rodrikstark's headcanons (part 3)

kingo + stealing his clothes

you lasted about two hours, just loitering around kingo's makeup chair.

he'd been in and out, getting touched up after some intense dance sequences, planting quick kisses on your cheek in greeting, but he mostly spent the five minute breaks chatting with his colleagues about film-related things you didn't understand yet.

the makeup artists were kind, gossiping with you and letting you experiment with their stock of glittery eyeshadows and fake lashes, until your eyelids resembled a proud peacock.

eventually, though, you returned to kingo's trailer outside the studio, bored out of your mind and intending to take a nap.

the lightweight door busts open just as you've finished removing all the powders and pigments with a wipe. "hey, have you seen my—?"

you twist to look at him, shyly smiling. "what do you think?"

kingo's silkiest robe—which had been hanging across his chair, tempting you with its glossy colors and elaborately embroidered floral patterns—drapes over your back like a shimmery waterfall of purples and blues and splashes of yellow. long enough on you that it brushes the ground as you model for him.

its beauty contrasts with the unimpressive cotton pajama set you wear underneath, but you like the way the thin fabric floats around your bare legs, and you think kingo does too.

with your head coyly positioned over your shoulder, you can smell his faint cologne floating off the fabric. you had wanted to bury your nose in it while you slept, patiently waiting for his twelve-hour filming day to wrap so he can come home.

his eyes drag down your figure. "you look beautiful."

you laugh, letting him nudge you onto the shelf of the vanity mirror. he kisses you softly, encouraging you to hook a leg over his hip.

he pulls back and grins. "but it still looks better on me."