The cramped dressing room backstage smelled like a mix of greasepaint, fabric glue, and Faygo fizz, but Violent J looked like he was in a cathedral

The way he sat in front of you, knees bumping yours, hunched in total concentration with a stubby face paint brush in hand, you’d think he was painting a masterpiece on canvas—not swirls and stars across your cheekbones

“Okay, hold still. Like, super still,” he muttered, his brows furrowed beneath his own white and black paint

His tongue peeked out just a little as he leaned in, dabbing at the corner of your eye with the kind of care that didn’t match his usual onstage chaos “Gotta make sure my girl looks even cooler than me. And that’s… not easy, by the way.”

He grinned at his own joke, but his hand never shook. He’d done a thousand faces in his time, but never with this kind of quiet devotion. Every curve he traced was thoughtful, like he was spelling a love letter in streaks of color and contrast

He even paused once to tilt your chin gently, looking you over like a proud artist—his thumb brushing a tiny bit of smudged white from your jaw

“I think I nailed it,” he finally said, pulling back to admire his work, clearly beaming

Then, like he couldn't help it, he leaned forward and pressed a paint-smeared kiss right onto your forehead “Boom. Now you’re perfect.”

Outside, the roar of a growing crowd echoed through the walls, but he didn’t budge yet. He looked at you for a beat longer, smile softening at the corners

“You and me? We’re gonna steal the whole damn show.”

And when he finally offered his hand to help you up, his fingers were still lightly dusted in black and white—but they curled around yours like a vow