#Bespoke Hair Highlights

[herespaaa]

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[somecleverreference]

Hi my name is Count Doctor Hannibal Lecter VIII M.D. im a cannibal (that’s how I got my name) and I have shiny brown hair with gold streaks and silver tips that reaches my mid-neck and maroon eyes that reflect red pinpoints like limpid blood and a lot of people tell me I look like Sandro Botticelli (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Lady Murasaki but I wish I was because she’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a cannibal but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale golden skin. I’m also a doctor, and I own a psychiatric practice in Baltimore where I help my patients (I’m forty-seven). I’m an aristocrat (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly brown. I love Garrison Bespoke and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a brown plaid suit with a matching silk pocket square and a blue paisley tie, blue socks and brown oxfords. I was wearing pink lipstick, beige foundation, gold highlighter and concealer on my eyebrows. I was walking outside the BSHCI. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of fbi agents stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

[queenvhagar]

How much does anyone wanna bet that they've waited so long to mention Daeron so they can make him an Alicole bastard in the show to highlight the "hypocrisy" of the Greens despite this being his description in the book (which apparently is *obviously* just propaganda written to slander Rhaenyra and nobody had eyes that worked/everyone's collective memory failed/everyone without consulting each other just agreed to lie about this specific important detail of a key player during the dance for some reason):

"Whatever the truth of these tales, it was soon announced that the princess [Rhaenyra] was with child. Born in the waning days of 114 AC, the boy was a large, strapping lad, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a pug nose. (Ser Laenor had the aquiline nose, silver-white hair, and purple eyes that bespoke his Valyrian blood.) Laenor's wish to name the child Joffrey was overruled by his father, Lord Corlys. Instead the child was given a traditional Velaryon name: Jacaerys (friends and brothers would call him Jace).

The court was still rejoicing over the birth of the princess' child when her stepmother, Queen Alicent, also went into labor, delivering Viserys his third son, Daeron... whose coloring, unlike that of Jace, testified to his dragon blood" p. 373-374, Heirs of the Dragon - A Question of Succession, Fire and Blood).

[agentnatesewell]

tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade. 

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed. 

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.” 

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil. 

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest. 

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer. 

“Barbie?” 

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.  

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention. 

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.” 

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete  at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone. 

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.” 

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.” 

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?” 

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.” 

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost. 

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage” 

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually. 

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle. 

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath. 

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.” 

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up. 

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.” 

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine. 

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers. 

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.  

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance. 

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth. 

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.” 

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?” 

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction. 

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.” 

“Wait! One more!” 

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree. 

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.” 

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart. 

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.” 

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”  

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.” 

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition. 

It gives her an idea. 

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax.  A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.  

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him. 

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”   

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home. 

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake. 

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach. 

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?” 

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.” 

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him. 

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.” 

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer. 

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.” 

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.” 

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.” 

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition. 

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.” 

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.” 

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.” 

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.” 

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge. 

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck. 

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything. 

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?” 

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.” 

~

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

[tequila-solar-storm]

Mild NS/FW

Hoping gor the NPC yapfest as long as it'll be about ajaw lore xD honestly I did quiet enjoy Cyno's story quest 2 so I won't complain if we get smth like that!! Also enjou being in Kinich's tribal chronicle felt like a deliberate choice?? I dunno they could have thrown him in an event but thay picked that specific quest. (Btw I forgot to say this but "Masochist on masochist communication" made me laugh xD enjou reappearing and interacting with kinich was such a nice highlight haha)

I did lose my 50/50s 5 times in a row so I'd understand Ajaw's pain lmaoo all this talking about their kiddos makes me want to draw them lol, if I ever do that may I send em your way??

Can't blame the people who enjoy danger!! And Kinich's pretty sleeping face might be worth some sacrifices........

—🌻

Previous Post (Ajaw and Kinich’s contract, Piercings)

Previous Post (Kinich/Ajaw children, Somnophilia)

Woke: Show someone you think they’re neat by giving them a cookie

Bespoke: Show someone you think they’re neat by opening a portal through their phone and bashing a cookie into their face

JOKES ASIDE response below the cut!

The Cyno SQ 2 had some flaws but otherwise it’s really solid!! A perfect 8/10!! With an extra point added because I love Sethos HAHA

It’ll be great if the NPC in question is our beloved masochist Enjou/Sanka! I can’t decide what I like more; Enjou yapping to the Traveller about Ajaw lore as they chase him around Natlan or Enjou and Ajaw bickering for 2 hours straight. Either way I’m playing it the moment it gets released!

OOF you lost 50/50 that many times?? That’s so rough 😭 Here’s to you getting your next 5 star with a 10 pull and no pity 😤😤!!!

Ajaw’s always delusional HAHA it’ll take a lot to wake him up from it! And Kinich family!! They definitely deserve all the happiness and Mora!! I’d LOVE to see your take on the Ajaw/Kinich kids if you do draw them!! You can either post it on your own blog and send me the link, or send it through asks if you want to remain anonymous!!

Now I’m trying to picture them as well. They’re obviously going to have Kinich’s beautiful eyes, his eyelashes too, and of course, melanin. I don’t have a strong mental image of human Ajaw for now, so maybe green hair? An awesome pair of sunglasses? Yellow clothes?

Talking about kids, imagine Kachina getting her piercing as a birthday gift! Like when she turns older Mualani goes ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIME TO GET PIERCED’ and Kachina’s super excited because she’s been waiting for it!!

Regarding the tongue piercing, it’ll catch SO many people off guard. The first time kissing him is like WOOP! METAL! Or if they skipped the foreplay and he’s giving them head their dick will suddenly be graced by this cold thing HAHA

Kinich’s so pretty of course risking one’s dick to play with him when he’s asleep is worth it! Just make sure to buy medical insurance beforehand!! Actually does Natlan even have insurance…

[safarigirlsp]

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.”

*******************************************************************************************

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.

*******************************************************************************************

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.

*******************************************************************************************

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.

*******************************************************************************************

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.

*******************************************************************************************

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!”

*******************************************************************************************

To be continued…

*******************************************************************************************

© 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

[miasmaghoul]

We always say forced fem Dew or forced fem Rain. What about forced fem Swiss?

Rain getting him all dolled up in lingerie and and telling him how much he loves his tits

Rains the only one allowed to see Swiss dolled up like this

(Plus maybe some titfucking pretty please x)

sooooo this is maybe not entirely what you asked for, but only because i think we all know Swiss would fuckin ROCK lingerie.

as such...role reversal ahoy!

Rain stares wide-eyed at the ghoul before him, blunt nails digging into his own knees.

This is not how he expected things to go when he bullied Swiss into his room. When he gestured at the...he supposed it could be called an outfit, laid out on his bed in invitation. He'd expected Swiss to balk at the idea, to act the way Rain's used to when he instigates these situations with others. Ashamed. Shy. He'd expected Swiss to flush dark, to swallow hard and squirm a little. To cringe at Rain's razor-sharp words and try to hide behind his own arms.

Instead,

"Damn I look good," Swiss lilts, his back to Rain's full-length mirror while he peers over his own shoulder, wiggling his hips. He winks at Rain in their shared reflection, gives him a filthy smirk. "You were right, this is my color."

To be fair, Swiss isn't wrong. He's a vision in pale pink, somehow making the cheap lingerie Rain keeps for these occasions look like something bespoke. Less five dollar hooker and more high-end escort.

The thigh-high stockings hug Swiss's muscular calves and thighs like a second skin, held in place by a lace garter belt that digs into the soft spots at his hips. The shiny sateen of his panties strains where it's stretched over the delicious curve of his ass, over the thick outline of his gradually swelling cock. Rain can make out the pronounced ridge of the head already, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to seeing Swiss soak a nice wet spot into the fabric. It's all capped off with a lacy bralette, one that hugs the gentle swell of Swiss's chest in a way that Rain really hadn't anticipated.

There's a lot about this he hadn't anticipated.

The way this particular shade of pink stands out against Swiss's dark skin, for one. The way Swiss can't stop admiring himself, turning every which way to watch the fabrics shift. The way he cant stop running those large hands over his exposed stomach, the tops of his thighs, the slight curve of his waist. The way he keeps cupping and squeezing his -

"If I knew my rack would look so good I'd have tried one of these things on sooner."

Rain tries to hold in his groan, he really does, but the sway of Swiss's chest is simply too powerful. The floral lace holds him perfectly, gives him something approaching cleavage. It shouldn't, Swiss isn't as thick there as Ifrit or Aether, and yet Rain can't take his eyes off of the perfectly palm-sized mounds the garment highlights.

And then there's the matter of Swiss's chest hair.

All of his hair, really, but his chest in particular seems to be doing Rain's head in. There's certainly something to be said for the dusting of it over his stomach, and for the entrancing line of his happy trail. For the place where it disappears into the waistband of his panties. Even the hair on his thighs draws Rain's gaze, but his chest...

"You're drooling," Swiss teases, a knowing look on his chiseled face. He drags his fingers through the dark, dense thatch of hair in the center of his chest and Rain's cock visibly throbs against his zipper. "My tits really got you that worked up?" The words makes his balls ache, and when Rain growls low in his throat he hates how reedy it sounds.

"Shut your mouth," he rasps, licking at already wet lips, but the other ghoul simply snorts in amusement. The words might have sounded more threatening if Rain's cheeks weren't as pink as Swiss's lingerie.

Swiss turns from the mirror and starts a slow, deliberate saunter to where Rain sits at the edge of the mattress. Languid movements that accentuate the sway of those incredible hips, the stunning length of his legs, the pull of his garters.

"You don't really want that, do you starfish?" Swiss stands before him now, stance wide, dragging one hand from his prominent bulge and up to his chest. "If you did," Swiss leans down and looks him in the eye, gives him a terrible little smile, "you'd shut me up yourself."

Rain chews the inside of his cheek. He does want to shut Swiss up. Wants to reach out and grab at those taut straps of elastic. To snap them with more than a little force against Swiss's muscular thighs, maybe leave some nice red welts that he could chase with sharp nips of his fangs. Suck some deep, dark purple marks into tender flesh, get Swiss twisting and writhing with it.

He only makes it as far as laying shaky hands on those stockinged thighs. Swiss makes an amused sound and Rain shivers in spite of himself, his usual rock-solid control slipping trough his trembling fingers like so much fine sand. He can feel himself leaking copiously into his boxers already, and all he can focus on is that fucking chest.

"You're awfully quiet all of a sudden," Swiss points out, draping his arms around Rain's neck with a lazy grin. "Shouldn't you be calling me a slut or something by now? Isn't that how this goes?"

Rain wishes he could get his tongue to do anything but sit useless in his mouth.

It's true, he wants to bite with his words as much as his fangs. Wants to sink his teeth into Swiss's mind, to find his softest spots and tear them open with all the honey-toned cruelty he can muster. Wants to see those golden eyes and thick lashes glisten with hot, shameful tears. Wants the other ghoul to crack down the center and beg for Rain to treat him like nothing but an object. He wants it to go the way it does when he has Dewdrop and Mountain like this - the way it's supposed to go.

Swiss straddles his thighs, grinds down against him like a stripper trying to make rent, and Rain has the dizzying realization that he's made a grave miscalculation.

He should know by now that things never go the way they should when Swiss is involved.

Rain groans low in his throat, wraps a long arm around Swiss's waist, relishing the feel of warm skin beneath his fingertips. He ruts against the other ghoul's ass with definite urgency and above him Swiss huffs out a soft laugh.

"Someone's needy," he says with another grind, threading strong fingers into Rain's soft curls. Rain snarls with all the ferocity of a mewling kitten and Swiss offers a playful smirk. "C'mon Rainy," he coos, saccharine, "don't you wanna treat me like the whore I am?"

Swiss leans forward, pulls Rain's face to his chest, and Rain's remaining composure crumbles to dust. He nuzzles Swiss's pecs like a cat, the scratch of that coarse hair against his cheek doing nothing to help the urgent ache between his legs. He holds Swiss close and looses a low rumble, pulling back just enough to mouth at the meat of his chest.

"On the bed," he manages after a minute, far more pleading that he wants the order to sound. He can feel his own drool slicking his chin. "On your back."

Swiss hums, low, rubs himself against Rain's face one last time just to hear the strangled sound he makes. Rain flushes darker with it, he can feel the heat in his face, but he hardly cares. Not when Swiss slides from his lap with a dancer's elegance, dragging callused fingers along the cut of his jaw.

Rain chases the touch, unable to tear his eyes from the lines of the other ghoul's body as he crawls up the mattress. He settles against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, and when Swiss spreads his legs it takes every single drop of Rain's remaining self control to not fling himself between them.

Instead, he climbs up hurriedly after Swiss with as much dignity as he can muster, despite the drool on his face and the beyond obvious wet spot on his jeans. He straddles those stupid hips in one fluid motion and immediately gets hands on Swiss's chest, giving those luscious handfuls a firm squeeze. Swiss offers an exaggerated moan, arching up into the touch in a way that makes Rain's head spin, makes his own hips stutter forward.

"You're really into my tits, aren't you?"

Rain nods distractedly, rutting against Swiss's belly. He presses inwards, squishes the soft flesh together to see the way it moves. He tangles long fingers into that nest of hair with a thready sigh, biting his lip, and Swiss's eyes darken.

"You wanna fuck 'em?"

The question his Rain like a truck, a flare of heat in his gut that wrenches a pained sound from his throat. He squeezes hard and Swiss gives him a wicked smile, fangs poking out over his lower lip. Rain's mouth feels so incredibly dry.

It's something he hadn't even considered, but the second the words sink their claws into his mind Rain can't think of anything he wants more. He wants to see his cock sandwiched between Swiss's lace-clad pecs, to feel that coarse hair and fabric against his shaft. Wants to watch himself leak into it, get Swiss's skin all slick and shiny.

Wants to paint those sweet tits with his own mess and then lick up every last drop.

"Now who's the slut?" Swiss's words drip with lust, and Rain realizes far too late that he said all of that out loud. If only he could bring himself to care.

"Touch them," he huffs, hastily moving to pull his dick out with shivery fingers. "Play with them." Swiss, for once, deigns to listen.

"Go ahead," he says, and Rain chokes on nothing as he watches Swiss pluck at his nipples through the bralette. He slaps the wet, red tip of his cock against Swiss's stomach and they both gasp. "Want you to get 'em all messy."

Rain wastes no time, shuffling forward to cage Swiss between his thighs. He gives himself a firm stroke, milking out a bead of pre and letting it drip onto the lace below. He lifts the band of the bralette just enough to slide his impossibly stiff length beneath it, and the sensation is exquisite.

The lace is tight and rough. Rain hisses at the drag of it, at the rasp of Swiss's hair against the entirely too sensitive underside. It all feels far better than it has any right to, and Rain's shaking by the time he's fully seated between them. Panting and hot, Rain bats Swiss's hands out of the way and grabs at his chest, gropes with needy fingers.

"Knew you'd like it," the other ghoul sing-songs, clearly amused. "C'mon, show me what a pretty girl I am."

Rain gurgles at the words, flinches like he's been hit. Swiss lays his hands over Rain's without prompting, presses that soft flesh around his shaft, and Rain shudders at the sight. He rolls his hips just once, a slow back-and-forth; a blurt of pre pours from the slit, drools into the hollow of Swiss's throat, and, well, it's simply too much.

Rain grunts with every short, wet thrust between Swiss's tits, greedy little humps that fill the room with filthy sounds. His hands feel tiny where they sit under Swiss's, and for as desperate as he feels Swiss look as cool as can be. His grin widens when Rain's thighs start to shake.

"You're cute like this," he taunts, squeezing hard enough to have Rain gasping through clenched teeth. "Should dress up for you more often."

Rain whimpers and feels all the more pathetic for it. But he can't stop, can't so much as slow the urgent snaps of his hips. He's leaking constantly now, more and more sticky streaks coating Swiss's chest with each passing minute.

"That's right, just like that," Swiss encourages, eyes sparkling. "Gimme a nice pearl necklace to go with my outfit."

Rain bites his tongue so hard he tastes copper.

[dabblingreturns]

I have seen alot of really good analysis of caviler being a gender....rather than a job....and the fetishiasion of cavilers by necromancers like cytherea.

And with that in mind, there is something a bit heartbreaking about the dinner party scene in Gideon the Ninth.

Image: [highlighted text from chapter 15 of Gideon the ninth. "“This is going to be a weird question,” said Jeannemary. Gideon dropped her arm and tilted her head quizzically. A little bit of blood drained from the teen’s face, and Gideon almost felt sorry for her.....“Ninth … how big are your biceps?” It seemed to be long after Gideon was forced to supinate and flex at the whim of a teenage girl"]

Followed up by this exchange

Image: [highlighted text from chapter 15 of Gideon the ninth. "Gideon looked. Isaac and Jeannemary were standing close to the table, Jeannemary’s sleeves pulled down to reveal her biceps. They were the muscles of an athletic and determined fourteen-year-old, which was to say, unripped but full of potential; her floppy-haired teen-in-crime was wearily measuring them with his hands as they carried on a conversation in whispers— (“I told you so.” “Yours are fine?” “Isaac.” “It’s not like this is a bicep competition?” “Dumbest thing you ever said?”)"]

It's a funny conversation....except when you relize that it's a 14 year old comparing thier body to their older peers and finding thier own bodies to be wanting....Gideons thought that Jeannemary's biceps are "unripe but full of potential" is a much better response, even though it's unspoken...then Isaac's "it's not like its a biceps competition"...because that's not calming down Jeannemary's worry about her body.

And its not like other cavs font have wierd body stuff going on too

Colums body is bespoke, it's not a fighters body...but it is optimized for his duty as a cav. And I bet all the cav's (except gideon) are aware of that.

Naberius and Protessalous are both ripped. Protessalous to an unsettling extent.

Camilla physique isn't notable, but her skills are and her body is a wepon of war in service to herself and her family.

And Marta exact shape is hidden under some nice tailoring, But I assume it's honed by training and battle.

Magnus has a dadbod...but Abigail likes his dadbod....and Magnus never was a traditional caviler.

Jeannemary is looking all around, trying to figure out what shape society wants her body to be. And freaking out as it doesn't quite match up. It's understandable, but also tragic

And the cav who is closest in age to Jeannemary, and to whom Jeannemary looks up to, just happens to possess some of the best biceps in the nine house.

It's enough to give a poor cav a complex.

[arc-77]

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE ? In armor, ozone. Blasterfire. Gunpowder. Light dusting of oil and acrid smoke. Out of armor, shaving product. Natural male pheromone. If he's been out in the wilderness, also a little campfire smoke, and a brushing of the local flora (e.g. pine).

WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE ? Not as calloused as they ultimately could be. He does not engage in the kind of repetitive tasks that would lead to them save for weight training, but proper form minimizes their development. In verses where he settles down, they develop more callousing as he spends time taking care of the homestead. In verses where he has cybernetics, they're covered in synthflesh unless battle-damaged.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY ? The entire contents of a 24 hour ration packet if he has the opportunity to sit down and heat things up. If not, a simpler ration designed for consumption while closer to combat. Cuberats if really pressed. If he's not in a war zone and he doesn't need the calories he'll eat less ration components and substitute whatever the base is offering, or other local food. In a home environment he eats a lot of eggs, bacon, waffles, etc. breakfast food.

Alpha-Class ARCs have big appetites. If you serve it, they will eat.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE ? It's not deliberately trained, but he can sing decently enough. He knows a selection of trail, folk, shanties, and Mandalorian songs by heart. You may hear him hum or quietly sing them while going about his business.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICKS ? Generally he's keen on identifying these sorts of things about himself and shaving them away, so that he may be all the "better" an individual. If he is to survive and lead he needs to diminish all the flaws or weaknesses within his control, so it frustrates him when one sticks around.

To this end he is often prone to overworking himself. Long hours, not enough sleep. He needs to give himself a break more often.

As for other bad habits, well. In much later years in the main timeline he's prone to... violence. Murder. If he's at a cantina and somebody bothers him or says something he doesn't like, he'll shoot them, or bash their head into the bar. There's always a provocation in his mind, it's never for no reason or against innocent bystanders, but it's reckless and unnecessary behavior that he's stopped giving a shit about holding back. And why should he? He's invincible. No law enforcement or bounty hunter in the New Republic could take him down. He's freer that he's ever been and he can finally afford to give in to these urges and make these mistakes.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE / WEAR ? The grand majority of people only see him in his armor. Outside of that, rugged clothing befitting of ranch work or hiking. Boots. Sturdy jackets, jeans, and button up shirts or their GFFA equivalent. In a city environment, dark colors with red highlights. Leather.

He keeps his facial hair cleanly trimmed, only letting their hair on his chin grow out in long established home settings. Greying at the temples. Standard Jango Hair.

IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE ? HOW SO ? He lives a touch-starved life, so once he likes and is comfortable being around someone, he can be surprisingly heavy on the physical-contact. Loves to sit or lay with his partner, play with their hair/lekku, have them run fingers through his hair. Very cat-like.

Love languages aren't real but Fordo is a gift giver. He finds or creates bespoke objects for people he likes. Woodcarvings, knives/tools, modified blasters. He figures out what they need or could use and gets them something special.

WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN ? He's a back sleeper, but he's learned not to be picky. The battlefield necessitates getting all the rest you can wherever you can, so just as often he's in a sitting position. In a safe home environment he would fall asleep in a dad recliner, but not by accident.

COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM ? It depends. Due to spending so much time in armor, he's learned how to minimize the clacking it makes, which means when he's out of his armor he moves silently like a cat. In the armor, you may still hear him. Later on he acquires sound dampening field technology that nullifies the sound of even his heaviest armor completely.

Speaking wise, likely not. He is careful about maintaining the right level of volume when walking and talking with someone, especially if the matter is private. If saluted, he generally acknowledges non-verbally.

tagged by: @donutdollie (Thank you!) tagging: @iconaclysm @reachfalls @mandogold

[shariefaerie]

Ranking the doll lines I collect

I was rearranging some of my dolls last night and got to thinking about between all the lines I collect, how I rank them in order of favorites. so I decided to do that! As a disclaimer this is going to be 100% biased and completely based on my own preferences, so don't be mad if your favorite is my least (and I mean least in the relative sense, since I still like them and collect them actively)

Im not counting lines I only have 1 or 2 dolls from, so LPS Blythe and OMG Fierce won't be ranked, I'm also not going to count animal figures, so LPS and the LOL pets are out, they're just not dolls! along the same I'm also not going to count the lil' sisters, they're technically dolls sure but they're tiny and don't really have any fashion elements.

I'll also be spliting lines into separate collections based on how I view them personally, which may be quite arbitrary. for example monster high g1 and g3 will be counted separately. as well as LOL OMG and the Tweens, but I'm ranking bratz 2001 and 2010 the same.

Last note, the images I include aren't all full collections, just some highlights.

So before I get to ranking them these are the lines I'm considering:

Monster High g1

Monster High g3

Bratz

Cave Club

Rainbow High

Shadow High

Pinkie Cooper

LOL Surprise

LOL Tweens

LOL OMG

Now onto the ranking!

Coming in at number 10 is Cave Club!

I will start out by saying these dolls have my absolute FAVORITE body mold, the thick legs are everything. I love their whole concept, but the poly hair, cheap fabric fashions, and color island accessories really lessen them to me. I didn't actually intent to collect these dolls, but I found the entire first line at goodwill for 8 bucks and decided to take a chance. Overall I'm very happy I did, they have a lot of potential I wish they'd lived up to. maybe some day I'll reroot them all and give them bespoke outfits, maybe.

Number 9 is Monster High g1!

This is what I think may be controversial, but since getting into g3 and comparing them to other dolls of the same style I have, there's a lot they lack for me. I love the array of characters, the unique theme-ing, and I have a lot of appreciation for what they did for the fashion doll industry overall, but they do have a lot of classic mattel issues. For one their bodies are soooo fragile and if you have one of the coveted GoLd ElAsTiC bodies good luck getting it to hold a pose ever, at all. the later releases did fix that but even then the fashions have always been pretty cheaply made and the glue seepage issue... speaks for itself. They do have a special place in my heart, but I would burn them all in a heartbeat to save some other entries on this list...

Number 8 is LOL Surprise!

These dolls are fully plastic, 90% of the time are Surprise packaged (who would have guessed????) and their articulation is bad, yes I know they're tiny, I don't expect knees elbows wrists from them, but they literally, cannot, sit. Those are my only complaints! I love their adorable little styles, they're just so darling to me! their little color change and water features I think also help make up for some of their faults as well, not because I use them at all, but I really appreciate the thought that went into the designs and the secret designs that appear with color change. it adds a lot to the play value. and part of what I appreciate about doll lines is how much they consider the play value to their main demographic, kids. (looking at you, Barbara color reveal)

Number 7 is Pinkie Cooper!

Oh Pinkie, you flew too close to the sun, the world just wasn't ready for you. They're so darling, the body blushing is such a lovely touch, but their fashions just never really landed for me, they were quite floofy. They would make an amazing come back, I think the world is ready now, bring me the dog dolls.

Number 6 is our queen Rainbow High!

Whaaaat??? I'm also surprised to see them so far down the list, but despite their amazing articulation, attention to details, fashions, and GORGEOUS INSET EYES, I think im just a bit tired of the monochrome look, purple hair... purple dress.... ground breaking.

Number 5, middle of the list! It's LOL Tweens.

At this point going forward the margin of favoritism between lines is VERY thin. i absolutely love the tweens, their styles are amazing, the quality is top tier. they're almost perfect, but they are quite a bit smaller than other dolls, so sharing their clothes is hard!

Number 4 is Monster High g3

The Monster High team took all the g1 issues into account when designing these, and came out with some fantastic dolls. Their bodies are more substantial than the g1s, the body diversity is better too, though I wish Draculaura was actually plus sized, since people decided to be mad about her anyways. Now I specifically said the Monster High team learned from g1, not Mattel, as they unfortunately suffer from some pretty bad mattel-isms. Several characters have poly hair and their fabric quality is still noticeably cheap, I also have opinions on g3 clawdeen, but I'll get into those later at some point, and no it's not about how she's "not a Fierce lesbian" anymore before anyone gets it twisted. (ok ill get into it now, it's gross they gave her poly hair and I think her design got focus grouped waaaaaayyyyy too much and she's not got much of a personality in her design anymore. shes very cute! I just wish they'd committed better.)

Oh also these are the dolls I'd burn g1 for, sorry but g3 does have my heart.

Number 3! LOL OMG

what can I say about these gorgeous ladies that hasn't been said? the fashions are top notch, they commit SO HARD to every theme, and they consistently make stunning, gorgeous, amazing women, no notes. Okay 1 note, miss direct was... a choice. if they had better knee articulation they'd probably be even higher, but their click knees are a bit of a joke.

NUMBER 2 electric boogaloo SHADOW HIGH!

Now these are everything Rainbow High is on its best day AND MORE, it's hard to put into words how much I love these ladies. the faces, fashions, EVERYTHING. They've has 0 flops, 0 misses, and they just keep getting better and better. in fact there was only one thing keeping them from number 1, and of course that thing is....

NOSTALGIA!

Meaning my number 1 is of course the BRATZ!!!

OOOOOH, BRATZ! listen nobody has ever done it like they do, they ran barbie over in the FM cruiser and walked so monster high could run (who then in turn was overtaken by shadow high, nature is beautiful) The fashions, faces, shit ton of characters, and my mom not letting me have them making them the forbidden desire I held for so long, makes them my number 1 doll line. If I could only collect one line it would be them. Sure their articulation is terrible, and none of their rebrand were particularly successful, but they are and will always be everything to me.

wow, that's a lot of words! if you made it through this post. thanks for reading, id love to see anyone else's collection rankings, how do you feel about mine? Do you agree? Do you disagree? Do you feel burning rage at me for where I put your favorite line? Let me know, or don't, I'm fragile.

[inanthesis]

sense  and  other  specific  headcanons

I will take any and all rare opportunities I get to talk about this bitch so let's go.

what does your muse smell like ? above all else Daisuke smells like an expensive cologne any normal person would pass out at the price of that has a woody scent with notes of exotic flora. it's pleasant on the nose and blends nicely with the high grade tobacco from his imported cigars and and the scent of leather from his bespoke accessories.

what do your muse’s hands feel like ? not as soft as one would expect from a blue blood who isn't often seen getting his hands dirty. years of boxing despite the great care he's put into his hands has left them rougher than he'd like and the burn scar covering a great deal of his right palm still feels tight and hard as it's only recently healed.

what does your muse usually eat in a day ? his breakfast for the most part is always determined by Suzue or his private chef and varies with whatever fresh ingredients are available. lunch can also be quite varied as during lunch he is often at work or out in the field with his partner who isn't inclined to want to visit a fancy restaurant and has tainted Daisuke's diet with konbini staples such as cheap sandos, instant ramen, and onigiri. dinner is when he'd prefer to lean into his expensive taste and make reservations at a high class restaurant, but if his partner invites him over or he feels inclined to show up on the man's doorstep, Haru's home-cooked dinner is his favorite every time.

does your muse have a good singing voice ? yes. along with his classical training in piano he had growing up he always enjoyed singing with his mother and has a lovely, deep voice.

does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks ? smoking and drinking. the smoking is self-explanatory as he always keeps cigars on his person and used to partake in other recreational substances but he did develop a drinking problem and turns to alcohol to cope with his turbulent emotions and trauma.

what does your muse usually look like/wear ? Daisuke will almost always be seen in dark, bespoke suits from designers only the ultra wealthy would recognize. none of those tacky luxury brands with names splashed all over their product that the average millionaire finds attractive, he's always put together in tailored outfits perfectly suited to his frame that compliment his handsome appearance. He also will always have his hair slicked back neatly when he's out with a bit of subtle makeup to highlight his baby blue eyes and hide any imperfections on his face as he is rather shallow and cares a lot about his appearance.

is your muse affectionate ?  how so ? nope, at least not toward just anyone. Daisuke is man who has always kept himself at a distance from others both physically and emotionally outside of a fling here and there. The only people who will ever experience his affection in any way, shape, or form will be Suzue and Haru but even with the former he still keeps a polite distance.

what position does your muse sleep in ? most of the time he sleeps in a fetal position, curled up under his covers to shut out the world as he only really sleeps once he's crashing after unhealthily long hours awake. nightmares and negative thoughts have plagued his sleep for twenty years and he's always found himself restless at night.

could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room ? nope. Daisuke isn't one to raise his voice much, most often speaking in a cool, calm demeanor. it's only if he really gets riled up you may be able to hear him shouting from another room but you're more likely in those instances to hear the yell of pain from whoever pissed him off because he's not shy about throwing a punch if he feels it's deserved.

tagged by: @primegrim tagging: steal it idk i'm ill atm

[shiffa-glamgo0]

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[coachkimmyyt]

The Basics of Color Theory Every Stylist Should Know - PART ONE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RIJkkY0628 Click Here To Subscribe https://youtube.com/@coach-kimmy Master Hair Colorist Shares Top Techniques for 2024! Unlock the secrets of master color theorists and take your hair styling skills to the next level! In this video, I’ll be diving into the world of color theory and sharing expert tips and tricks to help you create stunning, bespoke hair colors that will leave your clients speechless. So, what are you waiting for? Let's dive in and discover the secrets of master color theorists! #colortheory #haircolor #colormixing #colorist #hairtoner 🔔 *Turn on notifications* so you never miss a video! 👍 *Like* this video if you found it helpful! 💬 *Comment* below with your favorite hair style! *KIMMY’S COURSES AND BOOKS* By joining our courses or reading our books you can become the master stylist of your own hair or for your customers. Great hair secrets shared for teaching your salon staff too! *Read these books* 1. Simple Salon Solutions": Learn salon management tips for running a successful business. https://ift.tt/Fgni4Vy 2. The Secrets of a Great Hairapist": Discover techniques and insights for mastering hairstyling and client relationships. https://ift.tt/fbNl84C Learn more about Coach Kimmy 35+ years experience in the Salon Industry Salon and Academy owner Read Coach Kimmy’s book about her life story Tragic Beginnings to Fairytale Endings": If you like stories with happy endings despite hard and painful beginnings and are looking for hope in this unstable world, this book is for you. https://ift.tt/1Gnc6MS *Check out my other popular videos:* - Cutting Bangs https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWIO4Tde7OI - Achieve Perfect Layers Like a Pro | Lisa Rinna Haircut Tutorial | DIY Coach Kimmy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5PyC1nxgL8 - The Butterfly Haircut: A Layered Long Hair Trend Explained https://youtu.be/xnxjy1mXRRc - Want Salon Quality Hair? Learn to Cut a Bob Like a Pro! https://youtu.be/BfsNxmUaeh0 Thanks for watching! - Peekaboo Highlights: Best Subtle Hair Upgrade Techniques https://youtu.be/22t9G12WHY8 Located in Red Bank, New Jersey USA https://ift.tt/ujQWsAC 0:00 Intro 1:01 How To Become An Expert Colorist 1:24 Primary Colors 1:47 Secondary Colors 3:00 How Do You Think of Colors? 4:40 Color Mixture 6:32 Levels of Hair 7:20 End Of Part One via Coach Kimmy https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZi0BknmN3HeWgQMdmVdHJQ October 27, 2024 at 08:45PM

[biggirlcertified]

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[fringesncurls]

Discover the Top Makeup Artist in Lucknow

Lucknow, a city rich in cultural heritage and modern style, is home to some of the finest makeup artists, each offering a unique approach to bridal beauty and glamorous transformations. With a growing number of professional makeup artists specializing in bridal, party, and special occasion makeovers, it’s essential to find the right artist who meets your beauty goals.

Best Makeup Artists in Lucknow

Lucknow is home to some of India’s most talented bridal makeup artists, each bringing their unique touch to enhance a bride’s beauty. By choosing a skilled artist and preparing well, you can look and feel your absolute best on your wedding day. These are all Best Makeup Artists in Lucknow

Radiance Fringes N Curls

Why Visit: Known for its luxurious ambiance and a reputation for using high-quality products, Radiance Fringes N Curls provides a range of beauty and makeup services tailored to make every bride shine on her big day. They offer specialized bridal packages that include pre-wedding skincare, hair treatments, and exclusive makeup trials. With a team of experienced artists, the studio ensures that every look is personalized to enhance the natural beauty of the bride.

Highlights:

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Customizable packages, from basic to premium

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Bhaavya Kapur Makeup Studio

Why Visit: Recognized as one of the Top Makeup Artists in Lucknow, Bhaavya Kapur Makeup Studio is synonymous with stunning, high-definition bridal looks. This studio offers a comprehensive range of beauty services, from makeup and hairstyling to personal grooming and skincare consultations. Their signature bridal looks feature flawless base application, expertly blended contours, and an emphasis on eyes, making every bride look radiant in photographs.

Highlights:

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Extensive portfolio of celebrity and bridal makeovers

Use of international makeup products and techniques

For those looking for a studio with a versatile range and expertise in contemporary and traditional bridal styles, Bhaavya Kapur Makeup Studio provides an unforgettable experience.

Rrupantarr Luxury Salon & Makeup Studio

Why Visit: Rrupantarr Luxury Salon & Makeup Studio offers a luxurious experience tailored for those who seek sophistication in their bridal makeup. This salon is celebrated for creating unique, glamorous looks with an emphasis on skin-friendly products. With a dedicated team focused on ensuring comfort and satisfaction, Rrupantarr provides personalized consultations to understand the bride’s style and preferences before the big day.

Highlights:

Luxurious setting and personalized consultations

Specialized in skin-friendly, hypoallergenic products

Known for glamorous and elegant bridal transformations

If you’re a bride who prefers a bespoke makeup experience and appreciates skin-friendly products, Rrupantarr Luxury Salon & Makeup Studio is a great choice.

Bewtish Makeovers

Why Visit: Bewtish Makeovers is a go-to destination for brides looking to achieve a balanced, sophisticated look. The studio focuses on enhancing the bride’s natural features with makeup techniques that don’t overpower but accentuate her best attributes. Known for their excellent customer service and attention to detail, Bewtish Makeovers takes the time to understand the bride’s vision, transforming her look to reflect her personality.

Highlights:

Expertise in natural, elegant bridal makeup

Dedicated to enhancing natural beauty with subtle techniques

High customer satisfaction with personalized services

Ideal for brides who prefer a classic, timeless makeup look, Bewtish Makeovers blends skill with an understanding of individual beauty needs.

Best Bridal Makeup Artist in Lucknow

Selecting the right bridal makeup artist is crucial to achieving your dream wedding look. A top-notch artist not only enhances your appearance but also boosts your confidence, making sure you feel as beautiful as you look. When choosing a Best Bridal Makeup Artist in Lucknow, it’s important to look for experience, expertise with different skin tones, and a deep understanding of the latest makeup trends.

Lucknow’s bridal makeup artists, from Radiance Fringes N Curls, offer diverse styles and techniques to suit any bridal preference. Whether you desire a dramatic glam or a natural, elegant finish, these top studios have a team of professionals who can bring your vision to life, ensuring your bridal look remains timeless and unforgettable.

My Conclusion

According to me, Radiance Fringes N Curls is the best and best option among top makeup artist in Lucknow, here you will get makeup in best and best friendly color.For those planning their big day, investing in a skilled makeup artist ensures that your wedding day look reflects your unique style and personality. From traditional Lucknowi bridal glam to modern-day elegance, each artist offers a range of services and expertise that aligns with the latest in bridal beauty trends.

[lafemmeindiain]

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