Author's Note and content warning: This story explores sexism in many forms, one of which is a discussion of and reference to sexual assault and rape culture.
The matte lipstick makes her lips look bruised, Cana notices, gazing at her reflection. She purses her lips, turning her head. She likes how perfectly the deep color outlines her mouth, how she looks delicate as a doll until she raises her head and locks flashing eyes with herself in the mirror.
I would make a horrible doll. Dolls don't speak, or swear, or drink. She briefly imagines trading her voice for the blank perfection and posed grace of a porcelain girl. It repulses her, leaves her cold and small inside, as she imagines never voicing her opinions and never being heard. She's tried to live in that silence before; she's drowned in that silence before, suffocated under that silence before.
She's already tried being a doll, living under a flawless pale glass front for years— a perfect girl, with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect life. But she'd realized soon enough hat sometimes the most perfect things are also the most broken.
So much of it had stemmed from her media consumption, she'd noticed. The magazines had sworn that dark and mysterious worked better than boisterous and vivacious. The lacrima-vision had promised that sweet and submissive aroused more than assertive power. The sensual books Erza coveted featured heroines who waited for their princes to save them from towers and dragons. Why would she have thought to disagree with these media "experts?" She'd been so focused on maintaining her own doll-like perfection that she'd forgotten to ever question the maker of the porcelain.
Dolls don't live, she muses now. They simply exist.
Cana raises an eyebrow at herself, shaking heavy dark waves out of her face. "Oye, Lucy. Keep lipstick or no?" She winces away from the matte red because it reminds her of the doll's rosebud mouth; she embraces the bold hue because when she looks at herself in the mirror, she sees her sparking eyes and her devilish grin and offers up a big "Fuck you" to the expectation of perfection.
"Hmm?" Next to her, Lucy looks up from the mirror, still holding a mascara wand tentatively in one hand. "What?"
"Lipstick. Yes or no?" Cana blows a kiss at the blonde. It fizzles against her lips like champagne, sweet and bubbly.
Lucy taps a finger against her mouth thoughtfully. "Are you going to be kissing anyone later?"
Cana grins. "Do you know me?"
Lucy scoffs, returning to her own makeup, smirking at her friend's antics. "Of course you are. Keep the lipstick; take it off if you end up hooking up with someone."
The brunette giggles, dipping a thick-lashed indigo eye in a seductive wink. "I think I'll leave it on— make it my stamp of approval."
"Cana!"
She throws back her head and laughs, enamored by the freedom she can express with her sexuality. It makes her feel comfortable, allows her to take back some of the power she sometimes feels she just can't goddamn hold. "Relax, Luce. I'm kidding. Mostly."
"You better be." The blonde's cheeks glow red. She's so easily embarrassed. I can't ever believe I was once that naive.
That's the thing about life— naivety tends to die a quick, painful death.
Shaking away her distracting thoughts, Cana turns her attention back to her mirror, carefully lining her eyes with smoky dark shadow. "I hope Dreyar shows up tonight. I'd like to mark him with a stamp of approval." Her tone hangs heavy with a winking sensuality, sending scarlet shooting across Lucy's face again.
Earlier that evening, their friend Zancrow had sent out a widespread message inviting people to his house for a party after the homecoming football game. Natsu, excited to party with one of his best friends, had insisted that Lucy come, and, never one to miss out on free alcohol, Cana had decided to make an appearance as well. Part of her desire to come stemmed from her pleasure surrounding Lucy's newly-christened party-girl-persona; another large portion came in the form of the school's resident rocker, Laxus Dreyar. They'd hooked up at previous parties, staggering and laughing under the glow of alcohol, and she couldn't help but look forward to receiving more of his lightning-bright kisses.
Lucy's voice breaks into Cana's thoughts as she turns to her and spreads out her arms. "So? What do you think?"
Cana appraises the blonde. Her short, figure-hugging green dress outlines the curve of her waist, long legs outlined in ripped black tights, while the bangs pulled back in her signature ponytail make her look innocently tempting. The thick mascara turns her eyes large and limpid. "I mean, I'd fuck you."
Lucy flushes red over her cheeks and collarbones. "Thanks, I think?"
"What about me?" Cana stands and gestures to her own get-up—sheer black tights, clingy red dress, black ankle boots, bangles shining against both wrists. The smoky, lined eyes and tousled hair lend her a rumpled sensuality.
"You look fine, I guess," Lucy offers with a small smile, then frowns. "Fuck, Cana, no one's even going to look at me when you're there. You're so gorgeous."
The brunette scowls. "Hell no, Lucy, don't you even. You're cute as hell. They'll be idiots if they don't notice."
Lucy laughs nervously, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "It's been four years and no one's noticed. So I really don't think that much is going to change."
Don't tie your self-esteem to the attention of a guy! Cana bites her lip and turns away, irritation seething in her chest. She and Lucy have fought countless times over Lucy's brutal insecurity and low self-esteem, and it makes her want to scream when Lucy relegates her entire worth to just being a recipient of male attention. But she's so tired of arguing with Lucy, so tired of trying to fight through years of media brainwashing that tell Lucy she's only as special as a guy told her she is, that she just lets it slide. She's dealt with enough of her own shit. She doesn't want to get into it now with Lucy.
Once Cana realized she didn't want to be a doll, she'd shattered that porcelain perfection with a combination of combat boots, enthusiastic alcohol consumption, and a deep disregard for any concept of "virginity." Now she watches Lucy stumble into the same crisis, experience the same anxieties and the same insecurities about who she is; she understands that Lucy still hasn't realized who she wants and needs to be. At some point though, Lucy alone needs to fight to understand that she doesn't need to meet anyone else's expectations— but all Cana can do is support Lucy through that struggle.
She settles for saying, "You're eighteen years old, Luce. You have literally decades ahead of you. Don't write it off as 'nothing is going to change.'"
Lucy laughs, tone edged with icy anxiety. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I can't be forever alone forever, right?" The right hangs in between them, reaching for something that's never there. It stings like a fresh wound.
"Right!" Trying to pull Lucy from her insecurity, Cana grins and reaches for her feathered bag, lifting a full bottle of spiced rum from the largest pocket. "Now that we're looking hot as fuck, how do you feel about a little pregaming?"
Lucy smirks evilly. "You read my mind."