Chapter Text
Make-up wasn’t always your thing. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But after a long discussion with Barry, you came out of it curious to at least try to wear some.
You started simple. A ruby red lipstick that accentuated your lips, and fit well with your patented Fantastic Red Shirt ™ . You examine yourself in the mirror, evaluating this new look for you.
Not bad.
You temporarily return to the bedroom to get clothes from Clarence for the day. However, once you return to finish your look…
”Whoa!”
A puddle of water you swore wasn’t there last time made you slip, all the way to the mirror. Your face bumps against it, an undignified bomp ringing throughout the bathroom.
Normally, you wouldn’t mind, but the recent realization that your furniture could potentially turn human with the help of a certain pair of glasses made your face heat up. You were probably not going to hear the end of it for a while.
You turn and glare at the towels hung in a rack beside your bathtub, and you swear you could hear a snicker. You even plug your sink and let a pool of water in it, giving it the evil eye, and even that did not elicit any form of remorse whatsoever.
Nursing yourself, as you promise that you will have a word with the prime suspects, you turn around to see that your impromptu collision with the mirror resulted in some transfer of your newly-applied make-up.
It only becomes transfer proof once you let it dry, you hear Barry’s voice in your head as you recall your earlier conversation about the products he gave you. You decide to activate your glasses to make an apology to the figure you just bumped into.
”Oh!” You cry out. “S-sorry, Amir!” You get no reply, then realize that you need to press the small button on your newest accessory…
“Azizam! Are you okay?” Amir’s slender figure appears in front of you, his outfit continuing to dazzle just the same.
You cannot utter a reply as a smile tugs at your lips.
”Azizam?” He repeats again, tilting his head in confusion as if he were a hurt puppy.
The sharp pain you had quickly subsides as you realized what you had done. You try to stifle a giggle as you reply, “Do you see yourself, Amir?”
”M-me?” His confusion heightened. “My only job is to reflect your beauty, why do you—”
You run out of earshot (careful, of course, to avoid the puddle) and rummage through your bag for a particular object. Triumphantly finding your pocket mirror, you head back, finally letting your mirth be seen as you raise it up for Amir to see.
”What is— oh .”
He finally sees the ruby red traces of your lips on his cheek, and he falls silent for a moment as he continues to examine it. You see him slightly sheepish, trying to regain his composure as he speaks.
“That– that’s...”
Now, you are the one who pipes up.
“Hold on…”
You reach out this time, rubbing on the trace your lipstick made on his smooth skin. He seems to melt at your touch.
“Ah, azizam, that’s not necessary–”
”That’s so cute,” you interject, and finally let the giggle you’ve been holding. Amir, to your relief, shifts his expression, and laughs along with you.
“You got me marked, azizam! And not just in my heart,” he says finally, putting his long locks behind his head.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” you continue, referring to the collision that led to this event.
So if kissing the object does that, you think to yourself, then…
You recall the one time you caressed a certain door elicited what could only be described as something unholy, as if the figure in question fought to hide his pleasure. The way your fingers roamed across the sturdy imposing piece of wood, making sounds that you have mentally saved in a folder in your head, ready to play whenever you needed a little… stimulation.
Activating the Dateviators yielded a debauched Dorian in front of you, sweating, panting, and his normally ordered outfit wrinkled, a button (or two) from his dress shirt curiously unbuttoned. He quickly attempted to get his unkempt hair together as you see the normally composed and imposing figure fall into your hands like putty.
”You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” His gruff voice echoed, trying to look like he had it together.
Your shit-eating grin betrays any intention to feign ignorance.
”Maybe,” you replied, in a sing-song voice, to which he replied with an eye-roll as he continued to put himself together.
You swear he looked at you differently from then on.
You still have some charge on your Dateviators. You know who your next victim is.
Even if it was your first day to apply make-up, and even then with the assistance of Barry, you continue rolling the product against your lips, more than is strictly necessary to serve and eat, among other things the young people are saying.
Enough to mark , you think to yourself devilishly as you head downstairs to the one door in the house that was self-aware enough to wonder of its utility in the first place. This door, in contrast to all of the sixteen others, was the only one of Dorian’s forms to properly say “I love you.”
You stare it down, almost as if you expect Dorian to appear on the spot without your glasses activated. Soon enough, you press yourself closer to the door and begin planting kisses on it.
Yes, your lipstick marks contrast greatly against the white paint of the door in front of you. You don’t mind if the neighbours see (heck, you don’t even know whether they exist in the first place), but you go to town on the door before you, giving it the attention it did not receive quite before.
You could swear you hear the murmurs of the other characters in the room around you, but you pay no mind to them. Your only goal is to see what would happen if a kiss attack were done on a dateable object in the house.
You certainly did not hear the door in question grunt (and… moan?) at the affection it’s being given.
But once you whip out the glasses and bring it right up on him, you ogle at the masterpiece you just created.
Here was Dorian. But not just a normal Dorian.
Your lips fan all across his face, his cheeks stained red with your affection. some finding their way down his inked-up arms. You could see some prints snuck by his neck, and one staining his normally immaculately white collar. And one that was tantalizingly close to his lips.
This definitely had a bigger effect on him than that one time you essentially had your hands all over him for a good while.
“Now you’ve gone and bloody done it, love.” He could barely say, and you could feel the heat radiating off his face as he comes to terms with the wave of affection you had just given him.
”You like it,” you say, daring to come close.
“You know I couldn’t resist you,” he replies as he wraps you in a tight embrace, making you feel secure like no other object could. You stare up at him, smug at marking your territory, as it were, and overcome with affection, plant a gentle kiss on his nose, and lips. Except it transfers immediately onto his skin.
“You look like a clown,” you comment, and his reddening cheeks made him fit the part. “Almost like you’d be perfect for the role… in a video game… about cards.” You wonder where you got the analogy from.
He cocks his head at you, wondering what the hell you were on about. He doesn’t pursue it, though, choosing instead to appreciate the work of art you made him become through the mirror you recently installed in the bathroom.
“Love, you’re thinking.”
You give no response, although the pet name definitely made you feel some sort of way deep inside. He continues to stroke the back of your hair, and you almost swear you could stay here for the rest of the day.
“I can hear your mental gears turning.”
“Hey!” You whine, muffled by your face against his chest. You don’t deny it, however. Dorian knows you, almost as if he’d had the privilege of watching over you all these years.
“ You’re going to try this on the trap door, aren’t you? ”
You emit a noncommittal sound as you continue nuzzled against his chest, his strong arms tightly holding you as he promised that very day you finally cracked him.
“Darling…” he playfully chided.
At that, you sprung away from him, running across the ground floor until you found the familiar corner of your office. You could hear his other version cry out, but he subsides, the image burned in your mind. You’ll have to get River to help you clean that door some other time, you sighed as you reapply your new weapon of choice.
So damn if he’d get knackered after this second run .
You only hear a curious grunt as you fling the rug away and make kissing noises to the trapdoor below you.
Pucker up!
Trap Dorian lay next to you on your bed, having been able to figure out how to bring him to life beyond the glasses’ limited charge. His breath deep, and arm around you, you slowly turn to look at your canvas, so beautifully painted red with your own lips.
Not only did they dance around across his face, his… unclothed nature meant that your lips were now seen trailing down his muscly figure, his toned biceps and abs, and down his…
…er, if I describe it, then this game will have to have its ratings upgraded. But I digress.
You joke to yourself that maybe he’d consider other tattoos that weren’t doors, once this all was cleaned off, when suddenly, you remember Barry’s instructions–
Oh, fuck.
“Dorian?”
The towering (horizontally) figure stirs, his dark eyes opening to see your half-worried, half-amused look.
“Yes, love?” He purrs, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What’s gotten you up this late?”
“Well, about that lipstick–” you pause, wondering how best to deliver it.
You’ve been the object of his punishments before, you think, shuddering as you instinctively feel your backside where he last did his dirty work.
“It probably looks better on you than on me,” he comments, and you swear he finds a way to flex his muscles on you even in the night light, bringing heat to your face once more. “But I gotta admit, I feel much more beautiful than before.”
“Well, yes,” you say, your eyes darting across the room. “But, um, you see… I just remembered that these were the… permanent, kind. The one that, if you didn’t wipe soon, would be a bitch to clean up after.”
Without missing a beat, the door-man in front of you bolts upright, his eyes betraying firstly an are we joking? To genuine dismay and lowkey horror at the insinuation.
“ Oh for fuck’s– ”