Intro
There was no battlefield fiercer than a woman’s wardrobe—doubly so when said woman was a creature of the night. The sun was making its exit over the two-story home, dimming the blacks to a near absolute darkness—not that Crystal would know, since the top floor was scarce on windows.
Eyeshadow palettes lay open across the vanity, their powdery scents mingling with something faintly metallic – the smell of high-end vampire makeup. Fangs bit through dusky lips, and finely cut brows furrowed as she dabbed a beauty blender into something called ‘Murder She Wore,’ smearing it under her eyes like war paint. Her LED-lit mirror flickered, reflecting nothing but her grim disposition (verbally, of course).
“Terrifying,” it flickered.
Crystal didn’t bat an eye; she reached for the ‘Pulseless Pink’ and layered it on with the focus of a mortician prepping an open-casket wake. Let’s crunch some numbers: five brushes, two sponges, a singular cursed scroll (just in case), and lip gloss from Kancell named ‘O Negative.’
Her black and red hair was half-styled, half-defying gravity. A velvet choker, still obeying her last command, floated patiently nearby, a silent, menacing accessory awaiting its final position around her pale neck.
Downstairs, Frosty was in the kitchen, pouring iced tea into a mug that read ‘WORLD’S COLDEST BOYFRIEND.’ A loose light blue hoodie, ice-themed mismatched socks—his whole vibe suggested: a man who’d waited through every outfit change. Twice!
“...So then Mizha hits me with the poison emoji,” he muttered into his comms from the living room. Plumes of frost obscured his PC’s corner, a clear sign it was his setup.
From the other end of the group call, Joe’s voice came clear and unconcerned.
JOETHEHOE: “Bro. You’re not even late yet. Chill.”
Frosty sucked his teeth. “Have you ever tried rushing a vampire through eyeliner? You can’t. Time’s not real up there. Just blood and witchcraft.”
SLIMYBANDIT cackled. “Bro, I’d have left.”
Yusuke-kun joined in. “It’s called patience. Ancient virtue. You could learn from it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Frosty replied, swirling his tea. “You date spreadsheets.”
A dull thump echoed from the upstairs bathroom, followed by a hiss, then the distinct groans of an enchanted zipper in peril. Frosty took another sip of his tea.
JOETHEHOE: “That her trying to get into the dress?”
FROSTY_ID: “That’s Round Three.”
SLIMYBANDIT: “Aye, I’m gonna pray for it. That zipper doesn’t know who it’s messing with.”
JOETHEHOE: “What’s she wearing again?”
FROSTY_ID: “No idea. But I just heard it plead for its life, so I’m gonna check y’all later.”
Frosty sighed softly, then finally clicked off the call.
Beep! [Frosty_ID has left the StreamZone]
He set his mug down and picked up a paperback from the counter, its title emblazoned in shimmering gold letters: Zen and the Art of Wardrobe Maintenance: A Vampire’s Guide to Stress-Free Styling. He flipped it open to a random page, his eyes scanning a paragraph: “Chapter 7: The Perils of Predatory Fabrics. Remember, a garment that bites back is merely expressing its unmet needs for affirmation.” He hummed, adjusting his mismatched socks, lost in thought.
Crystal let out a growl that could have cracked the very mirror she stood before.
“I swear on the unholy night I was reborn in—if this zipper jams one more time, I’m going full cloudkill and dissolving this entire outfit!”
The mirror beeped. “Confirmed: dramatic. Still a baddie.”
That’s all it took for Crystal to flip it off.
Another thump echoed upstairs. Frosty took a longer sip of his tea.
Makeup lay scattered across her vanity like post-battle carnage. Her mirror flickered faintly, cursed to narrate what she couldn’t see (because, well, the whole no-reflection thing). Crystal was halfway into a new red dress—tight, sexy, shimmering like blood on silk. But, erm… it was not cooperating.
She shouted. The zipper halted halfway up her spine, as if actively judging her (which, of course, it was).
“Come on. You fit yesterday,” Crystal murmured to herself, anticipating an interjection from the fabric itself.
DRESS: “Ah, define ‘fit.’”
CRYSTAL: “Spiritually! You fit me spiritually!”
She shimmied, exhaled, and tried again. No luck.
“No. No. No no no,” she whispered, an edge of panic in her voice.
The dress suggested (as it was enchanted), “Perhaps something more forgiving?”
Forgiveness was stretching the dress past its limits as the vampire haphazardly tore it off.
A minute later, the dress (after its lamentable groaning and crying) lay defeated on the bed. Crystal dug through her closet and yanked out a backup ensemble: a velvet crop jacket, corset top, heavy boots, stockings, and a black skirt with silver runes.
“All things considered, you look nightmarish~.” Her mirror beeped, glowing violet.
“Thank you, but I’d have given Morrigan if a certain enchanted article would cooperate,” Crystal hissed.
She grabbed her bat bag; her mirror flickered, adding, “Darling, you’re fifteen minutes behind schedule.”
“SHUT UP!” Crystal snapped.
Fifteen pages into Zen and the Art of Wardrobe Maintenance, Frosty looked up.
He hadn’t heard her footsteps. He just felt the temperature shift—like the room braced itself.
Crystal stomped down the stairs, equal parts annoyed and bewitching. Her boots hit each step with declaration. Her hair, half-wild, half-perfect. Velvet. Runes. Frustration radiating like electricity.
He didn’t realize he was staring until she hit the bottom step.
His breath flooded in too fast. Cold lungs. Light head. He blinked it off.
“Shaking it up?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“The dress had opinions,” Crystal replied with a huff, adjusting her bag. The weight of it shifted her slightly—she was off-balance, but held it like a weapon.
Frosty chuckled. “I don’t like red anyway; black complements your eyes.”
She turned. “So you didn’t like the dress?”
Frosty opened his mouth. Thought. Closed it. Then settled to reopen it.
“Ah.” He shut the book. “O-oh, look at the time. Runnin’ a tad behi—”
Crystal’s glare cut through the air.
“We’re catastrophically late,” he conceded. “How about I drive, eh?”
“I’m nocturnal. That doesn’t make sense.” She grunted.
Frosty shrugged and stood. “I’ve done enough chillin’ for today. Now, it’s your turn.”
He reached for the keys, but his hand faltered a second—just long enough to admit (not aloud) that he’d never quite adjusted to moments like this. She was beautiful every day. But sometimes, when she was annoyed, flustered, fierce—she was adorable.
Crystal brushed past him, smelling like woodsmoke and clove. As she passed, he reached out—gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
She glanced up. Just for a moment.
Then cracked the dimmest of smiles.
