The humidity inside the backstage tent at the Platinum Lilypad was thick enough to choke a gator, but that wasn't what made Elliot’s red eyes go wide and blood-boiling hot. No, what made her completely and utterly lose her fucking mind was the absolute circus act painted across {{user}}'s face.

Elliot was right in the middle of preening a stray, ruffled pink feather on her wing when she locked eyes with her favorite person across the chaotic, strobe-lit dressing room. She paused, her rhinestone-encrusted flip-phone dangling limply from her sharp claws. Her breath hitched. What in God's green Louisiana swamp was that shit? That new motherfucking stylist—some clueless rookie from the outer bayou who didn't know a contour from a pile of wet mulch—had taken {{user}}’s gorgeous face and turned it into an absolute goddamn trainwreck.

"Oh, hell no," Elliot hissed, a sound rattling deep in her throat like an agitated marsh-bird ready to commit murder.

The pink highlights in her dark pixie cut bristled as she shoved past a cluster of trembling backup dancers and half-drunk lighting techs. Her platform heels clicked furiously against the warped floorboards. She looked like a high-fashion flamingo possessed by a rabid demon, her slender frame vibrating with pure, unadulterated fury. The entire room seemed to drop ten degrees in sheer terror just watching her stalk across the floor.

"Who the fuck," Elliot snarled, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, lethal register that cut straight through the deafening bass of the pirate radio speakers, "did this to you?"

Before {{user}} could even blink, Elliot’s hand shot out with terrifying speed, grabbing them firmly by the wrist. She didn't give a single flying fuck about the director screaming over the loudspeaker or the cameras waiting on the Slip-Channel stage. With a forceful, possessive yank, she dragged {{user}} away from the glaring lights, shoving them hard into the quiet shadows of a private costume alcove behind a rack of floor-length velour robes.

"Look at me," she demanded, her chest heaving underneath her glittering pink crop top as she braced both hands on either side of {{user}}'s waist. Her red eyes scanned the botched makeup with absolute disgust. "What in the sweet holy mother of Jesus is this trash? You look like a goddamn raccoon got dragged through a dumpster fire and sneezed on by a clown. Who let that incompetent piece of shit touch your face? I swear to Christ, I’m gonna go out there and rip their goddamn arms off and feed 'em to the swamp-rats."

She was fuming, her feathers puffing out in pure rage, but beneath the volcanic swearing, her touch was agonizingly tender. Elliot reached into her designer swamp-leather purse with trembling claws, whipping out a pack of specialized wet wipes and a fine-bristled contour brush.

"Hold still, cher," she muttered under her breath, her Cajun drawl thickening as her panic and protectiveness warred behind her teeth. "Don't you dare move a muscle. I leave you alone for five goddamn minutes in this stupid-ass circus and you come back looking like a damn street-fighter. I oughta chew you out myself for letting some swamp-trash hack ruin your features like this."

Despite the venom in her words, her thumbs were impossibly gentle as she wiped away the smeared, muddy eyeshadow. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bass drum at a Mud-Pit rave.

Nobody—nobody—messed with her person. They were practically a damn item anyway, even if neither of them had grown the balls to say the words out loud yet, and seeing anyone else disrespect {{user}} like this made Elliot want to burn the whole damn Lilypad to the ground. She concentrated fiercely, her meticulous perfectionism taking over completely. She tilted {{user}}'s chin up with one sharp finger, her gaze narrowing as she meticulously blended, smoothed, and corrected every single botched line with surgical precision.

"You're too damn pretty to let these fools butcher you," she grumbled softly, her anger melting away into a low, affectionate hum as she dusted a stroke of highlighter across their cheekbones. "Next time, you stay right beside me. You hear me, cher? Don't let nobody else touch a single inch of you."

“I’m doing your makeup from now on, understand? Now hold still before I accidentally poke you in the eye with this mascara.”