Only Pretty [RameTero; NC-17]
Title: Only Pretty
Author: the_lady_lamb
Genre: hoshit Bandom → Vidoll
Sub-genre: Angst/Romance
Summary: Rame's life is his makeup, supposedly. Tero's not to keen on being second to eyelid glue.
Rated: NC-17 for lots of sex.
Author's Notes: lololololololol bandom. All I've got to say. I think my credibility as a writer just went straight out the fucking window. This was a drabble...kind of, based on a conversation I had with insidiae on how Tero and Rame just tend to stand a little too close to be friends. Don't ask me how this happened. It just did. Un-BETA'd.
Only Pretty
It is Rame’s makeup that preoccupies him. Not his lovelife, not his personality, not death, not work, and not sex. (It is perhaps the first and last things that irritate Tero the most, but then, he supposes he understands. His hair preoccupies him. He will sometimes leave Rame naked in his bed to get it redyed, and only once has the bassist rewarded such actions with chastice. Only once.) Perhaps 70% of Rame’s day is his appearance - his underwear (always perfect, always matching his stockings), his petticoats, his dresses and his shoes, his hair and his face. Always his face; his face takes the longest, and he wakes up hours early (goes to bed hours late) all to compile himself properly.
He always brushes the front of his dress off the same way and finds a small washcloth - two in fact - to keep his hair up and off of his (pretty) forehead, and peers into the mirror and frowns (only slightly) to himself as if he is genuinely surprised to see himself without his layers on, without his iridescent beetle’s shell of makeup. (Were he preserved in amber, Rame would be three times as pretty as the prettiest woman on the face of the Earth. Tero thinks that that must be what he is waiting for - that he must be waiting for his sea of amber to come rushing in to the recording studio one day and to bundle him up like some geisha princess. But Rame is not a geisha princess. Rame is Rame, and Rame is naked without his makeup. Is only ever beautiful that way, Tero thinks. With his makeup he can only ever be pretty. Only pretty.) He watches himself, surveys his face like a landmine, reaches down blindly for the makeup he knows will be there, and takes up his foundation. (Every piece of Rame’s makeup is kept is composed in its own perfect, organized fashion - his daykit is separate and less comprehensive from Tero’s bathroom sink, his nightkit is more comprehensive and includes more waterproof paints and shades.) He opens it up and daubs the brush in lightly, stirring the familiar pale dust into the air, and then lifting it to his lips, humming on it (as if in thought), before stroking it sensually down the right side of his face - temple to chin and then the full meat of his cheeks - and then re-daubing it and taking it down the left. He refuses to use cream foundation - it cakes over and brings out the flaws in his face, and he dislikes it.
(Rame dislikes many things.)
A blending contour cream to bring out the dips of his eyes and his cheeks. Concealer is next, and brief - Rame has nothing (everything) to conceal (his emotions, his thoughts, his needs, his real personality, where is it? Tero feels like he’s mining for gold and being simultaneously hit in the back of the head with pyrite every time he checks his pan). His eyebrows are long plucked and so the pencil is next, thin and perfect and practiced, the way Rame keeps himself (bare; he waxes, he’s had his facial hair removed with lasers already and the rest he waxes, even his armpits. Tero’s watched him do it before. Not pretty. Just beautiful), and everything about the way he draws them on is expert. They are smooth, thin, a one-time thing.
Then come the eyes (Tero’s least favorite part). Rame systematically takes out his Koji Eye Talk eyelid glue and whatever collar he’s selected for his given outfit (usually days ahead of time) and the eyeliner and the mascara, and goes through the same pattern he always does: one coat to the left eye, a thin white, evenly applied (always avoid clumps, Tero’s seen the tutorials because he wants to know that all this is really necessary), just along and just above where Rame knows it will crease, not touching the prongs at all until it is just clear, almost dried, and then the forked end at the exact center to press the lid back behind his eye, pressing it back, tucking it in, and then the far edge. Then his lithe fingers flip it unbidden and he touches up the corners, his left eye significantly, familiarly wider than the other. And then the same treatment is given the other eye, Tero standing at the doorway, arms folded across his chest, face bland with displeasure. And Rame always says the words-
”If you don’t like it, go back to bed.”
(It is five in the morning, so the option is not so far from the drummer’s mind. It is five in the morning because Rame does not even want the sun to see him in any way other than in the body he recreates for himself every morning, behind the face and the dresses he is so careful with, adoring of. “You love your clothing more than you love me.”
”Don’t be foolish.” Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. “I never said anything about loving you.”
He never leaves the doorway though.
Never.)
He then goes for the eyeliner, taking it expertly along the new crease above his eyes, and finally takes up the ash color he likes to put above (it is usually some dark color, red or black or gray or brown) and brushes a deep, pungent square into the far corner of each eye and then blends it faster than Tero can catch. His wrist flicks rapidly, like a woodpeckers head at the base of a tree (inside the drummer’s chest), back and forth and back and forth. Rame doesn’t want any streaks. The mascara is opened, the oily smell of it thick, overpowering the dusty, lingering scent of the foundation and the plastic scent of the glue. The brush is dabbed, once twice, all excess removed, and then he is staring into his own eyes, as if enraptured, gently curling the mascara along his lashes. He coats them with three times what he needs (a magic number, it seems) and then blinks to double check. (Perfect.)
The eyes take the longest; after comes the lips (the same dependable gloss), and then the hair as he takes the towel down, refolds it, and lays it daintily across one of the bars over the toilet. He takes a comb from the drawer and evens out his bangs (he’s already long flat-ironed them) across his face, smiling at himself coiling.
Five out of ten times he picks up the pink liquid eyeliner and paints a nauseatingly adorable little heart at the very top of his left cheek bone.
The other five times it is on the right cheek. (A little double-double. It never hurt anyone.)
Then he will open up the drawer beneath the sink and take out one of exactly seventy-two perfectly organized vials of nailpolish (the same as his perfect white teeth) and take it out to the kitchen, where he keeps his remover. Then he will go into the dining room, and seat himself delicately on one of the chairs to the table, and spread a dishtowel across his lap, and carefully roll up his sleeves, and redo his nails, which are usually some sort of bright pink dappled with stars or hearts or something of the like. Tero will always follow, always watch him.
(Sometimes, when he is exactly halfway through the second coat on the middle finger of his left hand, Tero will ask if he can suck him off.
Sometimes Rame says yes. And sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all, which means yes anyway, and it is those times that Tero gets down on his knees from off the wall and crawls forward, dragging his legs across the carpet and breathing against Rame’s knees - sometimes kept bare of stockings, sometimes not, always smooth - before knocking them apart with his nose and burrowing deep under his skirts. Rame stays cool even when the drummer drags his underwear down those sensual thighs and nuzzles his sometimes flaccid, usually halfhard, sometimes throbbing cock before gently nibbling at the base and then mouthing every available piece of it, laving kisses across the head, across Rame’s thighs.
The bassist can usually remain completely at ease, his hips unmoving, his doll-like countenance completely undisturbed, but even then Tero can always see the evidence of his efforts when the two stand too close to be friends at practice, at photoshoots, at clubs, at a live. The points of the stars will be jagged, the hearts skewed slightly.
And usually is not always. Sometimes, Rame unravels, becomes undone at the edges, moans, bucks his hips ever so slightly, at least stops what he is doing, comes to a complete halt. Once, one of the times rather early on, not the first time but not to far from the first time, Rame loses it completely, nailpolish dropping, gasps unsteady, hips rocking; Tero pushes the bassist’s knees up his chest and puts his balls in his mouth, suctions them hard, then gently, and Rame’s low, uneffeminate voice strikes him and he moans, musically. They are both musical, really. Tero traces the lines of Rame’s testicles down to the very base and then presses his tongue deep inside of him, suckling at it like a teat, and Rame cums, violently, across the side of his face.
And breathes a while before slapping him good-naturedly, pulling up his underwear and going back to the bathroom to redo everything from scratch.)
Rame lives on his makeup. It is his lifesblood, because he is a goddess, and apparently (according to most commercials) goddesses live and breathe makeup- And yet, the word goddess is too effeminate for Rame. He is a god, a deity, really, asexual if he is not male, male if he is not asexual. Tero knows this all too well, because if there is a chosen dominant in their relationship, it is Rame who uses skirts to veil the masculinity of his genitalia the way his tongue cannot veil the masculinity of his voice. (It is Rame who is the one to decide that they are, that they will be, and that they are going to have sexual intercourse. Right. Now.)
Tero hates how falsely religious it makes him, vaguely possessive as he is, and so one night when Rame is out late with Kiseki (band business, as if he’s their mother, but neither of them are or have ever been the mothering type) Tero takes every glass vial, every single piece of paint, of color, of false ghostly hue and flushes them down the toilet before taking a Tylenol PM and going to sleep. When he wakes up Rame is atop his hips with the darkest expression his pretty face has ever seen and he beats bruises into every inch of Tero’s body, first with his fists (they look small but everyone knows otherwise; abusive, abusive, Rame’s love has always been as tough as chewing rocks) and then with his cock.
”You’re - ah, ah - such a devil.”
”Ah, but I’m supposed to be your devil, right? Or don’t you think I’m really a god?”
”Christ-“
”Oh, thorns aren’t really my look, though.”
He fucks Tero senseless, never removing his dress or his stockings or his makeup or his frown. He fucks Tero deep and rough and thoroughly until the drummer is screaming for breath and gasping for more and writhing against the sheets so sincerely that it flushes him from top to foot.
And after he’s done, Rame leaves immediately to go buy more, calling him stupid among other things, and Tero is smiling.
”Thorns become you just as well, you know.”
The door slams, and he’s in love.
Author: the_lady_lamb
Genre: hoshit Bandom → Vidoll
Sub-genre: Angst/Romance
Summary: Rame's life is his makeup, supposedly. Tero's not to keen on being second to eyelid glue.
Rated: NC-17 for lots of sex.
Author's Notes: lololololololol bandom. All I've got to say. I think my credibility as a writer just went straight out the fucking window. This was a drabble...kind of, based on a conversation I had with insidiae on how Tero and Rame just tend to stand a little too close to be friends. Don't ask me how this happened. It just did. Un-BETA'd.
Only Pretty
It is Rame’s makeup that preoccupies him. Not his lovelife, not his personality, not death, not work, and not sex. (It is perhaps the first and last things that irritate Tero the most, but then, he supposes he understands. His hair preoccupies him. He will sometimes leave Rame naked in his bed to get it redyed, and only once has the bassist rewarded such actions with chastice. Only once.) Perhaps 70% of Rame’s day is his appearance - his underwear (always perfect, always matching his stockings), his petticoats, his dresses and his shoes, his hair and his face. Always his face; his face takes the longest, and he wakes up hours early (goes to bed hours late) all to compile himself properly.
He always brushes the front of his dress off the same way and finds a small washcloth - two in fact - to keep his hair up and off of his (pretty) forehead, and peers into the mirror and frowns (only slightly) to himself as if he is genuinely surprised to see himself without his layers on, without his iridescent beetle’s shell of makeup. (Were he preserved in amber, Rame would be three times as pretty as the prettiest woman on the face of the Earth. Tero thinks that that must be what he is waiting for - that he must be waiting for his sea of amber to come rushing in to the recording studio one day and to bundle him up like some geisha princess. But Rame is not a geisha princess. Rame is Rame, and Rame is naked without his makeup. Is only ever beautiful that way, Tero thinks. With his makeup he can only ever be pretty. Only pretty.) He watches himself, surveys his face like a landmine, reaches down blindly for the makeup he knows will be there, and takes up his foundation. (Every piece of Rame’s makeup is kept is composed in its own perfect, organized fashion - his daykit is separate and less comprehensive from Tero’s bathroom sink, his nightkit is more comprehensive and includes more waterproof paints and shades.) He opens it up and daubs the brush in lightly, stirring the familiar pale dust into the air, and then lifting it to his lips, humming on it (as if in thought), before stroking it sensually down the right side of his face - temple to chin and then the full meat of his cheeks - and then re-daubing it and taking it down the left. He refuses to use cream foundation - it cakes over and brings out the flaws in his face, and he dislikes it.
(Rame dislikes many things.)
A blending contour cream to bring out the dips of his eyes and his cheeks. Concealer is next, and brief - Rame has nothing (everything) to conceal (his emotions, his thoughts, his needs, his real personality, where is it? Tero feels like he’s mining for gold and being simultaneously hit in the back of the head with pyrite every time he checks his pan). His eyebrows are long plucked and so the pencil is next, thin and perfect and practiced, the way Rame keeps himself (bare; he waxes, he’s had his facial hair removed with lasers already and the rest he waxes, even his armpits. Tero’s watched him do it before. Not pretty. Just beautiful), and everything about the way he draws them on is expert. They are smooth, thin, a one-time thing.
Then come the eyes (Tero’s least favorite part). Rame systematically takes out his Koji Eye Talk eyelid glue and whatever collar he’s selected for his given outfit (usually days ahead of time) and the eyeliner and the mascara, and goes through the same pattern he always does: one coat to the left eye, a thin white, evenly applied (always avoid clumps, Tero’s seen the tutorials because he wants to know that all this is really necessary), just along and just above where Rame knows it will crease, not touching the prongs at all until it is just clear, almost dried, and then the forked end at the exact center to press the lid back behind his eye, pressing it back, tucking it in, and then the far edge. Then his lithe fingers flip it unbidden and he touches up the corners, his left eye significantly, familiarly wider than the other. And then the same treatment is given the other eye, Tero standing at the doorway, arms folded across his chest, face bland with displeasure. And Rame always says the words-
”If you don’t like it, go back to bed.”
(It is five in the morning, so the option is not so far from the drummer’s mind. It is five in the morning because Rame does not even want the sun to see him in any way other than in the body he recreates for himself every morning, behind the face and the dresses he is so careful with, adoring of. “You love your clothing more than you love me.”
”Don’t be foolish.” Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. “I never said anything about loving you.”
He never leaves the doorway though.
Never.)
He then goes for the eyeliner, taking it expertly along the new crease above his eyes, and finally takes up the ash color he likes to put above (it is usually some dark color, red or black or gray or brown) and brushes a deep, pungent square into the far corner of each eye and then blends it faster than Tero can catch. His wrist flicks rapidly, like a woodpeckers head at the base of a tree (inside the drummer’s chest), back and forth and back and forth. Rame doesn’t want any streaks. The mascara is opened, the oily smell of it thick, overpowering the dusty, lingering scent of the foundation and the plastic scent of the glue. The brush is dabbed, once twice, all excess removed, and then he is staring into his own eyes, as if enraptured, gently curling the mascara along his lashes. He coats them with three times what he needs (a magic number, it seems) and then blinks to double check. (Perfect.)
The eyes take the longest; after comes the lips (the same dependable gloss), and then the hair as he takes the towel down, refolds it, and lays it daintily across one of the bars over the toilet. He takes a comb from the drawer and evens out his bangs (he’s already long flat-ironed them) across his face, smiling at himself coiling.
Five out of ten times he picks up the pink liquid eyeliner and paints a nauseatingly adorable little heart at the very top of his left cheek bone.
The other five times it is on the right cheek. (A little double-double. It never hurt anyone.)
Then he will open up the drawer beneath the sink and take out one of exactly seventy-two perfectly organized vials of nailpolish (the same as his perfect white teeth) and take it out to the kitchen, where he keeps his remover. Then he will go into the dining room, and seat himself delicately on one of the chairs to the table, and spread a dishtowel across his lap, and carefully roll up his sleeves, and redo his nails, which are usually some sort of bright pink dappled with stars or hearts or something of the like. Tero will always follow, always watch him.
(Sometimes, when he is exactly halfway through the second coat on the middle finger of his left hand, Tero will ask if he can suck him off.
Sometimes Rame says yes. And sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all, which means yes anyway, and it is those times that Tero gets down on his knees from off the wall and crawls forward, dragging his legs across the carpet and breathing against Rame’s knees - sometimes kept bare of stockings, sometimes not, always smooth - before knocking them apart with his nose and burrowing deep under his skirts. Rame stays cool even when the drummer drags his underwear down those sensual thighs and nuzzles his sometimes flaccid, usually halfhard, sometimes throbbing cock before gently nibbling at the base and then mouthing every available piece of it, laving kisses across the head, across Rame’s thighs.
The bassist can usually remain completely at ease, his hips unmoving, his doll-like countenance completely undisturbed, but even then Tero can always see the evidence of his efforts when the two stand too close to be friends at practice, at photoshoots, at clubs, at a live. The points of the stars will be jagged, the hearts skewed slightly.
And usually is not always. Sometimes, Rame unravels, becomes undone at the edges, moans, bucks his hips ever so slightly, at least stops what he is doing, comes to a complete halt. Once, one of the times rather early on, not the first time but not to far from the first time, Rame loses it completely, nailpolish dropping, gasps unsteady, hips rocking; Tero pushes the bassist’s knees up his chest and puts his balls in his mouth, suctions them hard, then gently, and Rame’s low, uneffeminate voice strikes him and he moans, musically. They are both musical, really. Tero traces the lines of Rame’s testicles down to the very base and then presses his tongue deep inside of him, suckling at it like a teat, and Rame cums, violently, across the side of his face.
And breathes a while before slapping him good-naturedly, pulling up his underwear and going back to the bathroom to redo everything from scratch.)
Rame lives on his makeup. It is his lifesblood, because he is a goddess, and apparently (according to most commercials) goddesses live and breathe makeup- And yet, the word goddess is too effeminate for Rame. He is a god, a deity, really, asexual if he is not male, male if he is not asexual. Tero knows this all too well, because if there is a chosen dominant in their relationship, it is Rame who uses skirts to veil the masculinity of his genitalia the way his tongue cannot veil the masculinity of his voice. (It is Rame who is the one to decide that they are, that they will be, and that they are going to have sexual intercourse. Right. Now.)
Tero hates how falsely religious it makes him, vaguely possessive as he is, and so one night when Rame is out late with Kiseki (band business, as if he’s their mother, but neither of them are or have ever been the mothering type) Tero takes every glass vial, every single piece of paint, of color, of false ghostly hue and flushes them down the toilet before taking a Tylenol PM and going to sleep. When he wakes up Rame is atop his hips with the darkest expression his pretty face has ever seen and he beats bruises into every inch of Tero’s body, first with his fists (they look small but everyone knows otherwise; abusive, abusive, Rame’s love has always been as tough as chewing rocks) and then with his cock.
”You’re - ah, ah - such a devil.”
”Ah, but I’m supposed to be your devil, right? Or don’t you think I’m really a god?”
”Christ-“
”Oh, thorns aren’t really my look, though.”
He fucks Tero senseless, never removing his dress or his stockings or his makeup or his frown. He fucks Tero deep and rough and thoroughly until the drummer is screaming for breath and gasping for more and writhing against the sheets so sincerely that it flushes him from top to foot.
And after he’s done, Rame leaves immediately to go buy more, calling him stupid among other things, and Tero is smiling.
”Thorns become you just as well, you know.”
The door slams, and he’s in love.