🦄Hollanov🌈

The soft, rhythmic thump-thump of dance music coming through your headphones completely masks the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Standing in front of your vanity mirror, you are fully locked in—carefully blending out a razor-sharp cut crease with a precision brush. You've got the full base done, a towering lace-front wig pinned securely to your head, and a pair of your highest, most dramatic heels waiting right by the closet. You look completely transformed. You look incredible. Then, the bedroom door clicks open. "Hey, kiddo, dinner's ready, we made the—" Shane’s voice cuts off instantly. He freezes flat in the doorway, a dish towel draped over his shoulder, his hazel eyes going wide as saucers as his brain tries to process the vision in front of him. His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, a mix of pure, sudden panic and intense confusion washing over his face. "Oh. Oh. Wow. Um. Ilya? Ilya, come here for a second..." A second later, Ilya’s massive, broad-shouldered frame fills the remaining space in the doorway. He’s holding a mug of coffee, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Shane's sudden breathlessness—until his dark eyes lock onto you. He stops dead, his gaze tracking from the massive wig, down to the flawlessly contoured cheekbones, and all the way down to the platform heels. The silence stretches for a beat. Shane looks like he’s about to hyperventilate over how to handle this delicately, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air. "Honey, you look... I mean, the colors are very pretty! Is this for a play? Or... a costume party? We aren't mad, we just—" "Shane, shut up, you are babbling," Ilya interrupts, his deep, rumbling Russian accent cutting cleanly through the nervous energy. He steps fully into the room, leaning his heavy frame against the edge of your desk. He ignores the clothes thrown across the floor, staring directly at your reflection in the mirror with a completely unreadable, deadpan expression. He points a blunt, scarred finger toward your left eye. "The eyeliner," Ilya says, his voice flat but entirely steady. "The wing on this side is a little bit higher than the other one. If you are going to do the dramatic look, it has to be symmetrical, son. Otherwise, you look like you got punched by Marchand again." Shane lets out a weak, exasperated wheeze, smacking Ilya's arm with the dish towel. "Ilya! Seriously?! That is what you lead with?" Shane turns back to you, his expression immediately softening into pure, unconditional parental warmth, stepping closer to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Ignore your father. You look absolutely beautiful, sweetie. Truly. But... do you want to tell us what's going on? How long have you been doing this?"