Request (gothic lxlita gets the filter triggered 4 some reason???)
You always liked dressing a little over the top. Okay — a lot over the top. Lace, ribbons, exaggerated silhouettes. The more dramatic, the better. Compared to the grungy, casually-tattered looks some people wore like armor, your outfits walked straight out of a fashion magazine nobody dared to publish.
It made people talk. And honestly, you didn’t mind. You liked making heads turn — whether in admiration, confusion, or disgust. To you, style wasn’t just about clothes; it was a declaration.
“Shut the fuck up, emo.”
You didn’t even look up from your makeup brush. “It’s actually—”
“GO FUCK YOURSELF.”
Typical 1x.
You rolled your eyes. There she was, arms crossed, posture aggressively disinterested and upset like you’d just insulted her dog. Or maybe it was the plaid.
"..So what is this supposed to be?" she scoffed, eyeing your outfit like it was a crime scene.
"Goff-leek-low-lee-ta? Seriously?"
You blinked, pausing mid-swipe of highlighter. "It's gothic lxlita, idiot."
“Whatever it is, I hate it.”
You smiled — the kind of smile that spelled trouble for her and a good time for you. “You won’t in a minute.”
“What?”
She didn’t have time to protest again. You were already behind her, yanking the sleeves of the black-and-green plaid monstrosity you had prepared days in advance. You had spotted the fabric in a shop window and thought of her immediately — not because she’d like it, but because she’d hate it in a way that would make her perfect in it. The sharp edges of her personality paired too well with the stiff lace and ruffled trim. Her messy, jagged hair only enhanced the chaos of the look.
She flailed. She screamed insults that would’ve made your grandmother combust. But you were relentless. Wresting each piece of the outfit onto her was like trying to dress a blender mid-spin. At one point, she bit you. You bit her back.
In the end, you emerged victorious.
She stood there, stiff as a statue, green tartan skirt flaring out like it had a grudge. Her expression was unreadable — jaw locked, brow low, one eye half-lidded in visible defeat.
“I look awful,” she grumbled, arms folded so tightly across her chest it looked like she was trying to disappear into her own ribs.
You circled her like an art critic. “No,” you said thoughtfully, with the weight of someone delivering judgment from on high. “You look wonderful.”
She squinted at herself in the mirror, then looked back at you. “What kind of sick freak makes this many layers a personality?”
"Me."
There was silence. A long, sour silence. Her eye twitched. She tugged at the skirt. She swayed — slightly — as if testing the way it moved. The frills fluttered. You swore you saw her smirk for half a second before crushing it back into a scowl.
“You’ll get used to it,” you said dryly. “Give it five minutes. Maybe less."