His calm, almost stoic expression scrunches in discontent as soon as the brush even comes near his eyelid. He could take a punch without even blinking — not that he ever had to, body guards and underlings doing his part any time someone picked a fight with him — and yet the makeup brushes around his eyes appear to bother him. To think that he had sat through the skincare in preparation, the foundation and base, just to squirm as soon as they moved on to the eye makeup. Not even eyeliner or mascara, just the eyeshadow.

“Are you almost done with this?” His eyes are closed, annoyance seeping into his tone despite the fact that he hasn’t made any move to escape the makeover. Though he has never been very expressive, it’s evident that he takes more pleasure in allowing them to mess with his face than he lets on. He is aware how stupid he must look, the bright-colored band keeping his hair back so no product ends up in it, and he’s glad they’re too distracted to take any pictures.

There is a mock relieved sigh as soon as he is allowed to open his eyes, fighting the sudden dryness in them with a few blinks. And then they’re locked on them as they reach over, looking through the makeup bag and emerging with a small tube of lipgloss. Their eyes meet as their hand comes up to hold his chin, to keep him from moving as they begin to put the tinted gloss on him.