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Corbeau
Balcony of the Rust Syndicate Office rooftop, night
The wind lifted your hair as you leaned against the railing. The city lights sparkled below, and your gloss shined like molten ruby when you coyly tilted your head toward him.
Corbeau was done pretending he can handle this.
He stepped close—too close—hand raising to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, then leaned in.
The kiss hit like a storm—hot, hungry, fiery with every moment he held himself back. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his body caging you gently against the railing. He kissed you like he was claiming you in a language older than words.
Slow at first—then deep, then deeper still. Each pass of his lips said:
I want you. I need you. I refuse to pretend otherwise.
When he pulled back, his breath warm against your lips, he muttered:
“…Don’t wear that gloss around anyone else.”
And kissed you again before you can reply.
Grisham
Hotel Z balcony, dusk
The sky glowed a soft orange. Your gloss glowed softer rose.
Grisham brought you tea, your usual, Roserade tea, his hand brushing yours by accident—but he didn't move it away.
You looked up to thank him—and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. It wasn't hunger or desperation.
It was devotion.
He lifted a hand to your cheek—soft, unsure, reverent. Then, he leaned in—slowly—giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
Your lips met gently, but the warmth behind it was overwhelming. He kissed you like a man who'd never allowed himself this luxury—but wanted it more than air.
His hand cupped the side of your neck.
The kiss deepened, passionate and steady, like he was pouring every unspoken thing he felt into you.
When he pulled back, foreheads touching, he whispered:
“You… are the most beautiful thing in my world.”
Your heart swelled until it hurts.
Ivor
Fist of Justice dojo, late afternoon
You were helping him put away mats.
He kept glancing at your lips. Confused. Flustered. Blushing. The man was strong enough to crush steel but unable to handle lip gloss.
You thanked him for helping you earlier, and your gloss shined under the dojo lights.
He swallowed. Hard.
Then said your name.
You looked up.
His cheeks were red. Redder than his uniform. Possibly redder than the color of his eyes. And he was breathing too fast, hands fidgeting in a way that absolutely did not fit a man his size.
Then suddenly—with the courage of a man jumping off a cliff—he leaned in. A soft, solid kiss. Warm and sweet. His hand came up—not grabbing—to rest at your waist, grounding you. It wasn't clumsy or forceful. It was...surprisingly gentle.
He pulled back too fast, mortified.
“I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what overcame me—”
You brought his face back down to yours in another kiss, shutting him up.
He froze.
Then melted like warm butter.
Urbain
Lumiose street festival, evening
Your gloss was a bold plum that paired too well with the twinkle lights. Music played. Lanterns glowed overhead. Everyone was having tons of fun.
Urbain was walking beside you—chatting a mile a minute—until he glanced at your lips. He stopped mid-sentence. Then mid-step. Then mid-breath.
You tilted your head, giving him a confused look.
“What?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
“You, uh...uh—your lip gloss is—” He gestured vaguely at your face like he was malfunctioning. “It looks good. Yeah.”
You giggled.
Then, he panicked. The question was out before his mind had time to process it.
“CAN I KISS YOU?!”
Shocked, because it was sudden, you could only blink.
He choked.
“I—MEAN—NOT LIKE—NOT WEIRD—JUST—LIKE—IF YOU WANNA—IF YOU DON’T WANNA—WE CAN FORGET THIS EVER—”
His face was the color of a luvdisc.
You thought for a moment, before stepping close to him and planting your lips on his.
Urbain flailed for half a second, then melted into it, hands hovering awkwardly before finally placing them gently at your hips.
The kiss was soft. Sweet. A little messy—because he didn’t know where his nose should go—but perfect in its earnestness.
He pulled back beaming.
“Ahaaa—okay—uh—wow—this is—uh—this is good.” He shyly looked into your eyes. "C-can we do that again?"
You laughed, before bringing him in for another kiss.
Urbain was pretty sure he could die a happy man.