#charcoal mask sheet

[terrainofheartfelt]

On day 3 of this tattoo like save me aquaphor. Aquaphor save me. Save me aquaphor.

[hazeltailofficial]

HOLIDAY FLASHBACK

Simple Pleasures Merry & Bright Green Tea Face Mask Sheet Simple Pleasures Merry & Bright Charcoal Face Mask Sheet

hazeltail on youtube / hazeltailofficial on tiktok / hazeltailofficial on ig / @hazeltailofficial

[didisnotsosecretdiary]

Sheet Mask Garnier Charcoal Hydrating Mask

Sheet Mask Garnier Charcoal and new year, a new day, and another new mask. I can’t resist, every time I see an interesting package I tell myself you have to buy it. Masks are one of those things I love to try. So it doesn’t matter if I know the brand or not if the packaging is interesting, I’ll probably buy it. There is something satisfying about putting a mask on and waiting to see results. I…

[writingoddess1125]

You Give them Face Mask! 🧼

Luffy, Sanji, Zoro, Usopp, Buggy, Mihawk

Fluffy Fluff

Just felt like more Fluff Fluff rn 😌 Enjoy!

Luffy

Trying to get this man into a face mask is like trying to wash a puppy- A happy struggle and pain in the ass.

"Luffy please" You say with a sad eyes- He will fold after this and let you. However he doesn't sit still so you use a sheet mask that simply helps with oily skin.

"This smells nice" He will say as you have to bribe him with snacks to keep it on for 15 minutes.

"It's rose scented" You say and wear one yourself to keep him still with some gummy candies. Will have trouble sitting still and will start chatting and walking in circles as he waits.

Once it's over he rubs his shiny face and talks about how squeaky he sounds. Utterly destroying your work-

Sanji

Sanji is more then willing to indulge you. Picking out some mild scents and you do a peel off mask since he has deep pores.

"Wanna do the charcoal mask?" You offer which he accepts after finding the scent pleasant enough.

"Do people do these often?" He will flirt and talk about the curiosities in your self care. Once the mask is done he will complain about the tightness.

"That means it's ready to peel!!"

"AHHH! OW!!?" He yelps in surprise as you pull the mask off his face. His face bright red and raw from this so you add some water based moisturizer to his face. You show him the mask.

"That was in my face!?"

Will both be disgusted and fascinated by the amount of gunk pulled from his skin.

Zoro

His skin is fairly flawless which is honestly frustrating since he cares so little for his skin.

You offer the face mask anyway and he refuses for a while bit does eventually fold. You use a snail slime mask on him since it will keep him skin looking flawless.

"This smells funny..." He grumbles as he will lay there listening to you talk, Half asleep and waiting. Will open his eye occasionally and ask a few questions about your interest in this stuff.

You wipe it off and help him rince his face. Skin is pretty much glowing at this point and You stare in awe. "So pretty!"

"I'm going to go train now-" You scream at him in protest in trying to ruin his pretty face.

Usopp

Usopp is willing of course, since the ocean air drys his skin quite a lot. So you use a shea butter face mask and tap his skin with your fingers to help it soak in his rough skin.

"You know I once got a spa treatment from Mermaids like this-' He will spin his tales as You work. When you do rince off the mask you add some nice skin oils afterwards to his skin.

You rub a lot of oil in his skin and he will pause his stories as he judt enjoys the time. Will smell the jar you're using and a softness will run over his face in fondness.

"This smells like the stuff my mother used to use-" He will say with a smile. His skin looks shiny and golden by the time your done, making him look sexy- in his own words.

Will come back regularly to have you treat his skin and will even talk about stories with his mother from time to time.

Buggy

Grease paint wrecks havoc on one's skin Buggys especially since he wears it so much. Needs some detoxing clay mask then a aloe moisture one to replenish. If you're doing his face might as well deep condition his hair as well.

He does enjoy the attention and doing them since his face feels better. Secretly he actually has acne marks from his youth and some scars from before he ate a devil fruit.

"What was this one from?" You ask pointing to a light scar on his cheek.

"Hmm 10- Me and Shanks were trying to figure out blades better. Let's say I learned knives can bounce back at you-" He says amused and letting you work.

"The skin around your nose is dry" Buggy will frown, thinking you're about to insult him since even though he trust you the most his insecurities will win- till you carefully paint the mask on those areas and smile proudly.

"There we go, all better" You say and kiss his hand to go apply your own.

Will sit and listen to you read outloud or talk with him about show ideas as he lays there with the face mask.

"Can we do this every night?"

Mihawk

"No-" He will protest, his eyes narrowing as you offer the mask to him. However after enough begging and ever Perona joining in at pestering him he will fold.

Mihawk gets treated to a full spa day when this happens- A hydrating honey facemask on his skin, cucumbers on his eyes and even a hair mask in his hair to make it softer.

Perona is overjoyed as well as she cleans his nails and applies clear polish to make them shiny and nice! Grumbles the whole time silently and ends up Downing a bottle of wine.

"Do not get used to this-" He grumbles as he takes his wine and drinks from it as you and Perona work. He kinda looks like a spa mom-

Once done this man looks runway ready- His hair is much softer so sets lower, his skin flawless and even his beard looks nicer. Stares at you and Perona deadpanned and sighs-

"Thank you both for the nice gesture..."

[luckshmi]

Skincare Rituals According to Your Moon Sign: An Ayurvedic Guide

In Vedic astrology, the Moon sign (Rashi) plays a significant role in shaping our emotional well-being and daily habits. The Moon's influence is closely tied to our inner self, and understanding it can provide deep insights into personalized self-care routines, including skincare.

By combining the principles of Ayurveda with the wisdom of Vedic astrology, we can tailor skincare rituals that not only enhance our outer beauty but also nourish our inner selves. This guide explores detailed skincare routines for each Moon sign, highlighting their unique characteristics and needs.

Aries Moon

Characteristics: Aries Moons are energetic, dynamic, and often on the go. Their fiery nature can lead to skin issues like inflammation, redness, and sensitivity.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, cooling cleanser with cucumber or aloe vera to soothe inflammation.

Exfoliant: Opt for a mild exfoliant with chamomile or oatmeal to calm the skin.

Moisturizer: Apply a lightweight, hydrating moisturizer containing green tea extract to reduce redness.

Mask: Use a cooling clay mask once a week to detoxify and soothe the skin.

Benefits: This routine helps calm and cool the skin, reducing inflammation and maintaining a balanced complexion.

Taurus Moon

Characteristics: Taurus Moons are grounded and indulgent, appreciating luxury and comfort. Their skin tends to be resilient but requires deep hydration and nourishment.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Choose a rich, creamy cleanser with nourishing oils like almond or avocado.

Toner: Use a rosewater toner to hydrate and balance the skin's pH levels.

Moisturizer: Apply a thick, luxurious moisturizer with shea butter and honey.

Mask: Indulge in a weekly honey and yogurt mask to nourish and rejuvenate the skin.

Benefits: This routine provides deep hydration, leaving the skin soft, supple, and glowing.

Gemini Moon

Characteristics: Gemini Moons are youthful, curious, and communicative. Their skin can be sensitive and prone to dryness due to their airy nature.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle foaming cleanser with chamomile or calendula.

Serum: Apply a hydrating serum with hyaluronic acid and vitamin E.

Moisturizer: Choose a lightweight moisturizer with aloe vera and glycerin.

Mask: Use a hydrating sheet mask once a week to boost moisture levels.

Benefits: This routine keeps the skin hydrated and calm, preventing dryness and sensitivity.

Cancer Moon

Characteristics: Cancer Moons are nurturing and deeply intuitive. Their skin can be sensitive and reactive, requiring gentle care.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a milk or cream cleanser with chamomile or lavender.

Toner: Apply a soothing toner with rosewater or witch hazel.

Moisturizer: Opt for a calming moisturizer with calendula and oat extract.

Mask: Use a hydrating and soothing mask with ingredients like aloe vera and cucumber.

Benefits: This routine soothes and protects sensitive skin, maintaining a healthy, radiant complexion.

Leo Moon

Characteristics: Leo Moons are confident and love to shine. Their skin can be prone to oiliness and occasional breakouts.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle foaming cleanser with tea tree oil or salicylic acid.

Toner: Apply a balancing toner with witch hazel and lemon extract.

Moisturizer: Choose a lightweight, oil-free moisturizer with aloe vera and green tea.

Mask: Use a charcoal or clay mask once a week to control oil and prevent breakouts.

Benefits: This routine helps balance oil production and maintain a clear, radiant complexion.

Virgo Moon

Characteristics: Virgo Moons are practical and detail-oriented. Their skin can be sensitive and prone to irritation.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, natural cleanser with chamomile or calendula.

Exfoliant: Opt for a gentle exfoliant with oatmeal or rice powder.

Moisturizer: Apply a fragrance-free moisturizer with aloe vera and hyaluronic acid.

Mask: Use a calming mask with ingredients like cucumber and honey.

Benefits: This routine soothes and protects the skin, preventing irritation and maintaining a healthy glow.

Libra Moon

Characteristics: Libra Moons seek beauty and harmony. Their skin is often well-balanced but can benefit from extra hydration and care.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Choose a gentle foaming cleanser with rose or chamomile.

Toner: Apply a hydrating toner with rosewater and glycerin.

Moisturizer: Opt for a lightweight, hydrating moisturizer with hyaluronic acid and aloe vera.

Mask: Use a hydrating and balancing mask with ingredients like honey and yogurt.

Benefits: This routine maintains balance and hydration, keeping the skin looking fresh and glowing.

Scorpio Moon

Characteristics: Scorpio Moons are intense and transformative. Their skin can be prone to acne and other issues due to their deep emotions.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a deep-cleansing foaming cleanser with salicylic acid or tea tree oil.

Toner: Apply a balancing toner with witch hazel and lemon extract.

Moisturizer: Choose a lightweight, oil-free moisturizer with aloe vera and green tea.

Mask: Use a detoxifying mask with charcoal or clay once a week.

Benefits: This routine helps control oil, prevent breakouts, and maintain a clear complexion.

Sagittarius Moon

Characteristics: Sagittarius Moons are adventurous and optimistic. Their skin can be prone to dryness and sensitivity due to their active lifestyle.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, hydrating cleanser with aloe vera or cucumber.

Serum: Apply a hydrating serum with hyaluronic acid and vitamin E.

Moisturizer: Opt for a rich, hydrating moisturizer with shea butter and jojoba oil.

Mask: Use a hydrating and soothing mask with ingredients like honey and yogurt.

Benefits: This routine keeps the skin hydrated and protected.

Capricorn Moon

Characteristics: Capricorn Moons are disciplined and ambitious. Their skin can be prone to dryness.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, hydrating cleanser with chamomile or calendula.

Toner: Apply a hydrating toner with rosewater and glycerin.

Moisturizer: Opt for a rich, hydrating moisturizer with shea butter and aloe vera.

Mask: Use a hydrating and soothing mask with ingredients like honey and cucumber.

Benefits: This routine keeps the skin hydrated, glowing and healthy

Aquarius Moon

Characteristics: Aquarius Moons are innovative and independent. Their skin can be sensitive and need deep hydration.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, hydrating cleanser with aloe vera or cucumber.

Serum: Apply a hydrating serum with hyaluronic acid and vitamin E.

Moisturizer: Opt for a rich, hydrating moisturizer with shea butter and jojoba oil.

Mask: Use a hydrating and soothing mask with ingredients like honey and yogurt.

Benefits: This routine keeps the skin healthy and radiant.

Pisces Moon

Characteristics: Pisces Moons are compassionate and dreamy, with sensitive skin that often needs extra care to stay hydrated and healthy.

Skincare Ritual:

Cleanser: Use a gentle, hydrating cleanser with chamomile or calendula to soothe and cleanse without stripping moisture.

Toner: Apply a hydrating toner with rosewater and glycerin to refresh and prepare the skin for moisturizing.

Moisturizer: Opt for a rich, hydrating moisturizer with shea butter and aloe vera to nourish and protect the skin.

Mask: Use a hydrating and soothing mask with ingredients like honey and cucumber once a week for extra hydration and calmness.

Benefits: This routine keeps Pisces Moon's sensitive skin hydrated, soothed, and protected, ensuring a healthy, radiant complexion that reflects their compassionate and dreamy nature.

By understanding your Moon sign and incorporating Ayurvedic skincare rituals tailored to your unique emotional and physical needs, you can enhance your skin's health and overall well-being. These personalized routines not only address specific skin concerns but also align with your inner self, providing a holistic approach to beauty and self-care.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | chapter list

Finding out you're a princess isn't half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can't seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au (sort of), all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance james isn't flirty this chapter i lied but he will be <3

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You're in the process of ruining your pyjama bottoms with willow charcoal when your father dies. 

The charcoal is fragile, unhoused, and it snaps with too much pressure. An uneven half falls between the sheets of your sketchbook, marring the artwork it rolls over indiscriminately. 

You sigh without thinking and rub your tired eyes, spreading a line of smudgy black under your brow. Squinting, you peek at the portrait you'd been drawing. A young woman with deep, dark skin, her cheek shaded by the leaves of a sycamore tree. The branches arc over her skin in shadowed lines, sunlight dappling illustrated by sparse triangles of the white paper underneath. 

It had been an okay sketch. The snapped charcoal distracts from what you'd originally set out to do — a dynamic, revealing portrait — and instead replaces it with a more abstract feel. 

You sigh again, this time with a melodrama you'd only ever feel comfortable displaying alone. Thankfully, that's the case more often than not. You live by yourself, no partner, no pets, nobody around to see you drop your sketchbook onto the floor beside your bed, kick out your feet toward the rug, and moan. Your socks slide against the hardwood. You kick them like a child as you slip down the side of the bed, shirt caught behind you, soft middle exposed. 

You swear to yourself quietly, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes. 

A sharp trilling sound chimes. On the nightstand, your phone vibrates hard, and the water in the glass next to it crests against the sides like tiny shockwaves. 

You pull it into your lap and stare at the number. It goes to voicemail, and then it rings again. Again, again, and again.

You consider turning your phone off. Five phone calls and counting indicates an emergency, but every cell begs to avoid whatever it is on the other side. 

You can't avoid everything, no matter how much you want to. You answer the phone. 

"Hello," you greet.

The muffled echo of a cheerful voice responds.

"Yeah, that's me… Okay. Yeah, now is fine."

More chattering. Less cheerful, diplomatic.

"My father?" you ask.

You are told two impossible truths. 

"Oh," you say. The walls spin. "Right." 

—

"I hate flying," Sirius mutters.

James hums, noncommittal. 

"You know, my good looks are wasted if we end up lost in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."

"It's not the middle of the Atlantic ocean," Remus says, sounding about as interested in Sirius' whining as James is currently. "It's an arm." 

"It's the fucking English channel," James says. It's barely the ocean. "How much do you reckon a pair of in flight headphones will cost?" 

Sirius, despite his anxiety, has the bandwidth to appreciate James' bad mood. "What crawled up your arse?"  

James sinks down into his seat, knees immediately pressed into the hard plastic of the chair in front, back aching and head heavy from a lack of rest he won't make up anytime soon. 

"He's agitated," Remus says. 

"Helpful, Moony. Super helpful."

"Fuck yourself, then," Remus says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes and plugging in his earbuds.

The tannoy dings. The seatbelt light flashes. 

A flight attendant raises his voice from the start of the aisle. "If everybody could take their seats and buckle in, we'll be taking off in less than two minutes. Please turn all electronics to aeroplane mode. Thanks so much."  

"Is your phone off?" Sirius asks. 

"No, I actually want us to drown in the channel, but thanks for asking." 

A dark shock of curls lands against his shoulder. Sirius drapes himself unabashedly across James lap, hand on his friend's thigh, ankle crossing over ankle. Genovian through and through, Sirius doles out affection wantonly, smelling ridiculously nice as he does: a heady smell like browned sugar and citrus blossoms coalescing tickles the inside of James' nose. 

"Are you still cranky that you got demoted?" Sirius asks, smooth tones pitched into bubbly baby talk. 

"I didn't get demoted," James argues. 

James had, in fact, been demoted. 

"No, of course not. You've fallen from third guard to the Royal Prince of Genovia, may he rest in peace, to glorified babysitter of said Prince's illegitimate, forgotten child. Sounds the same to me." 

"Then we agree," James says, wanting to close his eyes. 

He'd pretend to sleep if he thought Sirius would believe it. Growing up together erases any semblance of privacy. Sirius knows James as James knows Sirius, and as they know Remus. Remus likely knows them all better than he'd ever admit, the youngest of the trio and the smartest, most perceptive man James has ever met. 

Sirius isn't perceptive, he's vigilant. He can read even the smallest signs of unrest, and it makes him uneasy. There will likely always be a shadow cast over him from a rough childhood, and while James is in a god awful mood, he reaches out to alleviate Sirius' anxiety. 

"I'm fine," James assures him, "just tired." Not mad at you goes unsaid. 

"It won't be as bad as you're thinking." 

"I'm fine. I'm not worried. Didn't sleep last night, and," —he grins as Sirius clasps his arm, their seats shaking underneath them, the plane beginning its race across tarmac— "some scrawny git is squeezing fuck out of my arm." 

Sirius flinches away from him. "You're annoying." 

James presses his shoe up to the side of Sirius' and leans back in his chair, wincing at the rattling carriage as they take off, and again when he remembers where they're going. You wait in London, though nobody in the task force assigned to your assimilation or the advisement team could come to explain how you'd ended up there. Your Genovian citizenship is unacknowledged on your passport, your birth certificate, even, and as far as Lily had been able to suss, you have little understanding of who you are. 

"She sounded tired, mostly," Lily had said when pressed for details about the new princess' personality. "In shock. Slightly disbelieving, but could you believe it?" 

Lily, James'... friend, and work colleague at a stretch, is an ambassador for the UK and full-time genovian resident. Along with a handful of other representatives and officials, she’d been responsible for opening the talks between Genovia and yourself. That is to say, she'd broken the news. 

Surprise! Your dad just died! Double surprise, you're a princess. And, no pressure or anything, but we kind of need you to come back to Genovia to maintain the royal lineage before your grandmother abdicates the throne (unwillingly). 

"Did you mention the tiara?" he'd asked Lily. The Princess' diadem, a master craftsmanship of silver-gold with a diamond the size of an apple. 

"Weirdly, Potter, I didn’t mention the jewellery." 

He supposes there hadn't been time to weasel that tidbit in between condolences and recruitment. 

You haven't promised anything in ways of returning to Genova or taking up the mantle. James understands. If he were in your shoes, he likely would've laughed down the line and blocked the number. You’d shown incredible promise as a future leader, agreeing to meet with Lily and her team at the Genovian embassy. Then, a day later, they'd modified the plan and asked if you'd be okay meeting somewhere more private. 

You'd said yes. 

As someone who may be very involved in your bodily safety in the near future, James thinks you're an idiot. Somebody calls you, claiming that you're a princess, though nobody has ever bothered telling you this before because you were never heir apparent, and that they'll tell you more should you deign to meet with them in a place with meagre surveillance, and you say yes to this?

How you've survived as long as you have is a mystery. 

He hopes you won't make his job difficult. Isn't that what everyone hopes? He feels guilty for judging you without meeting you, promising in his head to be nicer to you in actuality. You're probably grieving and definitely confused. He shouldn't be worrying about his job. 

Redetermined, James lets the anxiety of his new assignment water down. 

Sirius is thinking along the same lines: how easy will you make his particular occupation. "Bets are on. Scruffy or sweet?" 

"Huh?" James asks, pretending he doesn't understand in hopes of rectifying Sirius' attitude. 

"Slovenly or love-nly?" 

"I'm sure she's fine." 

"You should hope so, you'll be looking at the back of her head for a while." 

James rolls his eyes. 

"I'll manage, pretty or not." 

His confidence draws Sirius' curiosity. "How're you so sure?" Sirius asks, chin-lifted, light eyes narrowed in bemusement. His expression dances with the surety of somebody well-raised. He could wear a potato sack and his regal air would endeavour, deep-seeded and neat like the trim stitching of his expensive clothes. 

"Look at my face right now. Do I seem affected?" 

Sirius laughs much too loudly at the implication. "Don't act like I'm not handsome, Prongs." 

"Years of practice." James schools his features into an unaffected mask. "Uggos have no effect on me." 

"How else would you look in the mirror?" Sirius drawls. 

When Remus wakes afterward, he finds they haven't quite killed each other, though James has threatened it twice. With one hand, Black.

"Far are we?" he asks. 

Sleep has made little difference to him. He’s the kind of fatigued that can't be improved with an afternoon nap, and the kind of unwell that can't be fixed. Medicated, diminished, but never fully healed. He rolls his neck and makes three separate, unfortunate sounds, stretching his tight hands out flat over his thighs. 

"Landing any minute now is my guess," Sirius answers. "How are you feeling?" 

He waves his hand around, tired eyes locking onto James' lasting frown. "Sorry for leaving you alone with him." 

Sirius gasps his indignation. The three of them all smile in tandem, James in a rush to add to the joke. 

"You should be, fucker, I don't care how sick you are. You're sick in the mind if you think it's acceptable to-" 

"You're sick for acting like I'm some misbehaved child you've been pandering to. You're bullies, and as soon as we're in the airport I'm ditching you both in favour of a Great British Burger King." 

"One," James says, still smiling widely, "I have your per diem, so unless you brought your wallet, you're sunk." Sirius frowns. "Two, I'd love it if you would repeat that little moniker you gave me a minute before he woke up. Seriously. Shed some light on the real bully." 

Sirius pulls his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and places them over the bridge of his nose delicately. "Unnecessary." 

"I wouldn't mind Burger King," Remus says. 

"We have to be quick," James says. 

Sirius is so incensed he actually spits a bit as he scathes, "You fuckers. I want food and it's lorded over my head, but Moons wants something and your only limitation is how fast he can eat it?" 

He's not truly as angry as he appears. He's joking, and he's fallen into a familiarity that can only come with years of ragging on one another relentlessly. Still  Remus pats his tight shoulder and smiles.

"I'm a slow chewer." 

"He's a slow chewer, Sirius. Have some compassion." 

“How fast could he chew missing a few teeth, I wonder?” Sirius asks.

James gasps, delighted at his friend's casual threat. Remus does a better job at hiding his amusement, tamping back a smile as he reaches over the armrest between their seats and slapping a hand into Sirius’ seatbelt. The mechanism unlatches, the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign flashes, and a shaming beeping sound rings overhead. 

Sirius squeaks. 

—

What do you wear to meet a British ambassador? A Genovian ambassador? Any sort of diplomat? You aren't too sure what an ambassador even is, only that every word Lily Evans has said to you sounds shockingly official. 

"Your citizenship has been reinstated whether you choose to move forward or not. We want to stress that you have choices," Lily says. Call me Lily, please. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to." 

"We also want to stress," says Emmeline, the Genovian ambassador, "that your presence in Genovia is greatly desired. For the funeral." 

"The funeral," you say softly. 

"It will be a… very, very big event. We don't have to talk about all of the logistics now. Or ever, if you're not interested." 

Emmeline clears her throat. "The family would appreciate it." 

The family. The royal family. The Queen of Genovia, your grandmother, and her… unfortunate younger sister, who's behaviour (according to the Internet) has been less than ideal. Her sisters son, who might take the throne if you refuse it. Or, so you've come to understand. 

All this lineage and politics has been hard to navigate by yourself, though rest assured, you've been assigned two personal assistants of a sort. One for appearances of the physical, and one for appearances of the mind. 

A stylist and a tutor. 

"And a bodyguard," Lily says, "your safety is the most important thing." 

You grip the end of your dress in your hands and squeeze the skirts tightly. Safety? You'd rather not embarrass yourself by asking. 

"We actually want you to meet them now," Emmeline says. 

"Whenever they show up," Lily adds. She sounds embarrassed but unsurprised, like this has happened before. 

There's a small silence. You pull your bag into your lap and squeeze it, hoping it hides the curve of your stomach. You aren't sure what you're supposed to wear to occasions like this, and so you'd worn the nicest thing you owned, a pretty, simplistic dress ruched under the chest, and a cardigan overtop. 

You catch yourself frowning and quirk your lips up into a practised smile. Gentle, amicable, the kind you'd offer a passing stranger. 

"Well," Lily says, filling the awkwardness, "I'm sure they'll come around soon. Maybe we should talk about inheritance." 

"Legally, you're entitled to an inheritance. You could think of it like a pension, an allowance you'd be given from the age of eighteen. You've already passed that, and so you'll be given the years upto, and then the rest in annual increments," Emmeline says. "There's a team of people who can and will explain it better at a later date, or whenever you want to discuss it, once you've agreed to a paternity test." 

"A paternity test?" you ask. 

You feel rather useless. All you've done is ask for explanations since you sat down, your head a spinning mill. Information goes around and around with no time to sink in. 

Emmeline opens her mouth to continue and is interrupted by three sharp knocks. 

"Come in," Lily calls. She turns her gaze to you, orange hair moving over her shoulder in a silken sheet, and raises her eyebrows. 

You don't know what it means. 

First to enter the room is a modestly dressed man with straight, sandy hair. It's long enough to peek out from under his ears, where it curls. He steps into the light, illuminating a shock of shiny scars clawed over the bridge of his nose and teasing up into one thick eyebrow. 

"Sorry," he says, not quietly but certainly not loudly. "We had trouble finding the room." 

Behind him immediately stands a man with dark hair to his shoulders, white but tanned. He wears slacks, in which a shirt has been tucked on one side and not the other, a purposeful dishevelment. 

"And the building," adds the second. 

Last to enter is the biggest of the three. You'd hazard a guess that he's six foot or taller, not the tallest of his companions but the most imposing, with a monotone outfit of pristine blacks that he fills too well, his shirt clinging to the muscle underneath it. His skin is a warm brown that soaks up the big light overhead and shines golden, his hair black and thick, laying in mussed ringlets stroked back from his face. 

He is the most handsome person you've ever seen in real life. It startles you. Worse, when he meets your eyes. 

You smile carefully. He smiles back. 

Lily stands to gesture toward each man in turn. The first, "Remus Lupin," she says, "your tutor on all things Genovia." The second, "Sirius Black, stylist and your guide on media presence." 

The third. 

"James Potter," Lily says, not looking at him. "Bodyguard. James will be with you for the foreseeable future, even if you decide on– Well. You should get to know one another, at any rate." You must wear your worries on your face, as she continues, "You're in safe hands. James was third in command in the protection of His Highness." 

"Hello," you say. 

Sirius' eyes widen in tandem with his smile. "Hello." 

"It's nice to meet you. We're sorry for your loss," Remus says.

"No," you say, head tilted toward your shoulder as you frown at James sympathetically, "I should be sorry, you actually knew him. I can't imagine how this feels for you." 

"Thank you. But don't be," James says. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Princess."

You look to Emmeline, almost like you're waiting for her to correct him. 

She smiles at you hopefully. "Shall we talk arrangements for your departure?" 

—

James is trying not to look at you too much, though if he is he can write it off as purely protective. You're sitting in your seat like you're worried about touching a seat mate who doesn't exist, arms wrapped around your middle and face pointed to the floor. 

"I'll rent a car," he says. 

You curl into yourself a little more. "What for?" 

"It's much safer." 

"I don't want you to– I mean, you aren't a chauffer." 

"I'm not." He bends at the knees to speak directly to you. "There are seven other people on this bus. One is elderly. Three are younger than sixteen. All seven could potentially harm you." 

You look to the left without turning your head, toward the sound of young laughter. He'd bet money on your thoughts. Even the children?

"The driver could have an aneurysm. He could be paid off. He could be carrying a concealed weapon." James smiles at you placatingly. "Understand? If I drive, the potential danger goes down to one." 

"Me?" 

"No. Me." He tries very hard not to wink and look like a dickhead. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Not really my perogative." 

"Oh, good." 

James recall what Lily had said, rightfully. You and James will be in each other's company for the foreseeable future, and while he has a job to do, there's room for friendliness. Sort of. 

He splits his attention between you and the front of the bus, where a small family carts a pushchair. 

"What do you do?" he asks. 

He knows you attend classes for a degree equivalent at your local college. He knows you're a waitress. He knows you moved to central London when you were very young, and that your estranged mother had been the cause of all this confusion. He asks you because he wants to know how you'll frame it. In your own eyes, what is your life?

"I'm a waitress." 

He nods. "Local?" 

"Mm. At a pub called The Morgan." 

"You have a shift today?" 

"Not today. I took the day off." You stand up and click the STOP call button on the rail James is holding. Your arm brushes against his. "It's this stop." 

James trails behind you, off of the bus and straight into a busy street. 

"How far is it to your house?" he asks, loud to be heard over the hubbub and the roadworks. 

"Not long. Are you okay to walk?"

James finds himself oddly charmed by your question. "I'm just fine." 

You squeeze through the crowded pavements lining the street, folded in, keeping your arms close, and you apologise every time you touch someone, even if it's the other person's fault. James keeps close to your back, moving to your side when he worries you might sprain your neck trying to check that you're following. He had some height on you, which is a good thing for security purposes — he can see uninterrupted over the top of your head when he stands this close. 

The day is cool, the last dregs of an end of summer heat lingering in the air and encouraged by so many bodies in one place. James wonders if you're too warm, dressed as you are in tights, but the thought fades when you trip. 

James grabs the top of your arm, fingers sliding between your arm and your chest. Closer than he wants to be, crueller than he means to be as he keeps you steady. 

To his surprise, you laugh. A really nice sound, sudden but sweet. 

"Sorry, Princess," he says. 

"You saved me," you say, a hint of breathlessness in your tone. "Thank you. My flat's in the next building over." 

"Brilliant." His bag is fucking heavy, a weight between his shoulders that aches when he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as it sets. You've got a long, long night ahead of doing nothing. "What's your address?" 

You tell it to him. "Why?" 

"For the rest of your security detail." 

He slows as you come to the main door of your building. It's quieter here, the loudest sounds a symphony of barking dogs, car engines revving, and the jangle of your keys as you unlock the door and bump it with your hip. 

"More people?" you ask. "Is that really necessary?" 

"You always do that?" 

"It gets stuck," you explain. 

He hums. "It's necessary. The media's been paid handsomely to keep our operation to themselves for now, but there's always pressure to be the first to break a story." 

"And I'm the story?" you ask, nodding toward the stairs in the centre of the room. 

He steps over a bundle of scattered letters. The building is mostly clean, but mail bulges from cubbies, and an old mattress has been left propped against a wall. 

"You're the story," he says, head up to analyse the atrium. There's a skylight spotted with green moss above. 

You take the stairs up to the first floor, where your flat is the first he comes across. That increases your risk of a break in, rapists or robbers. He asks you to wait at the door while he clears each room, knowing it's an unecessary precaution but taking it anyway. It's not worth saving the half a minute it costs on the off-chance you've been infiltrated. 

He snorts at his own train of thought and returns to you, where you're sliding a special locking mechanism between the door latch and the frame. You shake the lock. 

"Did you get that recently?" 

You look up at him and smile. "Since I moved in. I'm first on the floor. Don't want to get murdered in my sleep." 

"Good girl," he says absentmindedly, crossing the room to secure your window. 

He moves into your room again and secures the larger window over your bed. Then, because he's awful and curious, he catalogues your things. 

"You're an artist," he says, head listed toward the doorway. 

You stop by the dresser, hastily stuffing clothes left aside back into the top drawer. "Not– not really." 

The room is a crammed collection of things. It's clear you've attempted to keep it clean. You were doomed to fail, an outpouring of your heart stuffed into a matchbox; books, sketchbooks, notebooks are stacked against the leftmost wall between your bed and your dresser, while paints and pencils take up two thirds of your desk. A small sketchbook rests closed in the mess of your unmade bed, dark bed sheets disrupted by a pair of white pyjamas discarded at the end. Soot or something similar stains the fabric. 

He averts his gaze from your dirty hamper and faces you. 

"At 8PM, one of my team will swap duty with me. His name is Frank, and I've worked with him before, but if you aren't comfortable with anything he does while I'm not working, you can tell me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell Lily. You can tell me, of course," he amends. "I can take the couch." 

"You sleep at eight?" 

"I sleep at nine." 

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?"

"Not at all." 

You walk to your dresser and pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is a layer of linens, and you pull them out neatly. 

"You don't have to, uh, put on a show for me," you say with a wince. 

"Sorry?" 

"I'm not a princess. I'm not the princess." 

"You don't think so?" 

You look sweet, kneeling on the floor, hair in pretty disarray from the walk home. You move it out of your face and offer a folded square to him with both hands. 

"It's a misunderstanding. But…" You take a pillowcase into your hand and stand up, closing the drawer with your ankle. "Even if I were, I don't think you need to be so formal, you know?" 

You move past him, a wave of nice smells.

"It's my job." 

Again, you surprise him by laughing, climbing on top of your unmade sheets to grab one of your pillows. "Right," you say, stripping it of its pillowcase and shaking it into a new one. The tip of your tongue makes a brief appearance as you plump up the corners. 

You climb off of the bed. "Here," you say, taking the sheet he's holding to press the pillow into his hands. 

"Oh," he says, looking down at the pillowcase. It's covered in small pink flowers. "I don't need this." 

"My settee isn't comfortable." 

"Half of my job is being able to sleep anywhere." 

You smile at him. His words don't discourage you, and he stands in the doorway between your bedroom and your living room as you lay down an old quilt over the settee and tuck a sheet around it and under the sofa cushions. 

"I know it's strange, but you could take my bed, if you wanted to. You're so tall, I don't think-"

James cuts you off, not unkindly. "Thank you, but I couldn't." He lets the side of his chest rest against the doorway, arms crossed. Your back is straight, tense with anxiety. "I have something for you." 

You blink at him. "For me?" 

He grins, his first proper smile all day, and pulls his bag onto the freshly made settee to unzip the front compartment. He pulls out a small jewellery box, pulling the lid off to hold between his arm and chest. 

The tennis bracelet inside is thin but strong, made up of gold-silver links with sapphire-coloured gemstone. He assumes them to be real sapphire or something similar, like blue-hued ruby. 

"This is a panic button." 

You seem more anxious than when he'd pulled out the box. 

"Don't worry about losing it. I'm sure the Genovian coffers will recover." 

"It's not that. Do you think it will fit?" you ask. 

He hadn't thought about it. Luckily, Mary had. 

"There are spare links hidden under the velvet." 

James puts the box on your coffee table and clicks the links into place, handling the bracelet with less care than he ought to. Firmly snapped into place, he offers the lengthened bracelet to you unlatched. 

"Here," he says, pointing toward one link in particular. "If you squeeze this tightly, the heat sensor will alert me."

"It won't feel the heat of my wrist?" 

"It will. It's sophisticated, it'll disregard anything that isn't a sudden spike. That's your panic button. You squeeze that–" He pinches it in demonstration. The small radio clipped discreetly to his shoulder starts to beep, a circling alarm. He removes his fingers from the bracelet and it stops. "Okay?" 

"I haven't even passed the paternity test yet." 

"My being here indicates that you're of special interest. We don't know if you're the Princess for certain, and neither do the newspapers. You're still in danger either way." 

You press your lips together and hold out your wrist. 

James steps close to you, enough to see details and lines he's missed. The longer he stays in your company, the more endeared he is to your shy smile, and your kindness, and he thinks you're the type of person who's outsides reflect the insides. You smile. 

Either side of your wrist glows with heat as he drapes the bracelet over your skin and clicks it closed, wary of pinching you. 

The room is quiet. The clock over your small kitchen table ticks. 

"There," James murmurs, taking back his hands. 

"Thank you." 

He disregards it completely. "No worries." 

His informality gets you, and you smile, your own first and proper smile since you'd been introduced. 

By the time Frank arrives for turnover, James is confident that his assignment to your protection won't be nearly as awful as he'd thought. You'd insisted on making him something to eat, which he'd been sincerely grateful for, as a man can't run on Burger King alone, and then you'd practically showered him in an awkward but entirely genuine hospitality, offering your bathroom and all its contents, every blanket you owned, the TV remote, and a tin of biscuits. 

He introduces you to Frank, and for an hour you make yourself busy in the kitchen, cleaning dishes you'd refused his help with and wiping down the counters. 

He senses your unease at being outnumbered in your own home. Unfortunately, there isn't much he can do to make you feel better, besides appoint Frank to door duty and try to offer some words of comfort. 

James tries not to look as imposing as he feels, clearing his throat to draw your attention as you leave the kitchenette.

"Listen," he says softly, a mirror of you now that you're both changed into lounge clothes and damp-haired from the shower, "I want to reassure you— I'm here to protect you from any and every threat. I know this is unconventional, but I promise to do my best to make this easy for you." 

You look down at your trainer socks. "Sorry." 

"Can you do me a favour?" 

"Yeah, of course," you say, raising your chin. 

"No more apologies. This is hard, and I know that, you don't have to say sorry for anything. I'll promise you whatever you need me to if that will make you feel more comfortable."

Princess or no princess, you're confused, and you're unhappy in your own home. James wouldn't want that for anybody. 

"Do you think someone's going to kill me?" you ask. 

James softens. "No. Nobody is going to kill you." His smile melds slowly to mischief, dark lashes kissing in the corners of his eyes as he squints. "I'm a brilliant bodyguard, okay? Don't doubt my skills. And Frank's alright." 

You laugh under your breath, relieved. "I'm not doubting your skills." 

"Good. I'm not just a pretty face, Princess." 

You sober at the title. The flicker of camaraderie between you fizzles, and you shake it off. 

"Can I get you anything?" you ask. 

He hopes that in a month, or a year, when you're living the high life in Genovia with a hundred serfs and lavish goods beyond your wildest dreams, you'll keep your earnest smile, and your good heart. He's seen exactly what court politics can do to timid young women like you.

"No," he says, matching your volume, "nothing."

"Okay. You can wake me if you need anything." 

He absolutely won't. "Thank you... Goodnight." 

"Goodnight."

You disappear behind your bedroom door. James lays down over the small sofa, alarm set for a dry-eyed 4:30AM, and listens to your flat as it cools. You close the blinds, sharpen a pencil, and for a period of time, he's lulled by the mild shushing of a pencil over paper. 

He falls asleep. He must. A silence settles, thick and uninterrupted as poured molasses. 

A splintering crash pulls him back to consciousness, and every nerve-ending sings as a weight falls to the floor. A thump sounds from behind your closed door. James practically leaps over the settee's arm to your door, Frank hot on his heels. 

He throws open the door, braced for impact.

You aren't anywhere to be seen. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this first part, and if you did and you have the time please consider reblogging, it makes a difference! plus i'd love to know what u think or what you'd love to see in future<3

the fics title is adapted from a line in piedra del sol by octavio paz

[honeytonedhottie]

lets talk skincare⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎀

disclaimer i am NOT a dermatologist so to create this post i did LOTS of research and i'll link all of my sources at the end of the post. i just wanted to kind of put everything that i found in here so i hope its helpful 💕🗒️

HOW TO DETERMINE UR SKIN TYPE ;

wash ur face with a gentle cleanser, pat dry and wait for about 30 minutes. if ur skin appears shiny throughout then u have oily skin, if ur skin appears tight/flaky then u have dry skin.

if u notice a slight shine on your nose and forehead then you have normal skin. if you have a combination skin type, then the skin will get oily around the t-zone.

INGREDIENTS TO LOOK FOR ;

for skin with acne -> salicylic acid, benzoyl peroxide, sulfur and mandelic acid.

for dry skin -> lactic acid, hyaluronic acid, ceramides and glycerin.

for pigmented skin -> mandelic acid, niacinamide, vitamin C, and arbutin.

INGREDIENTS THAT U SHOULD NOT MIX ;

mixing retinol and vitamin C causes irritation, mixing vitamin C and glycolic acid results in over-exfoliation, mixing AHA and retinol causes extreme dryness.

INGREDIENTS THAT U SHOULD MIX ;

hyaluronic acid + ceramides = repairing skin barrier. niacinimide + salicylic acid = healing acne. retinol + niacinimide = collagen production.

GLOWY SKIN TIPS ;

use a cleansing balm to cleanse ur face to remove all the impurities from ur skin

use serums to hydrate ur skin

lather on moisturizer, dont put too much to the point where ur skin cannot produce its own oils, but you MUST moisturize

apply sunscreen everyday, not only on ur face but also on ur neck and hands

face masks 1-2x a week

get enough sleep, drink enough water, and steer clear of overly processed foods

SKINCARE DOESNT STOP AT UR CHIN ;

its important to take care of the skin on ur neck for SO many reasons because skincare doesnt stop at ur chin. ur neck reflects the first signs of aging, and its most susceptible to sun damage so show it some love!

use the same products that u use on ur face on ur neck also, moisturize ur neck and always apply sunscreen, lastly, use some retinol to build collagen.

HOW TO APPLY RETINOL ;

when applying retinol, use a pea sized amount. avoid application around ur eyes and the openings in ur nose, and use retinol in ur night skincare routine only.

HOW OFTEN TO USE SKINCARE ;

retinol should be used nightly (1-2x a week for beginners). hyaluronic acid should be used (2x a day). salicylic acid should be used (1-2x a week). sunscreen should be applied daily, no need to apply it at night and if u can, you should reapply it every 2-3 hours. vitamin C (1x a day in the morning).

SERUMS FOR UR SKIN-TYPE ;

for oily skin use -> salicylic acid, niacinimide and mandelic acid.

for dry skin use -> hyaluronic acid, ceramides and lactic acid.

for normal skin use -> vitamin C, glycolic acid, and retinol.

for aging skin use -> peptides, retinol and vitamin C.

for acne prone skin use -> salicylic acid, retinol, and niacinimde.

for combination skin use -> mandelic acid, niacinimide, and glycolic acid.

WHAT TYPE OF FACEMASK IS BEST FOR YOU ;

cream masks are good for all skin-types and it soothes and moisturizes. clay masks are good for oily or acne prone skin and it absorbs oil and controls shine. charcoal masks are good for oily or acne prone skin, and it deep cleanses and unclogs.

sheet masks are good for all skin-types, it nourishes and hydrates. enzyme masks are good for all skin-types and it gently exfoliates and brightens the skin. bubble masks are good for all skin-types and it hydrates and soothes.

gel masks are good for all skin-types and it provides a cooling effect. exfoliating masks are good for all skin-types BUT if u have sensitive skin then exfoliating masks are not for you. exfoliating masks remove dead skin cells and debris.

HOW TO LAYER UR SKINCARE ;

in the morning (cleanser + toner + hydrating serum + vitamin c + moisturizer + sunscreen) in the evening (double cleanse + toner + hydrating serum + retinol + moisturizer)

[moondirti]

give peace a chance

I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 3.4k summary: you’re always there, waiting on him warnings: size kink, blowjobs, facefucking, thigh riding, masturbation, squirting, angst, brief mentions of death, canon typical violence, mild mild gore, fluff notes: had 'Yes to Heaven' by lana del rey on loop while writing this one. out of body experience fr. anyway, i finally gave in and wrote for the boogey man. he's been occupying too much headspace for me to not.

You don’t hear him come in. 

Crisp, white sheets gather in a knot at your midsection – previously pristine, wrinkles pull at its surface now. You can’t sleep, but that’s most nights.

Your curtains dance with an incoming drift, lazy gauze, sheer in the cresting moonlight. If you weren’t so absorbed in the white noise of your whirring fan, you could catch the quiet click of your backdoor. You always leave it open, just in case; people know not to dare take advantage of the liberties you exhibit. There’s the invisible threat, protection, of a shadowed mercenary over your toytown home. 

His missions are incalculable. That’s the one thing he cannot promise you. Come back soon, you beg, but he leaves you with a silent kiss and nothing else. 

There were once days where you’d tag along. Your chest twinges at the uncomfortable reminder. Cracked bone, spilt ichor; the bullet had barely missed your heart, lodged between the throbbing organ and a major vessel. He’d raged to get you decommissioned, incensed demands – they’d never seen him as angry. 

Carpet flattens under your bare feet as you crawl out of bed, soft, like all things here. You hadn’t the luxury of comfort before, when Simon was Ghost and you were a rookie under him, but he’d granted you a life you sought only in your dreams. The first few days in paradise, you were torn over appreciation and resentment at the act, bandages wrapped around your chest – but you’d healed and found the irreversible damage etched into the hard plate of your clavicle – a rounded, discoloured scar. 

You’re glad you’d left that life behind. 

Padding out to the kitchen, you pour yourself a drink. The cupboard underneath your sink contains only bourbon – blended, straight, kentucky – so you fish out juice from your fridge. It’s sickly sweet, all natural sugars, your ass. 

“Shouldn’t drink that stuff.” A voice cuts the tranquillity, rugged and choppy on harsh consonants – a cockney accent. You soothe the alarmed surprise racing in your gut, a gentle smile turning your cheeks. 

His eyes pierce back at you, a smudge of white against an otherwise charcoal canvas. He’s sitting at the dining table, just across your kitchen island, his massive form illuminated by the warm light you’d turned on. You don’t know how you missed him, but then again, the man lives up to his name. Ghost; creeping up like the dead. 

“We’re all out of milk.” You respond, your tease lilting to an affectionate whisper when it hits your tongue. Simon scoffs. “Not like whiskey’s any better.” 

You pour him a glass regardless. 

He’s still equipped in his tactical gear, his gun set on the chair next to him. It adds unnecessary bulk, layers on layers of insulation, conservation – impossibly, he looks bigger like this. Larger than life. Your hands run along the coarse material of his bullet proof vest; you think you can feel his muscles tense, despite the surfaces separating you. But he takes the bourbon with little fuss, wrapping a strong arm around your legs so your knees knock the side of his thigh. 

“Hi,” You giggle, beaming down at him. 

“Hey.” He mocks, setting the drink down. 

His hard-shell mask conceals any tells you may glean. In just the balaclava, you can catch the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, when he smiles – the painted fabric pulls taut over his features. But a skull stares back at you, and all you have are his eyes, framed with ashen lashes. They’re only enough to tell you one thing; he’s happy to be home. 

You love the way they catch the light, a subtle glimmer in them. 

For a while, the two of you just stand there, revelling in the weighted company of one another. His gloved hand presses circles into your flesh, just under the hem of your sleeping shorts, while yours find every bit of exposed skin you can. There’s not much – just the small stretch of neck you can reach, tucked behind his collar before the rest of him disappears. But you find it with reverence, smoothing over it, his heated body slowly easing by the minute under your ministrations. Some part of you realises the desperation you observe him with, the hurried glances at his back, his stomach, his legs. You look for darkened, sticky fabric. You look for blood. 

You don’t have the courage to speak your fears into fruition. 

Simon slowly begins to pull the heavier parts of his armour off. The night vision goggles on his head, the packets of ammo stuffed into available pockets. You move to help him, humming, shifting as you unbuckle the back of his plate carrier. His groans are wicked, deep waves of relief stemming from somewhere in his chest, and you hide the blush that arises at the sound, throwing the layer into an unknown corner. You remember the soreness, the knotted shoulders from days in the same kit, your spine in aching need of a good long stretch. You make a mental note to rub his back later.

You take off his gloves. There’s little give – they’re crusted in dried gore and gunpowder, the bones on their front almost entirely camouflaged. A sharp tug is what it takes to peel them off his hands. But then his skin is bared to you. You survey the grit that dusts the contours of his veins. Dirt has sunk through the fibres. 

When he’s left in just his mask and underclothes, he finally slumps, posture altering from that of a soldier’s to one of a tired man. His legs spread, thick thighs filling his pants, and he reaches for his drink again, lifting the bottom of his mask and balaclava to take a large gulp. His newly revealed Adam's apple bobs with the motion.

I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep. 

“How many men?” You speak into the space. He pauses, his pink lips pursing at the brim of his glass. You have half a mind to regret asking, but you do this for your own solace. 

“Jus’ three.” Just. To anyone else, he may sound indifferent, his tone etched in that low timbre, unwavering with the grief over lost comrades. To you, you know that his pain is cavernous, a bottomless chasm he’ll undoubtedly return to. Indicatively, he pulls his mask back down over his face. It isn’t just three men. It’s three too many – but it’s on the lower end of the casualties the 141 usually faces. 

You wait for him to say the words you’re looking for. 

“They’re alright.” 

You nod. Al Bravo team was not amongst the fatalities. Gaz. Price. Soap. You cling onto the reassurance of your friends’ continued survival, a buoy until the next raging storm. 

Simon’s hand returns to its place on your leg, tracing long lines along the back of it. You shiver, suppressing the heat that spreads up your tummy like wildfire. His steel gaze is indecipherable as he looks up at you; your emotions flit across your face erratically. You wish he’d take the mask off, get on even footing with you, but it takes a while for him to come down from his missions. For as long as he’s racked with enduring adrenaline, he’ll keep his guard up. 

He’s surrounded by the safe walls of your – his – home, but he’s in over his head. 

You bow down, placing a gentle kiss on the curve of his jaw. The arm wrapped around you draws you closer. 

He smells like saltpetre, guncotton, hints of kerosene floating in the air between you. You push your face nearer to his, and you’re able to catch a faint whiff of his aftershave, traces of the cleanliness and cologne he leaves behind here, with you. You open your mouth to comment on it; he beats you to your cause: 

“Lovely girl.” He squeezes the flesh on your upper thigh – not quite your ass, but almost. 

“Mmm, Simon.” You start, capturing his eyes. They bear down on you with an intensity that makes your core ache. “Y’Can’t keep doing this to me.”

You imagine he’s smirking when he retaliates. “Can say the same for you, expectin’ me to focus out there when you look this good.” Like a giddy schoolgirl, you bite your lip at his compliment. 

Stirring to kiss his jaw again, you slowly start to unzip his windbreaker. Your fingers span the front of the black hoodie underneath, tracing the hard plane of his chest, feeling it rumble with a noiseless groan. His legs spread wider. You catch a telling bulge in your peripheral. 

“Need help?” You murmur, purring when he slips underneath your shorts to give your rear a feel. His callouses dig into you.

“Need you.” He says. 

The hand that was on his chest inches downward now, your nails raking along. You give a half-suppressed laugh as his abdomen tightens, bracing against your ticklish assault. You want to feel it bare – to extricate the exhaustion from an uncovered torso and watch as his muscles roll, solid brawn unravelling with the slightest touch. But you’ll settle on this, you know he needs it. His mask does unspeakable things to you, anyway. 

“Relax.” You encourage with a breath. Simon doesn’t listen; he still kneads your flesh with an unforgiving grip. His thumb brushes close to the soaked patch on your panties – with the appreciative grunt he gives, you know he senses the arousal emanating from you. 

His cock strains his pants, taking up all the space it can. You coo, poor thing, as you cup the underside of it. He gives you a reproaching spank, and your hips buck in tandem to his. As you do, you realise now how uncomfortable of a position you’re in – your neck cramps in this angle. Really, it’s a silly thing to be hung up about, but Simon must read the subtle cringe you give, for he urges you to kneel, guiding you by your head to crawl in between his open legs. 

You’re halfway under the table when you look up at him again, cheek pressed adoringly against his knee. He’s seemingly content like this, petting round your forehead to the ridge of your chin. His palm is large, dry, warm. You quickly lose trajectory as he caresses you, all droopy eyes and small smiles. 

He catches when you rub your legs together, chasing a friction that will never amount to him. You can never escape his scrutiny; Simon captures everything. 

He pats your cheek and pinches it before his touch leaves you. Newly awake, you perk up, perching on your haunches to lean further into him. You’re always eager, but his chuckle at your barely concealed anticipation beckons a stone to lodge itself in your throat. It’s a ball of desire, denser than most things, snowballing with every passing moment in his presence. You’re tuned in on him, rapt to every subtle thing – the deep exhales, the anchoring of his boots to hardwood floors. It’s take, take, take, an absorption of anything he’s willing to give. It tends to be like this after he comes back –  was like this back on the base, when you’d known nothing but his moniker and callsign. 

You recall rubbing one out to the staticky crackle of his voice over the channel, your headset pressed tight to your ears. You’d never told him that; you figure now’s a good time as any. 

“Used to fantasise about you, y’know.” You sigh, ironing over his calves. You move your brushes to his hulking thighs when he begins to undo his pants, wetting your lips. 

His next exhale is torn, steadiness ripped to shreds by your less-than seductive words. “Oh yeah?” He remarks, scooping into his boxers to pull his heavy cock out. “What about?” 

It springs free just then, angry head flushed a deep red, blood supplied by pulsing veins that branch to the top. You keen at the precum that beads at the top, rushing to catch it with your index to slip it onto your tongue. He says nothing, merely contemplating as you wriggle with the heady taste of him. 

“This,” You add after a long moment, before licking a long, wet stripe up the base of his dick. His whole body jerks unexpectedly, and he grabs onto your head to steady your impatient efforts. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” 

“Gone soft on me? I see.” Chortling, you play with his tip, batting it back and forth to tap your lips. He is anything but soft – regrettably, though, the rise you get from teasing him is too great to pass up. 

“Shut it, pet, before I turn your insides over.” He urges you forward once he’s settled. You don’t tell him how much you’d really like him to. In due time. 

Your lips wrap around the bulbous head, sides stretching to accommodate his girth. You’re familiar with the drill by now; hollow your cheeks, keep your jaw nice and loose. Use some teeth, he chokes at the pain. 

His skin moves with you as you sink down , rolling your tongue over the ridges that cross your path. Your breath is hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in and coat his rock-hard with a film of saliva, which aids you when you bob back up. You can’t reach the root of him, not yet – he’s way too big – so your hand wraps around the length not in your mouth. 

“That’s it.” Simon rasps, now pushing you down in support. Your hum is lost in the lewd slurps, but he twitches with the vibrations it produces. A glob of drool leaks from you, seeping down to gather in his scruffy curls – you use it as slick to twist your wrist around his base. 

He’s ripe with the salty taste of sweat and precum, a dizzying combination – you hope you’re subtle as you slip your free hand down your pants, pressing up into the plush of your cunt. You find where you’re most sensitive, a tight bundle of nerves, and touch yourself, all the while savouring the masculinity that engulfs you – his muscled thighs by your ears, his giant hands pressing down on your head. 

A particularly loud groan sounds from above. You triple your efforts, delighted at your part in helping him unwind. At one point, his added pressure pushes you down all the way. You gag, blubbering with choked gasps, but your lips stay sealed around him, an unforgiving vacuum. His happy trail scratches your nose,

“Gonna cum, you lovely thing. Righ’ down your throat. Take it all, understand?” He asks. You’re able to discern the wobble in his abrasive voice – his balls spasm at your lips, ready to erupt at any moment. You nod, gaping at him earnestly, with wide, watery eyes. His own soften, downturning at the corners. “‘Atta girl.”

With the hazy memory of his face before he’d left, you can draw an abstraction of what he might look like right now. You trick yourself into thinking he’s smiling down at you. Gentle, caring. 

You don’t have to try as hard to believe it. 

Your fingers work fervently over your sopping cunt, slipping between velvet folds. Your exertion, combined with his pure fucking magnetism, is almost enough to tip you over the edge. A cluster in your gut stiffens, grows, upends. You stroke yourself impossibly faster. 

Simon curls inward, his mask now directly above you. A bit of his cock drags from your mouth – your bottom teeth scrape a vein in consequence. He jolts. Then, rich, long ropes of cum shoot into your awaiting mouth, painting you with musky white. You keep jerking him as he does, urging more, more, more, milking him to spill his all into you. 

A tap of your shoulder is all the evidence you need to pull off him with a pop. You didn’t cum, it doesn’t matter, you hardly feel the mounting desperation amidst the grand scheme of things. Simon’s back hits the chair, his head tilting as he takes you in. 

“C’mere,” He grunts, pushing backwards to allow you space to stand. You oblige, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand – it only serves to smear the mess across your cheek. Your back brushes the table – he beckons you closer – until your bruised knees hit the edge of the chair. 

When he’s satisfied, his hands run up your sides, starting at your arms, then downward, so they can hook into the waistband of your shorts. You lock onto his all-consuming stare, dark with an unspoken question, his pupils blown wide with lingering lust. 

“Go ahead.” You coax. 

He nods and pulls your shorts off with one, swift movement. 

Cold air meets soaked cotton – you tremble, whether with goosebumps or the weight of his study, you don’t know. You’re the farthest thing from a blushing virgin, but Simon manages to propel you back into that bashful headspace. Every time with him is ruthless – stifling broken sobs while adjusting to his width, utter pleasure and the smallest bit of pain. 

Perhaps you’ll forgo that this time around. He’s quickly softening against his pelvis. You understand – stamina tends to dissipate after holding out for so long. Though he’s anything but a selfish lover.

He guides you to straddle his thigh. 

You squirm, hip flexors burning with the strain of splitting over the breadth of him. He keeps you steady with his hands on your waist – you clutch onto his wrists. His sleeves have rucked up to reveal his tattooed forearm. You trace the ink, reverent, requiring as much skin-to-skin as possible. It flees the fastest, that sensation, running up behind him when he exits the door. The bruises, the bites, the cramp from hitting your cervix one too many times, on the other hand – they all endure, keeping you sated long enough so that you aren’t compelled to rejoin him. He might do that on purpose, in fact. 

Your clit folds as it meets his leg – a new surge of slick spills from you. 

“A-Ah! Simon, y–” 

“I know, pet. Jus’ ride me, yeah, like that.” 

Your bottom half ruts into him, finding purchase on the solid surface of his thigh. Your panties slide, preventing the potential for divine friction, so you push them to the side, wedging it in the crevice of a lip and your pubic bone. You stutter apologies to Simon for the mess – your natural lubricant smears onto his cargo pants, sullying the fabric. He assures that he’ll wear it proudly. You’re a prouder medal than blood. 

You’re whimpering now, wailing about everything and nothing all at once with your face tucked into his neck. He embraces you – sturdiness forcing you to stunt your movements to short, hurried grinds – and says nothing. 

Something terrifying begins to burn in you; promising a cataclysm. It’s him. His scent, his strength, his size, his presence. I missed you. I missed you. Your impending orgasm crawls up the tendons in your pelvis, seeping into bone and flooding like a high tide. Your pants grow shallower. Your lungs feel cramped. Something about this, here, with him, lights every synapse in you, flashing bright with colours and promises and safety. I miss you. 

“I miss you,” You finally gasp, broken as you peer up at him. He stills – you keep your pace. Sweat beads at your temple. 

He slowly removes the mask. 

The balaclava follows soon after. 

Simon then bows down, pressing his lips to your furrowed brow. 

And then, everything in you compresses, fierce and tight. You wind your fingers into his hair, pulling his head back to bite the column of his neck. You do it to muffle the sob that bubbles when you erupt in searing agony atop him, back arching, toes curling. Your body goes completely rigid. 

He groans with the cut of your teeth, and your cunt pulsates again, spilling down on him, your fluids draining to double your mark on the man. 

“Missed you too.” Simon rustles in response. You seize his mouth with yours, uncaring for how messy it is. It’s what you need; to feel your teeth knock, to bind yourself to him. 

You kiss in him the intent to never let you go. You know it won’t last, but for now, it’s enough.

permanent taglist: @saintbedelia @tusk89 @cactuswaterscactusfields @lexloon

since i've only written for star wars previously, if you're on this list and want to be moved to a character specific one instead, i've added the option on my form!

join my taglist!

[mossyivy]

Leon’s wife is the type of wife to pick at her husbands face and back all day. He’d be watching TV in the living room and suddenly she’s sitting on his lap plucking his eyebrows because she’s bored. All while he complains that it hurts. (That man was been beat to death yet can’t even sit still while getting his eyebrows plucked. 🙄)

Or she’d make him do some stupid silly skincare. He’d get a silly headband to push his hair back of course, he’d just be half asleep as she gently spread the clay mask across his face.

Violet and Lia would probably mess around with his face too. They’d drag him over to Violet’s room and make him go to their “Salon.” A place where they literally torture him with girly things.

They’d put his hair up in little pigtails, probably beat his face to the gods too. He’d come out of Violets room looking like a pretty princess. His left eye filled with dark colored eyeshadow from Violet and his right with pretty colors and pastels.

- Anon! 🎀

Suggestive Moment Below Cut

No literally she'd be an absolute menace with grooming him. He has no idea why she loves it so much.

"Ow!" He flinches as you rip another long hair from his brow.

"Oh it doesn't hurt that bad you big baby." His grip on your waist tightening as you lean back to assess your work so far, not wanting you to fall back and crack your head on the coffee table like last time.

"You're not the one having hair ripped o- ow! I thought I married a scientist not a beautician..." He huffs as you giggle at his pain, putting the tweezers back into the small brow kit on your lap.

"I'm a woman of many talents." You reach in pulling out the brow scissors, grabbing your wrist he stares at them.

"What are these for?"

"To shape, relax I'm not gonna cut your eyebrow off." He stares, raising his freshly plucked brow, you sigh. Leaning into his ear to whisper.

"If you let me use the scissors I'll let you do that thing you like." Your tone is teasing, his head turns to you.

"As long as I want?"

"Mmhm, and I won't even complain." He lets go of your wrist immediately, leaning back like he's in a professional chair ready for someone to do their worst to him. You smirk, going to shape his brows. His arms pull you closer as he watches you work through slightly cracked eyes.

"For the record, I like when you complain. Makes me know I'm doing it right." You flick him in the chin making him chuckle as you continue to work carefully.

You sit back, nodding to yourself.

"Oooh, we have twins!" You gasp staring at him.

"What! What!?" Your voice is barely above a whisper as you lean back in.

"You have grays in your beard..." You immediately reach for the tweezers, he pushes them onto the couch.

"No! It's bedtime!" Standing up, he lifts you into his arms, making his way towards the stairs.

As for the mask thing I personally think Leon has sensory issues when it comes to stuff on his face, when clay is chunky it makes him think of... the past.

But I could see him being okay with those sheet or charcoal masks that peel. But you'd always fight him on doing the peeling because let's be real it's gross but super satisfying. An it's always funny watching him cringe at how nasty his pores were.

Putting the little creams on him after is his favorite part! Because that means you use a jade roller over his face. He loves that thing. Wishes they came in the size of a paint roller for his back. Every time that little roller touches his face he melts. He'd almost be purring it feels so good to him.

Not only is he getting to do a routine with his adorable wife but that damn roller nearly makes him fall asleep standing up at their his and hers sinks. You'd kiss his chin once he's nice and clean, pull off the cute little tabby cat headband off his head.

"We're done?" He looks so sad. But you always end up having him cuddled up to your side by the end of the night, using a wooden rolling hand massager on his back. He'd be out like a light, snoring away in 20 minutes tops.

But the skincare routine definitely started after his girls loved playing salon with him (not mommy because daddy always listens to the kid gossip and gives the best feedback)

Violet's talking about her 2 friends arguing over who gets to play with her at recess or sit with her at lunch while putting his hair up in tons of tiny pigtails with different colored hair ties. All while Lia would be just clipping on any little beret or cute clip she could find from her collection to his bangs.

Leon would walk out of there and into the kitchen while you're doing the dishes. You look at him and grin.

"Rough day Leona?" You joke, making him groan as you laugh. "You look like that doll from the Rugrats if she got into a fist fight."

"The girls thought I looked beautiful!"

[k00294490]

Thursday 12th October 2023

Today, I continued exploring with charcoal self portraits. I had researched Frank Auerbach and I wanted to recreate some of his techniques. My first atttempt was just rubbing the charcoal really hard into the paper until it tore through to the sheet behind it. I wanted to add something fun so I used red marker to draw lots of eyes.

My second attempt was more daring. I drew myself again and then smudged it all with my hand. I rubbed into the paper to tear it. I ripped some new paper and stuck it on with masking tape. I drew onto that and I think it came out with a very cool but very ominous look. The disruption of the paper can represent the disruption of our thoughts and feelings.

After lunch, I gave painting on a larger scale a try. I've never worked that big before so I was a bit apprehensive but excited. The bigger portrait on the right was my first go. I found myself struggling with proportions and brush technique. I tried two different brushes for painting the hair and I prefferred the bigger and flatter brush. I like the second one I did better. I did it faster and quicker than the first and I think that the smaller scale suited me more. The scale of that one was 35 inches in length, 24 inches in width while the bigger one was 56 inches in length with a width of 35 inches.

This last charcoal drawing was my experiment with a different mirror propped higher up and a different perspective. It was a real challenge and I'm not happy with the way it turned out but I am happy that I did it.

[aerieherbal]

So I found this brand of skincare products that are biodegradable and affordable, and I'm super excited about it!

I was even able to get a discount code for it! 20% off with code: aeriemasque

Check them out!

[invisibleraven]

Doing skin care together for Carrie(& or /)anyone because that is such a Carrie Prompt

Carrie hummed as she piled her hair into a messy bun, adjusting her headband afterwards and flicked on her ring light.

"Whatcha doing?"

Carrie turned and looked at Flynn and Julie who were smirking at her from the bathroom door. "If you must know I was going to give myself a spa day," she replied, tilting her nose up at them. "Do my nails, give myself a facial, all that fun stuff."

"Oooh, I could do with some pampering!" Julie squealed. "Can we join in?"

"or is more of a 'me' time?" Flynn asked. "Because if so we can skedaddle, we were just wondering if you wanted to watch a cheesy rom-com with us."

"We can do both," Julie offered. "You can even pick the movie as long as it's not She's All That again."

"10 Things I Hate About You?" Carrie asked, brandishing her tweezers in one hand and a bottle of nail polish in the other.

"Young Heath Ledger? Sign me up!" Julie exclaimed.

"I'm here for the Shakespeare adaptation and Allison Janney," Flynn interjected. "Also the mani."

So maybe this was not how Carrie pictured her day going, sitting with her expensive foaming charcoal mask on while Flynn painted her nails an electric pink and Julie recited along with Kat's famous monologue in the movie while plucking her brows.

But it was kinda nice.

They all switched places a few times, with Flynn opting for a sheet mask with a cute panda decal on it while Julie chose a peel off aloe and camomile mask. She was soaking her feet in Carrie' little foot bath while Flynn was debating polish colours.

"I kinda want to go orange, but that might seem too Halloweeny," she mused.

"What if we did an ombré effect with some yellow?' Carrie suggested.

"Oooh, mam likey," Flynn crooned. "Jules, what about you?"

Julie shrugged. "Figured i'd go with my standard purple."

Carrie and Flynn exchanged a look. "Girl, you can't be so afraid to break the mold every once in a while," Flynn replied.

Julie bit her bottom lip, looking at Carrie's vast array of polish colours. "Maybe that cherry red?"

"Perfect," Carrie said with a smirk. "I know someone who will love that you picked it too."

"Shut up!" Julie shrieked, but her blush said it all, and Carrie was willing to bet one of her dad's platinum albums that Reggie would sit up and take notice when Julie's nails matched his bass next band practice.

"I will not," Carrie retorted, sticking out her tongue, then squealed when Julie tossed a pillow at her from the couch. "Hey, watch it, this mask is horrendously hard to get out of fabric!" She then tapped her face, seemingly satisfied. "Mine's dry, I'm gonna go wash it off."

Flynn had long ago tossed her mask, and had her tongue stuck between her teeth as she slowly helped Julie peel hers off. "Sure thing Care Bear. You got toner and the like for after we get our nails done?"

"You know I do," Carrie said, rolling her eyes, but there was no bite to it. She'd already let them use her pricey cleanser, and Flynn had seen her large collection of skin care then.

Later, their faces clean, tones, moisturized, and glowing, they munched on popcorn, their now dry nails shining as Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts fell in love on the screen.

"This was nice," Carrie murmured. "Thanks for hanging with me today."

"We were here anyways since we stayed last night doing that stupid history paper," Flynn replied. "But thanks for leting us."

"Any time, we're always down for a girl's night, or a spa day," Julie offered. "Invite Kayla and the rest of the Candis if you want, we can have a real to do."

"Maybe warn me if you're inviting Kayla so I can make sure my braids are fresh," Flynn requested, blushing just a little, even if her obvious crush on the dancer could be seen from space.

"Will do," Carrie promised. "Especially since she asked me if she could 'tag along' to the next Phantoms practice you're attending."

Julie giggled at Flynn's increasing blush, the two of them teasing each other back and forth. Which, Carrie didn't really get, being pretty damn aroace, but she loved that her friends were happy and interested in good, kind people who liked them back.

Plus with them playfully bickering, it gave Carrie the chance to steal the last of the popcorn, and that was more than worth the counteracting effects it was surely having on her facial.

[walker33961]

FACE M A S K 🧖‍♀️✨🦢

- Kyle was back from his 4 month long mission... Well yn & him both were 141's without a home for them..... Even though kyle wished to have a small house with yn ....

Their feelings for each other's in relationship is increasing every day , he fell for yn at first sight.......

Everyone in the base knows how much yn loves to treat her face with good products and even bcz of her , the base keeps stock of good cosmetics for yn and other girls in the base... Even the guys got influenced bcz of their girls or their best mates and started rubbing the jade roller on their face... 😆

02:43 AM

- Kyle was all tired , he dropped his bag and fell on the bed , facing at the little photos with the gang and yn in the rough base wall....

Suddenly, The door opened to reveal Yn with her eye mask and charcoal face mask ... Kyle started laughing...

Kyle :

Love, Did you steal ghost's mask and he rubbed his face paint over ....? 🤣😭

*Laughing*

Yn :

You know it's a charcoal mask Kyle....

Stop acting...

Kyle :

Isn't there any gunpowder one ?

😭🤣

Yn :

Huh... At least my face doesn't stay like the rusty irons after a mission like yours...

*smirks*

Kyle :

How can i turn my year old rusty iron face to soft as cotton like yours...

*was about to kiss yn*

Yn :

Hold up Kyle...

Not even a single bit of charcoal while you're like this...

- Yn brought her bag of products and Kyle was just "😲😯"...

Kyle :

Like damn yn...!

Yn :

I brought it from Soap... He's the only guy who understands self care so perfectly...

Kyle :

Thanks to his lady for rubbing Aloe on his skin after a desert mission... 🤣

Or else he would be like a burning Scottish Potato 🤣

Yn :

Let me fix my burned British cake first....

Kyle :

Not fair...

Yn :

Don't talk... Let me put this sheet in yo face !

- Yn firmly attached the sheet mask in his face and sliced cucumber over eyes....

Kyle :

Wh - wha' are ya doin!?

Yn :

Taking care of my Prince Garrick...

- Yn took a photo without Kyle's realisation. And sent it to the group chat...

*Next morning*

- Soap, Laswell trying not to laugh over him.. He was shining but the photo yn sent literally made everyone fell from the space ..

Laswell :

Kyle... How did your treatment go Son?

Kyle :

What are you talking about?

*Soap laughing and showing him the photo*

Soap :

Ahahahe our lad gets some good care aye..

I really want that type of care...

Soap's Gf :

No way you're getting that...

Not until you bring the Rosemary plant I told you...

Soap :

Not fare Bonnie!

Kyle :

That's fair for laughing over me..

Let me ask her why she did that...

- Kyle came to their shared room inside the base.. Yn was fixing her hair to a ponytail. Kyle hugged from behind ...

Kyle :

Who gave you the idea of sending the photo?

Yn :

Mrs. Garrick gave me the idea for Mr. Garrick...

- Kyle roamed his hands to yn's soft pair , circling his finger around her nipples.

Yn hitches..

Yn :

K-kyle.. Not N-now...... Ah....

Kyle :

Did you warn me before taking the photo?

*pinching nipples*

*yn getting wet, moaning lightly*

*Kyle bites her neck*

Kyle :

Speak Love....

Yn :

*moans*

N... No... H..

Kyle :

" Then how can I let go of you so easily , You deserve a soft punishment "

[luminousfaery]

face mask schedule ‎𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚

tuesday: hydration boost

face mask: hydrating sheet or gel mask. provides intense moisture and helps keep the skin dewy and plump.

eye mask: hydrating eye patches. reduces puffiness and refreshes the under-eye area.

lip mask: moisturizing lip mask. keeps lips soft and hydrated.

friday: deep cleansing

face mask: clay or charcoal mask. helps to clear out impurities and control excess oil for a fresh complexion.

eye mask: brightening eye mask. helps with dark circles and brightens the under-eye area.

lip mask: exfoliating lip mask. gently exfoliates and smooths lips, removing any dry patches.

sunday: repair and renewal

face mask: overnight repair mask or gentle peel. supports skin repair and rejuvenation while you sleep, addressing any signs of stress or fatigue.

eye mask: revitalizing eye patches. provides a boost of hydration and reduces signs of tiredness.

lip mask: nourishing lip mask. rich in hydrating ingredients to smooth and plump lips.

this face mask routine helps me with hydration, clarity, and repair, but it may not suit everyone. make sure to do your research to tailor your specific skin type for the best results.

[myeyesarebrighter]

Tonight, m wanted a spa night with some sheet masks we got at Walmart before the holidays. So around bedtime we go ahead and crack them open.

Mine is surprisingly not a sheet, instead it’s a thick jelly and it’s very heavily scented. So I smear a bunch on, she and I giggle a ton, and I realized I couldn’t get all of the mask out of the package. I take another look and realize - oh fuck this is some “cleanser” I’m supposed to be washing with! It’s been on my face for like 10 mins at this point and it doesn’t feel good!

So I start wiping and wiping and wiping it off. And there is so much suds. So much. And it just keeps sudsing and foaming and I rinse and rinse and rinse. And now my face is MAD and I’m a bit frantic and M is like “mama wtf!”

So after submerging my face in the faucet, I’m bubble free and decide to continue on with the charcoal mask. It’s black and I spill it everywhere, so we laugh a bunch more.

But lord my face is hot and throbby. I look and realize I’ve got these hot red circles that are so clearly defined around my eyes and M is like “mama I think you might be allergic like I am to nuts!” It’s bad enough she can see the angry red through this accidental charcoal blackface. It’s just bad.

So we agree to rinse this disaster off. It’s now just like black mask clogged in my pores that now look like blackheads and darkness around my eyes and in the divots of my cheeks like a pubescent zombie. It’s just so bad and I’m so done scrubbing my angry face. I get it sorted eventually and m really can’t stop giggling.

So story time is taken with a frozen eye mask strapped to various parts of my face in rotation, with m laughing and telling me what it looks like when she periodically looks over from the book.

And now, hours later, my face feels good and looks amazing? Like it’s so even and smooth, the puffiness is all gone (an actual ice pack to your face for hours will probably do that, though!). So maybe get that charcoal detox mask and apply the cleanser like a mask, let it mostly dry until your face is in flames, and then continue on my regiment. The laughter definitely helped everything. Don’t think M will ever forget tonight!