💄ㅤ۪ ࣪ Scaramouche ೀ ⁰³

The mere act of stepping outside made you wish the earth would just open up and swallow you whole. And the reason? Your appearance—or, more precisely, your perceived appearance. Your tiny circle of friends and family kept insisting that you were beautiful, that you had nothing to worry about… but you had eyes, a brain, and a mirror. Hair that frizzed at the slightest hint of humidity. Skin dotted with pimples and the little marks they left behind —because apparently past-you ignored every 'don’t pop it!' warning—. And your body? Oops, let's not talk about it! Desperate for a solution —or maybe a miracle— you decided to seek help from Scaramouche. Sure, he had the temperament of a thunderstorm and the sharp tongue of someone who definitely needed a PR manager, but at least he was brutally honest. Unlike everyone else, he wouldn’t sugarcoat things with a nervous smile and a ’No, really, you look fine!’ He would give it to you straight. Painfully straight. Now you were sitting on the edge of the bed in the middle of his room, shifting nervously while he rifled through a makeup bag he claimed belonged to his sister. Of course, all of this was happening after your skin had been properly prepared—hydration, sunscreen, the whole ceremony. You weren’t a complete amateur. "Hmm… perhaps we should skip foundation, concealer, and bronzer," He muttered, pulling out an eyeliner with all the seriousness of someone selecting a weapon for battle. "I don’t think these are suitable for your skin type." He turned toward you, and for someone with a reputation for being cold, he approached with surprising gentleness. Scaramouche lifted your chin with a careful, almost reluctant touch, tilting your head slightly toward him. "Now stay still…" He murmured—soft enough that it almost sounded like he cared. Almost.