makey makeover - rodrick x hyperfeminine reader
wc: 1.5k
pairing: rodrick x gn hyperfeminine!reader
warnings: rodrick isn't used to being taken care of but only briefly mentioned at the end, rodrick does not know what hyaluronic acid is
summary: rodrick can never say no to you, but if it means having you straddle his lap while you use all your skincare products on him and listen to music together, he wouldn't want to say no anyway.
song recs: makey makeover - crazy ex girlfriend cast, jesus of suburbia - green day, perfect day - hoku
a/n: I started writing a kids book yesterday?? like I finished the first chapter and outline in one sitting???? it wasn't at all planned but when the muse strikes yk. Anyway I don't think it will take me as long to write so if you wanna read a chapter book about magic and girlhood and unicorns and other mythical creatures with bella sara vibes that's probs gonna be ready reasonably soon lol
tags: @yesv01 @magcon7280 @dustyinkpages @the-snake-pit @kiara7777 @inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800 @followingthefanfiction @2220825 @Maggzsworld @xiaos_crustytoenails @ionlymadethisaccountbcihadto @strawberryjen124 @Isaentremundos @hxnbah
Rodrick likes to think he's a pretty tough guy. Between being born and raised on the rebellious messages of pop punk music, and the nonconforming ideologies of emo and other alt subcultures, Rodrick knows in his bones that he'll never let the man break his spirit. He'll never bow down to someone just because they want him to do something. He's had countless opportunities to stand by these beliefs at school and at home, and he has never - not once - come close to doing anything for someone simply because they want him to. Rodrick has been confident in his ability to never give into other people’s orders, no matter how much they demand of him.
Until now.
“Pretty please, Roddy…?” You pout your glossy lips at him, blinking up at him and batting your doll like eyelashes, and that’s all it takes to make him fold.
“...I guess, if you really-” He’s cut off by an excited squeal from you, and he’s glad that you’re too distracted to notice him blush. Rodrick has never felt his willpower give in so fast, but as he watches you rush around your room and smile, delighted that he’d agreed, he realizes that he’d do pretty much anything you tell him too. Ben and Chris would call him a pussywhipped simp, but… no, that’s pretty much it. He chuckles a little at the thought, watching the pile of stuff grow. He recognizes nail polish and tweezers, but that’s about it.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” You say, rambling happily as you settle down on your bed across from him. “I’ve been wanting to do self care stuff but I’ve done so many everything showers and self care nights there’s nothing left for me to do on myself. But you…”
You take his face in your manicured hands, moving him around to inspect more closely.
“You are in serious need of a facial.”
Rodrick doesn’t really process what you’re saying, he just loves when you touch his face like that.
“...Uh, yeah totally.” He mutters absentmindedly, distracted by your sweet smell. After a moment, he processes what you said, and chuckles, leaning back into your silky pink pillows. “Babe, you can do anything to me, anywhere, anytime.”
You giggle, feeling your face flush a little as you get all your stuff organized. Rodrick runs his hands up and down your waist, fidgeting with your soft fluffy pajama shorts and big loded diper shirt you wear all the time. He sees the little burn marks and worn out hems and realizes it’s the one you stole from him. He smiles softly, loving the way you look in it even more now. His attention is pulled back to you when you push something over his face, brushing his hair back. You adjust the fluffy cat ears on the headband, making sure you have access to his whole face. Rodrick giggles a little, knowing he must look a little out of place wearing a pierce the veil shirt and fluffy kitty cat headband.
“I don’t think my forehead has been this exposed since like, 4th grade…” he chuckles.
“That’s good, you’ll have less sun damage that way.” You smile, putting some micellar water on a cotton pad. It’s a little cold to the touch, but after a moment, the feeling of you gently wiping over his face and neck ends up being way more relaxing than he had expected it to. You throw it away, and he hears it land in your trash can with a crinkle.
“I’m gonna mist your face now, okay?” You say, and he nods. You spray rose water on his face, and Rodrick can’t get over how considerate you are to give him a heads up like that. Rodrick smiles a little as he adjusts to the subtle floral smelling facial spray he’s used to smelling on you. He basks in the quietness of your room, opening his eyes as he watches you sitting on his stomach and looking for the next product. You hesitate for a moment. You feel like something’s missing, but you can’t put your finger on it.
“Oh,” you say, reaching for your phone as you remember. You open up Spotify, and put your favorite playlist on shuffle - the one you and Roddy share. It’s full of both your favorite songs, mostly boiling down to early 2000’s pop punk and trashy pop. It’s chaotic but really does suit you both perfectly. Rodrick smiles suddenly as he instantly recognizes the opening notes of Jesus of Suburbia begin to play. You take out your favorite serum, jasmine and blackberry hydrating jelly, and place a few drops around his face.
“What’s that one?” Rodrick asks, picking up another bottle.
“Hyaluronic acid.”
Rodrick looks at the little dropper bottle.
“Does it, like, melt the flesh right off your bones?”
“No…?” You chuckle, massaging his cheekbones and jawline with your fingertips.
“Then why is it called hydroponic acid?” He asks rhetorically, “Acid is supposed to melt shit.”
You laugh again, and he makes a mental note to sample your laughter for a song at some point in the future. He doesn’t know which one yet, but he knows it will be his best one yet.
You rub some cooling aloe vera gel into his skin, then take out your rose quartz gua sha stone. You tap your fingertips against his chest, and he looks at you with an amused smile.
“What does that do?”
He watches you work, eyes locked on you. He can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and peaceful.
“I’m prepping your lymphatic drainage system.”
That clarified absolutely nothing for Rodrick, but he trusts you implicitly. You’re so good at so many things, but Christ, you could write a book on all that girly beauty stuff. It’s way more hardcore than people think it is. You know about all these acids and drainage systems and the pink rock thing, and even though he’s impressed, he’s not at all surprised by how good you are at all this stuff.
You begin gently gliding your gua sha over Roddy’s skin, working from his forehead down to his neck and jawline. He stops talking as you work, and it’s like you melt all of the stress out of his body through his face. He could fall asleep with you touching him so gently like this. After a while you rub some more cream into his face, then place something under his eyes that feels like thinly sliced jello.
“What the fuck?” He asks, bringing another laugh out of you. He watches you take two more of the weird jelly things and put them under your own eyes.
“They’re under eye masks.” You answer with a chuckle. “They hydrate your skin, depuff, and get rid of dark circles.”
“Huh…” he hums in response, playing with the patches as they sit on his face.
Once you’ve used half your arsenal of skincare products on him, you peel off his sheet mask and let him sit up. You hand him a mirror, and as he sits up and stretches a little, kind of wishing you had more to do, he feels like he just woke up from the best sleep of his life.
“So? What do you think?” You ask excitedly. He can’t help but crack a smile at how cute you are. Rodrick takes the mirror you offer him. When he sees his reflection, he almost doesn’t recognize himself.
“Oh my god…” he says with a soft smile. He’s glowing. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked this soft and moisturized and… cared for before. He doesn’t even have any crusty eyeliner from yesterday smudged around his eyes. He can never get it off all the way, but one wave of your magic wand, and it’s gone. He laughs again, touching his cheek. He looks up at you in surprise.
“My face is so smooth…”
“I know!” You exclaim in delight. “So, do you like facials after all?”
You have a feeling you already know the answer, but Rodrick looks up at you anyway.
“Yeah,” he states, pulling you in for a kiss, his lips soft and exfoliated, topped with your favorite strawberry lip balm. You think Rodrick is right, it does taste better in a kiss. After he pulls away, it takes him a minute for his brain to stop short circuiting.
“So… uh, are we doing this again next weekend?”
You laugh at his hopeful tone of voice, how he raises his eyebrows a little.
“Yeah.” You nod, taking him in for another kiss. You take his hands in yours, looking at the stick and poke tattoo he got of the heart you drew on his hand in chemistry class, his little calluses from drumming. “Next week I can do something about your cuticles.”
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When Bucky first meets them ettiene is 100% hissing, biting, ready to throw hands at anyone who tries to get too close to Steve. Whatever situation they were previously in has made him very protective, and if Bucky wants to even look at Steve he has to go through ettiene. Luckily for him, Ettiene’s protective ways are NO match for the massive crush that Steve has developed on Bucky. Steve and Ettiene definetly fall asleep piled around and ontop of each other for comfort, but in the middle of the night Steve always sneaks off to Alpha Buckys office, peeping through the cracked open door, admiring Bucky as he does his work and takes calls, scurrying off if he hears someone approaching.
The thing is Bucky KNOWS that Steve is there, he’s scented him since before he even entered the hallway, but since steve is so shy and small he says nothing to avoid scaring him off, instead just enjoying the company of the pup.
I imagine this goes on for a while, there may even be times where Steve falls asleep with his head against the door, only to wake up tucked in right next to Etienne in their pup pile, faint memories of strong warm hands carrying him.
So, I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while, not fleshed out enough to be an actual plot but kind of like the Nameless Alpha & Omega story where I just had ideas
I was going to try to actually scrape it together and write it as an original story, but what you said lines up enough with it that I might as well throw it in the ring as another 'verse
The basic idea is this:
A world where humans know about the supernatural, but it's still a fresh discovery. Decades old, maybe. Everyone is still trying to figure out how the worlds fit together, and there's a lot of fear on both sides, but it's mostly working out.
Enforcers used to be the protectors of the pack, but now they're protectors of the supernatural community in general.
I toyed with the idea of the Enforcers being an official branch of law enforcement, but if we're leaning towards criminal!Bucky, then it would definitely have to be unofficial.
Or maybe the Enforcers are official and Bucky is the guy they call when their hands are tied.
Either way, when something goes down and a parahuman is involved, the Enforcers get called in.
It's one such call that changes everything.
Bucky arrives at a desolate, abandoned warehouse. Bright lights from the ambulances, cop cars, firetrucks--they flash in the rain, a beacon of trouble for some, a port in the storm for others.
A steady line of hunched figures climb into the waiting ambulances. All of them are human, though, and so not his problem.
An Enforcer approaches the caution tape where Bucky stands waiting. He lifts it, stepping aside for Bucky to duck under.
"This way," he says softly.
For humans, the words would've been lost in the rain. Not for them.
Bucky follows him into the warehouse. He abandons his umbrella by the door and keeps walking.
The inside of the warehouse is exactly as he would expect. Dust and debris everywhere, cobwebs and shadows that might move if you looked too long. It's not the look of the place that gives Bucky pause, though; it's the feel.
He's been in many abandoned places, many warehouses. None felt like this. There's a weight to the air, a stillness that threatens to suffocate anyone stupid enough to linger. There are ghosts here, and not necessarily of the supernatural kind.
A gigantic hole takes up most of the center of the warehouse. There's a few ladders scattering its edges and some sort of pulley system, as if the idea is to get as many people out at once time as possible.
There are less humans inside the warehouse, but still enough. They glance sideways at the Enforcer, and then at Bucky, and if the rain outside didn't hide the Enforcer's words, it's muffled pattern on the roof definitely doesn't hide the trip and gallop of their heartbeats.
The Enforcer doesn't lead him to the hole or to any of the ladders. Instead they take the stairs. They're at the back of the building, and as soon as Bucky steps onto them, he understands why that isn't the evacuation point. These stairs wouldn't be able to handle that much weight at one time.
They're old, rusted and just as dusty as everything else, sand falling to the floor below with every shaky step they take.
When Bucky reaches the bottom, he has to stop and steady himself. The atmosphere down here is somehow worse. The scent is acrid, cloying.
It stinks of waste, but the other scents are worse. The salt of tears, the taste of desperation. Pain. Anger. Fear.
Isolation, hunger, loneliness--those things don't have a proper scent. Scenting them out takes context clues, pairing the general scent of someone's unhappiness with body language, behavior.
Bucky knows he can't scent them, but somehow, somehow, he's sure that he does, anyways.
"I know," the Enforce intones grimly, and nods his head towards a hallway on Bucky's left.
There are cages.
They might have been rooms, once. Offices, laboratories, who knows. But someone's taken the doors off the frames and replaced them with bars.
No one is in them, anymore. They've all been unlocked, opened, the prisoners set free. At the end of the hall, there's a crowd of humans. They're just standing there, motionless. Onlookers to something, something that has them smelling fearful and heartbroken at the same time.
Bucky hears the hissing before he sees what the spectacle is.
The crowd of humans part, making way for them. Hugging the wall so there's no chance of accidental brushes. Humans are a superstitious lot, and somewhere in the past years, they've gotten in their heads that a wolf can't take your scent--can't track you--as long as you don't get close enough.
It's bullshit, but Bucky's not in the business of educating humans. And especially not here, not now.
Not when he moves past them and the spectacle that held them captive now takes hold of him.
Omegas. Two of them. Pale and rangy, covered in dirt and grime, torn clothes and fearful scents, but very clearly Omegas.
One of them sits with his back against the wall of their cage, his knees pulled to his chest, bright blue eyes peeking over their horizon. He's so still, so quiet, even his heartbeat seems quiet. It's as if all he wants is to melt into the wall and disappear. Be invisible.
The other is the opposite. He stands between of his companion and the gathered crowd, teeth bared and eyes blowing amber. He prowls the length of the cage in a way that's more animal than human, and it's clear with every movement that he makes that he's ready for a fight. Not just ready--he wants it.
He's the source of the hissing. It's wrong, on a fundamental level. Wolves don't hiss. It's as if his vocal cords are half-shifted themselves, unsure of where to go, and this is the result.
Bucky can hear the little grumble of a growl every once in a while, but it retreats quickly.
There's no humanity in his eyes. Only the fear and rage of a caged, abused animal.
He's feral, or close to it, and that thought has acid rising in Bucky's throat. A Omega in a place like this is the worst kind of transgression, but one that's turned feral because of it is a shame the world might never recover from.
There's blood is in the air. Fresh blood.
When the prowler turns to continue his march back across the room, Bucky spies the source. A wound on his leg, trickling down his calf. It isn't the only source, though.
Scenting the differences in blood in a confined space like this takes practice, but it's possible. If he concentrates, Bucky can detect two separate blood scents. Both of the Omegas are bleeding, but Bucky can't see the source on the Omega on the floor.
"They're injured," the Enforcer murmurs at this side, unnecessarily. "But we can't get in. When we try, that one raises hell."
The prowler, obviously.
"I thought I was making headway," he continues. "I thought he was gonna let me close, but then he saw..."
The Enforcer grimaces, holding up his bared forearm. He's a bitten wolf, turned months before. The scars from his attack are more faded than they would be on a human, but they stand out in stark contrast against his tanned skin. Jagged, silvery lines from a clawing, and the half moon imprint of a bite.
"He went ballistic when he saw it."
Bucky tilts his head, flicking his gaze between the scars to the prowling Omega. The Omega hisses again, spitting on the floor, his derision palpable.
He isn't certain, but Bucky thinks he understands.
"They don't trust humans," he murmurs. And then, as an afterthought, he added, "Clear the room."
It's more of a hallway than a room, but they get the idea. The humans grumble at being kicked off even a portion of their own crime scene, but they oblige. The Enforcer goes with them, because while not actually human, the bite damns him as being born one. It shouldn't matter, and usually, it doesn't. But it matters here, now, to these Omegas, and their opinion is more important than his own.
When it's just the three of them--Bucky and the two Omegas, separated only by iron bars--he takes off his jacket and folds it over his arm and then, to the bewilderment to both Omegas, he sits on the dusty floor.
He leans back against the wall opposite of the bars, as far away as he can get. It's not far, of course. When he stretches out his legs, he's only a foot away from touching metal with his shoes.
The prowling Omega pauses, his hissing dying out. He wavers, disoriented and confused.
"You're both injured," Bucky says calmly. "I'd like to see to that, but not until you're ready."
The blood scent isn't overpowering; neither of them are in danger of bleeding out. It's more important to earn their trust right now.
The prowler, unsure of what to do, lurches back into his pacing. He isn't vocally warning Bucky away anymore, but his body language still does.
Bucky focuses on the silent Omega. He tilts his head, meeting his bright eyes--the only part of his face that can currently be seen.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises. "You don't know me, but I'm an Alpha. I won't let anyone else hurt you. Not while I'm here."
The prowler stops again. It was that word--Alpha. They both know what it means.
There's nothing more sacred to an Alpha than an Omega. Wolves as a whole covet them, cherish them. But to Alphas, they are holy.
Bucky had hoped it would mean something to these two Omegas, that it might mean safety, and he's gratified that he isn't completely wrong. Slowly, so as not to startle either of them, he tosses his jacket in front of the bars.
"Go on," he says. "Take my scent."
The prowler snatches it through the bars, darting forward and away almost too quickly to follow. The fabric rips, caught on a nail, but Bucky isn't bothered. He'd rip a thousand jackets for an Omega's safety.
The prowler takes it to his companion, kneeling down beside him. The silent Omega takes a sleeve between slender fingers and buries his nose in it, breathing deeply enough that Bucky can hear it. After several long seconds, he offers it up to his companion, encouraging him to take the scent, too.
The prowler does, but it's clear he's reluctant. After scenting the jacket, the protector grumbles wordlessly, knocking his forehead into the blue-eyed Omega's. A tiny little smile answers the gesture.
It's only a few seconds of interaction, but enough to show the dynamic between them. The prowler is the protector, of course. Fierce and vigilant, a sentinel in the night. He defers to the blue-eyed Omega, though. It's obvious in the slump of his shoulder, the way he plops down on his ass with a huff.
They both look toward Bucky at the same time, and a thousand things are said in the silence between them.
Please don't hurt us, the blue-eyed Omega seems to say.
His companion's glare is more direct: Try to hurt him and I'll claw your eyes out.
After a moment, the prowler dips his chin once. It's barely perceptible, and hardly a nod at all, but Bucky was looking for it and he understands it for what it is.
Carefully, he stands and dusts off his slacks.
"Let's get you two out of there, hm?"
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