#dolce shimmer
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Dunno why the last time I drew Dolce was months ago given im super super in love with her design and lore I have for her
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ok you totally don't have to do it butttttttttttt like could we get a spare gavi spending eid w/ the reader's family for your muslim readers 👀
It would be so islamaphobic if I didn’t do this (reader is an Arabic speaker. If you don’t speak Arabic, pretend that the Arabic is whatever language you want!)
~~~
Drip Too Hard
“Pablo I’m almost ready I just need to- what are you wearing?”
Pablo fought back the urge to laugh at the look of shock-horror on your face. It didn’t seem like the appropriate time. His eyes scanned your figure, wrapped in a beautiful blue dress. The skirt and sleeves were embroidered in gold thread, weaving elaborate floral patterns that cascaded and shimmers across your body. Delicate glass beads reflected the light, throwing fractals around the room. Layers of jewelry hung delicately from your neck and wrists, chiming with every one of your movements. He was used to your face done up, but your hair flowing and the precise black lines framing your face made you a different type of captivating. You looked simply stunning. He peered down at his own attire, suddenly feeling horribly underdressed. His short sleeve shirt and khakis, despite being rather pricey, gave the impression that he was off to a beach volleyball tournament, while you looked ready to grace a runway or gala.
“…clothes? I didn’t know this was a formal event. I thought we were just going to go have brunch with your parents.”
“Right but it’s Eid brunch. Why are you in shorts??”
“Why does this brunch need us to dress like we’re going to a ball?”
Your eyes were wide as saucers, jaw on the floor. You know Gavi hadn’t been around the culture and religion for that long, but you couldn’t process this level of unawareness to his surroundings. You had dragged him across Barcelona to different markets to get fabric and beads for your dress, taking swatches to perfectly match your heels, and even asking him to bring you a specific pendant from his trip to Ibiza. You thought he might sense that the occasion called for something more formal than khaki shorts.
“Come here, Pablito.”
You said, sitting on your couch and beckoning him over. He froze in his spot a moment, realizing he was about to face a potential scolding. He walked slowly and sat beside you, careful not to crush the luxurious fabric you were wrapped in. You turned your phone screen to him, showing him a glamorous photo. Three young men, all around your age, in different colored suits. All of them brandished designer belts with large buckles, the leather matching that of their dress shoes. Three wrists displayed three gleaming watches, all embossed with a crown. Next to them, a girl stood in a beautifully embroidered dress, the glittering fabric reflecting the sunlight. The deep purple of the garment was reflected in her intricate eye makeup, and the red bottoms of her heels peaked through the drapery.
“These, Pablo, are my cousins. This is what they wore to Eid brunch with the family last year and they were called underdressed because one of them didn’t have a suit jacket. Eid is the Muslim Met Gala, and I will not be on the worst dressed list by association. Please tell me you have something else to wear.”
Gavi brought his hands to his temples, rubbing them to soothe the oncoming headache from all the information.
“Amie Paris always sends me stuff and I haven’t opened most of it. Oh and Dolce & Gabbana. You can look through and pick an outfit for me.” He suggested, watching your eyes light up and a smile erupt across your face. You tugged his wrist, encouraging him to follow you in. For the next 20 minutes, you treated him like your own personal Ken doll, dressing him up in different luxurious clothing.
You took a step back to admire your artistry. On his chest rested a crisp blue Amie dress shirt, tucked into the pants of a stunningly tailored D&G suit, hugging every muscle in an elegant and yet drool inducing manner. A black Hermes belt sat low on his hips, matching the black leather dress shoes you had forced him into (“Pablo it’s a formal event put the Dunks away!”). Matching Hermes cuff links clinked softly against the platinum Rolex on his wrist. He pushed his hair back and put on his favorite sunglasses.
“Good enough for the Eid instagram picture?” He asked, smirking as he saw you look at him like he was ambrosia from the heavens above.
“Mhm, almost too good. Let’s go before my parents get suspicious as to why we’re late.”
~
Pulling up to your parents house, Pablo parked behind the six or seven other cars by the property. The gorgeous weather had brought the Eid festivities outside, and Gavi couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of it all. Tables in white and gold cloths held serving trays piled high with sweet and savory delicacies. Every utensil, from the plates to the silverware, was embellished with gold patterns, forming the shapes of stars and crescent moons. Your entire family was spread across the lawn: parents in the middle conversing with aunts and uncles while sipping on cold juices, and cousins ages 3 to 33 were spread about, running and laughing and of course taking photos.
“While I’m incredibly grateful that you made me change, I still feel a little out of place. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do on Eid.” He said, keeping himself at a respectable religious distance. You giggled softly before grabbing his hand, lancing your fingers between his clammy ones. “You just celebrate. Like Christmas. We’ll say hi to my parents, then we can mingle and do whatever we want until they serve the food.”
“Okay okay, one last question.”
“Yes, pablito?”
“What is that creature on the table?”
You turned around to follow Gavi’s line of sight, a loud laugh releasing itself from your throat before you could contain it. You tried to stifle it quickly as the redness creeped onto Gavi’s cheeks. You didn’t want to embarrass him.
“That’s a roasted lamb, amor. I know it looks a little strange to see a whole one on a tray like that, but it’s tradition. They might ask you to eat the head.”
“What??”
Before you could answer and quell Pablo’s fear, your mother called you over.
"حبيبتي، شو المضحك لهذه الدرجة؟ صوتك كثير عالي"
(Love, what’s so funny? You’re laughing very loudly)
Walking over, you kissed your mother on the cheek three times, hugging her close and wishing her a blessed Eid.
"ولا شيء مهم، ماما. كان خطيبي بس خايف من شكال الخاروف "
(Nothing important, mama. My fiancé was just scared by the lamb)
Pablo followed you over after a moment, shaking your father’s hand and kissing your mother on the cheeks. He thanked them for allowing him to be a part of their celebration, and your mother hugged him once again, reminding him that he was like family.
After small talk with your parents, you and Pablo moved around the function, greeting and chatting with various cousins. You laughed and talked loudly, continuing carefree. You loved watching Gavi interact with your family, culture, and religion. About 30 minutes after your arrival, you felt a tap on your shoulder.
“We’re going to take instagram pictures now, and we were wondering: can we steal your man to be in them with us?” You stated in shock at your cousins, who often payed you and your doings no mind. “Why him?” You asked, amused by how shy they seemed, like children asking if their friend could come play. “Because he���s dripping hard. Plus if we tag him we could get mad amounts of girls in our DMs.” Have to appreciate that honesty.
Gavi agreed to the photos, and stood with your male cousins to take some hot and only slightly cringey photos in front of all the expensive cars people drive to the function. Afterwards, Pablo handed his phone to your cousin, asking for pictures of the two of you.
“We have to get some together princesa. I wouldn’t look this fine without your help.”
Walking over, you wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek, eliciting vomit sounds from your family. “You’re pretty fine looking all on your own. Thank you, by the way, for coming with me.”
“Of course. There’s no one I’d rather spend my time with, habibti.” (My love)
Needless to say, that one phrase is what created the best photo. You were looking over your shoulder with sheer joy on your face, eyes meeting those of an excited and lovesick Pablo. He was your biggest blessing.
~~~~
Based on my real eid fit and how serious eid insta photos actually are. Also, Eid is 3 days, so this is y’all’s eid gift from meeeee!! Hope y’all enjoy this one 🥰 love u guys xoxo, boot w another migraine !!!
#gavisuntiedboot#pablo gavi x reader#pablo gavi#pablo gavi imagine#gavi x reader#gavi#gavi x you#fc barca#gavi imagine#pablo gavi fanfiction#pablo gavi fanfic#gavi fluff#gavi fanfic#gavi fic#pablo gavi fluff#pablo martín páez gavira#pablo gavi x y/n#gavi x yn
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molly gunn!
sunshine, glass half full sweetheart molly gunn is who i want to be when i grow up! i just know that sweet girl has all type of eclectic fragrances for what's she's feeling like that day but for sure most are sweet, floral and bright! i love her sm - miss u brittany! 💜
☀️ Demeter Fragrance Apple Pie (if you look really close at her vanity you can see a bottle of Demeter perfume in the back!) 🍏🌸🥧
☀️Jo Malone London Peony & Blush Suede
☀️ Hermès Un Jardin Sur Le Toit
☀️ Gale Hayman Delicious Cotton Candy
☀️ Britney Spears Rainbow Fantasy
☀️ Byredo Sundazed
☀️ Donna Karan DKNY Be Delicious
☀️ Something Sweet - smells like rainbow sherbet!
☀️ Joop! All About Eve
☀️ Lush Snow Fairy
☀️ O Boticário Egeo Dolce
☀️ Lanvin Modern Princess
☀️ Carolina Herrera 212 Sexy
☀️ Nina Ricci Nina
☀️ Demeter Fragrance Sour AppleLollipop
☀️ Ralph Lauren Ralph Love
☀️ Mugler Angel Eau de Toilette (2019)
☀️ Givenchy Absolutely Givenchy
bonus! i did some research (re-watched uptowngirls lol!) and saw her vanity and found her little products so cute so i will list them here as well in case you really want to delve into the molly vibe!
💜 Kérastase Volumintense hair conditioner
💜 giant jar of Crème de la Mer
💜 a MAC compact (could be powder or blush!)
💜 MAC lipstick - (a close match! modesty C)
💜 BeneFit Flamingo Fancy shimmering body highlighter (sadly discontinued but here are some close matches! refy gloss for the face that suit all complexions! and 1. 2.)
💜 a MAC nail polish (I found some colors close to the one on her dresser! 1. 2. 3. )
#gardengirl'sperfumshoppe!⋆₊ ⊹#pilar'sperfume⋆₊ ⊹#perfume#just girly things#girlblogging#perfume review#perfume recommendations#coquette#fairycore#disney princess#dolly#soft#pink#gardengirl222#gaslight gatekeep girlboss#femcel#this is a girlblog#sweet lolita#cupcakes#y2k aesthetic#y2k#y2kcore#early 2000s#uptown girls#brittany murphy#molly gunn
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Satan Wears Burberry
Satan Wears Burberry
Modern Jacques Le Gris x Reader
Word Count: 8.1k
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Humor. Romance. Enemies to Lovers. Fur.
AO3 Link
Author’s Note: For a Valentine's Day special, and as a gift for the lovely and wonderfully talented @kyloremus , here is a fun bitchy Fashion AU inspired by Cruella DeVille and The Devil Wears Prada! This is only the intro, if it is well received, I'll do more with it. There’s not even any murder or mayhem! What’s wrong with me?
Fashion is a viciously cutthroat industry where appearance and manipulation often win over sincerity and benevolence. Weapons of choice are razored nails, deadly heels, and backstabbing smiles. Everyone who is anyone and all the someones aspiring to be something in the fashion industry know there is no event more seminal than Paris Fashion Week. Statuesque models strutting runways, aggressive designers gauging their competition, and hawkish agents scouting new talent can all be found amid the crowds and press.
As the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine, your front row seat at every event was reserved. This season, Annees Folles had even surpassed Vogue in sales and influence. Before anything became fashion, it had to receive your stamp of approval and be featured in the pages of your magazine. Brands rose and fell pursuant to your approval or condemnation just like a gladiator’s life dependent upon the tilt of an emperor’s thumb. Among the other more illustrious attendees, were the heads of the most preeminent fashion lines in the world, the CEOs and moguls whose names had forged the foundation of modern fashion.
La Maison Gris, a relatively new brand from an old and noble French family, had made a meteoric rise to the very summit of the industry. Helmed by its formidable and charismatic CEO, Jacques Le Gris, La Maison Gris had firmly secured a position high among the most distinguished names in fashion. Le Gris had fast become synonymous with Chanel, Versace, Lagerfeld, Gucci, Valentino, Tom Ford, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana. Aided in his ascension by his calculating mind, his almost irresistible charm, his devilish good looks and imposing size, Jacques had steamrolled his competition like a tank over protestors.
Jacques Le Gris always dressed to the nines and was dashingly groomed and coiffed, his image immaculately maintained. From a finely tailored bespoke suit that flattered his impressive and athletic 6’4” physique, enhancing the breadth of his great shoulders and the taper of his fit waist, to a simple signet ring bearing his century’s old family crest that drew attention to his enormous hands, he used fashion to emphasize his towering size and noble bearing. He wore a neatly trimmed van dyke, and his thick black hair down to his shoulders. An intentional streak of silver shot through his glossy ebony mane like the milky way shimmering across the night sky, giving him the regal air of a melanistic lion. He was dressed now in pieces from his own line, a charcoal suit with a chic glen plaid pattern, black shirt, unbuttoned down two buttons from his throat, and a black overcoat with a subtle flair of silver Persian lamb around the collar.
Notably broader without exception than everyone in attendance and standing a head taller than most, save for the willowy models, some of whom hoovered near his airspace when in heels, Jacques cut an impressive and unmistakable figure where he stood next to the runway in the dimly lit audience. The room was filled to capacity with the crème de la crème of fashion, interspersed with the journalists and photographers who would relay their chosen highlights to the public. While he waited for the show to begin and the first model to strut down the runway, Jacques discussed his line with anyone who would listen, showcasing his renowned affability. He was cordial where others were aloof, a trait that had helped spur his rise to the top.
Jacques was confident that his spring line that was to be revealed at this show would impress all those in attendance, but still, it never hurt to grease the wheels with a few dashing smiles. He could charm almost anyone into submission, a talent that cut across many different lines of social interaction. Only one major player had remained staunchly immune from his allure, and she unfortunately wielded one of the most important opinions. In fact, it was as though the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine took pride, a morbid relish even, in eviscerating the designs of La Maison Gris. With each scathing article, La Maison Gris and its profits took a hit and took months to reclimb the ladder from several rungs below. To say Jacques was ruffled by it was an understatement, he was mad as hell. He had yet to meet the woman in person, which he assured himself was the reason he had so far been unable to exert the full magnitude of his charm and magnetism.
The lights dimmed and the music picked up tempo, indicating the show would soon be starting. Jacques was focused on the runway, and didn’t see you approach and squeeze in beside him for a place at the head of the runway. The room was packed as tightly as a nightclub, but filled with an exponentially more beautiful crowd. Jacques recognized you with a visible start, his affable manner momentarily dampened with worry, fear even, at being in the presence of the one woman with the power to unseat him from his high horse. The pen was indeed mightier than the sword when it was you who wielded it, writing the destinies of every hopeful designer in the pages of your magazine.
You were dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana dress of ebony lace that hugged and flattered your shapely curves to perfection paired with a charcoal gray double-breasted Burberry Prorsum coat with military-style epaulets and cuffs. You wore five-inch Burberry heels that, although pointed-toe stilettos, they were fitted with Burberry’s signature lug sole, adding to your combative appearance and reputation. Although it was dark in the room, you wore a pair of aviator sunglasses by Maybach, also in gradients of carbon, that concealed your infamously ferocious eyes. Your hair was elegantly styled and your bearing was as proud as any model on a runway, but your presence was of a military general standing on a battlefield.
The sight of you took Jacques’s breath away. He had never been so taken aback by a woman, so instantly devastated by beauty.
With a deep steadying breath and a visible effort, Jacques composed himself. It was absurd, he reasoned, to be so unnerved by a woman. He was a master at seduction, and what was business but a different kind of seduction? Both involved a degree of manipulation and power plays. Even if Jacques didn’t know how to deal with you as a cutthroat editor who struck fear into the hearts of men, he knew how to deal with a red-blooded woman.
“I think you’ll find the florals are luscious,” he whispered with a smokey depth to his voice. He moved closer beside you until your shoulders brushed, perfectly acceptable in the crowded room.
“Florals? For Spring?” you scoffed. “Groundbreaking.”
“Well… Florals are classics for a reason,” he stumbled at the sharp rebuff. “Spring lines always have florals. It’s what you do with them that matters, is it not?”
“Have you sustained a head injury?” you derided haughtily, turning to look at him briefly over the rims of your sunglasses. “Yes, follow like the little lemmings toward the cliff of the cliché and the mediocre. The market – that is, sellers who have already made you rich -- want to get their winter fashions off the racks. Something inventive, something charming and clean, for example, would sell regardless of the season. Are you marketing to the likes of Kohl’s or Target?” You dismissively returned your attention to the runaway. “Dolce & Gabbana is the only designer who has any business at all dabbling in seasonal florals. Perhaps, an honorable mention to Dior.” Jacques tried to retort, but you steamrolled over him. “But not La Maison Gris, I assure you, and my assurance is the only one that will ever matter.”
This silenced him as he looked away, a strange and foreign mixture of rejection and embarrassment mingling inside him with an all-too familiar anger. He then looked back at you tentatively, feeling hesitant to challenge you.
“Just last spring Vogue raged over my florals,” he stated with a confidence that for once he didn’t feel, his deep voice undercut by an undertone of fear. Because of his size and physicality, deep voice, and wealth, he often unwittingly intimidated people. He was unused to being on the other side of that scale, and he couldn’t recall being so as a grown man. It was a challenge, he realized, and he savored challenges.
“Then, they were novel. Now, they are tired and uninspired,” you sighed as if bored by his simpleness. “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative -- that’s Oscar Wilde, mind you – and I do believe he had a sense of fashion. He even went to prison for his fashion genius, among other proclivities.”
Jacques’s handsome features broadcast he was ready to retort but thought better of it, chewing his lip instead to bite back the argument that wanted to leap from his tongue. As the first model made her appearance on the runway, the audience applauded, approving of her floral dress with fox trim. He puffed his chest and looked at you as if to say he told you so. The next model wore a lynx shawl over a dress of gold floral brocade.
“Mixing fur and floral, are we? I always thought fur looked best on its original owner.” You studied each ensemble carefully with the eye of a critic. “Models should be comfortable in their own skin, not someone else’s, don’t you think?”
“This line is novel, sleek and vivacious. If you wish to stand out and feel good about yourself, my line is for you,” he huffed and retorted as another model stalked toward you wearing a beautiful lavender dress trimmed with tasteful sable fur in a complimentary dusky hue. The crowd roared in approval. “Nature has evolved to flatter animals of every shape and size. Do you argue that natural evolution shouldn’t be used when one is designing clothes to flatter women?”
You paused at the audience’s enchantment with Jacques’s line. He, too, saw it was a hit and raised one eyebrow at you. The next model wore a sleek aviator jacket with a collar of sheared beaver dyed in a subtle chevron pattern. The crowd actually clapped at that one.
No matter, people often didn’t know what they really liked until you told them.
You gestured for him to lean closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Like I said, the unimaginative masses are easily impressed. They can’t do what I can do: convince the biggest retailers in the world to market your line, and the populace to buy it.”
Jacques took a deep breath, gathered his courage, smiled mischievously, and said with a seductive tenor, “Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”
“I suppose you would know,” you quipped as another lynx trimmed ensemble walked past. “Regardless, the details of your incompetence do not interest me.”
“My incompetence?” Jacques huffed. No one else in the world would dare to call him incompetent. But arguing the point with you would get him nowhere. He decided to try a different tactic. “Let us continue this tete-a-tete somewhere more private, and I’ll try to find something about myself that does interest you.”
“Bold of you to assume a ridiculous man like you could please me in any venue. Be assured, I am demanding in my personal life as well as my professional one.” You let your appraising gaze rake over his body. “I want the best. I deserve the best. And I demand the best. In all things and in all ways.”
“My fashion lines may bore you, belle comandante.” Jacques grinned and asserted boldly, “Trust me, as a man, I would make you purr.”
“I have no commitments and I find myself rather bored by Paris, but I’m sure you have a parade of floral harlots vying to charm you into letting them walk your next runway. Who would I be to deprive them of the valuable life lesson in regret they would learn from a night with you?” You eyed another fur-trimmed model skeptically. “Dear God, you’re not into furries are you?”
He said nothing more until the show was over, but a sly lupine smile played on his plush lips. When all the models had walked the runway and the din of conversation filled the room, he made you a darkly illicit offer. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can make you purr for me, then you will write a splendid review of tonight’s show.”
Removing your sunglasses, you eyed him with unveiled skepticism. “And if I find you are not up to the task of pleasing me?”
“You won’t.” He winked at you.
“Graduating from fashion to prostitution, are you?” You raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I can’t deny it’s a better fit for you.”
“Not publicly.” He grinned at you, flashing a predatory glint of white teeth. “But for you, I will make a one-night-only exception. I’m a gambling man, and what higher stakes could I play with? If I can wring a good review out of you between the sheets, you will write a nice review for my fashion line on the pages of Annees Folles. We’ll enjoy ourselves in the process, that I promise you, cherie.”
“It is an interesting thought.” You smiled. “To wonder what I will find worthy of review. The before or the after?”
“Yes, I agree,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. You had heard he was a showman and viciously sarcastic. “You know why failed designers become harping editors of fashion magazines? It’s a petty facet of human nature that we feel the need to tear apart others who have talents one does not.”
“Is that what you think?” you laughed at the absurdity, meeting his challenge and projecting your voice. “Designers are many. On the other hand, people who dictate the tides of fashion and control the very destinies of men like you are few. The truth is, no one can do what I can do.”
“It must be lonely at the top for a maneater like you,” Jacques teased, his voice low again. “Who keeps you warm at night?”
“Renew your offer at the end of the evening,” you replied coyly. “And I’ll decide who’s keeping me warm tonight.”
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Nearly as important as the fashion show itself was the afterparty. This was where most of the schmoozing and deal-making were conducted, where connections were made and alliances were formed. Swanky upscale clubs were privately rented for these glamorous soirees. The afterparty for La Maison Gris was celebrated at L’Arc, the highly exclusive nightclub at the top of the Champs Elysees. Jacques had rented the club for the night, open only to those on his well-pruned guest list. The neon strobes of the club ordinarily played across a beautiful crowd but during Fashion Week, its lights never fell on someone who wasn’t either rich, famous, beautiful, or otherwise extraordinary.
Jacques was the man of the hour and had to make himself seen at his own party. You, of course, were on every guest list of every afterparty, but only an elite few were deserving of your attendance. After making your rounds at parties hosted by Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Dior, and Tom Ford, you decided to make an appearance at the La Maison Gris party and see if Jacques’s bet still intrigued you. Your arrival was just late enough to be aptly fashionable.
A redwood of a doorman recognized you and ushered you in ahead of a winding line of at least one-hundred hopeful partygoers, much to their displeasure. The floor of the club writhed and undulated with women in chic dresses and men in suits dancing in time with heavy driving bass. You would have been hard-pressed to squeeze up to the bar that was so tightly packed that even the attempts of waifish models were foiled by the mass of humanity.
The freshly bleached smiles of several of the biggest names in Hollywood caught your eye from various corners of the room. One perfect smile belonged to the actor who had just landed his big break in being cast in the newest reboot of the Superman franchise. Clark Kent du jour had the build of a linebacker, a square jaw to match, cerulean blue eyes, and jet back hair, complete with a Superman curl he had cultivated since landing the part. He had also been pursuing you since you had toured the set for a piece on the costumes, most of which had been crafted by Zegna. He wore a suit by La Maison Gris, complete with a dyed sable pocket square instead of the usual silk. Tragically, he had both buttons done on his jacket, a glaring faux pas that required all of your limited reserve to overlook. You could take the man off the farm, but you couldn’t dress the farm out of the man.
Aspiring models stalked through the crowd on mile-high legs like otherworldly creatures, eager to impress designers for a chance to walk down their runways. And there was Jacques Le Gris, standing in the middle of an entire harem of them. A flock of scantily and colorfully dressed models surrounded him like birds at a feeder, some batting their eyelashes, others stroking his body, others still giggling vapidly, all desperate for any crumb of attention he deigned to toss their way. Though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was gesturing magnanimously, smiling and laughing at his own infectious humor, and very much enjoying the attention.
The spectacle of the fawning models was enough to make you return Clark Kent’s smile just long enough to encourage him to make an approach. Your timing was perfect; like all the best predators, you had the gift of precision. Jacques noticed you just as the handsome actor made a beeline for you and procured a flute of champagne from the tray of an obliging waitress who flitted by on his way. The actor was only the first to approach you. Within moments, you too were encircled by a mass of noisome people, even larger than the group that surrounded Jacques. Everyone wanted your attention, your approval.
At the sight of Clark Kent sidling up to you, a dark veil passed over Jacques’s dashing features, turning them murderous for the breadth of a second. It went unnoticed by most if not all, but you saw it and you smirked. Clenching his jaw, Jacques pushed through the throng of humanity and shooed away the plumage of women, heading not toward you but to the bar.
You smiled as the actor handed you the champagne, trying not to dwell on the state of his tackily buttoned jacket. But you drew the line at champagne, telling him with your usual stridence, “Oh, you can keep that for yourself. I don’t drink champagne, but I’m sure a large country boy like you can handle mine and yours and many more after.”
The poor pretty idiot didn’t know if you were serious or teasing, but since he had no basis in experience dealing with such a direct and assertive woman, he took your harshness for humor and laughed. He would be so easy to rip to shreds, which could be a fun passing amusement. He was exceedingly lucky you were in a good mood tonight. Adding to your relative levity was the towering figure of the CEO of La Maison Gris striding purposefully toward you and fighting to keep his composure and grin through his jealous anger. He held a drink in each hand, filled with amber and ice.
“This is my party,” he said by way of greeting you, making his voice notably deeper than the actor’s. Jacques was taller, but only just, which added to your amusement when he tried to look down his charmingly hooked nose at his more classically handsome opponent. “How is it that you just waltz in here and everybody gravitates toward you like you are the sun.”
“I’ve found that Nietzsche’s herd concept applies in a variety of ways.” You smiled icily back. “The human herd often has a collective sense of who’s the most important person in the room.”
Still looking at the actor, Jacques wordlessly handed you one of the two drinks he carried. You accepted it with a raised eyebrow and lifted it to inhale its aroma. Then, you gifted him with a genuine smile. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I have. Your drink of choice is an old fashioned made with Midleton Single Pot Irish Whiskey and garnished with an orange peel.” He took a sip of his own drink, the same as yours, closing his eyes briefly to savor the taste. “But I think you’ll like this better. I prefer Redbreast twenty-seven year old Irish Whiskey.”
You took a skeptical drink, your eyes not leaving Jacques’s. The old fashioned was remarkably flavorful. “It’s tolerable, I suppose.”
“I better get a nicer review than that from you after I’ve given you a taste of something else that’s full-bodied and old fashioned.” Jacques winked at you as he took another drink.
“I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, and already this is growing dull.” You pointedly looked at the Breitling watch strapped to Jacques’s thick wrist. “When are you going to make it worth my while to have come at all?”
“Finish your drink,” he challenged and downed the better part of his own. He gave the actor a dangerous glare, but the other man was too focused on you to notice, still standing beside you, hopeful and oblivious.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said to Clark Kent with unveiled sarcasm, the man was utterly clueless. “I forgot you were there. You may go now.”
“I may actually grow to like you.” Jacques grinned and took your elbow, his large hand squeezing you for emphasis.
“I would expect so,” you replied haughtily. “It is a sentiment I acquire often but return sparingly.”
“Carpe nocturne, ma jolie fille,” he growled as he pulled you through the crowd and out of L’Arc to his waiting car.
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Enroute to a more comfortable and conducive location, you and Jacques each downed two more old fashioneds as his driver maneuvered through the labyrinthian Parisian streets, overfull with tourists for Fashion Week. With his drinks, Jacques smoked a thick cigar on the drive, billowing smoke from his nose like a regal dragon through a cracked window. It came as no surprise you were both staying at the Ritz Paris, after all, it was the finest luxury hotel in Paris and some say in the world. You discovered it had been Jacques who had sniped the Suite Imperiale, the finest suite in the opulent hotel, out from under you, leaving you to book the only slightly less decadent Suite Windsor for yourself.
Jacques strode with you proudly through the lavish hotel, past numerous celebrities and icons. His hand rested possessively on the small of your back, leaving no doubt as to the nature of your evening.
“People are staring,” you said without a trace of shyness, relishing the attention.
“Let’s make it worth their while.” Jacques took your hand and twirled you like he was dancing with you and then dipped you for a passionate kiss in full view of the bustling lobby.
People indeed stared, their captivated gazes following as he then led you to the bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, he pushed you against the wall and propped his hands on either side of your head, caging you inside his arms as he loomed over you.
“Want me to say goodnight, jolie fille?” he asked, his voice dripping with husky desire.
Biting your lip as you paused to consider his words, you looked up at him. “Not for a few more hours.”
A broad toothy smile broke across Jacques’s features as the elevator chimed and you stepped out of his arms, enroute to his suite.
Jacques walked so closely behind you as you approached the door to the Suite Imperiale that you could feel the heat radiating off his massive body. Hot breath huffed on the back of your neck, raising goosebumps and sending electric currents down your spine. At his door, he handed you his room key and let you fumble with the lock while he trailed his hands down over your hips and then back up your thighs. Hooking his fingers in the hem of your dress, he pulled it up over your ass, the cool air on your skin a stark contrast to his hot hands. His broad chest pressed into your back and his head fell to your neck. His lips teased at you tantalizingly as he dug his thick fingers into your soft hips, pulling your ass back into the massive bulge in his pants.
“I knew you had a luscious ass,” he growled into your neck. He teased you with the scratch of his beard near your ear and smiled against your skin when he dipped his hand between your thighs and felt the moist heat of your arousal. “It would be a shame to ruin your lovely clothes. We need to get you out of them before they get too wet.”
You laughed breathily as you opened the door and stumbled inside with Jacques still pressed to your back. He kicked the door shut and spun you to face him, crashing his lips to yours as you each clawed at each other’s clothing. His jacket and shirt were the first to be discarded. You wanted to see his body before revealing yours, and you were not disappointed when he peeled his shirt away. His chest was larger and more impressive than you had guessed and his arms more thickly muscled. He had the finely sculpted look of a performance horse, massive, sleek, and powerful all at once.
Backing away from him sultrily, you slowly unzipped your dress as you angled toward the bedroom. Inspired by the Chateau de Versailles, the living room of the Suite Imperiale was done in burgundy and cream, with vaulted ceilings and enormous airy windows. The burgundy and gold drapes were open, letting the lights of Paris glimmer into the otherwise darkened room.
Before you could step out of your dress that had fallen to your feet, Jacques lifted you up into his arms, all but yanking you off the ground in his fervor. He was so powerful and solid that he made you feel weightless in his arms, a feeling that heightened your anticipation as much as his expert touch.
Jacques twirled once inside the suite’s bedroom with you still in his arms, taking every advantage to show off. This room was decorated in cream and mint with a green and mint brocade canopy enshrouding the lavish bed. Jacques laid you gently down onto the plush bedding and traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back to brusquely discard the rest of his clothing. You eyed his body shamelessly, very pleased by every magnificent part of him. His aurous eyes were even hungrier than yours as they devoured the sight of you.
“I’ve never seen true beauty before tonight,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and darkness.
Jacques crawled over you, a predator over his prey, caging you beneath him with his impressive arms on either side of your body. When you put your hands on him, you could feel his heavy muscles tense and flex as he moved. The feel of him alone was a potent aphrodisiac. He could read all the signs of your body, the way you moved and sighed and responded to his touch. He knew you wanted him, and wanted him now. But Jacques wanted to savor you, to spend as long as he could possibly stand it, to sear every moment of this night into his memory like a firebrand.
Agonizingly slow, he returned his lips to your skin, kissing and teasing every part of your flesh he could cover. He knew he would have you several times tonight, and he decided he wanted to make you moan with his tongue before he made you scream with his cock. It was quick work for him once he settled between your legs and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. He had barely traced his name into you a handful of times when he felt the shuddering rush of your ecstasy.
Positioning himself above you, he captured your lips as he thrust into you, fast and fluid but gentle too. Slow at first, he followed the pace you set as your pleasure deepened. He was a consummate lover, and he shifted his hips until he knew his angle was perfect, like a marksman hitting the bullseye. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure, and he thought that he had never seen anything so lovely in the world of fashion and art as the sight of you beneath him.
Your arousal mounted as vigorously as he pistoned into you. Everything faded from your world until there was only the handsome man above you and the pleasure that flooded you until you were bursting with it. Jacques crested with you when a powerful orgasm throbbed through you and he carried you through every delicious shudder until you were both delirious with exhausted bliss. He kissed you with a slow lingering passion and when he pulled back, it was to look at you with adoration. His gaze was brief, but the emotion was unmistakable.
In the sultry minutes between your first session together and the next of the evening, you lay across Jacques’s chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat and the resonant timbre of his voice that sounded much like a contented purr beneath your ear. His hair was tangled and wild, and his chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His arms were strong around you and his hands huge and comforting on your skin. The man was an absolute fever dream.
“This is only the beginning, ma belle amour,” Jacques whispered much later that night, careful not to wake you. Even in sleep, he dreamed of you and of the bright and glamorous future you would forge together.
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Jacques prided himself on being part of the 5am Club, but this morning he felt that he had earned some extra rest after his robust performance the night before. You told him that he was incredible, and he couldn’t disagree with you. He was an exceptional lover – he made a point of excelling in all areas of importance to him – and he knew it. He had pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted you not only pleasured but impressed; hooked, and wanting more and more. He grinned sleepily at the realization that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was just as hooked after this first time as you were sure to be.
An obnoxious beam of sunlight soldiered through a gap in the curtains to shine on Jacques’s face, forcing him to blink into consciousness. Groaning at the light, he rolled over to curl into you and pull you close to him, and maybe have you again for breakfast. But his hand fell on a vacant sheet, cool to the touch. That brought him into full alertness like a bucket of ice water dosed over his head. He propped himself up on an elbow and brushed the hair out his eyes as he looked around the room. All of your things had been collected and were gone, and no sound emanated from the open door of the adjoining bathroom.
Jacques was alone.
No woman had ever sneaked out on him before the dawn. Of course, he had done so countless times to countless women, the number of which he couldn’t have remembered or even closely estimated with a gun to his head. But no woman had ever given him the same treatment. It was unthinkable! Jacques had only ever slipped away from women he considered unimportant, disposable – which, admittedly, were most of them – but he would never have ducked out on you, not after the night the two of you had shared.
Last night was only the beginning, he told himself, knowing it must be true. Anything that felt that good, that right, had to be only the start of something great.
A bitter thought slithered into his mind, worse than the gravelly morning-after taste on his tongue. Surely, he wasn’t a disposable fling to you. He couldn’t be. He was more than a one night stand, when he wanted more, anyway. It was unfathomable to think a woman, any woman, wouldn’t want more with him. It was blasphemous, even.
No, that couldn’t be it. Jacques knew you were a busy woman, you must have had things to do and places to be. He too was in demand and could hardly begrudge you the same. Throwing the covers aside, he stood and proceeded to walk around the room naked, looking for anything you may have left behind. He was sure he would find a letter or just a brief note, but there was nothing. He even fogged the bathroom mirror in the chance you were prone to mystery and had left a message on the glass that only mist would reveal. He called your suite, received no answer, and had no better luck calling reception. When he checked his phone to see if there were any messages from you, he realized with a sinking feeling that you had not exchanged numbers.
The room was as though you had never been inside it at all. Only the smell of your perfume on his sheets and the scratches you had traced across his skin were proof that last night had not been only a fantasy.
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Never before had Jacques felt so compelled to chase after a woman, but he restrained himself. The rules of a burgeoning relationship were new to Jacques -- not that he ever played by the rules at anything -- but he thought it only fair that since you had been the one to leave, that the burden was on you to make the first contact. He waited for days for a call or email or text, at first angry and then despondent when nothing came.
Jacques Le Gris, the CEO of La Maison Gris, would not chase after a woman. But for this woman, this one singular woman, he consented to casually saunter in her direction. And he was not pleased about having to do so.
It was Friday morning, nearly a week after your evening together, when Jacques relented. He stood restless in his luxurious office, surrounded by walnut paneling, rich colors, and oil paintings. His office had a regal ambience reminiscent of a Victorian study but with a decidedly masculine touch. Every appliance was ultra-modern and colored in sleek carbon, contrasting chicly with the otherwise vintage style. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city of Paris, offering an unobstructed view of the Champs Elysees.
Being at the tops in your respective industries made you each easy to track down, even if then making contact was exponentially more difficult. Jacques called the main branch of Annees Folles Magazine in Manhattan and was given the runaround for the better part of an hour. Christ, it was worse than dealing with an airline. He wondered if he would have to fax a copy of his ID just to speak to a living human who had any authority at all. He was near the limits of his temper, his notorious good humor completely expended, by the time he was put through to your office.
“Editor in Chief’s office.” A curt nasally male voice answered Jacques’s call with a note of disinterest. “Armitage Hux speaking.”
“I’m calling to speak to the Editor in Chief directly, please,” Jacques said in his most diplomatic tone. He added his name, which alone opened most doors for him. “This is Jacques Le Gris.”
“The Editor is not to be disturbed. Furthermore, she only takes calls from those listed on her approved call list.” Came the snide reply. “There’ s no Jack.”
“Jacques,” he enunciated more clearly, adding more force to his voice. “Jacques Le Gris.”
“There is no le Grease on the list either.” A withering sneer could almost be heard through the phone.
“Le Gris,” Jacques corrected, fighting to keep from losing his temper.
“My apologies,” Hux answered without the barest hint of contrition. “Regardless, you are not on the list, Mr. le Grease.”
A frustrated growl slipped out before Jacques could stop it. “For fuck’s sake, ask her about me!”
“There’s really no need for profanity. I’ve already told you, she is not to be disturbed,” Hux continued in a tone that was now verging on bored. “Certainly not by people who aren’t important enough to be on her approved call list, Mr. le Grease.”
“Important?” Jacques laughed at the absurdity. “Do you know who I am? I’m the CEO of La Maison Gris!”
“I’m legally required to say that my opinion does not in any way reflect the views of Annees Folles Magazine, but I have always preferred Gucci,” Hux lilted in his superior manner.
“If Le Grease doesn’t spur her memory, tell her I’m the man she spent last Saturday night with!” Now, Jacques was pissed. Comparing his distinguished line to that family of garish Italians was like slapping a glove across his cheek. “She knew my name then because she was fucking screaming it!”
“Ah, maybe you’re on that list.” Hux smiled deviously, which could be heard on his voice.
Jacques ground his teeth until he thought they would surely crack while he listened to the other man’s unhurried keystrokes as he pulled up that list. Jacques made a mental note to clear that fucking list out for you real fast.
“Barber… McHenry… — forgive me, I’m skimming here — Mills… Ren… Zimmerman…” Hux read through each name with relish. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that this list is Grease-free as well.”
“Listen, you trumped up little shit.” Jacques finally lost control of his temper. “If I have to get on a fucking plane, walk right in there, and kick the door down to her office —“
“Hold please,” Hux intoned, utterly unconcerned. Music only slightly trendier than elevator music assaulted Jacques across the line.
Jacques punched the end button with as much force as he could muster with his finger on the button that was too small for his thick digit. He caught himself just before he threw his phone across the room, and instead turned and swung a savagely powerful punch into the wall, slamming his fist straight through the plaster.
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Bright and early the following Monday a fresh copy of the American edition of Annees Folles Magazine was delivered by courier to Jacques’s office. There was no accompanying note, but the magazine smelled of the sultry exotic perfume he remembered so well. Jacques knew with absolute certainty who it was from. It was longer than he wanted to wait for an overture from you, but at least it was something.
One of the subheadings on the cover read, A Special Editorial and Behind the Scenes Look into the New Fashion Line of La Maison Gris. Jacques seated himself behind his imposing desk, leaned back in his tufted leather chair, and propped his long legs on his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. He intended to savor your special editorial on him and his fashion line, expecting to fall even deeper and more hopelessly into the abyss of his feelings for you, into this new and uncharted territory.
Jacques rustled through the pages, eager to find your editorial. Splashed across the page was an extra treat – a startlingly high-quality photograph of his runway with a model in a floral dress with fur cuffs, and front in center silhouetted by the runway lights, the pair of you stood side-by-side in the crowd watching the show. He decided to have it framed for his office, a memento of the night your relationship began. He imagined your smile when he showed it off to you in person.
Below the photograph, the article was not what he expected. It was five-hundred words of honeyed vitriol.
La Maison Gris, with CEO Jacques Le Gris at its helm, has been the rising star in the fashion industry and with good reason. His designs mix ultra-modern chic with the classiest and the most decadent styles history has ever seen. From Victorian era draping and corsets to Regency-esque frocks and slippers to beading and sequins that would flatter the most exuberant 1920’s flapper, Le Gris’s inspiration is regal and refined and imbued with his own signature twist and flourish.
Ascensions, however, are precarious. Climbing to the top in fashion is just as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. One misstep can cost one his career.
Confident in his own grandeur, Le Gris opened his show at Paris Fashion Week with a new line featuring a daring use of fur on every piece. Icarus, too, was daring in his flight toward the blazing Sun. Just like Icarus, Le Gris has reached beyond his capacity and will soon find himself plummeting back to Earth to crash and burn with so many other has-beens whose names are not worth remembering.
Swept up in his penchant for melding modern with iconic, Le Gris does not consider the advances that we as a society have made. No longer do we need to resort to the barbarism of the fur trade to clothe ourselves. Nor do we, as Le Gris would have us believe, need to resort to fur to dress ourselves in the finest fashion and haute couture. Rest assured, dear readers, La Maison Gris is not in the upper echelon of fine fashion and haute couture.
In addition to the heinous and overdone use of fur, Le Gris has the tastelessness to cobble together a kaleidoscope of florals ranging from pastel to electric. His florid color palette can best be described as ‘A Murder of Unicorns,’ as painted by Monet. It reminds one of a cheerily painted playroom inside a children’s mental institution. A more cultured eye will gravitate to Dolce & Gabbana for florals, to Burberry for iconic; and if one is looking for fur, a vintage fox, mink, or sable from a boutique will always carry the day.
Le Gris’s approach to fashion seems to be that a lack of quality can be disguised by flair and concealed with fur. This mirrors the man’s approach to life. A boisterous grandstander, Le Gris tries to project a distinguished air. However, like a magician’s trick revealed, all his flash and charm are little more than smoke and mirrors with no real substance.
A little fur here and there can make a girl purr, but an overuse, such as the spring line of La Maison Gris, is barbarous at best and utterly gauche at worst.
One wonders if Le Gris has the capacity to bear a defeat with dignity, but the smart money will bet on the negative. Like a scavenging hound, Le Gris will likely refurbish his failed spring line for another runway this coming fall or winter. He will certainly gain no traction on any runway of repute. With his brash sensationalism and garish taste, perhaps he shall find his true calling outfitting cosplayers or larpers.
Jacques crumpled the offending magazine in his fist as if he could choke the life from its Editor in Chief through the abused pages. He viciously ripped it in half, throwing each segment across the room in different directions. He wanted to punch another hole in his wall, but his knuckles were still scabbed and bruised from his recent outburst. Not for the first time, he decided to hang a heavyweight punching bag in his office. He glared around his office, looking for something to break. Why the fuck was everything his decorators chose some one-of-a-kind antique?
Sparing his knuckles further damage, he let out a savage growl like a wounded lion. Jacques was breathing as hard as if he had run a mile, his huge chest straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. As he tried ineffectively to calm himself, his shrewd mind began to calculate and strategize. After a few moments of huffing, he decided on his course of action. If you wanted to play dirty, he could roll in the mud with the best of them. Retrieving his phone, he dialed a familiar number.
“Jacques!” Pierre D’Alencon, the Creative Director of La Maison Gris, answered with friendly ebullience. “I was just going to call you. Drinks this weekend? I happened upon a gorgeous set of twins -- redheads, no less -- and of course I’m willing to share with my closest friend.”
“Put the twins on ice for now,” Jacques grumbled gruffly. “This is business. Did you see the editorial in Annees Folles?”
“I did, indeed,” Pierre’s voice lost a hint of its buoyancy. “Hence my offer of drinks and women to lift your spirits.”
“I’ve made a decision, and it involves you. If that glorified tabloid wants to blast me for using fur in my line, I’m going to single-handedly revive the fur-in-fashion trend! We’ll see who holds more power in this little game.” Jacques grinned devilishly at his own newly formed plan of attack like a knight finding a chink in his opponent’s armor. “Which is where you come in. I want to see designs for an entire line with fur on every piece by the end of the month. Get on it, Pierre! Give me your best.”
“Do you not think it best to respond with more dignity and sweep all this unpleasantness under the rug?” Pierre asked with a heavy sigh. “This is why you have PR people.”
“Who was it that said any publicity is good publicity?” Jacques asked, unphased.
“That would be the American spectacle, P.T. Barnum,” Pierre replied with resignation.
“Smart man. I always admired his joie de vivre.” Jacques smirked as he paced across his vast office. “That’s exactly what I want. I want a spectacle. I want a public circus. I want a showdown. We’re going to revive the fur trend, you and I, and I’m going to rub it in that demoness’s face!”
“Ah, so this is all motivated by astute business acumen and professionalism, is it?” Pierre gave a laugh that was ignored.
“Use every kind of fur you can get your hands on. The crueler the fucking better! Lynx, fox, sable, Persian lamb – all the cutest and cuddliest animals. Are chinchillas still a thing? Those too. Can we still get leopard? If you can design a full-length coat made of puppies, do it! Dalmatian with a lynx collar, how about that?” Jacques ran a hand along the shimmering silver streak in his black hair, thinking. “And I don’t want faux anything in sight. I want it all real, all genuine fur.”
Pierre confirmed his understanding of his marching orders and signed off. For so long as their mission remained retaliation and war, anyway. He also decided on a side-quest of sorts, to put his second greatest talent to work while he created a runway line trimmed in fur. He would try his best at figuring out his friend and boss’s quarry, and aid him in hunting the most dangerous game of all, a powerful woman. Perhaps if Jacques could seduce her personally, there would be no need to batter her into submission professionally, and Pierre knew he was just the man for both jobs.
Jacques was still wound up after the call, but now he had a course of action, a focal point, a target at which to channel his anger and frustration. The embers of rage still alighted Jacques’s nerves and the sting of betrayal still burned in his chest. He still wanted to punch something, to find a release. It was a poor substitute, but he ranted and bellowed instead.
“That frigid bitch!” Jacques snarled, glaring out of his window over the streets of Paris. “That shrew. That succubus. Satan. That woman is fucking Satan!”
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To be continued…
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© safarigirlsp 2023
Tagging some fashionistas:
@in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @babbushka @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @reborn-rekall @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @bensolodyad @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @durangoninetyfive @reveluving @vedavan @fax4life27 @lumberjack00fantasies @kyloremus
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“— those dresses! dolce and gabbana for literally wrapping silk around my body for hours until I became a shimmering swimming pool. etienne and anna for somehow making my eyes change color on stage with witchy brush strokes of subtle peach make-up and light old hollywood hair”
— lana del rey for coachella (2024)
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lana del rey via Instagram: Thank you guys. For fucking everything, Jack and John and Billie for showing up for me -and the band for just killing it and spending months in Sylmar in a 40° warehouse to the point but it was so cold that I caught laryngitis that literally left just a few hours before I hit the stage because Tessa DiPietro spent two hours lifting that cough remotely through her body intuitive skills just minutes before showtime, Wally Crowder for my bad as bikes. Every stunning dancer on stage- and Alex for her beautiful choreography. My stunning three singers who danced and sang their asses off in style and high matching boots. Judah + Chelsea 😇
Emily for stepping up as tour manager when Pete quit for no reason after 15 years because he was butt hurt that I got 10 comped bikes for free from Wally and randomly decided he was more of a stage designer than a tour manager... Never got a phone call probably never will. Still grateful for the 15 years though. No worries - 37 days was more than enough time to put together an entire headlining set all by ourselves.
Not stressful at all. Way to go Emily you fucking killed it with grace. Thank you to my managers Ben and Ed for making me laugh the entire way through everything for my whole freaking life even though none of it ever makes any sense. PS please send me an email If you decide to quit this year- 15 years is a long time for us too ☺️ thank you to Cody!, boss number two for always having my back and doing the most - Ric from Stufish ur set with references of the Barbican to bits of kintsugi dripping down the balconies and the same exact tiles as the tiles in the tunnel under Ocean Boulevard. Pat my loving Stage Manager and James
Lammy Joey and James my perfect trifecta of sound Molly Dixon ❤️those dresses! Dolce and Gabbana for literally wrapping silk around my body for hours until I became a shimmering swimming pool. Etienne and Anna for somehow making my eyes change color on stage with witchy brush strokes of subtle peach make up and light old Hollywood hair, and Tracey Cunningham for changing my hair to the color of the desert like I wanted. And of course, Paul for inviting us. it was fun. I'll see you again real soon.
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closed to @retrbution / deaw & theo
In the opulent aftermath of the night's opera at the Metropolitan, the air itself seemed to shimmer. The grand hall, a sanctum of art and arias, still whispered with the haunting echoes of 'Per Questo Dolce Amplesso.' Bouquets rained upon the stage like vibrant cascades, fragrant gardens plucked from their roots in homage. Gifts, each a microcosm wrapped in mystery, twinkled under the soft glow of chandeliers. The atmosphere, heavy with enchantment, seemed to weave a spell around the audience, each breath they drew a silent vow to cherish this night's memory like a sacred secret. "Un Dieu, un Deaw," a titled patron might have cried from the seclusion of their box. One god, one Deaw.
Yet, amidst the splendor, a peculiar sensation had haunted Deaw's performance—a persistent, almost spectral tug, akin to a finger delicately unraveling a single strand of hair or a ghostly caress against the cheek. This presence, elusive yet unyielding, remained static through the performance but began to stir as the audience ebbed away. It drew nearer, closer, stealthily, until just a few steps away, where Deaw's gaze lifted to the broad back of a young man, his silhouette outlined by the stage lights. Dark hair, fluid as spilled ink, broad shoulders that spoke of strength.
The urge to interrupt, to confront this pull, was overwhelming, yet decorum held sway. Surrounded by affluent patrons backstage, Deaw turned, seeking solace in the anonymity of the cold evening air. A lump formed in their throat, their hands fumbled for the comfort of a cigarette, their breaths coming in shallow gasps, as if that fleeting encounter had stolen more air than their entire performance.
But then, a flame flickered to life in the darkness, casting a warm, inviting glow. Deaw looked up.
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His Office of Propriety (Papa Emeritus IV x Reader)
+18 CONTENT NOT FOR MINORS. MINORS KEEP SCROLLING
Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: All the warnings. Dubcon bordering on Noncon, Knives, Blood, Mention of Torture, Violence, Clothes Cutting, Rough Sex, No Aftercare, Office Sex and Boss/Employee dynamic.
Summary: Furious from a meeting where he is cut off financially by the clergy, Papa Emeritus IV takes his frustrations out on his assistant. He doesn’t know yet that his loyal assistant had more reasons to be loyal than just a paycheck. Too bad loyalty does not soothe anger and a wounded ego. She will have to learn from her mistakes the hard way.
Word Count: 3,470
Notes: READ THE WARNINGS. Translations are at the end.
AO3 Link
"Maledetta puttana del cazzo!" The door slams so hard you thought the bricks around it would come crumbling down. His brow hoods his mismatched eyes as Italian venom continues to pour from his lips. Barreling towards you, he looks like a bull that had been speared by a matador, his jacket as red as the fatal cape.
"Pap-"
"You think you can run your fucking mouth, hm?" Unable to look at him, your pen shakes as you try to go back to underlining an important number—it had to be important, must be important—for his upcoming quarterly meeting with the clergy. He snatches the pen and tosses it across the room. "Run your mouth now. What did you tell Sister Imperator?"
"I didn't-"
"But you did. Do you want to know how I know?"
Your whole body is shaking. Rage tries to escape the heavy paint on his face, reddening a patch of skin on his neck where the paint had rubbed off. His eyes are wild, lit red in the shimmering fire of that jacket. He snatches you by the back of your shirt out of your chair, the stitches on your chiffon blouse ripping barely audible above his ragged breathing. “No, Papa! No!”
“Only you knew! Now I am leashed!” The soft cotton of his glove wraps around your throat and he slams you so fast to the wall that one of his framed accolades falls, glass shattering with a pop. “I trusted you and you violated my trust, dolce.”
The pet name makes you whimper. It’s new and so perfectly wrong with how mad he is. You had fantasized about him calling you all kinds of pet names, but never like this. He would be on the phone, thinking you were too busy logging receipts and making appointments. You would watch his brow knit together as someone told him about plans for the new tour and you'd think of you and him curled up in his bed on a Sunday morning - nowhere to go, nothing to do- just the two of you. You imagined how he’d play with your hair and call you every beautiful diminutive under the sun, kissing and touching and fucking. You'd dream until he hung up the phone.
His lips twitch into a smile that would make Satan himself shiver. “Did you do it to make me mad, dolce?” He drags out the e in a gravelly tone. He slides his hand up to where your jaw meets your neck, pinning you to the wall like one of his accolades.
“P-Please,” you choked under the grip of his glove, “I would never try to make you mad. I'm sorry.” Tears stung your eyes as he pressed harder.
He throws you to the ground, the carpet stinging your palms and knees. Your back arches as you try again to stop thinking about him fucking you, here on all fours, in the middle of his office of propriety. The glass from the frame crunches as he steps around you to search for something in his desk. “Let me tell you about my day, dolce. Maybe it will jog your memory, hm?” You stay silent. “I finished my meeting with Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil at 4 o'clock - you know this, ma certo, you put it in my calendar.” His voice is calmer now, more measured. It's enough to make your bones grow cold. “She called this meeting for a very important reason, dolce. Do you know why?”
You shook your head, not wanting to anger him further with your words. Looking up, you see that he is holding up a pocket knife that he found in the drawer.
He sucked his teeth. “You are a very bad assistant, sending me into traps like this.” He holds the knife up to the sunlight streaming through the windows, watching as the glint glides back and forth. Your stomach churns and your legs beg you to run. Moving only millimeters at a time, you crawl towards the door. “I will tell you,” he says, continuing to search his drawer, knick-knacks knocking about, “Sister says to me ‘Copia, I’m cutting you off.’ This is news, yes? I ask her why. She says, ‘The clergy did not approve your new vestments.’”
Shit. It is starting to come together now. It was a passing conversation you had in the hall with Imperator the day the new vestments came in. You had told her just how regal he looked in them, leaving out how your heart raced when your fingers glided down the silky brocade that felt so good over his solid chest. You had dreamt of him fucking you that night, the fine fabric bunching over the small of your back, him so desperate to finally have his assistant that he couldn't even bother to take the damned thing off. You move more quickly toward the door.
"You see, dolce, that is when I knew. Only you had seen them. Only you had access to my receipts. They were supposed to be a surprise."
The door is within reach when the sole of his boot connects with your back and presses until you crack. Your elbows buckle and the floor comes up to knock the wind from you. He kicks you in the ribs to face up, but it’s the knife that has you scrambling backward, the carpet biting into your rug-burned palms once again. You try to ignore the heat in your core marbling with the fear in your stomach.
“Please, Papa!”
“They cut me off. You need to be taught a lesson.”
“No, please Papa. I’m sorry, I’m stupid!" It's coming up and you can't stop it "I kept thinking about how good you looked in them and I was daydreaming.” The tears are pouring down your face. Was he going to cut your tongue out? Was he going to kill you? The room spun and you wanted nothing more than to pass out. Let this nightmare end and go back to the sweet dreams of him and you in that bed on a Sunday morning. “I shouldn’t have opened my mouth,” you sob, “but Sathanas has cursed me to think of you every night and my mind is not sane.”
You see the glint of one of his canines and he laughs.
“The little lamb has developed a crush on her shepherd, has she?” His knee had pushed up your skirt and you realize just how firmly it was pressed against your aching cunt. A nudge is all it takes for you to rock your hips against it like the pathetic infatuated creature you are, cooing in misery. You want to die, but you need him to keep going, and all you can do is whimper.
He presses the blade against your throat. “Use your words, dolce: Do you think of me when you touch yourself?” Sick satisfaction highlights those painted lips. You know the answer, you just can’t say it. The blade presses harder and the pain gushes them forward.
“Yes, Papa! Only you. Every night.” He hums seemingly with pride.
“Good girl. And how do you touch yourself?” The blade prompts you again with a bite.
“Ah! With my hands, Papa. I imagine they’re yours. I think about how good your cock would feel when I fuck myself with my fingers.”
“The assistant dreams of her Papa’s cock, is that right?” His knee grinds into your pussy and you have hope for a brief moment, hope that he wants this too and that he wants to see you writhe in ecstasy. It’s not in his bed, tangled in his arms and the sheets, but he might let you cum if you’re good.
“I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The knife pulls off your throat and you cry as he stands up, your dark desire craving the pressure of his leg. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and points the knife to your cheek. "Beg."
"What?"
"Beg for my cock. Beg for me to use your worthless pussy."
"Papa-" The knife nicks the apple of your cheek and you yelp.
"Do it."
You swallow hard on your tears. The words that he wants to hear are turning your cheeks redder than the blood blooming forth from the knife. "Please let me have your cock, Papa."
“Do you think you deserve it? Do you think you have earned it when you can’t even keep your mouth shut?” He cracks you hard across the face with his palm, the gloves muting the slap.
Turning your head back to look into his eyes breaks you. You can see the faint glimmer of pain for the first time, how you’ve truly hurt and disappointed him behind all that rage. What good were you, the person he was supposed to be able to trust with his secrets, if you told them to anyone? The disappointment chokes your voice. “Please. Let me earn it. Let me earn you.”
He unlaces his pants, never breaking eye contact, and frees himself from their ripped confines. The knife ghosts down your cheek until it tips your chin up to look up at him. Any warmth in those mismatched eyes is now gone, replaced with sadistic want. “Worship me, troia senza valore.”
His cock is already half hard and looks too big to fit in your mouth. You place a hand on his leg to steady yourself, but he quickly swats it off. “Did I say you could touch me?”
“No, P-”
“Suck.” The knife guides you to the thick head, your lips trembling. You can’t help but to open your mouth as the bead of precum touches your lips, eager for the salt of him. His hand is in your hair quicker than you can realize and Copia is guiding you down the length of him.
Your jaw aches as it struggles to wrap around his girth. You give up and relax the muscles, letting yourself drool like a mindless animal. He hisses out a stream of Italian you’d never heard before. In your pitiful heart, you hope that he is praising your mouth. You hope that he is telling you how hot and tight it is, how it's the best mouth he's ever had. Daring a glance up, you see that he isn’t even looking at you.
Steadying your hands behind your back, you take the initiative and hollow your cheeks while looking up at him in defiance. He looks down on you, smug as ever.
“Is my office slut finally ready to behave and cooperate? It is clear that I need to retrain you.” He guides your head faster and harder, occasionally touching the back of your throat. “Would you like that?”
You don’t dare nod and break his rhythm, only batting your eyes up at him in agreement.
He pushes further and further until you are gagging on him. "Ah ah. Look at me. You will take it all, capisci?"
Digging your nails into your palm, you push yourself onto him again, trying to angle your head so you wouldn't choke again. That's enough. It will be enough. When you go to pull off he holds you head down on him. You choke and sputter, desperate for air as the pressure in your head pushes you closer and closer to passing out.
“That is a good girl. This is a very important lesson, no? Holding your breath, so you don’t spill my secrets again.”
You’re sure you’re on the precipice of unconsciousness when he finally pulls out. The deep gasps send sharp pangs to your lungs. Each breath hurts so bad, but the high they give you, oh the high. Your thighs tremble to hold yourself up. Something in your arms is begging for you to grab on and cling to his legs. Don't. The smack from earlier still stings under your skin. This is his office. His rules. You’re finally able to look up at him through your watery mascara stained eyes.
His thumb comes down to wipe away a mascara tear track. "So pretty. You are the prettiest when you follow my rules. Obedience looks good on you, dolce."
You lean into his sweet hand. The affection, even after choking you with his cock, is enough to make you cry tears of joy.
"Mi dispiace, Papa. Thank you for the lesson."
"I did not say we were finished." His fingers twist your hair, dragging you up to your feet and over to the red velvet divan. As he guides you to lay down on it, the fabric brushes and cradles your skin with the plush luxury. “A lesson must be permanent.” The knife is at the ready again and you can see the edge stained red with your blood.
The wind is crushed out of you once more in a horrible sob. “Please Papa. I’ve learned my lesson. Please.”
He is quick, slicing through the chiffon and pearl buttons with his knife. It is another cut in the series of slashes he has already made to your ego. You think about how you saved for so long to buy that blouse on your monthly ministry outing and how you’d picked it out just for him. There isn’t even enough time to process the loss before he has cut the straps and the front of your bra open, spilling your breasts out for him.
“Ecco. This is much better, no?” You try to cover up, but he nicks a cut into your arm in response. “You will not cover up what is mine. If I wanted you to cover up, I would have told you.”
He slashes through your skirt but leaves your pantyhose untouched. The chill of the office air already has you shivering and your nipples puckering into hardened buds. “This is your new dress code, pet. Since I will be wearing less clothing because of you, so will you. As above, so below.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Why did you do it?”
You hadn’t seen that question coming. Five little words and you can’t look at him. You can feel your slick leaking out to soak the inner thighs of your pantyhose. He tilts your face back to face him with the knife and you can see his cock is leaking precum again.
“I did it because I was too busy thinking about wanting to fuck you,” you mumble.
“Maybe I should fuck you with my knife if you want me that bad.” The knife pierces the soft skin of your cheek.
The blood drains from your face and your body screams again to run for the door. If you did that he would shove the blade right through your pantyhose, mangling the soft wet flesh. The thought made your skin crawl and tears burst from your eyes.
“Please, Papa, anything but that. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I must hurt you in some way, pet. It is the only way you’ll learn. Daydreaming has become a bad habit for you.” His face and tone are sympathetic but his words are pure cruelty.
You sob even harder knowing that he can do whatever he wants to you, there is no escaping this room without the consequences.
“You must be a brave pet for your, Papa, d’accordo? I will let you choose where I hurt you if I am satisfied with how you please me.”
You want to please him. If you obey, maybe he will rethink his punishment. “Can I have the knife please?”
You’re so weak he doesn’t think twice. He places the blade in your hand curiously.
“I can be brave.” You slide the knife down the front seam of the hosiery, watching as the threads spring back with eagerness, exposing your soaked panties for him. It is a little more difficult, but you wiggle the blade from hip seam to hip seam across the front of the white soaked cotton. “For you, Papa. I can’t leave now.”
His lips are on yours, as he presses you further into the sofa. It’s real and your heart is beating overtime as he slips his tongue greedily into your mouth. His. His. His. He is claiming you as his. You moan and rock your hips up against him, desperate to feel him take you fully.
He takes his cock and teases it up and down your slit. Once. Twice.
“Papa, please.”
“How long have you wanted this, pet?”
“Since the fir- aah!” He’s sinking so quickly inside you that you can’t help but to clench around him. His eyes burrow into you, speaking to the undeniable fact that you are so thoroughly his and he knows it. He watches you intently, pushing and pushing until he bottoms out.
“Use your words, dolce.” He steadily pulls out again.
“Since the first day, Papa. Since I started working in your office.” He thrusts into you again and you cry in delight as he stretches you fully. It’s better than the daydreams. Little details you hadn’t even thought of like his warm breath against your collarbone, the way the sequins of his jacket lightly scratch their markings into the valley of your breasts, all become the focus of your attention as he fucks you for his pleasure.
“But you never did anything?”
“You’re Papa. I am just a sister of sin.”
“I am Papa.” He wraps his hand around your throat once more. “You are below me and you belong to me.”
The pressure builds in your head again and you drop the knife, the metal clattering on the floor. Your hands break your own rules as they claw at the soft leather of his sleeves. You’re not certain if it’s to pry him off or beg for more. His hips are now snapping into you at such a rapid pace, and occasionally they’ll catch in the right way, bruising your needy clit. The whimpering from you is uncontrollable.
It’s sooner than you want as he spills into you. All it would take is a few more thrusts for you to reach your own high, but he slips out of you and you can feel his unholy seed leaking from the gaping mess that he’s made you. Tears bud in your eyes, but it’s futile to ask.
He picks up the knife from the floor. “You learn quickly and I am satisfied. I will let you choose.”
“I want to make you happy, Papa. I have already upset you.” In truth you wanted it somewhere where it wouldn't hurt so much, like an arm, but you’re aching cunt wanted him to finish what he had started, and that meant making him happy.
His lips quirk up into a smirk. “You want your Papa to choose? Even after all of my punishment?”
You bite your lip, fighting the fear creeping in.
He takes the knife and guides it to the muscle of your thigh, pushing back the ripped edge of your pantyhose. You do your best to fight the pain, but still cry like a wounded animal as it slices through the skin. It’s like a paper cut on steroids, but it is over just as soon as it started. Five lines. The Roman numeral IV.
“You owe me, so now I own you.” He offers no remedy for the bleeding, simply getting up to put his knife away at his desk once more. Cleaning the blade, he collapses it and shuts the wooden drawer. “I expect you to be in the office 30 minutes early every day and you will stay 30 minutes late for the purposes of servicing me.” He tucks himself back into his pants, lacing them up like none of this had ever happened. “Since I now own you, I do not want you touching what is mine. Playing with yourself and fantasizing about me is what got you into this mess. You are only allowed to touch yourself when I tell you to, capisci?”
Your cunt drips at the thought of it belonging to him, contracting around the memory of the stretch of him. “Yes, Papa.”
“I will call for clothes so you can leave the office, but until then, get back to work. I have to make other plans for the tour.” He draws out the chair and is immediately punching buttons on the phone.
You get up in your cut pantyhose and underwear, walking back to your desk, mindful of the broken glass. The cold office air licks against your still hot skin and you almost slip your hands between your legs before you catch yourself. The pout creeps onto your face, but you look over to him, a ghost of how you used to daydream. He did say I would have to stay 30 minutes after. Maybe he’ll let me cum then… if I’m good.
TRANSLATIONS:
"Maledetta puttana del cazzo!" - Damn fucking whore!
dolce. - Sweet
ma certo - But of course
troia senza valore - worthless whore
capisci? - Do you understand?
Mi dispiace - I am sorry
Ecco - There.
d’accordo - Okay
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🇮🇹 𝟵 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗧-𝗩𝗜𝗦𝗜𝗧 𝗜𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀...
How many have you been to?
1️⃣ Venice: Get lost in the labyrinthine canals and alleyways of Venice, a city built on water.
Keep an eye out for hidden gems, like Libreria Acqua Alta, one of the most unique bookstores in the world, with books piled high on shelves and even bathtubs, a quirky defense against the occasional acqua alta!
2️⃣ Gargano: Trade your gondola for hiking boots and explore the rugged beauty of the ancient Umbra Forest in the Gargano National Park.
After your hike, cool off on the white-sand beaches of the Baia delle Zagare, where the crystal-clear Adriatic Sea laps against the shore.
3️⃣ Salento: The Southern-most province of Puglia, the Salento is full of white-washed villages. Dive into the crystal-clear Adriatic, where colorful sea life puts on a dazzling underwater show.
Afterward, savor orecchiette, a local pasta shaped like little ears, a delicious reminder of the region's culinary heritage.
4️⃣ Sicily: Witness the fiery spirit of Mount Etna, Europe's most active volcano. Then, explore the Valley of the Temples, where ancient Greek ruins whisper tales of bygone eras.
And don't forget about the beautiful beaches! Sicily has plenty!
5️⃣ Coast of the Gods (Calabria): Unwind on the idyllic beaches of the Coast of the Gods, where the sparkling Tyrrhenian Sea meets dramatic cliffs.
This is one of the quietest and most pristine coastal retreats in all of Italy.
6️⃣ The Amalfi Coast: Wind your way along dramatic cliffside roads that hug the coastline, stopping to peek into pastel-colored villages that cascade down the mountains like colorful confetti. Experience the ultimate "Dolce Vita"!
7️⃣ Sardinia: Endless pristine, white-sand beaches where the water shimmers like sapphires. Delve into the island's prehistoric past by exploring the mysterious, beehive-shaped Nuragic towers.
8️⃣ The Italian Riviera: Mingle with the glamorous crowds in Portofino, a postcard-perfect village frequented by the jet set.
Be sure to also explore charming seaside towns, such as the Cinque Terre, Portovenere and Tellaro, where fishermen mend their nets and the scent of fresh focaccia fills the air.
9️⃣ The Tuscan Archipelago: Island hop through a paradise of secluded coves and hidden beaches. Snorkel in crystal-clear waters teeming with marine life, and explore charming fishing villages where time seems to stand still.
Elba Island is the main attraction, home to some of the Italy's finest beaches.
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La Dolce Vita - a phanfic
Wrote this as a contribution to the @phoreverhome_zine project (hence the short word count) Would recommend checking out the full zine here if you'd like to see some *adorable* UwU phanart
Inspired by Phorever Home: a Dan and Phil Phanzine by @Im_Not_OKei
Summary: Phil plans a surprise engagement during their vegas trip at the Bellagio hotel. Dan is head over heels, smitten, Phil Trash #1
Word Count: 667 words
Read on AO3 via the link below or keep scrolling to read on tumblr.
Part 1 - Reminiscing Dan POV
Dan stared ahead as the vocal stylings of Moses Sumney rang out, ‘ I just wanna make out in my car…’ Cornelia’s road trip playlist was impeccable; as he bopped along to the rapping of Martyn’s index fingers against the steering wheel, he could only wonder how Martyn managed to tap on-beat and drive without careening off the I-10 highway.
He turned to his right to look at Phil who was leaning against the headrest, eyebrows furrowed with his hand raised to his forehead. Despite Phil’s clear discomfort, Dan couldn’t help but smile: Phil had spent many road trips crouched in this same position during ‘ The Amazing Tour is Not On Fire ’. He reached into his backpack for the motion sickness kit he’d packed in anticipation of this.
Dan brushed his fingers lightly against Phil’s shoulder and felt his breath hitch in his throat once their eyes connected. The kit lay forgotten on his lap as Dan found himself transported to a memory…
'I think you're crazy,' he'd mumbled. ‘ For loving me, for being so perfectly you, for being here .’ were left unsaid.
'Bear,' had been Phil's simple, whispered response. But as Dan looked up into those grey-blue eyes, gazed upon that crooked smile, and stroked a finger along that slight stubble, he’d heard so much more.
‘Oh the kit!’ Phil exclaimed. Jarred back to the present, Dan removed a water bottle and crackers from the pack.
Phil held onto Dan’s hand as he accepted the items, ‘What would I do without you?’
But as Phil smiled that quirky smile, with his tongue poking out the side, Dan knew he was the one who would be lost without Phil.
~+~
Part 2 - The Proposal Phil POV
Phil had scarcely been able to concentrate despite the enthralling performance by the Cirque du Soleil. He’d been on edge since they’d arrived at the Bellagio, but tonight his anxiety was at its zenith. He fiddled with the velvet box in his pocket as he watched Dan walk ahead. He was gesturing wildly, deeply engaged in his conversation with Martyn. Phil couldn’t help but admire how well Dan filled out his retro biker jacket; the blue jacquard panels shimmered beautifully against his skin.
Phil felt a hand fall lightly on his elbow. ‘Hey, how are you feeling?’ asked Cornelia softly.
He leaned into her presence, lulled by the comforting tone of her voice. ‘Yeah uh,’ he replied, ‘just a little nerv
He watched Martyn lead Dan to the ‘ La Dolce Vita ’ display at the Bellagio’s conservatory, as planned. He felt his heart quicken and paused to take a breath as the dread started to build in that hauntingly familiar way. He was considering calling everything off when Cornelia squeezed his elbow and offered a warm smile of encouragement. Phil squeezed her arm in return and gave a firm nod.
Cornelia cued to the violinist in the corner as Phil approached Dan beneath the canopy of lemon tree branches on the East bed. As he kneeled, Phil focussed his thoughts on the faint smell of wisteria and citrus in the garden, the vibrant green of cypress trees, and the shocked face of the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
Phil reached for the small box in his pocket to reveal a modest sapphire ring. Dan gasped, ‘Is that violinist playing Toxic?!’
Phil chuckled, his nerves instantly dissipating.
‘You beat me to it,’ Dan complained, ‘I was planning to propose in Japan.’
Phil couldn’t help but feel smug at that, he’d suspected Dan would try to pull something like that on him. ‘Well, what do you say?’ he asked almost impatiently.
‘You, me, and eternity? That’s just ace.’
Only Dan could manage that intoxicating balance of beautiful and infuriating, Phil could feel the tears start to build as he rose and pulled his fiance into him. Their lips crashed and his hand reached instinctively for that spot on the small of Dan’s back, holding him dear.
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D.D.D. Dolce
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Okay guys we have a viral product!
Hi guys,
I’m so excited to write today's blog post because I have been trying to get my hands on this blush for a long time now! I have been following lots of beauty bloggers over the years who recommend this blusher in their tutorials which naturally meant I couldn’t find the shades anywhere since they were sold out all the time. Until today that is, who knew me going all the way to Brighton I would find the blush.
So today we are chatting about the Milani Baked Blush 01 Dolce Pink (£11.99). Now like I just mentioned so many bloggers have mentioned over the years how beautiful this blush looks on the skin. If you have never seen this blush before it's a baked formulated blush that gives your complexion a flush of colour and a beautiful glow. I picked up the shade Dolce Pink which is a gorgeous pink shimmer shade and on my face gives me a gorgeous healthy glow. These blushers are so pigmented that a little goes a long way and you can even build them up to get the exact pigment you want on your face.
I am so excited I finally got my hands on this blush because I have wanted to put it in my makeup kit so badly. It has definetley become my summer go to shade and like I mentioned a little goes a long way so this will last me a real long time. If you want to see the other shades available click the link above.
Lots of love
Bella x x
#Milani baked powder blush#blusher#blush#Milani cosmetics#powder blush#viral makeup#viral beauty#makeup#beauty#make up#photography#cosmetics#me#my photography#makeup blogger#makeup look#girl#blogger#blog#makeup blog#beauty blogger#beauty blog#makeup review#beauty review#new makeup#luxury beauty
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Character Intro: Philyra (Kingdom of Ichor)
Nicknames- Lyra by the others
Age- 18 (immortal)
Location- Shimmering Tail Island, Olympius
Personality- She loves & embraces all things related to traditional femininity. She has a taste for the finer things in life & can be a bit of a snob and uptight. She's also incredibly creative, passionate, sensual, and a true romantic at heart. She's currently dating.
As the goddess of paper, perfume, writing, & beauty, she has many abilities. These abilities include lexiconicy, papyrokinesis (to control/manipulate paper), melanokinesis (to control/manipulate ink), perfume manipulation (can use perfume for various effects- like healing), & being able to control/summon various writing tools like pens, pencils, quills, and brushes.
She's currently dating a merman named Nico. They first met at the Olympic Derby.
Lyra's main address is a mansion estate in the Queenstown district of New Olympus. She has an equally stunning backyard complete with a pool, her own personal waterfall, and various fountains which sprout up different perfumes. She also owns a beach house on Shimmering Tail Island as well as a penthouse in the Chant du Cygne neighborhood. She owns many pets such as parakeets, kinkajous, & capybaras. Lyra is known for hosting her fabulous yearly slumber parties.
She always starts off her mornings with yoga and a rose water bath.
Her go-to drink is a pink champagne margarita. She also likes a good cosmopolitan, a caramel latte, & a strawberry lassi.
Her favorite breakfast dishes she loves ordering are the eggs benedict with strawberry filled red velvet crepes, and coconut & cardamom pancakes. She also likes a bagel sandwich with eggs, turkey bacon, and mozzarella cheese from The Bread Box.
Lyra's businesses include the largest printing press in the country, a company which produces & manufactures paper and various writing implements. She has a chain of stationary stores called Charti & Melani. Her most well known business is a multinational retail store of personal care & beauty products- featuring well over 300 brands (including the brands of goddesses like Glory's Crown, Museology, Graces' Glam, Pure Muse, Studio Bloom, & Hot Intoxication) along with her own cosmetics label (which is also the store's namesake), Olmorfia. Olmorfia offers beauty products including cosmetics, skincare, body fragrance, nail color, beauty tools, body lotion, & hair care. She also writes for Glamgerous, Modern Olympus, Kythereia, and Regalia. Lyra's also a popular author of novels (her go-to genres being romantic tragedies, historical romance, and literary fiction.
Some of her favorite beauty & hair products to use include the Luxuria shimmering body oil, the sulfate-free rose water shampoo and the argan oil gloss spray from Glory's Crown, & her very own (Olmorfia) Think Pink makeup palette.
She loves smelling like different scents everyday. Some of the perfume goddess' popular perfumes & fragrance sprays include Dolce, Lavender Daydreams, Pretty in Pink, & Morning Dew.
Lyra even has her own collectible glamour dolls!
She has a collection of luxurious writing implements, but she likes writing with a quill feather and ink.
In the pantheon, Lyra's really good friends with Hera (goddess of women & marriage), Iris (goddess of the rainbow), Phaenna (goddess of jewels), Naeus (Hymenaeus) (god of weddings), Pothos (god of longing & yearning), Nerissa (goddess of jellyfish), The Graces, Pandaisia (goddess of banquets), Aeolus (god of wind), Chloris (goddess of flowers), Antheia (goddess of swamps, vegetation, & floral wreaths), The Muses (especially Calliope, Melpomene, Erato, & Clio), Móda (goddess of fashion), Aoide (goddess of voice & song), Eos (Titaness of dawn), Panacea (goddess of universal remedy), Peitho (goddess of persuasion & sensuality), and Eupraxia (goddess of well-being & success). There's a "frenemy" relationship between her & Aphrodite (goddess of love & beauty). She greatly admires Theia (Titaness of sight & heavenly light). Lyra thinks that The Hesperides are a bunch of floozy gossips.
Lyra used to have crushes on Astraeus (Titan god of dusk), Nomos (god of laws), and Helios (Titan god of the sun).
As for romantic relationships, Lyra once drunkenly made out with Poseidon (god of the sea & earthquakes). She used to be in love with Hymenaeus, but would always get too nervous to tell him how she really felt about him. Her feelings & thoughts often became poems and short stories. One night when Naeus came over to hang out, she was about to admit her feelings when he started lamenting about his secret feelings for Hera.
She's an avid lover of romantic dramas & comedies!
In her free time, she loves working on her fragrances & cosmetics, doing ballet, reading, writing, surfing, sunbathing, dining out, shopping, getting her nails done, working on her art (in particular her ink paintings!), and going to the spa.
Lyra's favorite meals include chapati with spiced curry, pakora, moussaka, and inji rasam.
"Beauty needs to be cultivated and cared for."
#my oc#my oc character#my character#oc character#oc intro#character intro#oc introduction#character introduction#modern greek gods#modern greek mythology#greek myth retellings#greek goddess#greek goddesses#greek mythology#greek pantheon
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Waiting:
Fragmented glass, specks
shimmer on stems of grass
incoherent and beginning to blight
the flowers of my heart cease to fight
so accustomed a breeze
of breathe whispered to my lungs
now asphyxiate in waiting
Waiting for Tyche
to entertain these intimate thoughts
a necessity to know
if you're no longer mine
my hearts sweetest desire:
il mio cure più dolce desiderio
bello bello
ti aspettero
Come to me, mon amour
we perpetually presumed
together me and you
and now I sit in the mossy dew
waiting for you
bello bello,
i love you too.
~ Mon Cherie (2016)
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LOTD: Natasha Denona I Need A Nude Lipstick in 11NB Natasha with Dior Addict Lip Maximizer in 067 Shimmer Rose Gold. #Scentoftheday Dolce Violet EDT by Dolce & Gabbana.
#christian dior#dior#natasha denona#lipstick#makeup#cosmetics#beauty#limited edition#bbloggers#pink haired princess
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Sparkles and voluminous fashion ruled on the Oscars 2024 red carpet
Emma Stone
Zendaya, Margot Robbie, and Emily Blunt were among the stars wearing sparkling outfits on the Oscars 2024 red carpet.
The Oscars' shimmering theme was fitting, but no single trend dominated celebrity attire.
Stars sparkled in black and pink at the event, including actress Margot Robbie in a surprise black dress.
Margot Robbie
Her shimmering strapless outfit was straight off Versace's Milan Fashion Week runway. Robbie opted for a subtle look, recreating Barbie outfits on the red carpet over the past year.
Dune: Part Two star Zendaya wore an iridescent purple dress from Armani Prive, which had a black sparkling bodice and palm tree-inspired detailing.
Emily Blunt
Emily Blunt, nominated for the supporting actress gong for her role in Oppenheimer, wore a fashion label that has dominated the red carpet for this awards season: Schiaparelli.
The Italian fashion house is known for polished, surreal designs. Blunt's sparkling outfit had structured straps and cheeky Y-fronts. It was paired with Tiffany & Co. jewelry.
America Ferrera
Barbie star America Ferrera wore a pink chainmail Versace gown, similar to Margot Robbie's.
Moreover, while Robbie's outfit had a vintage look, Ferrera's outfit was custom-made.
Florence Pugh
Florence Pugh wore Del Core, a new Milanese label, to the Oscars, among big fashion houses.
The bedazzled architectural bodice of the gown was matched perfectly by the statement snake-style Bulgari necklace.
Emma Stone
Emma Stone was one of the celebrities who opted against sparkles on the red carpet.
Her awards season fashion has been heavily inspired by the 18th-century costuming of her character Bella Baxter in Poor Things, which has earned her a nomination for the best actress gong.
Her Oscars outfit was no different: a pale green strapless dress with dramatic peplum detailing and a light brocade pattern. Fresh off attending Louis Vuitton's star-studded Paris Fashion Week show last Tuesday, Stone again chose a custom look from the French label.
Cynthia Erivo
Stone was not the only star in Louis Vuitton – Cynthia Erivo seemed to be channeling her character Elphaba in the upcoming film Wicked. Her leather-look green Oscar gown had sculptural statement shoulders, with ruffled fabric strings hanging behind her.
Ariana Grande
Erivo's Wicked co-star, Ariana Grande, also seemed inspired by her character in the film, Glinda.
She wore a pastel pink Giambattista Valli Haute Couture gown with puffy sleeves and a long train.
Anya Taylor-Joy
Anya Taylor-Joy wore a Dior gown referencing the famous 'Junon' dress designed by Christian Dior in 1949.
The original gown had a white bodice and a voluminous skirt of heavily beaded 'petals.' Additionally, Taylor-Joy's outfit had similar petal detailing on the dress, with a few key differences – the overall color was more silvery grey, and the petals were more minor, making for a column-style silhouette.
Jennifer Lawrence
Jennifer Lawrence wore a polka dot strapless dress by Dior, one of the few patterned looks at the event.
Kirsten Dunst
Actress Kirsten Dunst channeled Nineties minimalism in her all-white outfit. The Gucci gown had a square neckline, low back, spaghetti straps, bold red lips, and loose hair.
Dunst is getting close to Gucci. She attended their Milan Fashion Week show.
Danielle Brooks
Nominated for best supporting actress for her role in The Color Purple, Danielle Brooks wore a timeless all-black Dolce & Gabbana look.
The strapless gown had silver detailing on the bodice, a thigh-high leg slit, and a dramatic bow with a train.
Lupita Nyong'o, who 2014 won the Best Supporting Actress award for her role in 12 Years an Enslaved Person, wore a sparkling lilac gown with feather detailing from Armani Prive.
The pastel color and deep-V neckline almost felt reminiscent of the pale blue Prada gown she wore to the 2014 Oscars.
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