nine. artfully natural
I keep changing my mind about this fucking thing. It won't sit still and behave. It may still end up as a play, or something.
No, apparently I can only write from the perspective of a woman, or from third person. Hmmm.
Also, Misha Collins on Twitter is the best thing ever. Fr srs.
I'm aware that I'm nearly a week late on this, but it'll do. I didn't really have a chance to do any typing last week, so.
She's making her face up in the mirror. First, a good base. Moisturiser is swept sleekly over her cheeks and her nose, blended softly in, and then powder, and then a little cream high up on the bones of her cheeks. She blends it in with her fingertips and one of those long, feather-soft brushes, hands tracing the curves of her face. Then, it's time for the blusher. Soft peachy-pink today, just enough to make her look a little flushed without looking unnatural. Once that is done, it's eyes. Blue, today, to make her eyes really stand out. First, the primer goes on, to hold the eye-shadow in place. Then, it's soft layers of electric blue eye-shadow over her eyelid and up towards her brow in slow arcs, fading out into skin as they get higher. Then, it's eye-liner, a darker blue, but softer, smudged into the edges of her lashes with yet another brush, this one soft foam. Mascara brush comes out next, coal black and sweeping sticky along her lashes, making them spider-leg long and curling, with a flick at the end of the stroke the catch the little lashes at the corner of her eyes. Lip liner, then, medium pink tracing the shape of her lips, giving her a little more of a cupid's bow where her own mouth is deficient, and then lipstick. A slightly darker shade of medium pink here, enough to tone smoothly with the blusher but not enough to detract attention from her eyes.
Her outfit is already found. Good underwear, silk and lace and royal blue, clinging to her curves and making her feel confident and just sexy enough for tonight. Then, next, tights. Specially purchased to match her eyes and her dress, black and dark blue in stripes, long enough in the legs to sit properly. Her dress is a watered silk and cotton blend, short sleeved and cut tight around her waist, cut high to sit just underneath her breasts. The shoes are black and patent leather, and have just enough heel to put a slink in her walk, a sway to her hips. For her hair, she just pulls it up, fastening it back on her head with a black clip. Looking at herself in the mirror on her dresser, she pulls some strands out to hang loosely around her face, arranging herself to look artfully natural.
It's warm outside, so she doesn't bother picking up a coat, just grabs a handbag from her dresser and rifles through it. Phone, purse, money, credit card, lipstick, mascara, condoms, tissues, plasters, lip balm, everything she might need is in there. She goes downstairs and lets herself out of the house, locking the door behind her and tucking the keys into the inside pocket of her handbag, before slinging it across her chest. It isn't far to the restaurant, so she'll walk.
The afternoon air is cool on her arms and along the back of her neck, and she finds herself walking faster, with a spring in her step. There are birds flying overhead, whip-fast and crazy, wings outflung as they cavort through the sky. It always amazes her that they never hit each other. If people moved about at that speed, there'd be so many collisions. Maybe those little birds react faster than people can. She checks her watch and sees that she's a little early, so she takes a detour; through the park and along the edge of the river. The park is full of dogs and their owners, from little dogs that jump and bark like mad things to huge hulking dogs that trot about in a stately fashion. There are joggers as well, and an aerobics class taking advantage of the fine weather to exercise outside, and they remind her with a guilty twinge that she keeps meaning to start going to the gym again. That was her resolution for this year, and she hasn't kept it very well so far. She resolves to herself to start going again soon. Maybe she could swim, she's always liked swimming. That sounds good, doing twenty laps twice a week. Nice and gentle, ease her back into exercise.
On the river, there is a pair of swans. They've been there for years, floating slowly up and down the water, in and amongst the boats and the few hardy swimmers. They have a nest, somewhere in the riverbank, underneath one of the bridges, and every year they rear a pair of dusty-grey cygnets and then chase them away, packing them off to pastures new. The little swans never come back, but there are ducks. Dozens of ducks, the little brown ones with bright blue and green heads that you see everywhere, and they never seem to leave. There always seems to be exactly the same number of them, never any more or any less.
She's nearly at the restaurant now, so she pauses for a minute to check her make-up in the window of the nearest shop. She gets an appreciative glance from a man on the other side of the street, and revels quietly in the fact that she can still do that, that she can make men look at her. She pulls at the loose strands of hair next to her face, flicks her earrings with one finger, and adjusts the straps on her shoes, pulling them up her ankle a little. Then she crosses over the road, careful to avoid the cars passing by, and pulls open the door to the restaurant. The place is little, intimate, careful. It has an arched ceiling with cool white plaster, and walls covered with elegant, minimalist wallpaper, all black and white stripes. The tables are black and white, and there are tall pots of tiny white flowers placed all around the room.
He's waiting, at a table on the far side of the restaurant, hair swept back from his forehead and face wide open and laughing, and she feels the same twist inside her as she felt the first time she saw him, that curious sense that all of her life had been spent waiting for him.
From this prompt. Now I kind of want to cover myself in glitter and roll around on the grass until I'm glitter-blue and grass-stain green. This heat is really getting to me.
No, apparently I can only write from the perspective of a woman, or from third person. Hmmm.
Also, Misha Collins on Twitter is the best thing ever. Fr srs.
I'm aware that I'm nearly a week late on this, but it'll do. I didn't really have a chance to do any typing last week, so.
She's making her face up in the mirror. First, a good base. Moisturiser is swept sleekly over her cheeks and her nose, blended softly in, and then powder, and then a little cream high up on the bones of her cheeks. She blends it in with her fingertips and one of those long, feather-soft brushes, hands tracing the curves of her face. Then, it's time for the blusher. Soft peachy-pink today, just enough to make her look a little flushed without looking unnatural. Once that is done, it's eyes. Blue, today, to make her eyes really stand out. First, the primer goes on, to hold the eye-shadow in place. Then, it's soft layers of electric blue eye-shadow over her eyelid and up towards her brow in slow arcs, fading out into skin as they get higher. Then, it's eye-liner, a darker blue, but softer, smudged into the edges of her lashes with yet another brush, this one soft foam. Mascara brush comes out next, coal black and sweeping sticky along her lashes, making them spider-leg long and curling, with a flick at the end of the stroke the catch the little lashes at the corner of her eyes. Lip liner, then, medium pink tracing the shape of her lips, giving her a little more of a cupid's bow where her own mouth is deficient, and then lipstick. A slightly darker shade of medium pink here, enough to tone smoothly with the blusher but not enough to detract attention from her eyes.
Her outfit is already found. Good underwear, silk and lace and royal blue, clinging to her curves and making her feel confident and just sexy enough for tonight. Then, next, tights. Specially purchased to match her eyes and her dress, black and dark blue in stripes, long enough in the legs to sit properly. Her dress is a watered silk and cotton blend, short sleeved and cut tight around her waist, cut high to sit just underneath her breasts. The shoes are black and patent leather, and have just enough heel to put a slink in her walk, a sway to her hips. For her hair, she just pulls it up, fastening it back on her head with a black clip. Looking at herself in the mirror on her dresser, she pulls some strands out to hang loosely around her face, arranging herself to look artfully natural.
It's warm outside, so she doesn't bother picking up a coat, just grabs a handbag from her dresser and rifles through it. Phone, purse, money, credit card, lipstick, mascara, condoms, tissues, plasters, lip balm, everything she might need is in there. She goes downstairs and lets herself out of the house, locking the door behind her and tucking the keys into the inside pocket of her handbag, before slinging it across her chest. It isn't far to the restaurant, so she'll walk.
The afternoon air is cool on her arms and along the back of her neck, and she finds herself walking faster, with a spring in her step. There are birds flying overhead, whip-fast and crazy, wings outflung as they cavort through the sky. It always amazes her that they never hit each other. If people moved about at that speed, there'd be so many collisions. Maybe those little birds react faster than people can. She checks her watch and sees that she's a little early, so she takes a detour; through the park and along the edge of the river. The park is full of dogs and their owners, from little dogs that jump and bark like mad things to huge hulking dogs that trot about in a stately fashion. There are joggers as well, and an aerobics class taking advantage of the fine weather to exercise outside, and they remind her with a guilty twinge that she keeps meaning to start going to the gym again. That was her resolution for this year, and she hasn't kept it very well so far. She resolves to herself to start going again soon. Maybe she could swim, she's always liked swimming. That sounds good, doing twenty laps twice a week. Nice and gentle, ease her back into exercise.
On the river, there is a pair of swans. They've been there for years, floating slowly up and down the water, in and amongst the boats and the few hardy swimmers. They have a nest, somewhere in the riverbank, underneath one of the bridges, and every year they rear a pair of dusty-grey cygnets and then chase them away, packing them off to pastures new. The little swans never come back, but there are ducks. Dozens of ducks, the little brown ones with bright blue and green heads that you see everywhere, and they never seem to leave. There always seems to be exactly the same number of them, never any more or any less.
She's nearly at the restaurant now, so she pauses for a minute to check her make-up in the window of the nearest shop. She gets an appreciative glance from a man on the other side of the street, and revels quietly in the fact that she can still do that, that she can make men look at her. She pulls at the loose strands of hair next to her face, flicks her earrings with one finger, and adjusts the straps on her shoes, pulling them up her ankle a little. Then she crosses over the road, careful to avoid the cars passing by, and pulls open the door to the restaurant. The place is little, intimate, careful. It has an arched ceiling with cool white plaster, and walls covered with elegant, minimalist wallpaper, all black and white stripes. The tables are black and white, and there are tall pots of tiny white flowers placed all around the room.
He's waiting, at a table on the far side of the restaurant, hair swept back from his forehead and face wide open and laughing, and she feels the same twist inside her as she felt the first time she saw him, that curious sense that all of her life had been spent waiting for him.
From this prompt. Now I kind of want to cover myself in glitter and roll around on the grass until I'm glitter-blue and grass-stain green. This heat is really getting to me.