The creaminess of the milk tea washes down the tart raspberry scones and sour lemon bars. A hint of cinnamon lingers on your tastebuds from the slice of apple pie. Crumbs stick to your face as the golden brown crust flakes off the chocolate croissant. You don’t care. You’re in heaven. No conversation is had for ten minutes. Your mouth is stuffed that entire time eating half the table. By the time you lean back into your seat to let your tummy rest, your teacup is empty and so are most of the plates on the table. Camus is only halfway through his tea and on his third scone.

He appraises you over his cup. “Your gluttony still astounds me.” He points at your tea, now just a cup of ice. “If that doesn’t have you locked in a restroom emptying your bowels within the hour it will have you locked in the restroom battling with panic instead.”

“Thanks. I’ll do my best to keep that in mind and try to avoid my fate.” Your voice drips with sarcasm, but you sort of mean it. It’s his own little fucked up way of being concerned. Tea doesn’t even have that much caffeine in it, anyway… you hope.

Eventually the waitress comes back around with the bill. She slows as she approaches, seemingly unsure of who to hand it off to. Evidently she’s trying to maintain eye contact with the both of you, but it fails when her gaze keeps drifting towards the regal woman with the bright smile. Even you know there’s a clear wealth gap here. There’s a little impatience in the gesture when Camus grabs the check from the waitress’s hand, the smile tight on his—her—face. The waitress doesn’t even notice. She’s so entranced by the haloed aura surrounding this woman that she’d probably let her spit on her shoes and be okay with it. Most people would.

Camus hands the check back to the waitress along with a generous cash tip straight from her high-end designer bag. The waitress might as well have been grabbing air. She’s looking back at the rich lady like she could kiss her.

You clear your throat.

“Oh!” The waitress startles as if she’s forgotten you were there. “Right. Thank you for coming. Have a great day, madam! And, uh…”

She turns to you awkwardly. Deciding to save her the trouble, you give her a tight-lipped smile. “You too,” you tell her, then grab your bag to leave.

Camus catches up with you right outside the cafe. “Don’t walk so fast,” he reproaches. “I will not be running after you in heels.”

Despite his words he seems to be having no trouble keeping a long stride even in designer stilettos. “I’m going back to work,” you snap. You don’t mean to but you can’t help it. “You should too.”

Camus keeps following you. “I have time. I’ll walk you.”

You roll your eyes. “What am I, a dog? Go away.”

You try to walk faster but he grabs your arm. “I said I will not run after you in heels,” he huffs.

You stop but don’t turn around to face him.

“Are you jealous?” he asks.

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Of the Queen of England? Thanks, but no. It looks great on you, but I am not jealous.”

You can practically hear the amusement in his voice. “I wasn’t asking if it was me you were jealous of.”

You scowl at the ground and snatch your arm away. Then you keep walking.

Heels tap on the sidewalk behind you. “You are jealous.”

Realizing he’ll just follow you the entire way whether you object or not, you swivel around on the balls of your heels to at least give him a piece of your mind. One pointer finger swings on him accusingly. But as you turn around you notice something out of place. Your finger ends up pointing right at it. “Ah,” is the only sound that comes out of your mouth.

There’s an adult goods store here. Operating on the street corner and partially hidden by a leaning tree growing into the sidewalk cracks, it’s possible that you’ve just never noticed it before. But with as many times as you’ve walked this way, you’ve definitely never seen this place here before. It’s not very inconspicuous, with the bright neon pink sign that reads Sexxxcitement!!! and a logo of hot pink fuzzy handcuffs that link the end first and last X together. The middle X is a crude rendition of high-heeled pinup legs splayed open. This place has to have just opened.

Either way it’s here, and you’re pointing at it.

Camus’s gaze follows your finger. “Oh?”

Blushing, you quickly put your finger down. “Anyway,” you say stiffly. “I am not jealous.”

You turn around to be on your way again but he grabs your hand this time. A smarmy smile muddies the surface of that exquisite face. “Alright,” he agrees a little too readily. “You’re not jealous.” Smile plastered to his face, he points at the sex shop. “Shall we go in there for a bit?”

You feel the color leave your face. “In there? With you? Absolutely not.”

Blue eyes twinkle mischievously. Then his face changes. A fair lady bright-eyed with curiosity looks back at you pleadingly. “We’re the closest of friends, are we not?” she asks innocently. The emphasis is anything but. “And as your womanly companion, all I ask is for merchandise recommendations. Is it not your job to lend me your opinion?”

“My first recommendation is that you don’t call toys ‘merchandise,’” you mumble. Then, louder, “Don’t push your luck. I’m already pissed and my lunch break is almost over. Do your own shopping on your own time.”

To your relief Camus drops the subject. Instead he returns to the other one. Ever insistent on walking you back, he follows you as you keep walking. “Remind me why you’re pissed.”

You groan.

The teasing continues the entire way back to work. This is nothing out of the ordinary. But you’re so busy trying to walk fast enough that you just barely miss the scheming glint in his eye as he turns around to head back the way you both came.

⟡⟡⟡⟡

Work lets up in the early evening. You head home where your boyfriend should be waiting. Instead it turns out that you still have a girlfriend for the time being. Sitting in your dining room still all dressed up, the only thing missing from the outfit are the red-bottom stilettos. You recall seeing them lined up carefully by the entrance when you came in. You wonder what all his coworkers thought of this charade. Especially Ranmaru. Did he fall to his knees in defeat like Camus hoped or, more likely, did he clown him for his ridiculously meaningless pride?

Though you have a hunch that this competition of womanly wiles is one-sided, you can’t help but wonder who won. Part of you wants to root for his groupmate out of spite, but bias—or perhaps fact—makes it hard for you to imagine anyone but your perfectionist lover winning. For what it’s worth Camus doesn’t seem to be in a sour mood. The baron isn’t exactly afraid to let his grievances be known, least of all to you. His foul temper often breeds a foul mouth. The tranquil silence tells you that he at least came home a winner.

According to him, at least. The other party in this alleged competition might not necessarily agree.

“Do you need my help undressing?” you offer. Maybe he doesn’t know how to remove all the layers of frill or how to wash all the makeup off of his face… or not. It’s hard to imagine him not knowing how to do something. At the very least he’s capable of figuring it out. Maybe he’s just waiting on you to pamper him.

The lady sitting at your dining table finally glances away from her novel to raise her eyebrows at you. “Are you that eager?”

Offer rescinded. Heat rushes to your face. “Never mind. You can do it yourself after all.”

A genuinely delighted laugh lights up the noblewoman’s face at your reaction. It’s almost contagious. The corner of your mouth threatens to lift into a smile.

One of Camus’s pastimes is stringing people around like marionettes in his very own puppet show. Exhibit A is literally sitting at your table: the perfect image of a high standing lady, looking rather out of place in your humble home. All because he wanted to rub his (self-perceived) superiority in his groupmate’s face. And if anyone thought you’d have it better because he’s your lover, they’d have it all wrong.

It’s because he’s your lover that you actually have it ten times worse. The fiendish side of him is rather ungodly and quite ignoble. You would never get away with saying that out loud, though.

And if you ever do say that out loud, you would also be forced to admit that you enjoy it. Even at your own expense. Especially at your own expense.

What would that make you?

A masochist.

You can’t admit that.

“Not yet,” Camus tells you. “I intend to remain this way until later this evening. Then you may undress me.”

Ignoring the suggestive look he gives you at that last remark, you move to the kitchen to make dinner. Already a list of things to put on TV is running through your head. By the time the food is ready you’ll have settled the matter on what to watch. “No thanks!” you call. “I’ll leave you to it.”

When dinner is made you fix yourself a plate and head into the living room, where you settle lazily on the couch cuddled up with the remote. Camus the noblewoman seems to have relocated to the living room as well. Sitting posture perfect and nose stuck inside her book, she’s almost completely still next to you. She doesn’t even glance up to acknowledge your presence when you sink into the couch. But at least she doesn’t complain about the TV volume either, which, to your credit, you’ve been trained to keep at a minimum.

But Camus is being awfully silent. Not even a single critique on your shitty posture. That should be your first sign that something is afoot, but this show is just too damn interesting. You don’t notice her retire to the bedroom early until you’re ready to follow suit.

You walk in on the lady undoing the pins keeping her braid up. Platinum blonde tresses spill around her shoulders. Somehow, even with her fully clothed, it feels like you’ve walked in on a woman—almost like a stranger, at that—changing. For some reason you instinctively turn around to leave.

“Wait.” Her commanding voice stops you in your tracks. “Come here.”

Unsure of your other options, you obey without a word.

Camus faces the standing mirror by the dresser. All the silver jewelry she was wearing has already been discarded into a pile atop the varnished wood. Without turning around she looks at you through the mirror and raises her arm to point down at her back.

“The zipper,” she says. It’s an order, not a statement.

Sure enough, when you sweep her curls away from her shoulders there is a zipper hidden on the back of her dress going all the way to the waistline. But your attention is pulled away when your fingers accidentally brush against the bare nape of her neck while moving her hair out of the way. You’re presented with pretty, unmarked skin. She’s so tall that you’d have to stand on the tips of your toes, but you think of leaning forward and leaving an impression of your lips on this pale canvas.

The zipper gets stuck not even a quarter of the way down. Mentally you curse.

“The wardrobe staff coordinated this,” Camus informs you. “It took several people and much fussing to get this on.”

“So basically you’ve set me up for failure,” you accuse him.

You manage to get the zipper loose just to get stuck again about an inch later.

“I have not,” he denies. “But if you can’t manage this much, then yes, that would make you lowlier than mere staff.”

Angrily you nearly rip the zipper off dragging it the rest of the way down.

“Well done. Now find my purse.”

“You’re so demanding,” you complain, but you do it anyway. It’s propped against a pillow on your side of the bed.

When you turn back around, Camus has stripped off the frilly dress and shed the extra padding. Various garments now pool at his feet. Long locks flow down his back and spill over his shoulders, down his chest and slender form like falling snow. It’s like looking at a picture of Eve, the first biblical woman, before nakedness became a sin. Brain on autopilot, you hand the lady her purse. You don’t even think to ask why or what’s in it. There is a gorgeous woman standing naked in your bedroom. Though mentally you haven’t caught up yet, your awe makes your body compliant.

Except she’s not completely naked. It was hard to tell in the dim lamp lighting, but she’s wearing white lace panties so sheer and tiny you mistook it for skin at first. There is an elaborate design on them that you can’t look too close at. You’ve seen your boyfriend naked a million times, but this feels more intimate. Try walking in on a countess changing in her own quarters. Next thing you know you’re facing prison time or the guillotine.

“Why are you looking away?” she demands to know.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

You didn’t even realize you’re covering your face. Cautiously you peek out between your fingers. You’re being very careful to keep your eyes on her face. It’s not helping. It’s a very beautiful face, even more so with makeup that compliments her features.

But even Camus and his perfectionist tendencies could prevent the inevitable wear of the day on base makeup. It happens to everyone, no matter how professional the technique or how expensive the product. After the twelve-hour mark, where the makeup melts and how it runs is up to God.

Yet somehow the imperfections make the goddess in front of you all the more irresistible. There’s something thrilling about looking at Camus’s semi-ruined face. A reminder that he, too, is human. And that you, too, can remind him of it.

“I have a gift for you,” he says.

How unusual. There goes your train of thought. Puzzled, you echo, “A gift?”

The lady produces something from her bag.

And there go your reminders. If you need to remember anything, remember this: Camus is not human.

She smirks at you. Everything blue on her face glitters. “You told me to do my own shopping, did you not? Here. A gift.”

Ranmaru’s already answering the question before you ask it. “I lost a goddamn bet,” he growls. He goes to fuss with his hair, a tendency of his, and ends up more frustrated when his hand slips through the longer silky silver strands of his wig instead of his lovingly mussed spikes. “That fucker goaded me into it before we were on air. I thought, what the hell, it’s a food contest. He thinks I can’t win a food contest? Nobody told me it was a fucking pancake eating contest. Maybe he can drink all that syrup down in one sitting, but I can’t. Fuck no.”

You’re grinning.

His expression is acidic. “What the hell are you smiling for?”

“You’d rather wear a skirt than eat sweets?”

He reddens. Or maybe it’s just the blush he’s wearing. “I told you, he tricked me,” he repeats, adamant that you get the facts straight.

Over time you’ve learned to decode who’s who with the derogatory nicknames based on context. This time it’s the usual suspect: Camus. Identifiable, if not for the syrup guzzling story, by his name listed next to Ranmaru’s on tonight’s schedule.

“Wearing a fucking skirt and painting my face was not part of the deal,” he goes on. Clearly he’s still winded up about the outcome of this bet and desperately needs to explain himself to someone. “He just says shit to piss me off right as we’re about to go live, and then I’m losing that stupid contest, and all of a sudden he has the wardrobe lady and makeup guy all up in my face. Shit, this fabric itches. Are you supposed to be able to feel the breeze on your taint?”

When you don’t speak up to interrupt his rant he peeks over at you nervously. You hope your smile is soothing enough to soften the damage you’re about to inflict. “Well, you look beautiful,” you say.

Your boyfriend—girlfriend?—turns beet red. Definitely not just the blush applied carefully to the hollows of his cheeks beneath his sharp cheekbones, which are masterfully carved out by the contour and softened by the bronzer. For an intense smokey look, the smudged black shadow over his eyelids fades into his signature gray as it blends up to his browbone. The liquid black cat eyeliner extends his already feline eyes and fuses seamlessly with the black gel coating his lower and upper lashline, making the color of his irises–one steel gray and one plum wine–pop.

He’s even more striking than usual. Wearing his black leather biking jacket over the black miniskirt and his worn Doc Martens over the fishnet leggings, he really does look just like your punk rocker girlfriend.

As he moves from the entrance hall to the living room he leaves a trail of shedded outer garments. There’s his jacket on the floor, one heel lying abandoned on its side, one heel standing pointed towards the front door. You follow. He throws himself down onto the couch and kicks up his feet to try removing his socks from beneath the fishnets. Stupid.

“Help me out of this,” he demands. It’s hard to tell whether he means just the leggings or everything else too.

You go to help him, but something makes you pause. Everything is so expertly put together on his face and over his body, like a museum exhibit masterpiece. In all fairness, the model without the makeup is a natural beauty. But overall, after everything it took to doll him up like this, it seems like a big waste to undo all of it so soon.

Ranmaru takes one glance at the look on your face and scowls. “What? You want something. Spit it out.”

You burst out, “Can we please–”

He holds up a hand. “Stop right there. I already know I’m not gonna like it.”

“–At least let me take a few pics, please?”

Immediately he looks like he’s about to say no. The word is just on the tip of his tongue. But after one more look at your face, he changes his mind. Shaking his head and muttering some unsavory words under his breath, he relaxes into the couch.

He’s giving you the go ahead.

The problem is that when he relaxes, he throws one muscled bicep, emerging out of the oversized band tee, over the back of the sofa while the other rests on the arm. His legs are spread wide eagle. Whoever dressed him didn’t bother putting on shorts beneath the skirt. Or maybe he refused. You can see his red boxers peaking out under the skirt. Despite in all appearances being a woman, nothing about his manner is very ladylike.

Automatically you start directing him like you’re the cameraman at the photoshoot. “Close your legs. And your arms, too.”

Worriedly, your boyfriend sniffs at his own armpits. It’s a good thing you’re way past the honeymoon stage to get the ick. “Sorry,” he says. “I just got off work. Do I smell?”

“No, idiot, I’m trying to get you right. You look like a thug.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“For the camera I’m going to need you to look like the mafia wife, not the boss.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” he grumbles, but he does as you say anyway.

There isn’t much of a difference when he awkwardly tucks his limbs in. It’s still Kurosaki Ranmaru, the distinctly gruff and masculine rocker idol, just in a skirt and a wig. You suppress a giggle. He scowls, which only serves in making the image worse.

“Quit laughing,” he says. “Hurry up and take your pictures. I’m doing this for you. After that I’m taking it all off and burning it.”

At this you do laugh out loud. “Okay, okay. Pose for me.”

Even if he isn’t quite nailing the feminine postures—and bless his heart, he does try—his body language screams professionalism. This is an idol who’s been numbed and seasoned to being in front of a camera, even the tiny lens of your phone. He takes direction very well and without question. Occasionally there’s a complaint. Not once does he defy your orders, though. He’s more than happy to sit back and accept your expertise.

Somehow it’s not hard to imagine how he lost the bet and ended up in the styling chair. If you dare remark on how cooperative he is, though, he’d get self-conscious and make both of you momentarily unhappy trying to prove you wrong.

“You’d better not do anything weird with these photos,” he warns you in the middle of holding a pose.

Amused, you ask, “Weird like what?”

The blush darkens on his face. “Like I know! Just don’t sell them online or something.”

“I think I would’ve had plenty of opportunities before this to sell your photos for crazy prices online. No, I was just planning on jerking off with them. Hey, let’s do a boudoir shot.”

“You—!” His entire face up to his ears and down to his neck turns red, so you know it’s not just the makeup. But then he sees from your face that you’re kidding (sort of) and sighs loudly in exasperation. “Whatever. What’s a bu-bu—?“

You don’t have time to listen to him struggle to pronounce a word. It’s French, anyway, who cares? With your phone camera still trained on him, you’re already crawling onto the couch with him. “They’re tasteful sexy bedroom shots,” you explain offhandedly. “Like nude photos, except you don’t actually have to be nude.”

Ranmaru arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Come on, lay down.”

He’s not entirely convinced but he lets you push him back until his head hits the arm of the other side of the sofa. You take in his disheveled form made miniature on your phone. Mostly he looks the same. The stylists didn’t even bother with padding. Or again, more likely, he refused. His body is swallowed up by the oversize tee but you’re very familiar with the line of rock hard abs underneath. You can practically feel them under your hands if you fantasize hard enough.

But his face tells a completely different story. Long silver strands splay messily over the side of the couch, spilling down his shoulders, sticking to his cherry red lip gloss. He tries to spit it out and grows increasingly more frustrated when more hair just sticks to his mouth. His lashes are naturally long, but they’re elongated and emboldened in several black coats of mascara and now they cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks.

When Ranmaru looks up at you, you have to be glad there’s a screen between you covering your face.

It takes you a moment to refocus. “...Lift your head. Chin up.”

He follows your cues.

“Okay, now your left hand on your stomach. No, not like you’re hungry–”

“I am hungry,” he complains.

“I was craving that one burger joint for lunch and I brought you leftovers. I’ll heat it up for you later. Now pose. Hand resting on your stomach, and relax your elbow. Otherwise it looks awkward.”

All of a sudden Ranmaru seems a lot more eager to oblige.

“Good,” you say. “Now tuck your right arm under your head. Relax, I said. You can let your elbow touch the couch, you know. It’s supposed to look like I caught you just waking up.”

“I’m just going to fall asleep.”

“Then you won’t get leftovers.”

With minimal muttered complaints, he does as you say.

It’s not like you refocused the camera or messed with any of the settings. As he gets adjusted and relaxes into the pose, the professional model in him just seems to come to life. It’s not a crazy outrageous pose and by no means out of character, but all of a sudden you’re seeing a disheveled grunge girl underneath you.

“Now what?” she asks.

And all of a sudden you’re hyperaware of the fact that you’re pretty much strandling her–him?–as she looks up at you through dark lidded eyes.

Ranmaru frowns. “You okay?”

Caught off guard, the phone slips from your hands and bounces off the couch. “Wh-what? Yeah.”

He stares at your face for a second. Then his face breaks into a smirk. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he teases. “You sick fuck.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“Your face is red.”

“So is yours.”

He laughs. “But only one of us is wearing makeup right now.”

Unfortunately he’s got you there.

You reach down to grab your phone and continue taking pictures but he grabs your hand. “We can take a break,” he says.

You frown. “Hey, don’t break position. Now I have to posture you all over again.”

Ranmaru’s other hand slides up your hip, right under your pajama top. “I said let’s take a break.”

This time you don’t miss the suggestion in his husky tone. You allow him to pull you down on top of him, his lips brushing the exposed bit of your shoulder as soon as he has you close enough. You feel the sticky residue of his gloss as he presses hungry yet tender kisses to your skin. When you look in the mirror later it’s probably going to look like an angry constellation of cherry kissmarks and hickeys. You make a small sound when he sucks a little too hard in one spot. He hums against your skin in response…