#Velvet Blouse Design

[shaadidukaanseo]

Explore the latest velvet blouse designs, perfect for bridal wear and festive occasions. With rich textures, intricate patterns, and luxurious finishes, velvet blouses add elegance and sophistication to any look.

[lorieninksong]

Another mutual's birthday. Sorry its late! This is @rukafais 's interpretation of their beloved blorbo, Kimmuriel Oblodra from the Drizzt novels. Do you think an ion stone might attract moths?

[neckbook]

Buy Velvet Readymade Blouses Online – Elegant Designs & Best Prices!

Shop luxurious and stylish Velvet Readymade Blouses online from Neckbook! Our collection features elegant, high-quality velvet blouses designed for comfort and sophistication. Perfect for pairing with sarees and lehengas, these blouses come in rich colors, intricate embroidery, and trendy cuts to elevate your ethnic look. Whether for weddings, parties, or festive occasions, our velvet blouses ensure a regal touch with a perfect fit. Available in various sizes, sleeve styles, and neck designs, each piece is crafted with premium fabric and fine detailing. Enjoy affordable prices, exclusive discounts, and fast delivery across India. Upgrade your wardrobe with the latest velvet blouse designs from Neckbook and redefine your ethnic fashion effortlessly. Shop now for the best styles and unbeatable comfort!

Buy now: https://neckbook.in/product/navy-blue-velvet-stretch-bliss/

[samyakk-fashion]

Modern Lehenga Muse: Fabrics, Colors & Owning Your Desi Style

Introduction:

The Enchanting Symphony of Colors

Bridal lehengas, known for their exquisite craftsmanship and timeless elegance, aren’t just about aesthetics; they’re steeped in cultural symbolism. The choice of colors holds immense significance, reflecting traditions, emotions, and personality. When you buy Lehenga online, explore our curated selection featuring the latest lehenga designs crafted to perfection, ensuring you find the perfect ensemble for your special day. For a Lehenga choli, it’s crucial to choose hues that resonate with the occasion and complement the wearer’s skin tone.

Red: A timeless classic, red symbolizes love, passion, and prosperity. It’s the quintessential choice for traditional Indian brides, embodying auspiciousness and celebration. Explore our collection of designer wedding lehengas in red, crafted to perfection to enhance your bridal ensemble with elegance and tradition.

Gold: Radiating opulence and grandeur, gold embellishments or gold-based fabrics like silk or brocade add a regal touch to bridal attire. Gold signifies wealth, luxury, and divine blessings.

Pink: Delicate and feminine, pink evokes feelings of romance and innocence. Shades like blush pink or rose pink are popular choices for brides seeking a softer, dreamier look. Explore our collection of contemporary bridal lehengas in pink, curated to embody elegance and romance on your special day.

Blue: From serene sky blue to majestic navy, blue hues represent tranquility, stability, and depth. Blue lehengas are a striking choice for brides looking to make a bold yet elegant statement.

Green: Symbolizing growth, fertility, and harmony, green is associated with nature and renewal. Shades like emerald or mint green infuse freshness and vitality into bridal ensembles.

Each color carries its own symbolism, allowing brides to express their individuality while honoring cultural traditions.

Choosing the Perfect Fabric for Your Lehenga

The choice of fabric plays a pivotal role in determining the look, feel, and comfort of a bridal lehenga. Depending on the season and occasion, certain fabrics excel in enhancing the overall appeal:

Silk: A perennial favorite, silk exudes luxury and elegance. Its lustrous texture and rich sheen make it ideal for grand celebrations. Silk lehengas are versatile and suitable for all seasons, offering comfort and sophistication.

Velvet: Perfect for winter weddings, velvet adds warmth and texture to bridal attire. Its plush surface and regal appearance create a sense of luxury and indulgence, making it a popular choice for opulent ceremonies.

Chiffon: Lightweight and ethereal, chiffon drapes beautifully and lends an airy quality to lehengas. Ideal for summer weddings, chiffon offers breathability and ease of movement, ensuring comfort without compromising on style.

Brocade: Known for its intricate patterns and metallic threads, brocade exudes vintage charm and regal allure. Whether embellished with traditional motifs or contemporary designs, brocade lehengas exude sophistication and timeless elegance.

Georgette: Offering a balance of drape and structure, georgette is a versatile fabric suitable for various occasions. Its soft, flowy texture lends itself well to embellishments and embroidery, adding depth and dimension to bridal ensembles. People mostly like “Dark Prussian Blue Thread Embroidered Georgette Party Wear Lehenga” for the Party functions & Special Occasion.

Each fabric has its unique characteristics, catering to different preferences and requirements, ensuring that every bride finds her perfect match.

Samyakk: Where Tradition Meets Luxury in Couture Fashion

When it comes to bridal couture, Samyakk stands out as a beacon of exquisite craftsmanship and unparalleled quality. With a diverse range of collections catering to every style and preference, Samyakk offers:

Trending Lehengas: From contemporary designs to timeless classics, Samyakk’s trending wedding lehengas embody the latest fashion trends while retaining a touch of tradition. Explore our collection of popular bridal lehengas and fashionable ethnic wedding outfits for the perfect blend of style and tradition.

Designer Lehengas: Crafted with precision and attention to detail, Samyakk’s couture bridal lehengas showcase the finest craftsmanship and artistic innovation, making every bride feel like royalty. Explore our collection of high-end ethnic bridal wear and exclusive designer wedding outfits for a truly unforgettable bridal ensemble.

Traditional Lehengas: Rooted in heritage and culture, Samyakk’s classic bridal lehengas pay homage to age-old traditions while infusing modern elements for a timeless appeal. Explore our collection of timeless ethnic wedding attire and heritage-inspired bridal outfits for an unforgettable celebration of tradition and style.

Embroidered Lehengas: Intricately embellished with exquisite embroidery, Samyakk’s embroidered wedding lehengas are a testament to the skill and artistry of master craftsmen, elevating bridal attire to new heights of luxury and elegance. Explore our collection of intricately embellished bridal lehengas and exquisite embroidered ethnic wedding attire, showcasing handcrafted bridal outfits with embroidery for a truly stunning bridal ensemble.

Stunning Lehengas: Radiating beauty and allure, Samyakk’s stunning bridal lehengas capture attention with their intricate details and captivating designs. From delicate embellishments to bold motifs, each ensemble is a masterpiece of artistry and elegance, offering gorgeous wedding lehengas, breathtaking ethnic bridal wear, and show-stopping wedding outfits for the discerning bride.

Luxurious Lehengas: Indulge in the ultimate luxury with Samyakk’s opulent bridal lehengas. Crafted from the finest fabrics and adorned with lavish embellishments, these luxurious wedding lehengas exude grandeur and sophistication, ensuring that every bride feels like royalty on her special day. Explore our collection of lavish ethnic bridal wear and sumptuous wedding outfits for brides, designed to elevate your bridal ensemble to new heights of elegance.

Modern Lehengas: For the contemporary bride with a flair for fashion, Samyakk offers a stunning collection of modern wedding lehengas. Featuring sleek silhouettes, innovative designs, and cutting-edge details, these contemporary bridal lehengas are perfect for brides who want to make a style statement that reflects their individuality and trendsetting spirit. Explore our chic ethnic bridal wear and fashion-forward wedding outfits for modern brides, curated to redefine bridal fashion with sophistication and style.

Elegant Lehengas: Embrace timeless elegance with Samyakk’s collection of elegant wedding lehengas. With their understated sophistication and graceful charm, these sophisticated bridal lehengas exude timeless beauty and refinement, ensuring that every bride looks effortlessly chic and refined on her big day. Explore our range of graceful ethnic bridal wear and discover timelessly elegant wedding outfits designed to elevate your bridal ensemble with poise and grace.

Customized Lehengas: At Samyakk, every bride’s vision is brought to life with bespoke creations tailored to perfection. Whether it’s a customized wedding lehenga, personalized bridal lehengas, or tailor-made ethnic bridal wear, Samyakk offers a bespoke experience that ensures each bride’s unique style and personality shine through on her wedding day. Explore our range of bespoke wedding outfits for brides and discover the perfect customized bridal look for your special day.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

1. What is the significance of colors in bridal lehengas? A: Bridal lehengas are more than just beautiful attire; they carry cultural symbolism. Each color represents different emotions, traditions, and personalities. For example, red symbolizes love and prosperity, while green symbolizes growth and harmony.

2. How can I choose the right color for my bridal lehenga? A: When choosing a color for your bridal lehenga, consider the occasion and your skin tone. For instance, red is a classic choice for traditional Indian brides, while pink or blue may offer a softer or bolder statement, respectively.

3. What fabrics are suitable for bridal lehengas? A: The choice of fabric depends on the season and personal preference. Fabrics like silk, velvet, chiffon, brocade, and georgette each offer unique characteristics, such as luxury, warmth, breathability, or structure.

4. What makes Samyakk stand out in bridal couture? A: Samyakk is renowned for its exquisite craftsmanship and diverse collections catering to various styles and preferences. From trending and designer lehengas to traditional, embroidered, and luxurious options, Samyakk offers a wide range of choices for brides.

5. Can I get a customized bridal lehenga at Samyakk? A: Yes, Samyakk offers bespoke creations tailored to each bride’s vision and preferences. Whether you desire a customized wedding lehenga, personalized bridal attire, or tailor-made ethnic wear, Samyakk ensures that your unique style shines through on your special day.

Conclusion

As we draw the curtains on this exploration of the enchanting world of bridal fashion, one thing stands clear: the bridal lehenga is not just attire; it’s a manifestation of dreams and traditions, a symbol of love and celebration. In our journey through the myriad of colors and fabrics, we’ve uncovered the significance of each element in crafting the perfect bridal outfit Organza Designer Lehenga.

From the timeless allure of Traditional wedding lehenga Choli to the sleek sophistication of Modern wedding lehenga Choli, brides are spoiled for choice at Samyakk. Our curated collections feature a diverse array of options, from Elegant wedding lehengas to Luxurious wedding lehenga Choli, ensuring that every bride finds her perfect match.

For those seeking a touch of opulence, our Embroidered wedding lehengas are a testament to exquisite craftsmanship and attention to detail. And for the bold and daring, our Show-stopping wedding outfits make a statement like no other.

But what truly sets Samyakk apart is our commitment to customization. Our Customized wedding lehengas service ensures that each bride’s vision is brought to life, tailored to perfection to reflect her unique style and personality.

As you embark on the journey towards your happily ever after, remember that your Bridal Silk Sangeet Lehenga outfit is more than just clothing; it’s a reflection of your love story, your heritage, and your dreams. And at Samyakk, we’re here to make sure that every stitch, every embellishment, speaks volumes about your journey and your joy.

[samkkshopping]

The Lehenga Diaries: A Westerner in Wonderland

Introduction:

Unveiling the Vibrancy: A Foreigner’s Look at Indian Dress

In the vibrant landscape of Indian culture, the lehenga choli stands as a symbol of tradition, elegance, and timeless beauty. As Westerners increasingly find themselves drawn to the allure of Indian bridal wear, particularly the designer lehenga choli, we embark on a journey through the Lehenga Diaries to explore the reasons behind this fascination.

The introduction sets the stage for an exploration into the world of Indian bridal fashion, highlighting the unique appeal of the lehenga choli to Western audiences and setting the tone for an informative and lighthearted exploration.

Discovering the Enchantment:

Meet Emily, a young bride-to-be from the United States, who immerses herself in the whirlwind of wedding preparations. In her quest for the perfect bridal outfit, Emily’s journey leads her to the captivating world of Indian fashion, where the exquisite craftsmanship and intricate designs of the bridal lehenga choli capture her imagination. Amidst exploring options for her wedding lehenga, Emily discovers the allure of lehenga online shopping and the elegance of pairing her lehenga with dupatta. This section introduces Emily as the protagonist of our narrative, providing context for her journey and laying the foundation for her exploration of Indian bridal wear.

The Allure of Variety:

Delving deeper into her exploration of Indian bridal wear, Emily discovers the diverse range of lehenga styles available. From traditional to contemporary, from opulent to understated, each Indian lehenga boasts its own unique charm and allure, offering endless possibilities for brides seeking to make a statement on their special day. Here, we delve into the myriad styles and lehenga designs 2024 and lehenga skirt, highlighting the versatility and variety that make them so appealing to Western brides like Emily who are navigating through lehenga shopping for their dream Designer Bridal Outfit.

Versatility and Personalization:

One of the key factors that draws Westerners like Emily to the lehenga choli is its versatility. Unlike traditional Western bridal gowns, which often adhere to a standard silhouette, the lehenga choli allows for customization and personalization, empowering brides to express their individuality and style.

This section explores the customizable nature of the lehenga choli sets, highlighting its ability to cater to the unique preferences and tastes of each bride. From exploring different lehenga blouse designs to selecting heavy lehenga designs and intricate lehenga designs, brides have the freedom to curate their ensemble according to their vision. Whether opting for traditional motifs, contemporary patterns, or fusion elements, the lehenga choli offers endless possibilities for creating a truly one-of-a-kind bridal look that reflects the personality and style of the bride.

Embodying Craftsmanship and Tradition:

Adorned with intricate hand embroidery, luxurious fabrics, and delicate embellishments, the lehenga choli embodies the essence of Indian craftsmanship and artistry. With its rich heritage and timeless appeal, it’s no wonder that Western brides are increasingly turning to the lehenga choli as their bridal outfit of choice.

Here, we delve into the craftsmanship and tradition behind the lehenga choli, highlighting its cultural significance and aesthetic beauty. From lightweight lehengas ideal for receptions to lehengas tailored for parties, brides have a myriad of options to explore. Whether opting for traditional lehengas with intricate zari work or indulging in indo-western lehengas featuring contemporary cuts and embellishments, the versatility of lehengas ensures that every bride finds her perfect ensemble for the most special occasions, including lehenga for reception and lehenga for party.

A Visit to Samyakk:

Enter Samyakk.com, a leading destination for exquisite Indian bridal wear, where Emily finds herself enchanted by an exquisite lehenga choli collection. With its impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail, Samyakk offers Emily the perfect blend of traditional elegance and contemporary style.

From Mehendi lehenga to Sangeet lehenga, Reception lehenga, Festive lehenga, and many more, Samyakk boasts a diverse range of options to cater to every bride’s specific occasion and preferences. This section introduces Samyakk as a key player in Emily’s journey, highlighting the role of the boutique in providing her with a memorable and fulfilling shopping experience.

The Personal Touch:

As Emily explores different styles and designs at Samyakk, a renowned destination for exquisite Indian bridal wear, she is captivated by the warmth and hospitality of the team. Samyakk, catering to brides worldwide including those seeking Lehenga online UK, stands out for its impeccable service. With their expert guidance and personalized assistance, Emily feels reassured as she navigates through the vast collection of bridal lehengas, both in-store and online.

Samyakk’s dedication to customer satisfaction shines through as they go above and beyond to ensure that Emily finds her dream bridal outfit. Whether brides are in search of bridal lehenga India or prefer to buy lehenga online, Samyakk’s commitment to excellence extends globally. This section highlights the boutique’s distinction, emphasizing their personalized service and attention to detail, setting them apart as one of the top Lehenga boutiques UK and beyond.

A Symbol of Love and Tradition:

Standing before the mirror, adorned in her exquisite lehenga choli from Samyakk, Emily is overcome with emotion. In that moment, she realizes that she is not just wearing a garment — she is wearing a piece of history, a symbol of love and tradition that transcends time and culture.

This section concludes Emily’s journey, highlighting the emotional significance of her bridal outfit and the role of the lehenga choli in creating lasting memories. Whether brides are seeking the latest Lehenga fashion UK trends, exploring diverse Lehenga designs UK options, or searching for Lehenga online Australia, the emotional connection to their bridal ensemble remains universal. As Emily’s experience demonstrates, a designer bridal lehenga represents more than just a fashion statement — it embodies cherished memories, cultural heritage, and the beginning of a new chapter in life.

Conclusion:

As the sun sets on another day in the Lehenga Diaries, we are reminded of the timeless allure of the lehenga choli and the transformative power of love and tradition. Through Emily’s journey, we witness the enduring fascination of Westerners with Indian bridal wear, particularly the enchanting lehenga choli, a garment that continues to weave its magic into the hearts and souls of all who wear it.

The conclusion reflects on the themes explored throughout the blog, offering a final reflection on the significance of the lehenga choli in bridging cultures and creating memorable wedding experiences.

Whether brides are in Indian Lehenga Australia, Indian Lehenga Canada, or exploring Lehenga Online Canada, the universal appeal of the lehenga choli transcends geographical boundaries, uniting brides worldwide in their appreciation for its beauty and significance.

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end���maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[3rachasdomesticbanana]

The Bet | Bang Chan

•Synopsis: After losing a bet with your boyfriend, your penalty is to do whatever he says that night. But what sort of penalty does he have in mind in the middle of a nightclub and why are crotchless panties involved?

Who would've thought losing a bet would be so much fun?

•Pairing: au Bang Chan x Female Reader

•Content Includes: Heavy smut, Established relationship, Public unprotected sex, slight Restricted movement, Soft Dom Chan, Minimal fluff, Crowded area

wc:3k+

an: edited but might still contain some errors

Want more smut? Follow the banana 🍌

“Remember the bet, baby girl.”

Your boyfriend Chan whispers in your ear making you shiver.

You're innocently sitting on his lap in the VIP section of an upscale nightclub somewhere in downtown DC. The club pulses with energy as the heavy bass reverberates through the sleek, dimly-lit space. The air is infused with the scent of expensive perfumes and colognes, mingling with the subtle aroma of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

Smooth leather couches, separated by a red velvet rope line the perimeter of the dance floor, offering cozy spots for groups like our own to relax and chat amidst the excitement. The group of friends you two came with, move with confidence on the dance floor in front of you bathed in hues of deep purples and blues. Hip-hop, EDM, and R&B classics fill every corner of the room. You nod at your boyfriend's words believing he wouldn't go through with the penalty of the bet you lost against him.

Why you bet him that you could deep throat him without gagging wasn't the smartest thing you've done. Chan is far too thick and lengthy to take every inch without gagging even a little when he hits the back of your throat with the swollen head of his cock. Now you wait in a short black leather pleated skirt with a pair of crotchless panties underneath waiting for his command. With every drum his finger plays on your hips you feel your body respond to him. Little touches here and there make you fully aware of all the places his hands and fingers linger on your body. From your back, through the exposed slit down your blouse to your navel. He touches every bit of flesh he can without the movements looking indecent.

There's possibly over a hundred people inside the club and that's just on the floor you're on, there's two other floors below you. You feel certain Chan won't do anything too drastic around all of these people, that he just wants to tease you and keep you on your toes. Though with this man you've been with for years now, you can't ever put anything past him. He's capable of doing so many things others would never dream of doing. If he wants something then nothing will stop him from his goal. It was that way when you met through your boyfriend at the time. He was a toxic asshole and Chris knew he could treat you a thousand times better than he ever could. So he proved it to you every chance he got. Won your heart and eventually your mind, body and soul. You've been happy ever since. Everyday was an adventure with him, full of spontaneity for you, yet carefully thought out in his mind.

So when you feel him lower the zipper of his designer black ripped jeans you're not really surprised. You aren't prepared for him to wrap his arms around your midsection though. In one quick move he pulls you back against his chest and you yelp in surprise. The movement frees his cock from the opening in the front of his boxers. It springs up and out, resting against your ass. Your eyes go wide, your mouth agape and you're at a loss for words. It would take one shift from you for him to slip between your thighs or inside of you. As if he can read your mind, Chan settles his palm flat on your thigh with just enough pressure for you to understand him without words. Doesn't stop him from whispering in your ear though, knowing how his breath on your neck will affect you.

“Don't move baby. Not until I say so. This is a penalty remember… not a reward.” He smirks, proud of himself for this brilliant idea.

Chan is loving this little game of his and he wants to drag it out for as long as he can but the feel of your soft supple ass flushed against his hard length makes him feel like a mad man. He wants to ram himself inside of your sweet slippery walls and plow himself into you until you're creaming all over his cock and dripping down to his balls. He flexes the stiff muscle and grins wickedly when you groan softly. How long can he repeat that move until he feels it inch further and further away from where it rests? until it plops into your needy cunt? He wonders to himself. Maybe if he calculates it right he can make it so his cock doesn't find its way inside of you just yet. He'd love to fuck your thighs for a little bit. Feel you squeeze him with those thick fleshy thighs that he loves.

While you're sitting as still as possible forcing yourself to look as if nothing is wrong, Chan plots behind and underneath you for more ways to tease you like this. Momentarily you're both pulled out of your inner thoughts and intimate bubble when a couple of your friends come over to the table to hydrate and to get you two onto the floor to join them dancing.

“Come on bestie dance with us! Hannie keeps stepping on my feet.” Your best friend exclaims setting down her drink and side eyeing her boyfriend.

“Hey hey that wasn't my fault Minho bumped into me. I'm being framed.” Han puts his hands up in surrender.

You're laughing at the couples playful bickering in front of you but you can feel Chan’s erection twitch again as your laughter rocks your body.

“You two go ahead, you know Chan and I like vibing and watching you guys have fun. We'll join you before the night's over.” You smile in their direction and Chan's does it again.

This time flexing his cock three times making it bounce under you until it slips through your thighs briefly brushing past your clit. Your eyes go wide and you gasp. Very quickly you pretend to sneeze covering your mouth with your hands.

“Bless you baby.” Chan says and you can hear the smile. “Why don't you two show us exactly how to have fun yeah? See if we can compete with you guys later.” He adds over your shoulder and whatever Han sees on his buddies face he's taking your friends hand and pulling her away from the lush VIP area.

He chuckles watching the pair disappear into the crowd and pushes up off the couch as if he's trying to get comfortable but the move only rubs your aching clit with the side of his stiffness. Every vein and ridge brushes the nub making you squeeze your legs together which is exactly what he wanted.

He groans softly before he whispers in your ear, “No moving remember?” and you groan in frustration.

“Please Channie. I'm so wet can't you feel how bad I need you?” You whine, turning your head to look at him.

His coffee colored eyes glitter when they find yours. His full lush lips part and he runs his tongue over them. When you bite down on your own lip you feel him again and you know he's just being stubborn in not giving in and filling you up.

“Because you said please. Slowly scoot up forward to grab your drink off the table and then back down.” He instructs and you nod turning back around.

Your drink, a mix of pineapple and cranberry juice sits in front of you on the oval glass table with beads of condensation dripping down the sides. Stretching your arm out, you slowly inch forward feeling Chan sliding down between your folds becoming slick with your juices. Your hand makes contact with the glass and when you slowly move back to how you were you feel him stretching your cunt wide each inch you push back onto him. The sensation is heavenly and you want to take your time. To enjoy the feeling of him finally inside of you but Chan is an inpatient man and he’s gripping your hips, pulling you back with such force that your drink splashes over the surface and onto the floor. You inhale sharply clutching the glass tighter than you normally would on a normal night out.

If you thought the feeling of Chan inside of you was heavenly, he'll describe it as exquisitely delectable. God he loves it when he bottoms out inside of you, loves it when you take all of him so well. He'll push himself even further though there's no where left for him to go just to hear you whimper the way you are now.

“Shhhh baby, that's it. Fuck. Now no moving no matter what. Good.”

You feel his cock pulsating inside you and keeping a neutral face has never been more difficult than now. If you two weren't surrounded by at least a hundred people right now your ass would be bouncing up and down on him until he was shooting and filling you up but instead you sit still, following his directions and sporting a very natural blush that no makeup brand could ever replicate.

How long could you both sit here like this without needing to cum? How could he even control himself to not thrust. Damn it… he feels too good and you need some stimulation so you ignore what he's told you to do and begin rocking back and forth nodding your head like you're doing nothing more than enjoying the song that the DJ plays. It's enough to make you cum right there but Chan's strong hands stops you with a groan sucking in air between his teeth.

“Hey hey hey.” He says softly. “You were being such a good girl.” His voice his husky and low, it makes your muscles clench around him and when he groans again it does nothing to stop the need you feel.

“Channie.” You whine, not caring about your dignity. “I can't do this. It's too much I need you to fuck me.” You admit squeezing your legs and in the process, squeezing his cock with your cunt.

He curses under his breath fanning your hair at the nape of your neck making you shiver. It's unintentional, completely innocent but you shivering pulls a instinctive thrust from Chan. When you moan he does it again and you have to remember that you're not alone when the urge to arch your back and grind your way into a climax tries to take over. Chan is fighting a battle that he feels he may lose because you just feel too good wrapped around him. Even if you don't move, all you have to do is bear hug his cock and he'll lose his sanity, his composer and unravel.

He didn't think he'd be the one suffering right along with you. As someone who thinks everything through he didn't think of this part. Now he's fighting his compulsions and the impulse to fuck you hard and rough even with an audience. When he makes any sort of sound it only turns you on even more and he knows your walls can't help but clench in response. The way your pussy swallows him up, contracting around him like it's trying to milk him has his brain going fuzzy.

“Fuck, y/n baby. I'm so glad this pussy is mine. If I fucked you right now could you control yourself baby? Or would everyone know that I'm deep inside of you giving you all eight inches of my cock? Hm?” Chan growls gritting his teeth digging his fingertips into your skin.

“Mm- I… I can try baby. I can't make any promises. You've got me too worked up. Please just fuck me though. I don't want to wait until we're home and I definitely don't want you to stop.” You reply sounding breathless as if you two had already been going at it.

“If we're doing this you have to keep still, no moving yeah? You do exactly what I say. If not then we're stopping. This is so we don't get caught okay?”

You nod looking straight ahead, focusing your eyes on the lighting fixtures that hang from the ceiling. They cast subtle patterns on the walls, adding to the ambiance around the club. Occasionally, bursts of colored light sweep across the room, adding to the atmosphere and hypnotizing you when you feel Chan start to move. He's squeezing his legs together like you were doing and bounces his legs to the beat of the song. Each squeeze and bounce creates a tiny thrust, his cock, barely moving in and out but it feels so good you almost close your eyes.

“Dance with me baby. Tap your foot. Fuck- mnh squeeze my cock with your pussy.”

You don't need to be told twice you do as asked without hesitation and the added movement on your part increases the thrusts. He's able to pull out of your cunt further, before snapping back up into you. The music is your focus though you don't hear what's playing, you keep the rhythm Chan has, nodding your head and keeping your breathing even. It's not easy, there's moments where you let slip a moan or a gasp that gets drowned out by the bumping bass. Even Chan can't control the raw uncontrolled sounds that escape him each time your pelvic muscles grip him.

Luckily for you two all your friends are still on the dancefloor but for how long? That thought is all too apparent to Chan and he cannot have anyone interrupting this. It feels too good to stop; he'd be liable to burn the place down in a fit of rage if he was forced to pull out of you before creaming your pussy, breeding you just how you both love. Heads will roll if he doesn't get to finish you both off.

“Need… mmm. Shit baby girl, I need you to cum q- quick can you do that for me?” He asks, his voice strains and his hands snake around your abdomen wrapping you in his arms. You nod in response. It's all you can do, you're afraid that if you try to utter a single word you won't be able to stop the noises that will spill from your lips.

“Good girl, now squeeze me and rock your body to the beat like you were doing before.” He steals your drink from your hand and brings it up to his lips nonchalantly but you hear his moans when you tighten your muscles.

Chan is close; he just needs you to reach your peak so that he can spill himself inside of your greedy cunt. So with his free hand he gently presses his palm down on your stomach just below your belly button. The pressure makes your legs shake and you stutter with your rocking but you find the rhythm again with ease, grateful that the song is a fast paced one.

With his cock throbbing inside of you and the rocking motion of your hips, Chan is now grunting behind you, quietly praising you behind the glass of your drink.

“Oh fuck baby, keep going. Mhm you're close now aren't you y/n? Yeah, I can feel it. So gorgeous when you cum. I can just imagine how you look right now, flushed cheeks, lips parted wanting to scream my name.” He grunts and adds more pressure to your abdomen and bucks his hips once and fast.

He's right you are close and you're more than certain that you're making a mess of the front of his jeans. Neither of you care, your impending shared orgasm on the forefront of your minds. With every rock of your hips you feel Chan's cock bump against that sweet spot nestled deep inside of you that only he can reach. Your walls quiver and you bite down hard on your bottom lip. Your brows crinkle together, making you look angry while you fail to look like nothing is happening other than a happy couple enjoying the music the DJ provides. Behind you Chan is struggling but not for long. With a popping sound, your bottom lip springs out from your teeth and you're gasping like you can't get enough air into your lungs.

“Chan… fuck.” You gasp and that's all that he needs to hear. He understands exactly what you mean.

“Yes…” He hisses, pushing his pelvis hard against you. “That's my girl. Oh fuck,” He gasps along with you. “Cum all over me y/n.” Chan mutters cumming inside of you, shooting hard and deep while the walls of your cunt throb with your own release.

With your movements slightly restricted to stay unnoticed, the orgasm is unlike any others that Chan has coaxed from you. It’s as if you've been plunged into an icy lake and the suddenness takes your breath away. Your body is on pins and needles and fucking hell does it feel unbelievable for both you and Chan. Your cunt devours every bit of his seed, still hungry for more. You're shaking all over and it takes Chan’s strong arms hugging you to slow down your breathing and your body to relax.

“Fuck.” You whisper and he chuckles.

“Mhm, I can't wait to get you home y/n. Hope you've got nothing planned tomorrow. I don't think you'll be able to walk when I'm done with you baby.” He informs you and your pussy reacts clamping down around his slowly softening cock.

“Oh, is someone already ready for another round?”

“Another round? Hell yeah bro let's end the night with a fucking bang!” Felix cheers from seemingly out of nowhere, pulling you and Chan back to the now. The shy giggles you two let out leave everyone confused as they join the table one by one.

After ordering another round for the group you both excuse yourselves and as descritley as possible separate from each other without anyone noticing. The whole way to the restroom laughter erupts from you and Chan.

“I can't believe we did that!” Chan shouts over the music and pulls you into his arms. His lips land on yours kissing you until your head is spinning.

“Keep that up Mr. Bang and I'm pulling you into the bathroom with me.” You scold him playfully. He calls your bluff, kissing you again and grabbing your ass for good measure.

“Go on, I'll be waiting beautiful.” he nods in the direction of the restroom doors.

Once cleaned up you and Chan rejoin your friends. Finally making it to the dancefloor, you dance an entirely different dance than before. Your body still feels lit up and the craving you have for your boyfriend still remains. You'll hold him to his promise when you get home but the one thing you love about him is that he always stays true to his word. You know he'll deliver, he's all action as well as words. Who would've thought losing a bet could be so much fun?

(tag test)

@oddracha

[eowynstwin]

blackbird, fly - iii.

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. . You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time. . content warning for marital rape after the second break. . ao3

previous

“Come,” says Hans, tugging on your arm, “let’s get you ready for the ceremony.”

Your husband-to-be leads you up the porch steps and into the house, long legs carrying him ahead so fast you must practically jog to keep up with him. You stumble when you enter the house—the interior is fantastically well-appointed, with papered walls and carved wood furniture, framed photos hanging beside paintings, pressed flowers, hunting trophies, rifles and knives and old farm equipment. The floor beneath your feet is polished and smooth, spread over in places with thick, fringed rugs. You don’t see much more of it after your initial impression; Hans pulls you along at a clip.

Even such a brief glimpse, though, proves your long-held assumptions about Hans and his livelihood; his family has done well for itself, over the years. The kitchen, dining room, and sitting room are all separate from each other, and the manor’s first floor alone is larger than the small farmhouse you grew up in. Your family always made an effort to present a comfortable, clean home, but it seems downright drab in memory now in comparison to this.

There’s a bit of a bustle going on as Hans tugs you along—you hear movement in the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of dishes moving to and fro. A rough voice grinds out something short, and a couple of cowboys emerge with covered dishes that they set on the dining table before they return back into the fray. In the sitting room, an older woman with short, sandy brown hair sits at a desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She glances up at you, betrays no interest, and then ignores you.

“You’ll meet everyone at the ceremony,” Hans says. He directs you up the stairs. “Right now you need something nice to wear.”

“O-oh,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirt as you climb the steps. The fabric, purchased at a discount after you’d saved pennies and nickels for months, suddenly feels thin and insubstantial between your fingers.

Hans brings you into the main bedroom, equally well-designed with molded wood paneling and brass lanterns on the walls, where he goes to a chest at the foot of the massive bed four-poster bed. Everything you’ve seen so far in this house is much finer than what even the most well-to-do farmers back home could display; you used to imagine that wealth like this could only be within the reach of select few businessmen on the east coast. You never imagined you’d have the chance to marry into it.

“I think this should suit you,” says Hans, turning to you with a stack of clothing in one hand.

You take it from him when he proffers it—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, you find. The fabric is silky in your hands, glossy and cool to the touch and very fine. You shake out the skirt; yards of bustled fabric tumble open to reveal pleated gathers, elegant bows, and velvet trim. The paired jacket is much the same, with pearl buttons down the front, and the accompanying blouse is a weave of tight, delicate lace.

Your earlier fears are soundly confirmed; you are in no way dressed for a wedding to Hans König. Gaz had only been trying to be kind; being here, now, seeing the kind of splendor Hans lived with every day, no one could make the mistake that you could measure up on your own.

“Thank you, Hans,” you say, face warming with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” says Hans, looking you up and down expectantly. “Go on.”

You blink. “Ex—excuse me?”

Hans raises his brows as if it should be obvious. “Why, let’s see you in it, dear girl.”

You blanch. Surely he isn’t suggesting…“But—well, Hans, we aren’t—we haven’t—”

“My dear, I’ve already promised to marry you. Why would I go to such expense on a wedding merely to fool you into showing me your underthings?”

You drop your gaze to the floor, cheeks burning. “It’s not proper.”

“Bah,” says Hans. He takes the clothes back from you, tosses them onto the bed, and brings his hands to the buttons down your front. “It’s not like I won’t see this again in a few hours.”

You are rooted to the spot. He unbuttons your dress with an alacrity that startles you; in a few short moments, he makes an opening wide enough to slip over your shoulders, and unceremoniously he pushes the collar open and lets the dress drop to the floor.

You blink several times. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time; do they feel suddenly like they’ve been skinned? Does the air suddenly feel much closer, more real than it had before? You remember shearing season on a neighbor’s farm, the angular planes of shortened fleece cropped close to twitching flesh. The sheep had looked unfinished after the deed was done—like wooden figurines only partly whittled.

When you look to Hans’ face, you find him gazing at the tight space where your chemise tucks into the line of your corset. Then, as if in a dream, he reaches out with one huge hand and cups the mound of one breast.

The air vacates your lungs. It’s the first time a man has ever touched you this way.

When young ladies of a certain age gather to socialize, matters of discussion inevitably tend toward the prurient. Your peers delighted in sharing the wealth of erotic experience they’d accrued; trysts in larders, late graveyard meetings, dizzying accounts of hands and mouths in places that sent shame pumping hot and curious through your veins. You lived vicariously through their adventures; opportunities for your own, with three older brothers and a protective father, were nonexistent.

The embarrassing fact is that in matters of your marital duties, you received no practical education.

The one time your mother, a modest woman, saw fit to tutor you, she’d taken you out to the small enclosure in which the family goats were kept. The animals were useful for milk and occasionally meat, so there was always a breeding pair at hand. This occasion, they served the additional use of instruction; the male was rutting.

Your mother had made you watch as the billy mounted the nanny, and shoved its little goat prick into her hindquarters. The billy seemed mindless with want, ferocious, gyrating its hips uncomfortably, which the nanny took with what seemed like resigned patience, if it was paying attention at all. Once the billy finished, it dismounted, chewed its cud a little bit, and walked off. The nanny seemed unperturbed, rather detached from the whole thing, and similarly continued with whatever it had been doing before.

“It’s about like that,” said your mother, unable to look you in the eye.

So you have little knowledge of the matter.

And you have no idea what to do now, as your husband-to-be fondles you and stares down at you with what seems like only idle interest. Hans’ thumb brushes over the space where your nipple would be, hot even through layers of cotton and whalebone. The fine hairs on your arms raise, standing straight up.

What are you supposed to do now? Touch him back? Your stomach turns over at the thought. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how. Hans is touching you so casually, as if you’ve been his wife for years, but you are as poor in wifely instinct as you are in everything else.

“Lovely,” he says, eyes locked on the place where your chest is rapidly rising and falling.

You inhale shakily. This is fine. He wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t—of course it’s all right, you’re to be married within the hour. It’s only your breast, and only his hand, and it’s over your clothes. It’s fine.

“May—” your voice comes out dry. You clear your throat. “May I dress now, Hans?”

He smiles. You note that he has a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes do not crinkle at the corners. “Of course.”

When the guests have all arrived, when the world around you is bathed in the orange-gold light of the setting sun, and when the mandolin plays the bridal chorus, you join Hans König under an archway of lupine and Indian paintbrush. Evening gives way to night as the last day of your old life comes to a close, ending as you say the words that until now you’ve only whispered in the night at your bedside.

For better—for worse—as long as you both shall live. Over and over again, until your tongue recognized the shape of them like the Lord’s Prayer. As if practicing them enough would speed the hour to you all the sooner in which their vow became real.

Hans kisses you for the second time, and then together, arm in arm, you turn to face the congregation’s applause.

Stars begin peeking white faces through the dimming sky as the band strikes up a tune, and as the reception commences, you must shake hands with the whole county. The priest John MacTavish insists upon introducing himself first—a younger man, with vivid blue eyes and an unusual haircut, gives his congratulations in a husky Scottish brogue entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth. He’s followed by the sheriff, Simon Riley, who practically chases him off—another tall man, near to your husband’s height, and twice as broad. Curiously, he wears a bandanna across the lower half of his face. His greeting to you is gruff, short—polite in a way that seems unnatural for him.

Next is a slightly older woman, splendidly dressed in lace-trimmed taffeta. She comes over to kiss your cheeks in the French style. Hans ducks his head as she smiles at you; you can’t help but feel similar trepidation. She is terribly striking, with delicate creases on either side of her mouth and a mysterious twinkle in her eye.

“The hotel in town is my establishment,” she tells you. “The bath house, as well.”

“Oh,” you say, “how lovely.”

Her smile quirks at the corners; she looks at Hans, then back to you, and softly chucks your chin. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Madame, thank you,” your husband says quickly as your face sets to blazing. “I believe others would like to speak to us, as well, if you don’t mind.”

She gives you another enigmatic smile, tightens the light chiffon wrap around her shoulders, and leaves you to the banker and his wife, who both eagerly step up to talk your ear off.

Farmers, other ranchers, ramblers and gamblers and trappers; it seems everyone in the state has come to pay you their respects, and they all want to meet you at the exact same time. The rough voice you heard in the kitchen manifests itself in the form of a burly man with mutton chops, who introduces himself as John Price the saloon owner. A young woman with an unsmiling face named Ms. Boucher tells you your first purchase at her dry goods store will be discounted by five percent, as a welcome gift from her to you. She punctuates the statement with a narrow-eyed look at your husband, but you have no time to wonder at it before the next guests capture your attention.

A whole line of Hans’ cowboys, headed by the woman you saw working at the writing desk when you arrived, form up to tell you their names and pledge you their loyalty, still dressed in their wrangling leathers but bathed and combed and polished for the occasion nonetheless. The woman introduces herself as Kate Laswell, the foreman.

“I took care of the accounting after Anna passed,” Laswell says to you. “Tomorrow I’ll go through the books with you. It’ll be your job from now on.”

“Now, Kate, you shouldn’t discuss business at my wedding,” says Hans, politely, but somewhat terse. “And besides, that would be far too much for my new bride.”

“Hans, I told you,” you say earnestly, referencing a summer letter, “I want to be a part of things.”

He smiles genially at you—but the expression seems tight. “Of course, dear.”

“Tomorrow,” Kate says to you. Curiously, she looks you up and down. Then, “You’ll need to see the tailor, as well, I think.”

Her words are not said unkindly, but they shame you anyway, reminding you just how poorly matched as yet you are to this life. When you’d put the dress on earlier, it had been immediately clear to you that it was not made to your measurements, but you hadn’t thought it would be so obvious to anyone else. Only Hans’ cowboys proceeding to introduce themselves saves you from having to respond.

One is conspicuously absent.

Unexpectedly, it hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Gaz had only driven you here, after all. You’ve known him less than a day. It shouldn’t disappoint you, as you keep your eyes on the moving line, that he does not come forward, but it does.

In between meeting the county folk, you manage to get a few bites of the wedding feast—prime rib, lamb chowder, baked fish, seasoned potatoes, collard greens, fried tomatoes, sourdough biscuits, and three different fruit cobblers still somehow steaming from the oven. You and Hans cut the bride’s cake, an impressive sheet of angel food and ivory buttercream that he must have procured at outrageous cost; you are not embarrassed to wolf it down in front of Hans’ guests. It’s the sweetest, softest thing you’ve ever eaten, more delicate than you ever could have imagined any food could be.

As the sky darkens overhead, the faint cloud of the milky way coalesces in the light of the waxing moon, and the band takes up a lively jig as the wedding party sallies forth to the clearing to dance arm in arm. Your husband whirls you along with them, arm around your waist, and then you’re dancing, too, and the familiar two-step lifts your flagging spirits as the cool night air runs quick, soft fingers across your burning cheeks.

So what if some cowboy hadn’t made it to your wedding? You’re dancing with your husband, after months of longing for him; everything and everyone else is inconsequential laid up against this triumph.

Faces blur in the lamplight the night falls indigo around you, and as the music changes Hans twirls you into a new set of arms in a jaunt that has everyone exchanging partners. They hold you only briefly before the music changes again, and off you bounce to another, the world spinning around you faster and faster, jubilant and surreal, and then another—

Suddenly you are in Kyle Garrick’s arms.

He catches you like lassoing a runaway horse, taking your momentum into the pillar of his body as he winds you in close. One of his hands spreads warm across your back, fingers spanning what feels like the entire breadth of your waist. His other cradles your own in his palm, long fingers folded around it like an envelope. You fit against him easily, perfectly, like a couple illustrated in a storybook.

“Mr. Garrick,” you gasp.

“Mrs. König,” he says.

Suddenly you realize you’re out of breath. You take deep gulps of air, and Gaz’s scent permeates your lungs. Lavender soap and bay rum, polished leather, sweet hay. The soft, dense curls of his hair are combed and parted a little, and the short stubble he’d greeted you with on the train platform is tonsured down flush to his jaw.

He leans in closer to you, hovers his lips near to one ear. “You changed your dress.”

He doesn’t keep pace with the other dancers, or swing you around in time with the music; he lets the world slow around you both, the music falling away as he brings the pace of your heart down with soft line of his mouth and the steady, still look in his dark eyes. His hand on your back radiates so much warmth that it cuts through the evening chill just beginning to set in, as if his palm is directly against your naked skin.

You smile meekly. “It wasn’t appropriate for a wedding.”

His dark brows pull together; his hands tighten their purchase on you. You watch him avert his eyes from you, take a great breath in through flared nostrils.

“Mr. Garrick,” you say, feeling too honest, “do you disapprove of me?”

He snaps his gaze back to you. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow. “You don’t seem very pleased, whenever we talk, is all.”

Suddenly Gaz smiles—lets out a short, sharp laugh that bares his even teeth, shows the points of his canines. “That’s not your fault. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazes at you. Lamplight casts the angles of his face in shadow, deepens the darkness of his eyes. His shoulder is solid beneath where your hand rests, shaped hard by a life on the range; you could lay the entirety of your weight against him, you think, and he wouldn’t even sway with holding you up. There’s something very present about Kyle Garrick. Something real. It draws you in like the earth draws the moon into its orbit.

“Do you really want this?” he asks you.

You blink. “Of course I do.”

“You hardly know him.”

“I’ve known him for half a year, Mr. Garrick,” you say, somewhat unsure how much explanation you owe this cowboy. After all, you’d vowed to earn his trust, as his employer’s new wife. “I know you might have some reservations about me. I understand, really.”

“No,” says Gaz immediately, dark brows low and serious over his eyes. “Not about you.”

“Mrs. König!” an accented voice calls.

Immediately the world speeds up around you again, music crashing back into your ears, wedding guests spinning and leaping around you, and you turn to see your husband standing at the edge of the clearing.

The dancing comes to a halt at the sound of his voice; Hans outstretches one hand toward you.

“I believe it is time for us to retire,” he says.

Gaz’s hands tighten on you again. You feel the eyes of the other dancers on the two of you, tight lines of attention between you and them.

You have felt it all evening, really—the undercurrent lining every conversation, the askance looks tossed at you and your husband when no one thought you’d notice. The pervading sense of some drama playing out just outside of your comprehension.

You turn to look back at Gaz. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. The wells of his eyes are ink-dark, opaque, eclipsed by something of a shape beyond your knowing. He says nothing as he holds your gaze, only watches you with an expectation so stoic, so resigned, that you feel almost guilty for releasing him.

He lets you go as if his grasp wasn’t even tight in the first place. You turn away from him, from the stone-hard expression on his face, and go to slide your fingers into your husband’s waiting hand.

Wolf-whistles populate the night air as he smiles approvingly, nods, and leads you away. Short bursts of knowing applause behind you draw your shoulders tight together.

“Ignore them,” says Hans, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm. “They’re just fools.”

You look back over your shoulder. Gaz still stands amid the dancers, a wide berth around him. His eyes have not left you; they pierce you in the night, sharp even as the distance between you grows.

You have only one other point of reference, aside from your mother’s tutelage, for how the end of this evening might go. A topaz glimmering in the folds of your memory.

Years ago, before the shine had worn off as it usually does with older siblings, you’d worshiped your oldest brother like he was Jesus Christ returned. You’d trailed after him like a newborn pup, dogging his every step, hoping your devotion would earn you even the smallest scraps of his affection. You’d watched his comings and goings like you could divine the mysteries of God from the merest angle of his movements.

One night, far past the time when everyone should be asleep, he’d slipped out of the small three-room house your family shared. You knew, because you slept closest to the door, and by then could recognize him by the rhythm of his footsteps. Like any nosy little sibling, you’d followed him out once you were sure he couldn’t hear you behind him.

He’d made his creeping way toward the barn, his path and yours lit only by a waxing moon. You remember, sneaking along after him, noticing a dim glow emanating from the cracks in the hayloft door, and guessed that your brother had realized he’d forgotten to snuff a lantern before going to bed—and now he was going to put it out, rather than leave a hay fire to chance.

He went inside. You were about to follow (no sibling, however divine, was exempt from a good ribbing, and nearly burning down the barn was excellent blackmail fodder)—when you heard another voice.

A female voice. Soft, and sweet, and welcoming.

Very little preamble separated that revelation from the next, and what you heard in the following moments rooted you there in place; movement. Rustling. For the span of a few heartbeats, nothing except for the crickets in the fields—and then, like the moon rising on a cloudless night—a growing chorus, voices high and low, moaning together in staccato.

You’d stood there, frozen absolutely solid, as it went on. The high voice lifted higher, and higher, carried on frantic, rapid breaths, until it cut off with a shriek that muffled so fast you knew your brother had covered the girl’s mouth.

Then—quiet, shared laughter.

So you know a little more than what the goats taught you.

Hans leads you back inside the house, where the lanterns have been turned to low, orange specks of light. You fix your eyes on the nape of his neck ahead of you as the two of you climb the stairs, making your way back to the master bedroom. The cacophony of the wedding celebration is far away; he opens the door, draws you inside, and shuts it behind him.

You stand in the middle of the room, looking at him. This whole evening has felt like a dream, but as you gaze at your husband, you suddenly feel like you’re waking up. You have not been alone with Hans since you met him, not really, and you realize he hasn’t felt quite real to you because of it. You almost feel as if you can see him, for the first time, see the words that have made him up in your memory coalesce into the flesh-and-blood man standing before you.

This is him. This is Hans. This is the man you love.

Softly, you approach him. Reach up with two hands to take his face in them; press your lips, shyly, unpracticed, to his.

“Hans,” you say, more softly than you have ever said anyone’s name in your life, looking into the pale blue of his eyes.

He gazes down at you. “Let’s get undressed,” he says.

It’s the moment you expected, but it daunts you nonetheless. You nod, step away from your husband, and he sets to the task—he shucks his coat, dropping it on the floor, and unhooks his suspenders. Swiftly you turn away from him when he begins unbuttoning his shirt, face blazing—of course, you’ve seen men undress before, you have three brothers, but this—this—

The reality of what you are about to do douses you all at once, soaking you to the bone. When you bring your hands up to the buttons of your bodice, they are trembling; you can barely get the tiny pearls between your fingers to undo them. You hear more clothes land on the floor behind you as you struggle, and then nothing. Stillness.

His eyes are heavy on your back. He is silent as you finally get the jacket off, and the blouse along with it; he is silent as you push the skirt down over your hips, the garment piling on the floor.

Your whole body is shaking by the time you’re down only to your chemise, shivering like a foal on new legs as you bare your shoulders. You close your eyes. There’s no need to be afraid as you shuffle the garment down your back. It’s only your husband behind you, looking at you as you bare your buttocks, as you step out of the split shorts, as the cool night air caresses your naked belly.

“That’s enough,” Hans says behind you when your hands go to the ties on your stockings.

You go still.

“Get on the bed, now.”

You focus on your breathing. Long breaths, in and out, as you crawl belly-first onto the mattress, which sinks luxuriously under your weight, softer than any bed you’ve lain on in your life. Suddenly, before you have time to adjust, the mattress sinks even more under you, and an envelope of heat and weight looms over you, pressing hard onto you, bare skin and the smell of sweat and the sound of another person’s breathing over you invading your senses.

Then there’s something blunt nudging at the entrance of your sex. A hand on your hip, gripping tight. The blunt thing circles briefly, parting your folds, and then is pressing into you. Pressing in somewhere tight, somewhere that doesn’t want to open to let it in. You hold your breath. It presses harder, fighting the resistance, and then finally gets past it, just a half inch or so—and suddenly it hurts.

“Hans,” you whisper.

He hasn’t seem to have heard you. He pushes harder, just a bit further. There’s another wall of resistance, this one needling and far more solid. You gasp sharply at the dryness of it, the way his member seems to want to push your own folds up into you as it tries to get in, shoving, bludgeoning, and then, mercifully, Hans pulls away.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to suggest that maybe the two of you try this later. Clearly there is something about you that’s not ready for it—but then his hand is between your legs, smearing something slippery around, and just briefly he touches something that pulses with interest. You jolt as little sparks of pleasure dance through you but quickly burn out, and then, the blunt head of his cock is back, pushing in, much faster, much smoother, huge and hard—

Suddenly it is sharp inside you, razor sharp, paralyzing. You shriek in pain, tears welling acidic in your eyes, shocked, betrayed, and he keeps coming, an endless length of him forcing inside, making room where there is none, going somewhere it clearly must not belong—and then he groans, loud and guttural, and begins to pull out.

You don’t have enough time to mistake this for the end of it. He pulls out halfway and then rams back in, slamming against your body, punching what must be the very limit of the space he can make for himself in your body. Pain roars to life around his cock, radiating outward, a ripping and shredding that grows as he forces himself into you again, and then again, and then it’s happening for real, he’s begins thrusting so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs, slapping his hips against your backside as he grunts and groans behind you like a dumb animal. He batters some nexus of agony that sends you screaming, shrieking with every jerk of his hips, tears streaming down your face as you grip the blanket in clawed fingers.

“Please, Hans, stop, please!”you wail. “Stop, stop, stop—”

His hand grips back of your head, turning your face downward—pressing it against the bed, muffling your mouth and nose and eyes into the blanket—

He jerks against you as agony writes itself into your bone marrow. Your hands circle in on themselves so tightly you feel your fingernails bite into your palms. Any memory of laughter you ever had abandons you.

Then, suddenly, mercifully, he’s forcing himself into you as deeply as he can, groaning loud, and something warm blooms in you, squelches out warm and sticky as he pulls in and out a few more times. He stills then from his furious rutting, hanging over you, panting.

Then he pulls out. Your husband lets you go and rolls over, breathing hard on the bed. You lay absolutely dead still, shaking violently, every muscle in your body tensed up painfully tight.

“Hans,” you whimper, “Hans.”

“Mm-hm,” he hums.

“Hans.” Every nerve is vibrating with pain. “Hans, that hurt.”

There is a long silence after. So long, you start to believe that he won’t say anything; that perhaps, even, he’s fallen asleep, and your words have dropped like flies from the air between you before they reached him.

But he hasn’t fallen asleep. Your husband shuffles off the bed, lifts the linen, and shuffles back into it. The lantern light is dim in the bedroom, but light enough that you can see the nonplussed expression on his face.

“Anna got used to it,” he says finally, eyes closing. “You will too.”

And he turns on his side and says no more to you.

You lay there aching. When you drag your fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, streaks of red intermingle with the clear and the white.

Suddenly you want this day to be over. You want to close your eyes and dream that it never happened—or maybe, if you go to sleep, you’ll awaken to find that it was all a dream after all, and you’re still home, your mother cooking just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, you inch off the bed, finding the floor with your stockinged feet, and go to douse the lanterns.

The room is cold and silvery without their light. Darkness gathers in the corners, around the weak glow of moonlight failing to fully penetrate the curtains over the window. You gingerly swipe the cloth from a nearby washbasin between your legs, cleaning up the remnants of your husband’s pleasure, and then, with nowhere else to go, you return to the empty side of the bed and crawl stiffly under the covers.

He does not stir as you settle in beside him. You lay your head on the pillow next to his and fold your hands over your stomach.

Outside and far away, you think you can hear the band still merrily playing. The darkness deepens, and deepens, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin.

next

[retrowitchy]

ranking lucy gray's outfits in the tbosas movie as a costume design student ✶✧

quite possibly, everything rachel zegler wears is my favorite part of tbosas. trish summerville is a big personal hero of mine, and tbosas is my favorite hunger games film in terms of costume design!!! so as a disclaimer, i love every one of these looks with everything in me, this is just me ranking them.

8. swimsuit

this really shouldn't be in last place, because crochet swimwear? brilliant. and so beautiful. and so in-universe.

i love how all the covey swimwear feels like it was hand-made by the characters themselves. obviously, nobody in district 12 is swimming for pleasure much (we learn this from the first book, and haymitch and burdie just skinny dipped lol), so naturally the covey would have made their own things to wear by hand.

7. sejanus' execution

the details of the snakes on her belt and the hand stitching/embroidery on her sleeves are so wonderful. for an outfit that never really gets a full shot in the film (most of rachel's shots in this scene are closeups from the neck up), the dedication to detail is super admirable.

6. well i'm not made out of sugar

it's such a good detail how coriolanus' mother's shawl perfectly color compliments the rest of this outfit. it's like she picked it out to match on purpose, which makes the betrayal all the more devastating. i think this scene is also one of trish's stronger uses of color symbolism- the warm, sunshine-y colors of lucy gray contrasting the stark, bare palette of everything coriolanus wears in 12. she's a symbol of hope. he's trying to end that.

5. the covey lake

huge fan of the simplicity here. it's just a dress over the swimsuit. and yet everything about this screams lucy gray and screams covey. look at those mismatched little brass buttons!! the swimsuit peeking out from underneath!! the plum color suits rachel zegler so well- it's just generally so gorgeous.

4. pure as the driven snow

this outfit was one of the things about this movie that stuck in my head the most after walking out of the theater. there's this carefree, thrown-on essence to it, like the flowers in her hair are an afterthought, or maude ivory helped her put them in. i wish i could find better pictures of the vest, because the beading details are so beautiful. the reusing of her boots is a good detail too, because obviously she wouldn't have that many pairs of shoes.

3. the meadow

trish summerville did a great job at building a repeated silhouette for lucy gray. the cinched waist, blousy or sleeveless top, and a-line, flowing skirt is in almost every outfit, and i think this one is the most classic example of that look. i think she looks so beautiful in blue, and i like that she's dressed in such a wide variety of colors throughout the film- always something completely different than the last.

2. the rainbow dress

OBVIOUSLY. hand painted corset are you kidding me? i remember seeing this in the trailer and thinking truly, she could not have more perfectly recreated the dress from the book. it stays true to lucy gray's sillhouette, the ruffles feel bright enough to be a rainbow, but muted enough to still feel in-universe/accurate for 12. one of my favorite details is her boots ↓

they're old, and have a vintage feel, but something about how chunky they are also reminds us that despite the folksy charm, we are also in a dystopian future.

1. nothing you can take from me

my baby. my darling. possibly my favorite costume of any hunger games film. i am IN LOVE with this outfit.

the flower decal trimming and embroidery on her blouse, and the crushed navy velvet that feels like it was found at a 100 year old antique store. the boots are back. lacy top underneath, hand crocheted no doubt. purple in the skirt, but it's subtle- purple is her most repeated color element. it's rebellious, it's royal. the slight 1940s references in the silhouette.

DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE HAIR. ribbons and feathers threaded throughout her curls, giving her the impression of a bird in flight when she twirls??? REMIND YOU OF ANYTHING?????

this is her triumphant return moment, her defiant song against the oppression of the capitol. she's captivated the crowd....just like a certain someone will years and years later.

[shaadidukaanseo]

Explore the latest velvet blouse designs, perfect for bridal wear and festive occasions. With rich textures, intricate patterns, and luxurious finishes, velvet blouses add elegance and sophistication to any look.

[fannyrosie]

Lady Halloween

Outfit rundown Velvet jacket: second-hand Atelier Boz Skirt: vintage Hat: vintage Shoes: Yösuke Gloves: vintage Blouse (barely seen): second-hand Excentrique Bat earring: Design Festa Brooch: vintage Scarf: vintage

[bennyboyfics]

When in Monte-Carlo || Ben Shelton x fem!reader

A/n: sad Ben lost his match :( also kinda envisioned Alexandra when I wrote this but ofc u don’t have to xx

Wc: 2,296

Warnings: none really

MASTERLIST

-

The sun glinted off the Mediterranean, casting a golden sheen over Monaco’s postcard-perfect streets. You’d lived here for years now—long enough for the yachts, the champagne-soaked parties, and the quiet hush of wealth to feel almost mundane. But you still loved early mornings like this: quiet, with only the sea breeze and the promise of possibility.

You adjusted your handbag and wandered along the edge of the court at Monte Carlo Country Club. It wasn’t Grand Prix season, but the courts were alive with energy. A few top players had come early to train for clay season, and while you weren’t here for anyone in particular, watching athletes sharpen their game had always calmed you.

Probably because it reminded you of a lifestyle you’d left behind. You paused near the far court, your eyes catching on someone new. Tall, strong build, left-handed—his serve cracked like thunder. You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Damn,” you murmured to yourself, watching the ball whiz past the baseline.

“Not bad, huh?” someone beside you said. It was a girl, around your age, grinning at you. “That’s Ben Shelton.” You turned to look again, this time more closely. The name tugged at your memory. American. Young. Big serve. You vaguely remembered him from the last US Open—his energy, his showmanship. But seeing him in person was different.

He was focused, his brows furrowed as he wiped sweat from his face with a towel. When his eyes flicked up and met yours, you thought he’d look away quickly. He didn’t. Instead, he smiled. You felt something spark low in your stomach.

—

The next day, the stadium buzzed with energy. You’d dressed simply—white linen trousers, a navy blouse, and your hair pulled back in a soft clip. You weren’t trying to make a statement. But Monaco had other plans. You adjusted your sunglasses and glanced over your shoulder, walking beside someone who—despite your years surrounded by men in designer watches and private yachts—felt entirely new.

Ben Shelton. He was wearing a navy Nike tracksuit, tall and broad-shouldered, with that easy grin and tousled curls that the cameras would no doubt eat up. You hadn’t known him for long—just a day, really. A conversation that began over espresso and sunshine and laughter that felt like you hadn’t had in months.

It was impulsive, maybe foolish, to say yes when he asked if you wanted to walk into the tournament with him. But it was the kind of impulsive that made your heart beat again. You weren’t prepared for the flashing cameras. The moment the two of you stepped out of the black car outside Monte Carlo Country Club, shutters clicked like a storm.

The press had clearly been tipped off. A handful of paparazzi stood behind velvet ropes, shouting names and snapping photos. You hadn’t expected them to care—not about you, not when you weren’t the girlfriend of an F1 star anymore. But you’d underestimated Monaco’s appetite for scandal—and how interesting it might be that you were walking beside a young, rising American tennis star.

“Wow,” Ben muttered beside you, smirking at the crowd before looking at you. “You didn’t tell me they’d be waiting.” “I didn’t know,” you said under your breath, offering a small smile to the cameras. “But… welcome to Monaco.” He chuckled, then leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Guess they think we’re something to talk about.” Before you could respond, you heard your name.

Not from Ben. Not from the cameras. From him.“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” You froze for the briefest moment. Lucien’s voice was like a slap of cold water. When you turned, he was standing a few feet away—hair perfectly coiffed, team-issued polo tight across his chest, sunglasses pushed into his carefully styled hair. Of course he was here.

A local event, off-season press, plenty of social appearances. He never missed a chance to be seen. His gaze slid from your face to Ben’s, taking in the proximity, the matching lanyards, the small smile still playing on Ben’s lips. “You look well,” Lucien said, cool and casual, but there was an unmistakable edge there. You opened your mouth to respond, but Ben moved first.

He stepped closer to you—not possessive, not aggressive, just… there. Solid. Grounding. His hand gently settled at your waist, like it had always belonged there. You felt the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your blouse. “Hey, man,” Ben said smoothly, tone polite but firm. “Didn’t catch your name.” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Lucien.”

“Right,” Ben said, his tone neutral, edged with something just shy of dismissive. “I’m Ben.” There was no posturing, no need to impress. Just a cool, effortless confidence that made the moment all the more satisfying. You could feel a smirk tug at the corner of your lips. He didn’t need to say more—didn’t need to. The disinterest was the point.

Lucien’s gaze flickered back to you, settling there with a quiet calculation, like he was trying to piece something together he didn’t quite like. His lips parted, expression deceptively easy. “Last time we went to one of these, you were bored out of your mind.” You tensed, the remark hitting with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to needle you.

Before you could respond, Ben shifted beside you—barely, subtly—but enough. His hand slid lower along your back, fingers brushing just above the curve of your waist. The touch was light, but grounding. Reassuring. Protective. He eased you closer with a slow, deliberate pull until your shoulder met the firm warmth of his chest. Your breath caught.

“She’s been incredible,” Ben said smoothly, eyes still on Lucien but with a note of sincerity meant just for you. “Helping me adjust, giving me insight, keeping me sane during prep for clay season.” Then he looked down at you, voice softening. “I’m lucky to have her with me.” And in that moment, everything stilled. It wasn’t just a line. It didn’t feel rehearsed or convenient or for show.

It felt true, like he wasn’t just saying it for Lucien’s benefit, but because he meant it—even if he hadn’t fully realised it until just then. His eyes lingered on yours a beat too long, and you could feel the weight of it—something protective, something unspoken. It wasn’t possessiveness. It was claiming—but not in the way Lucien had once done, like you were an accessory to be shown off.

This was different. Lucien’s jaw ticked—just a flicker of tension before he masked it with a tight nod. “Well. Enjoy the match.” And without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the VIP entrance, retreating like someone who had just lost ground he didn’t realise wasn’t his anymore. Ben let out a quiet breath beside you.

“You good?” he asked under his breath, head dipping toward yours. You nodded slowly, heart still thudding, the aftershock of tension mixing with the sharp thrill of being chosen—not for optics, not for legacy, but for you. “Better than ever,” you murmured, your voice just barely above a whisper. His smile returned, a little smug, a little satisfied. “He didn’t look happy.”

You laughed, finally, tension breaking. “Neither did you when he showed up.” Ben shrugged. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you. Like he still had some kind of hold.” You gave him a sideways glance. “So you pulled me in front of half of Monaco?” He gave you a sheepish smile. “Well. Yeah.” You shook your head, but the truth was… it felt good. Better than good.

For once, someone was choosing to stand beside you—not for PR, not for appearances, not to show you off. Just because they wanted to be there.

—

You followed Ben to the player’s lounge, tucked behind the main court. The cameras had been left behind, but the whispers were still very much present. People looked—some curious, some surprised. You were still her—Monaco’s former it-girl, the ex everyone had an opinion about. Whether you were yesterday’s news or still relevant in the right circles, you weren’t sure anymore.

But now, apparently, with a new man on your arm. Ben didn’t seem to care. He handed you a water bottle, let his hand brush your waist again when he passed you, and every so often, he’d lean in to murmur something just for you. “You know you’re the most interesting thing in this building right now,” he said once, low and amused. “And I’m about to go play a match.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, they’re here for you.”“Maybe,” he said, gaze steady. “But I’m here for you.”

—

The match itself was electric. Ben’s energy was infectious—grinning between points, playing with swagger and confidence, feeding off the crowd. But he also kept looking up. At you. Every time he nailed an ace, every time he fought off break point, he found your eyes. The cameras caught it. Of course they did.

By the end of the second set, you could feel your phone buzzing in your bag. Messages. Mentions. Photos, already circulating. Who is the mystery girl with Shelton? Is Ben Shelton dating Monaco socialite Y/n? F1 star’s ex seen cozying up to tennis’s rising star.

You should’ve been anxious. But when Ben closed out the match with a brutal cross-court winner and threw his arms up, your first instinct was to stand, clapping, heart pounding. He looked at you—only you—and winked. And when he jogged off the court, towel around his neck, he made no detours.

He came straight to you. “No impromptu kiss today?” you teased as he approached, cheeks flushed from the heat. Ben grinned, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his curls. “Thought I’d leave something for the next match.” You raised a brow. “Planning to keep this up, then?”

He stepped closer. “You’re not tired of me yet, are you?” You bit your lip, tilting your head. “Not even close.” He glanced down, then looked back into your eyes, voice dropping a notch. “Good. ‘Cause I was serious when I said I liked having you here.”You swallowed. The noise of the crowd blurred in the background.

All you could hear was your own pulse—and him. “Me too,” you said quietly. “It feels good.” He nodded, gaze softening. “You’re more than who you used to be with. And honestly? I think Monaco needs to see this version of you.” You smiled, touched, and just a little shy under his stare. He leaned in. “Walk out with me again?”

“Absolutely,” you said. And when you left the stadium hand-in-hand, cameras flashing, heads turning, and Lucien watching from the corner of the player’s lounge with a bitter expression—well…You didn’t feel like a shadow anymore.

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 8, vol. 1, août 1901, Paris. Costume en serge blanche. Robe en batiste. Robe en mousseline blanche à pois. Clichés Boyer. Bibliothèque nationale de France

No. 1. — Robe en serge blanche; jupe unie gansée; boléro à col de linon brodé sur chemisette rose; ceinture en cuir fauve.

No. 2. — Robe en batiste à petit dessin rosé, garniture de comètes de velours noir.

No. 3. — Robe en mousseline blanche à pois rouges irréguliers; incrustations de chantilly noir.

—

No. 1. — Dress in white serge; plain skirt with braid; bolero with embroidered linen collar on pink blouse; belt in fawn leather.

No. 2. — Dress in batiste with small pink design, trimmed with black velvet comets.

No. 3. — Dress in white muslin with irregular red polka dots; inlays of black chantilly.

[emotionalmotionsicknessxx]

Meg Masquerade is done! A labor of love to Maria Bjornson, Phantom, and Meg Giry the baddest of the ballet rats.

Fabrics: Velvet, lace, mesh, and every trim available on the planet in black and gold - pink velvet courtesy of light of my life @when-it-rains-it-snows

Patterns: McCalls 7071 (jacket and blouse), self patterned skirt, cuffs, and jabot (with help from some amazing blogs and youtube videos)

Shoes: Amazon and leather paint

Tights: stage-worn Meg Giry tights from the Broadway Flea thanks to the amazing @from-aldebaran

I am retired from DIY-posting but I might post the process if there's interest! I love creating these looks, I feel like I get such an interesting perspective on a show I love and the design of such a gorgeous show while learning so much about garment construction. There's so many things I would change about this, but I gotta...let it rest for a bit and maybe in the future improve on the design!!

[mochiiniko]

HELLO KJ TUMBLR get your crumbs lol

i made some kaijo redesigns bc ive been thinking about the show more recently, character sheets and rambles under the cut :> (side note that these are just for fun lol)

(also their group name is a reference to no more miracles on ao3, please read it its so good 😭)

first off!! queen my beloved (<- absolutely no bias whatsoever)

i actually think her canon design is really cute, but honestly with her whole swordfighting thing i feel like it would be better if she had an outfit that communicated that well. i made the poncho (cape thing?? idk) be attachable to either sides of the blouse because i just forgot to stick to one side, thats my excuse for not redrawing queens design sheet lmao

next up!! good lird (im sorry joker ily but. honey 😭)

hes supposed to be a parallel to the joker card but he looks more like a magician??? unfortunately im attached to his canon design no matter how much i hate it so i wanted to keep the whole suit thing. i wanted to add some jester motifs without having to change his hat, so i swapped his cape for a tailcoat and added the classic duo colors you see in jester designs (also just want to rant about clover getting the jester hat for some reason???? that might be a protagonist-antagonist parallel in the story but its been a while since ive watched it so im not sure)

i really dont like how jumbled the palette in his canon design is because!! theres too much going on!!! i remember seeing an alternate version of his suit in one of the kj valentines magazine pages, and it had a really nice velvet color which honestly suits him better

lastly!! the reason why there isnt a sheet for spade is because honestly i think his design is really good as is?? i didnt really know what else to add because his design communicates his character really well and he has a pretty good color palette

i might try to redesign more characters when i have the time but ngl this is just an excuse for me to redesign joker 💀

[fizdryypz]

Things are really coming down to the wire for SakuraCon, but I now have a fully handmade velvet Charlie suit!

I was hoping to make my own perfectly fitted white blouse to go with the cosplay, but I definitely won't have time at this point, so I'm just using a thrifted one for now with some black buttons sewn on. I'll make an awesome one for my next con with black cuffs to match Charlie's design.