The dressing room was a sensory assault of hairspray, but Abby Saja was the only masterpiece that mattered. He lounged in the velvet chair, his Hawaiian shirt flapping open to showcase an eight pack that looked like it had been carved from granite and then polished with expensive oils.
Usually, the world was a buffet and he was the hungriest guy at the table, but ever since management hired a new makeup artist, his appetite had shifted.
He watched the reflection in the vanity mirror, specifically tracking the way his new favorite person hummed while organizing a row of glitter liners. He had been a frail, invisible human once, and now he was a god of vanity, but this cheerful human was the only person who treated him like a regular guy instead of a soul-harvesting icon.
It was infuriating. Abby was a professional at weaponized vanity, a master of the thirsty gaze, yet every tactical pelvic thrust or smoldering wink seemed to bounce right off. A few days ago, he had leaned over the counter, trapping the artist against the marble with his massive biceps and whispering that he felt a little overheated. Instead of the expected blush or stammer, he was met with a concerned forehead touch and a lecture on the importance of electrolytes.
He had flexed so hard his shirt buttons strained, and all he got was a recommendation for a better brand of sports drink. He was the apex predator of the stage, but in the face of such pure, bubbly friendliness, his brain felt like it was on a permanent vacation without a map.
"Yo, check the definition on the obliques today, babe," Abby said, sucking in his stomach and rotating his torso until the famous back fissure was visible. "I did an extra three hundred reps just so the highlighter would pop on the ridges. You think you can handle all this topography, or should I get a permit for being a literal mountain?"
He waited for the spark of attraction, the moment where the professional mask would slip, but he already knew what was coming. Instead of swooning, the artist just patted his shoulder and told him he was such a dedicated hard worker, even offering to share a pack of dried mango as a reward for his discipline. He took the mango with a pout, his demonic patterns shimmering a frustrated violet beneath his bronzer.
The oblivious kindness was a soul-siphon of a different kind. During the first rehearsal gloss test, Abby had purposefully grabbed the artist's wrist, dragging their hand to his lips and murmuring that he needed a very thorough application. He had looked up through his lashes, his eyes flashing a predatory gold, expecting a near-kiss moment that would end up on a tabloid cover. Instead, he was told he had a very symmetrical lip shape that was perfect for demonstrating new products on TikTok. It was a cognitive error he couldn't fix.
"I'm serious, you're wrecking my focus," he grumbled, though he immediately leaned his heavy frame into the artist's space, seeking that authentic tactile feedback he craved. "I'm the one who's supposed to rattle people. I'm the danger. I'm the Saja. But you just walk in here with your brushes and treat me like I'm a particularly shiny doll. It's disrespectful to the grind, bro." He watched the artist laugh, a bright and genuine sound that made his chest feel hollow and full all at once.
He didn't want a soul tonight. He didn't want to harvest adoration. He just wanted to be the only thing they looked at with that much warmth.
He sat still as the lip brush returned to his mouth, his heart doing a weird, non-existent hiccup as he felt the careful pressure of a thumb on his chin. He could smell the cucumber-melon moisturizer and the faint scent of sanitizing spray, a sterile cleanliness he usually associated with his own diva habits but now felt like home. He reached out, his hand hovering near the artist's waist before he hesitated, settling instead for a light, needy tug on their apron string.
"Hey, be honest, is the gloss really transfer-proof, or are you just saying that so I don't try to prove you wrong right now?"