#wardrobe inside design

[gracie-bird]

INSIDE GRACE'S WARDROBE:

A costume sketch of a pink top with white detailing, a pink skirt, and a pink scarf was created for Grace Kelly in "To Catch a Thief" (Paramount, 1955). Watercolor and gouache wash over a graphite sketch on paper. Initialed by the artist.

Additional notes on the sketch. Approval information attached: [Approved by producer and director Mr. Hitchcock. Accessories: shoes $30, hose $12, gloves $15, scarf $20, total cost $92. Garment: 12 crepe $96, 10 chiff. $46, labor $281, embroidery $135, total cost $567. Req. time to complete 12 days. Production #11511. Date 5-1-54. For Miss Kelly. Estimated cost: garment $570, budget $475, accessories $90, budget $165, double $160, budget $225, total $820, budget $865. Req. time to complete 12 days.]

Signed by Frank Caffey H.P (Edith Head).

[alpha-mag-media]

Inside the lavish life of Molly-Mae’s Bambi Fury with 7 holidays in a year, first class flights & a designer wardrobe | AIW67Z9 | 2024-01-05 04:08:01 | January 05, 2024 at 05:08AM

Inside the lavish life of Molly-Mae’s Bambi Fury with 7 holidays in a year, first class flights & a designer wardrobe | AIW67Z9 | 2024-01-05 04:08:01 Read More … Check full articles at Source: ALPHA MAG

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Bunny

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Seo Changbin x fem!reader

Summary: No one spoils their girl like Changbin does. No one eats like he does either.

Warnings: Oral fixation. Gym sex. Tiffany. Dolce. Strength kink. Breeding Kink.

A/N: THERE YOU GO CHANGBIN GIRLIES PLEASE BE HAPPY. HAN WILL BE THE FINAL SPOILED PART !

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin

୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

He liked her pretty.

Not just in the way other men meant it. Not in the bare-minimum, tight-dress, perfect-lips sort of way. Seo Changbin liked her cute—bows in her hair, soft ruffles on her sleeves, frilly collars, little heart buttons she thought no one noticed. But he did. He noticed everything.

He’d buy the bows himself—silk, velvet, ribboned in his favorite colors. He’d frown if her hair wasn’t pinned back just right. He’d adjust it with careful fingers, always murmuring, “There. My pretty girl.”

And when he shopped, it was never random. Never thoughtless.

He didn’t just spoil her. He curated her.

A body-hugging Dolce & Gabbana dress for her wardrobe—he’d had it delivered with a handwritten note: Wear this for me next time we fight so I can forgive you faster.

A silk robe, pale pink with “Bin’s Bunny” embroidered in champagne thread across the back—she wore it when waiting for him to come home from practice, curling up on the couch with his cats.

Two floors of her apartment slowly filled with handpicked things—ruffled skirts, lace-trimmed blouses, designer slippers, glass teacups shaped like blossoms. Things he’d never seen on anyone but her, things he wanted only her to wear.

Even her favorite rose tea wasn’t safe from his affection.

She’d mentioned it once—once—and now, every Thursday, a box appeared. New blends from quiet Parisian brands. Seoul boutique exclusives. Ones with handwritten notes from the tea house owners addressed to Mr. Seo’s fiancée.

But her favorite gift?

The necklace.

He hadn’t said a word when he gave it to her.

Just placed the blue box in her hands one soft evening, while she was sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his old shirts.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.

Inside—simple, but so intimate—a fine Tiffany gold chain, so delicate it shimmered with every breath. At its center, two tiny initials, crusted in diamonds: S.C.

He took it from her before she could speak, hooked it gently around her neck, then tilted her chin up with one strong finger.

His eyes were soft. Melted. Full of something heavier than lust.

“Now they know who you belong to.”

She didn’t even get the chance to answer.

Because he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like he meant it. Like he’d always mean it.

And later, when he pulled away, her bow had come loose and his name sparkled at her throat—and he looked at her like he was never letting go.

  ────୨ৎ────

He loved the way she fit against him. Small, pliant, perfect. Like she was made to be lifted.

And in his private gym, no one could see them. No cameras, no mirrors except the full-length one bolted to the wall. Just him, her, and the sound of skin meeting skin.

“1… 2… 3—good girl.”

He had her hoisted up, legs locked around his waist, her back pressed to the mirror hard enough to fog the glass behind her. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, Dolce lace panties long discarded, and her heels still dangling prettily off her toes. She’d gasped when he lifted her—by now she knew the routine—but the way he moved inside her still left her breathless every time. Deep, controlled, possessive.

Sweat glistened on his temples, dripping down the curve of his neck, his chest flexing with every thrust. She whimpered when his biceps tensed, his grip tightening just a little more under her thighs as he slammed her down on his cock, hard enough to make her cry out. The weights on the floor clinked as he stepped back, bracing her against the wall like she was nothing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ragged. “You look so good like this—look, baby.”

She forced herself to look. In the mirror, it was obscene: her hair a mess, her lips smeared with Chanel gloss, her body trembling from the force of each roll of his hips. But there was also Changbin… thick arms around her, his other hand sneaking down between her thighs—greedy, relentless. The sight of him—sweaty, flushed, thick cock splitting her open while he held her up like she weighed less than a barbell—it pushed her right to the edge.

“You gonna come, bunny?” he panted, his breath hot against her neck. “Come with me, yeah? Show me how good I spoil you.”

And she did. Shaking. Eyes locked on his. A doll for him to play with, and he loved her just like that.

  ────୨ৎ────

But none of the gifts compared to this.

Not the limited edition handbags.

Not the Tiffany diamonds.

Not even the gym.

Because nothing could beat the way Seo Changbin ate.

He loved food. The whole world knew that.

But only she knew how much he loved her.

He had her laid out across sheets he had flown in from Italy—deep red silk that pooled under her like wine. Candles flickered in the corner. She was bare, thighs already trembling, chest rising and falling too fast as he pulled her knees over his broad shoulders and looked up at her like she was dessert.

“Stay still,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “Be good and let me taste.”

And then his mouth was on her.

His hands stayed firm on her hips, fingers digging into her like he was afraid she’d float away. He groaned into her pussy like he was fucking starving, tongue lapping at her in slow, deliberate strokes that made her eyes roll back. She was soaked—dripping for him—and he loved it. Loved how she squirmed. Loved how she tried to clench her thighs around his head and he pushed them wider.

“I want it all, bunny,” he murmured. “Every sound, every drop.”

Sometimes he moaned louder than she did.

Sometimes his cock was so hard it throbbed untouched.

But he wouldn’t stop. Not until she came all over his tongue—once, twice, again. He knew her body too well. He tasted every twitch. He knew how to ruin her.

“B-Bin—ah—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he growled, lips dragging up her inner thigh. “I’m starving.”

And then he buried his face deeper, like he could live there.

  ────୨ৎ────

Later, she couldn’t move.

Not even enough to lift her head from the silk pillow. Her lips were puffy, her eyes dazed, thighs sticky and open beneath the crumpled sheets.

Changbin came back from the kitchen, shirtless, with a tray in hand.

Strawberries.

Warm cream-filled bread.

A bowl of soup, still steaming.

He placed the tray beside her, and knelt at her side like she was royalty and he the most devoted servant. She made a soft, sleepy noise—but her mouth didn’t open.

He smiled. Picked up a spoon.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She obeyed. Bite by bite. Spoon by spoon.

And when he fed her the first strawberry—held between his fingers, gently pressed to her lips—he kissed the juice from her chin and whispered, “You know I’d give you the whole world, right?”

The necklace glittered against her collarbone. Her bow was still crooked in her hair.

And in his arms, she looked like the only thing he’d ever chase.

 ────୨ৎ───

She’d fallen asleep on the couch again.

Half on her side, one leg dangling off the edge, the throw blanket barely covering her thighs—and not the fluffy blanket he told her to use either. The TV was still on, some rom-com playing in the background, and her phone lay face-down on the floor like it had slipped from her hand mid-scroll.

He sighed softly. Then smiled.

“You’re gonna get a cramp like that, bunny…”

But he didn’t wake her.

He set down the bag—the bag, the one with the fluffy pink cardigan she mentioned once in passing while shopping. He’d had it sent from Japan because they sold out in Korea. The matching slippers were in his backpack. And tucked in the crook of his elbow: her favorite dinner in takeaway boxes, still warm.

Carefully, like he was lifting something sacred, he scooped her up. Thick arms around her back and knees, her head naturally tipping into his chest. She stirred but didn’t wake, just blinked blearily and hummed, nose nudging into the soft black fabric of his shirt.

“Smells like gym,” she mumbled.

He chuckled. “Rude.”

But his voice was so gentle. So stupidly soft for her.

He carried her into the bedroom like nothing. His arms didn’t even shake. Laid her down on the duvet and pulled the cardigan from the bag, helping her into it like she was made of glass. She blinked again, eyes sleepy-sparkly, lips pouty.

“Were you out?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Got your stuff. Dinner too.”

“…You’re always buying me things.”

“Because I love spoiling you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “And you always look so cute in the things I pick.”

She tried to argue, but her yawn cut her off.

So he sat at her bedside, opening the boxes and gently scooping up a bite of warm rice, lifting it to her lips.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She blinked, took the bite. Then a second. And a third.

“You didn’t eat yet?”

“I’m eating now.” He smiled. “Watching you counts.”

And later, when she was full and warm and fuzzy in her new cardigan, she laid against him, one palm on his chest, fingers tracing his muscle like it soothed her.

“You’re so big,” she mumbled.

He grinned, cocky—but his voice betrayed how shy he got when she touched him like that. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Feels safe…”

And he tucked the blanket tighter around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.”

 ────୨ৎ────

She was already breathless, legs trembling around his thick waist, hands gripping the slope of his shoulders like she could hang onto sanity through him.

Fuck he made her a fan of Missionary. He Loved gift giving, even if it was just his cum.

One hand beneath her thigh, the other braced beside her head, all of him wrapped around her. His biceps caged her in, his chest pressed firm to hers, and his voice—deep, wrecked—growled right into her ear.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispered, thrusting up again. “How deep I am?”

She whimpered, back arching.

He was so strong like this. Like she weighed nothing. Like her body was made for this—for him. Every movement made her feel owned, spoiled, ruined by the boy who treated her like treasure in daylight and like his personal plaything at night.

“You take me so well, always do,” he murmured, kissing down her jaw, her neck. “Fuck—I might just give it to you for real.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Bin—”

“You want it, don’t you?” His hand slid between her thighs, rubbing gently where she needed him most. “You want me to fill you up, make you mine forever.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could only nod as he grinned, so smug, so in love.

“My pretty little wife,” he breathed, kissing her again, messier this time. “Gonna look so good with a bump. All soft. All mine.”

She moaned, clinging tighter, and he laughed—ruined and breathless himself.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Like I always do. You won’t lift a finger. Just let me love you, spoil you, fuck you full.”

And when he finally came—deep, with a gasp of her name—he didn’t move. Just wrapped her tighter in those stupid, beautiful, strong arms of his and kissed her forehead like she was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

Because she was.

And even if she never did end up full of him, he’d still treat her like she was carrying his whole world in her belly.

 ────୨ৎ────

But it wasn’t just that he gave.

It was how much he loved.

He never let her walk on cold floors.

He kept a box of warm socks just for her in his car, in case she forgot hers.

He called her bunny all the time.

He picked her up from every schedule with her favorite snacks in the cupholder.

He massaged her legs when she was tired, made her protein smoothies, ran her bubble baths. He was softer than he looked.

And when he was tired—really tired—

She took care of him too.

She tucked him in when he fell asleep on the couch. She kissed his calloused hands and told him he was the best man she’d ever known. He never said much when she did that, only blushed, blinked, and held her tighter.

He came home once, late.

And there she was, curled up, waiting for him in one of his old shirts.

“Binnie,” she whispered sleepily.

His chest cracked open with warmth.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“You really are my best gift.”

[archerdork]

it's been a decade but i'm still not over the insanity that is the movie Jupiter Ascending

spoilers ahead, but this movie was slammed when it was released. sitting pretty at a 27%/38% on rotten tomatoes, it was critiqued on essentially every single aspect by a large majority of viewers. almost everyone hated it. almost.

i can't speak for what the the wachowskis actually intended, but this movie is a homage to every 12 year old dreamer writing acidentally self insert stories with unrestrained enthusiasm.

the main character played by Mila Kunis is named Jupiter. no literally. Jupiter Jones.

movie opens with Jupiter living an uneventful, monotonous life. there's a montage of her waking up early, going to work as a house cleaner, waking up early, going to work as a house cleaner, repeat.

within 20 minutes of runtime she is about to be murdered by aliens but is saved bridal carry style by channing tatum rolling in on hover skates. yes exactly what you're picturing. he also has a laser gun that barks when he shoots it. no im not kidding.

channing tatum is a wolf man hybrid. his name is Caine Wise. yes, "dog man", exactly, his name is literally Dog Man. he has pointy ears. "bred for the military but that didn't work out for me". after he saves Jupiter, she is unconscious and wakes up with a gun next to her bc Caine "thought it would make her feel better". he is Guarded and Rough yet Kind and Gentle.

it is later in the movie revealed he used to have wings, pretty feather angel-wings looking wings, but they were ripped off because he broke the rules. he has scars on his back. it's all very man pain. the movie makes a poorly masked point of talking about how he's a wolf man without a pack while the camera is pointed at Jupiter.

Jupiter spends most of the movie alternating between fainting, being kidnapped and holding her own against people wanting to kill her. you know, she's Powerful and Cool and Kickass but also has hunky yet sensitive men saving her. at one point a man who planned to murder Jupiter insults her and Caine, pointing a gun at the guy, asks Jupiter "may i kill him" through his teeth but she says no so he doesn't. (she has a guard dog she literally has a guard dog im-).

she has several wardrob changes and she's either dressed in flannels, snassy space movie outfits or the most beautiful dresses you could imagine.

another character is Stinger Apini played by Sean Bean. he's a human honey bee hybrid. im still not joking. he gets little gold hexagon in his eyes sometimes. he uses "beeswax" as a swear.

while Caine and Stinger have a little "you betrayed me last time we saw each other" fight, a bunch of Stinger's bees start swarming Jupiter, following her movements like some kind of avatar water bending powers. this means she's royalty. because "bee's are genetically designed to recognize royalty" (sean bean says this with a completely straight face for which he deserves an award). Jupiter is space royalty. queen, to be exact. she's queen of a bunch of planets, including earth.

Jupiter Jones, normal human girl from a boring, monotonous life, is Queen of Earth.

she's one of the most important people in the universe and has a hot wolf man saving her at every turn. this movie was written for every little sensitive, creative child inside the heart of a adult clinging to their imagination and dreams.

the movie has about eight bad guys but oscar-winner and acclaimed actor eddie redmayne plays the top bad guy. eddie did this movie coming off the backs of Les Misérables and The Theory of Everything. i can only assume the casting director knew about a murder he’s committed and blackmailed him into doing this movie.

eddie's character name is Balem Abrasax (a fine, 'character name generator'-name) and he either whispers or blows out the speakers.

one hour into the movie it takes a break and does a 'space bureaucracy is like the DMV'-bit as Jupiter, with the help of a robot named Intergalactic Advocate Bob, tries to claim her title as queen. there's a montage where they are sent around to get documents so they can get other documents so they can get other documents only they can't get those documents before submitting the first document and-

jupiter gets a cool glowing tattoo on her wrist and then the movie jumps back into space opera and she's kidnapped and saved a few more times.

jupiter tries so hard to seduce Caine but he resist bc He's Broken and Dangerous and Does Not Deserve Her. the third act kicks off with Jupiter (the person) inside Jupiter (the planet) with Balem who will most certinly hurt her, so Stinger give Caine a pep talk about how much he loves Jupiter and he has to go save her.

mind, they've known each other for about two days and Jupiter has been kidnapped three times so they've only spent about half of that time together. but it's TRUE LOVE goddamnit. Caine looks like he's about to cry when Stinger tells him to go after the girl. then he sets his jaw very masculinely and proceed to fly a little spacecraft though the storm clouds dodging lightning

they kiss during the last fight, defeat the last bad guy and then movie cut to later. now Jupiter is waking up early and happily go about cleaning houses, only she pauses to look at the glowing tattoo on her wrist proving she owns Earth and after work she goes on a date with her wolf man boyfriend who got his wings back so now she uses the hover boots and they go flying together. the end.

movie has so many stupid little quips and bits and funny quotes. the amount of fanfic tropes used would kill you if you did a take a shot-game. it's so silly. so so silly. it's stupid and the pacing is atrocious and the dialouge is so campy it hurts sometimes and the action scenes are a mess of visual effects than nearly give you motion sickness and they are about ten minutes each which is nine minutes to long and i love this movie with all my heart.

it's the most comfort movie to ever comfort. it's little younger me sitting up at night dreaming up insane stories. it's younger me pretending to hoverboard alongside the car on long drives. it's wanting to feel special and loved and go on cool adventures. it's endless imagination wrapped up in a stupid little story with stupid little characters with stupid little names written with pure love for the child inside every creative person.

i will die defending this movie. go watch it

[mephisto-reporting]

Silk, Satin and Sensual

Premise: Headcanons on his preferences for lingerie and his reaction when he sees you in them. Based on this request. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. This is suggestive. Please do not interact if you are a minor. Caleb version is out!!. If you wanted to be added to my taglist, please DM, ask or comment :D Content warning: Suggestive. MNDI.

XAVIER

Xavier has a thing for soft, celestial tones like white, cream, silvers and muted golds. He’s drawn to fabrics that shimmer faintly, almost like starlight against your skin. He has a thing for delicate patterns, like lacework.

Sheer materials like mesh and chiffon drive him wild, especially if they reveal just enough to leave him craving more. He prefers the balance of teasing and revealing, where the fabric hints at your curves without fully exposing them.

He’s absolutely obsessed with your thighs and prefers lingerie that accentuates them. Garter belts, thigh-high stockings, and intricate lace shorts are his kryptonite.

If you have small celestial accents like tiny golden stars or moon charms hanging from the garters… good fucking luck. You are not walking the next day.

He has an unapologetic habit of tearing your lingerie when he loses control, so he’s constantly replacing your wardrobe. His explanation? “It’s not my fault they’re made so fragile. I’ll get you something sturdier—next time.”

Once the damage is done and your new lingerie is in shreds, Xavier looks annoyingly unbothered. He’ll casually toss the ruined piece aside and murmur, “Guess I’ll have to buy you another.”

He’ll commission a lingerie set made of delicate ivory lace with gold threads woven into it, shaped to mimic constellations. He’ll surprise you with thigh-high stockings that have faint, shimmering patterns running up the sides. These are always paired with garter belts because he loves tugging on them when he is intimate with you.

He’ll leave the box on your bed, wrapped in soft cream paper with a gold ribbon. Inside, there’s always a handwritten note in his steady handwriting. “For you. You’re too beautiful not to be dressed like the stars themselves.”

His reactions:

The moment he sees you in lingerie, his carefully composed demeanor melts away, replaced by an intense, almost predatory focus. His eyes lock onto your thighs, and his voice becomes a low murmur laced with want. He is the definition of: his eyes darkened.

Xavier likes the idea that these pieces are chosen specifically for his eyes. If anyone else saw you in them, even accidentally, it would ignite a streak of jealousy.

If you walk past him too many times, deliberately flaunting the look, he’ll finally snap. One moment, you’re teasing him; the next, you’re backed against the wall with his hands tracing the garter straps. “Do you want me to tear this off?” he’ll ask, his voice soft but carrying that dangerous edge. Spoiler: He’s already decided the answer.

ZAYNE

Zayne prefers earthy tones—rich browns, deep greens, warm ambers, and muted burgundies. These hues remind him of natural beauty, grounding yet alluring. He loves subtle details like lace trim, delicate straps that crisscross your back, or a ribbon that ties just above your hips—small elements that add to the allure.

Zayne is drawn to pieces that accentuate your waist. Corset-style lingerie, high-waisted panties, or teddies with cinched designs are his favorites. He admires the way they create an hourglass effect, appreciating your silhouette.

He has a thing for materials that feel good to the touch: silky satins, fine lace, and soft mesh. The tactile experience is as important to him as the visual.

Zayne has impeccable taste, selecting pieces that balance seduction with sophistication. Think satin teddies with plunging necklines or lace bodysuits with subtle, sheer paneling. He gravitates toward lingerie sets that emphasize your natural beauty rather than overwhelming it—clean lines, elegant accents, and designs that celebrate your form.

When Zayne gifts you lingerie, he makes it an intimate experience. He’ll lay the gift on the bed, wrapped in tissue paper with a single dried flower,something earthy and subtle, like a sprig of lavender or rosemary. His note is direct: “For when you’re ready to let me admire you properly.”

Zayne picks quality over quantity. He’d rather gift you one stunning, well-made piece than several forgettable ones. His selections are designed to last—not that he always gives them the chance to.

His gaze never wavers. When you wear lingerie, Zayne’s eyes lock on yours before slowly traveling down your body, making you feel like the most captivating thing in the world.

There’s no ripping it off, but it won’t take long before he’s slipping the fabric off. He’s not gentle, but he’s not reckless either. There’s a certain hunger in how he undresses you.

His Reaction:

When you walk into the room wearing one of his carefully chosen pieces, Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His calm is replaced by a sharp intake of breath, his eyes trailing over you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

Zayne’s fingers brush over the fabric with deliberate slowness, his palms lingering against the soft satin at your hips. “Feels even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a heated smirk. “But I think it’d feel better on the floor.”

If you tease him, letting a strap fall off your shoulder or adjusting the lace just so—Zayne’s control begins to crack. His hands are on you instantly, his voice dropping to a growl. “You like testing me, don’t you? Keep it up, and you’ll see what happens.”

RAFAYEL

Rafayel is drawn to soft, pastel shade like gentle blues, lavender, and delicate purples. He prefers lingerie that’s sweet and soft, evoking a sense of innocence while still being sensual.

He gravitates towards cuter lingerie like bralette sets with flowing chiffon accents, babydolls with sheer overlays, or high-waisted lingerie shorts. He likes pieces that don’t reveal too much but are so alluring that he cannot keep his eyes off you.

Rafayel is obsessed with fine details such as silver waistbands that drape lightly like jewelry, chokers that gleam with tiny pearls, delicate chain straps on your bra, tiny dangling gemstones, or trims that sparkle subtly in the light.

Sheer robes, flowing fabrics, and fluttering hems draw his gaze as they cling to your skin over your lingerie like water waves. If you are wearing a lingerie, fresh out of the shower with your hair still wet, it is game over for this man.

Rafayel treats every moment with you in lingerie as sacred. He doesn’t rush; instead, he takes his time, savoring every detail like an artist admiring their finest work

Rafayel is the kind of person who doesn’t just buy off the shelf. He’ll have something specially commissioned for you, likely a set of lingerie that reflects your personality and his artistic sensibilities. His commission might even include small charms that are Lemuria inspired.

Rafayel, though loving, is bashful when it comes to gifting lingerie. He would likely have the lingerie sent to you without a grand reveal, perhaps bundled with other gifts like chocolates, perfume, scarves that might distract from his true intentions. His note will be brief, almost casual: “Some pieces I thought you'd appreciate, seeing as you're always so fashionable.”

His Reaction:

The first time you step out wearing one of his custom sets, a soft lavender bralette with delicate gold chain accents and a matching choker—Rafayel freezes. Rafayel can’t stop staring, though he tries to look away, his hand rising to cover his mouth as his blush deepens. “I-I didn’t think it would suit you this perfectly…” he stammers, his gaze flicking back to you despite himself.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to be so… um… revealing,” he stammers, eyes lingering on the intricate lace and the subtle gleam of the small jewels. “But… you look… divine.” When Rafayel touches the fabric, his fingers tremble against your skin. He’s so gentle, almost reverently so, as though touching you in this way is an act of worship.

"It’s like you’re wearing my art… and I can’t stop admiring it." His gaze will flicker between your face and the lingerie, doing his best to hold himself together. “Why are you doing this to me?” he’ll murmur with desire. “I just want to keep you here... like this... for as long as possible.” he whispers, voice barely audible, as though if he spoke louder, he might break the spell.

SYLUS

Sylus gravitates toward bold, classic colors like deep blacks, rich reds, and occasionally luxurious whites, midnight blues or dark emerald greens. These colors resonate with him. He appreciates the elegance of these shades, as they exude sophistication and bold sensuality.

He’s a silk and satin man through and through. These fabrics are smooth, luxurious, and irresistible to his touch. He loves how they glide over your skin and how they feel beneath his fingertips.

He loves classic, timeless lingerie: lacy bras with garter belts, high-cut panties that highlight your legs, and elegant teddies that hug every curve. Think luxury brands and couture pieces that scream sensuality.

Occasionally, Sylus surprises you with bolder, risqué styles: Cage-style bras with open backs, strappy bodysuits that playfully expose just enough skin, lingerie with sheer panels, leaving little to the imagination.

He doesn’t tear or rush; instead, he carefully folds each piece, placing it aside after everything is said and done. “I’ll want to see this on you again.” he explains with a sly smirk

Sylus doesn’t stop at gifting you a single set. Every outfit in your closet has a matching pair of lingerie. You’ll find lingerie for every occasion. Sylus alwayssurprise you with a box containing lingerie hidden among other extravagant gifts—fine jewelry, luxurious robes, or even a custom-made vanity to store your collection: “Maybe my luck is not be so bad if I am the only man who gets to see you in these, sweetie.”

For Sylus, lingerie isn’t just for the bedroom. He loves seeing you lounge in one of his tailored sets, reclining on his sofa as you read or listen to music together. Sylus is content to let his hands roam over the satin, enjoying the feel of it warmed by your skin. “Stay like this,” he’ll say softly, his voice a mix of command and yearning. “I want to keep you close.”

True to his nature, Sylus has a habit of keeping little trophies. He has a drawer in one of his private residences dedicated to these keepsakes  as a reminder of your shared moments. If you ever catch him in the act of placing something there, he’ll simply shrug with a sly grin. “Can you blame me? I keep what’s mine.”

His Reaction:

When you step into the room wearing something he’s chosen for you, Sylus’ composed exterior falters, just slightly. His gaze darkens, and his lips curl into a small, satisfied smirk. He’ll take a slow step toward you, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other reaching out to trail a finger down the silk, letting it rest against your hip.

Without hesitation, he’ll scoop you into his arms, carrying you effortlessly to where he wants you—be it the bedroom, his grand leather chair in the study, or even the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace. “I’m not letting you out of my sight when you like this.”

Sylus never tears your lingerie—he unwraps you like the most precious gift, his hands moving with reverent care. “You deserve to be savored, not rushed.” he whispers, his gaze locked on you. He’ll seat you on his lap or lay you down, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate movements along the fabric. The lingerie is not just for his pleasure, it is for yours as well.  

CALEB

Caleb prefers lingerie that’s just for him—sexy yet teasing, revealing enough to drive him mad but covering just enough to make him desperate.

Caleb gravitates toward sleek, understated sensuality. He favors deep, alluring colors like navy, black, and dark burgundy, shades that hint at elegance but still feel undeniably intimate. However, he has a soft spot for delicate lilacs and soft purples, especially when they complement your skin.

Minimal but devastatingly effective designs have him on edge. Thin straps barely holding everything together, high-cut panties that accentuate your legs, delicate bralettes that are more about aesthetics than practicality. He loves when the details like lace appliques or ribbon ties demand his attention. Anything he can tug, unravel, or ruin.

Let’s be real. Caleb is not a man who delicately undresses you. He’s been patient his entire life, watching, waiting, restraining himself. The moment you’re finally his? He’s not taking his time. “You knew what would happen when you put this on, didn’t you?” His voice is low, rough—before the sound of tearing lace fills the room.

If you ever wonder why pieces of your lingerie mysteriously disappear, don’t. Caleb takes them when you’re not looking, slipping them into his uniform pockets or luggage when he’s preparing for deployment. He’s possessive, obsessive, and when he’s away on fleet missions, he wants something of yours to keep with him. A delicate lace garter? A silk chemise you once wore to bed? He’ll tuck them away like trophies, running his fingers over them late at night, mind filled with thoughts of you.

He’s a man who gives gifts with purpose. He knows exactly what you want, and he knows what he wants. If he’s getting you that plushie you mentioned offhandedly, or the book you’ve been dying to read, you will find a carefully wrapped lingerie set alongside it. Every gift is a two-for-one deal—his way of spoiling you while satisfying his own desires. Tucked inside, there’s always a note with cheeky messages: "Making dinner tonight. But if you wear this, you'll be the dessert."

Caleb is the picture of patience in public. He knows what you’re wearing underneath your dress—he saw you put it on, watched every slow movement in the mirror. But he doesn’t let it show. Not a single twitch of his lips, not a single shift in his stance. He leans down, lips brushing your ear, his voice impossibly calm: “You’re going to regret this later.”

There is one thing that drives him past the point of no return— his clothes on you. Seeing you in his oversized shirt is one thing, but if he catches you lounging in his boxers? He’s done. His fingers dig into the waistband, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “You must really like testing me, huh?” His breath is hot against your neck, his hands already tugging the waistband lower. Any plans you had for the day? Gone.

His Reaction:

When you step into the room, wearing something meant just for him, his expression darkens immediately. There’s a brief flicker of something feral in his purple eyes—desire, possessiveness, raw hunger. He doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there, his breath held. “You expect me to behave after this?” His patience is frayed, and it's clear he’s barely holding onto his composure.

Try to tease him, make him work for it and he’ll let you, for a moment. He enjoys the chase, the way you think you’re in control. But the moment he decides he’s had enough? You’re done for. One second, he’s watching you with quiet intensity, and the next, you’re beneath him, your wrists pinned, your breath stolen by the sheer force of his presence.

When he touches you, it’s as if he can’t get enough—his fingers move with purpose, reverence, but there’s an undeniable urgency. “You’re mine. Always.” And with that, his lips crash against yours, taking what’s his. There’s no gentle teasing here—this is pure, unfiltered desire. It’s clear there’s no going back now. You’ve pushed him past the point of no return. The soft, teasing lace may have been your choice—but now everything that happens from there is his.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

taglist: @cordidy

[colebabey888]

Cultivating Your Signature It Girl Aesthetic | THE IT GIRL DIARIES

Fashion and style are critical components of the ideal It Girl. However, style is not about following every trend, you are the inspiration, the trendsetter, the It Girl style is about creating a look that is uniquely yours, an appearance that no one else can replicate but instead only have deep admiration for it. It’s about creating a personal brand that feels true to who you are and owning it.

How to discover and curate your signature look?

Know Your Aesthetic

Identify your fashion preferences. Are you drawn to classy elegance, barbie doll pink, edgy streetwear, coquette or bohemian chic? Curate a wardrobe that reflects this aesthetic consistently. Identifying your aesthetic does not mean limiting yourself to only that, else you're just another follower taking inspiration from the trendsetter. Take your aesthetic and make it your own, add your touch of personality and characteristic to it, give it a bit of you.

Invest in Staples

Build your wardrobe around staple pieces that can be mixed and matched. Classic items like plain white or black tees, versatile denim, fitted slacks, clothing that can never go out of style because it can always be made into something more.

Embrace Your Natural Features

Celebrate what makes you you. If you have big lips or eyes, find ways to accentuate them! Instead of conforming to trends that don't serve your look, embrace and elevate your features. For instance, laminating your brows for a neat, polished appearance instead of shaving them all off and redrawing them on like.. Discover beauty techniques that enhance your natural beauty rather than masking it.

Maintain a Signature Hair Routine

Your hair is one of your defining traits! Whether you have silky straight hair or kinky 4b curls, a consistent haircare routine helps you feel polished and put together. Invest in treatments that align with your hair type and goals—like deep conditioning and hot oil treatments for moisture and strength. If you love to wear your hair sleek, using heat protectants and frizz control products will help maintain your signature look while preventing damage.

Curate a Low-Maintenance Glam Look

You don’t have to spend hours on makeup to feel fabulous. Find key beauty steps that give you lasting results, like applying a lip tint every third day to keep your lips subtly flushed without constant reapplication. Design a makeup routine that emphasizes your key features. A weekly face mask tailored to your skin’s needs helps keep your complexion glowing. Embrace easy, effective beauty hacks that fit seamlessly into your routine.

Focus on Clean, Minimal Elegance

True elegance comes from appearance and how you carry yourself. Paying attention to skin, hair, and environmental cleanliness, moving with grace and poise. Keeping things simple yet chic, whether it’s maintaining a daily skincare routine or practicing oil pulling—ensure you’re always putting your best self forward. The key is consistency and subtlety, qualities that define It Girl charm.

Stick to What Works

The It Girl aesthetic isn’t about following every trend—it’s about finding what works for you and sticking with it. Your style and beauty choices should reflect what feels comfortable and sustainable for you.

Your personal style should reflect who you are on the inside and help you radiate confidence. Discover what feels authentic, and from there, curate a signature It Girl aesthetic that highlights your best self.

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.thedigitaldollar/gumroad.com

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (57/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Italy feels different in winter.

Warnings: 18+ (unprotected sex), angst

Word Count: 4.5k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: ✌🏻 chapters left. I'm sorry and I love you. feedback is appreciated!

The uber pulls up to the front of the hotel, ist headlights slicing through the pale fog clinging to the cobbled streets. Outside, Maranello is cloaked in winter’s breath – icy, clea, and humming quietly. The doorman opens the car door with a crisp nod, his breath misting in the air, and you step out, coat wrapped tightly around you, footsteps clicking softly against the frost-glazed pavement. 

It’s like the world has changed in the last few hours. You stepped on the plane with the ticket Charles bought you, warm winter sun on your back – and the cold air of Italy enveloped you when you stepped off, wrapping itself around you like a tight rope, making it hard to breathe. 

You have a gut feeling – and it’s not a good one.

The lobby is warm as you enter the hotel – unreasonably warm – and the rich scent of polished wood, espresso, and distant cinnamon candles welcome you. The scent would usually calm your nerves, but now it feels like too much, suffocating you somehow. 

You blame the nervousness and the uneasy feeling on the gala.

The concierge greets you by name, smiling as if he already knows the details of your evening. Since Charles organized everything about your trip to Italy, he probably told the hotel all they need to know about your stay.

You take the vintage elevator up, the golden cage of it rattling softly as it ascends. When the door opens, you enter your suite, lit by soft wall scones and dimmed sunlight filtering through the frosted windows. Everything inside is pristine, from the dark velvet drapes tot he sleek, modern decor with subtle nods to classic Italian design. The room smells faintly of leather and lavender – although the purple plant does nothing to calm your nerves. 

Your suitcase lands on the tufted bench at the end of the bed with a thud. You unzip it slowly, fingers still thawing from the chill. Inside, your wardrobe is tightly packed and carefully folded – thanks to Lando and Lando only. You move with purpose – black heels placed beside the closet, your pyjamas draped across the bed. Then, carefully, reverently, you lift the red dress. 

It shimmers even under the dim light – floor-length, backless, with a neckline that could silence a room. A shade of red that doesn’t whisper, but declares. You hang it on the satin-padded hanger provided by the hotel and place it on the front oft he mirrored wardrobe. It looks like it belongs here. 

You turn on the shower, wanting the chill that sits inside your bones gone. Steam rises quickly, filling the sleek marble bathroom. You peel off your travel layers one by one, the air turning warmer against your skin. As you step under the hot water, you close your eyes and let it run down your shoulders, rinsing away the fatigue of the journey and the tension of the day and the upcoming gala in a few hours. It’s almost mediative – the hush of the water, the warmth oft he space, the thought of what lay ahead tonight. 

The Ferrari gala isn’t just an event. It’s the event. 

It thrums beneath the surface of Maranello like a well-tuned engine – elegance, heritage, velocity. The kind of night that makes the air feel electric, the kind of crowd that could smell nerves and polish from a mile away. But tonight, you won’t be behind the scenes. Not entirely.

You’re his photographer. And his partner. 

Steam curls in the air, thick and fragnant with the scent of your vanilla shampoo. The water has been turned off, but you linger in the haze for a moment longer, towel wrapped tightly around your body, warmth trapped against yoru skin. It feels safe in that cocoon. Quiet. Controlled. 

Outside the fogged glass, the suite turns golden with late-afternoon light – the sun has decided to show up in the cold winter of Italy – but the edge of dusk begins to push against the windows. The red gown still hangs from the mirror like a promise. The camera sits still in ist bag, battery charged and lenses ready to hand.

You hear the door click open. You don’t call out. You already know it’s him. 

Charles‘ footsteps are soft against the hardwood, but purposeful. You can sense him before you see him – something about the shift in the air, the familiar cadence of his movements. You step out of the bathroom, towel still secure, droplets of water trailing down your shoulder blades. 

He stands near the window, still in comfortable black trousers instead of suit pants and a white shirt, jacket draped over the edge of your bed. His back is to you, one hand on the sill, the other running through his hair. 

„Hey“, you say gently, voice still warm by the steam. 

He turns, but not completely, There’s a delay, a hesitation – like someone caught in two different places. His smile comes late and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. „Hey“, he replies, then looks down at the floor for a beat too long. 

You cross the room slowly, bare feet thudding softly, and stop in front of him. „Everything okay?“

He nods, too quickly. „Yeah. Just … tired. Lot of people tonight. Lot of expectation.“

You study him for a moment. He’s here, but not here. There’s a tension in his shoulders, the kind that’s unfamiliar to you. Like something was being asked of him he hasn’t quite agreed to but can’t say no to. Not withough consequences. 

„I know the feeling“, you say softly, pressing your palm against his chest. His heart is steady, but guarded.

He finally looks at you – really looks at you. And for a flicker of a second, the mask cracks. You see the storm behind those beautiful green eyes, the weight of the evening ahead. Not just another event. This is Ferrari’s night. And he’s their golden boy. 

You, by extension, are part of that image now. Once you step onto the red carpet with him, there’s no going back. People will know your name, who you are, what you do. And since the moment you met, he wanted to protect you from all of it. The publicity, the comments, the opinions. 

Maybe stepping onto the red carpet with you scares him more than he likes to admit. 

„I’m proud pf you, you know“, you whisper. „Even when you disappear into your head.“

He exhales a small laugh through his nose, and it breaks something open between you. „I don’t –", he hesitates, „Stepping into this world – it’s not easy. The people won’t always be gentle.“

You smile, brushing a lock of his hair out of his face. „I didn’t fall love with gentle. I fell in love with you.“

The words hang there, suspended in the silence that follows. But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at you – eyes darker now, thoughts too loud to speak. The distance you felt when he entered the room hasn’t left, it lingers in his posture, in the way his jaw tightens slightly when you reach for his hand. 

You hold onto him anyway. „Charles“, you say softly, searching his face. „What’s wrong?“

His gaze flickers away, looking down, then back up, like he’s about to speak – but the words don’t come. Instead, he steps closer, hands finding your waist – and then he kisses you. 

It’s not a passionate kiss, not urgent or soft or sweet. It’s something else – measured. Intentional. Like he needs to do it. Like he’s trying to convince himself or something. Or trying to stop something from slipping. 

You feel it. The way his lips press against yours, warm but not present. The way his fingers don’t quite grip you, just rest there, as though afraid to hold on too tight. You don’t pull away – you want to understand – but it leaves a question in your chest that doesn’t stop growing. 

„Charles“, you say again, more firmly this time, but he just shakes his head.

Not a refusal – more like a surrender. A quiet, broken don’t make me lie to you that never makes it into words. 

He steps toward you again, more decisive this time. His hands find your face and hold you, tighter now. The kiss that fllows isn’t measured like the one before – it’s consuming. Desperate. Not because Charles is full of love, but because he’s full of need. A need to feel something. To anchor himself. To lose whatever storm is brewing behind his eyes in the shape of your body. 

You can feel it in the way he kisses you now – like he’s trying to memorize you. Not just your mouth, but the angle of your jaw, the soft dampness of your skin still warm from the shower, the way you gasp just slightly when his teeth nibble on your lip. He kisses you like time is running out. Like this is the last safe place he has, and even this might vanish. 

„Charles“, you breathe, barely audible, lips brushing against his. „Talk to me.“

But he only presses his forehead to yours, his eyes closed, breath uneven. His fingers trail slowly, down to your jaw and then your neck. He holds them there gently, like if he let’s go, something inside him will break. 

„I just need you“, he whispers, barely louder than the hum of the heater. „Right now. Just – let me have this.“

The words twist in your chest, because they don’t sound like desire. They sound like goodbye. 

But you nod. Because part of you wants to believe it’s just nerves. The pressure of the night. The weight of eyes that will be watching you both. You let him pull you closer, let him kiss you again, let him take the moment he’s asking for, even as a part of you breaks off and quietly begins to drift.

His touch is slower now, reverent. He peels away your towel with aching care, tracing your spine like a man desperate to hold onto something slipping from his reach. He guides you wordlessly to the bed, the city lights outside blinking red and gold against the windowpane. You follow without hesitation, his movements quiet, focused, like he’s afraid any sound might shatter the fragile stillness between you.

The sheets are cool against your skin at first, but his hands are warm— fever-warm — when they come to rest on your hips. He doesn't rush. There’s no urgency now, just an almost unbearable intensity in the way he looks at you. Like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. Like he’s trying to remember you with his hands.

Fingertips graze across your collarbone, slow and steady, dipping down the curve of your shoulder, trailing to your ribs, your waist. Every touch is deliberate. Almost reverent. As if he’s trying to draw a map of you in his mind — one he can take with him, one he’ll never get to trace again.

He kisses the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters wildly under his mouth. You feel him breathing you in, holding himself back. Or maybe holding something in.

Your hands slip beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt, fingertips skating across skin that's warm and tense beneath your touch. He breathes in sharply, not from surprise—but from surrender. Like he's been holding himself back all day, all week, maybe longer, and now that you're here, bare and willing and close, the weight of that restraint is breaking apart.

You push the shirt from his shoulders slowly, watching as it slides down the defined lines of his arms, how the light from the city outside catches in the dips and planes of his back. He looks like a marble sculpture come to life—carved by speed, polished by pressure, and fraying just slightly at the edges now.

He leans into you again, more fully this time, his hands cupping your face, his mouth finding yours with something rougher behind it. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours with a low, quiet urgency that sparks heat low in your belly.

When his hands trail down your sides, they're firmer now, purposeful. He palms your hips, your thighs, drawing your body against his like he can’t bear even a whisper of space. Your breath catches as he shifts you beneath him, his weight pressing into you, grounding you. His mouth moves lower—along your neck, across your collarbone, down the center of your chest—pausing to taste, to breathe, to make you feel wanted in a way that borders on worship.

Every movement is drawn out, deliberate. His fingertips explore you like he's relearning the shape of something sacred, memorizing the sound of every breath you take, every soft gasp pulled from your lips. You wrap your legs around his hips, urging him closer, and he groans softly against your skin—like the need is too much, too sharp to contain.

Still, he doesn’t rush. It’s slow. Intimate. Like he’s trying to make this last — not just the moment, but the way you look at him, the way you're still here, still his.

Your body arches into him as his hands trace every inch of you like a secret he never meant to share. He whispers your name into your skin like a vow, like it’s the only thing he can say without unraveling.

Your legs stay wrapped around him, your bodies close, heat building between you, breath by breath. There’s a rhythm now, unspoken but steady, drawn from every shared heartbeat and every sigh that escapes between kisses. He moves with purpose, but never haste. Like he’s painting something with your skin, with the glide of his mouth down your chest, the slow press of his hips against yours.

You feel everything—his weight, his warmth, the tension just beneath the surface of his restraint. It's not just physical; it’s something deeper. Every touch is layered with unspoken emotion, with fear, with longing. He holds your hand in his, fingers laced tightly like he’s afraid of losing you even now, even here.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a gasp — his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes closed as if the feeling might overwhelm him. And for a second, time stutters.

You whisper his name, soft and unsure.

He opens his eyes, just barely, and there’s something raw there. Vulnerable. Like he’s breaking apart in your arms and doesn’t know how to ask for help.

And still, he moves with you. Slowly. Deeply. Intimately. The tension curls tighter and tighter between your bodies, breath catching, fingers clinging, every roll of his hips sending shivers down your spine.

It’s not about release. It’s about connection. About staying connected — for as long as he can bear.

His hand slides up the side of your body, fingers splayed wide, like he's trying to memorize the feel of your skin. His movements are still slow, achingly slow, measured by emotion more than rhythm. Your bodies move together, and it’s not just friction or heat, it’s something far more delicate. More dangerous.

Your breath stutters as his mouth finds yours again — soft at first, then deeper, more desperate. He swallows your quiet moans, like he needs them, like they anchor him. Each gasp from you seems to steady him, keep him here.

“Je t’aime", he whispers against your lips, the words spilling out between kisses, between shallow breaths. “I love you.”

You open your eyes just enough to see him—his brows drawn together, eyes glassy with something he won’t let fall. He thrusts again, slow and deep, and your hands clutch at his back, nails gently dragging down as you whisper his name like a promise.

“Say it again", you breathe, barely a sound.

He presses his forehead to yours. “I love you.”

It’s almost a prayer. One that doesn’t quite hide the tremble in his voice.

“I love you", he repeats, voice cracking, like saying it might protect you from something. Like it’s all he has left to give.

You feel the ache in him now — how hard he’s holding on, how much he’s not saying. You cup his face, brush your thumb beneath his eye, even as your bodies continue to move, breath rising, your voice breaking as you whisper back. “I love you too.”

You give him this moment. All of you. Because something in your bones tells you he’s not asking for your body.

He’s asking for your forgiveness.

And he hasn’t even told you why.

-

The night outside is razor-cold, the kind that turns your breath silver and makes every moment feel sharper, more intentional. But inside the location oft he gala – a hotel transformed into the glittering heart of Maranello – the air is electric with warmth and money and names whispered like prayers.

You step from the sleek black car, camera in hand, the strap wrapped twice around your wrist like armor. The red dress clings to your skin like a second thought you’re not ready to let go of. It moves with you — graceful, dangerous, defiant. And though your heels click softly against the stone underfoot, your presence feels louder than it should.

Your eyes scan the crowd gathering at the velvet ropes and floodlights. Paparazzi line the barricades, the bulbs of their cameras already flashing in practiced bursts, capturing every second of curated glamor. You lift your own camera instinctively, more for something to do than anything else. Muscle memory. Distraction.

Then you see him.

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away from the entrance, surrounded by the hum of handlers and officials and whispered anticipation. He’s stunning in black—tailored tux, crisp collar, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

He doesn’t see you at first.

But then he does.

And in the moment your eyes meet, everything slows.

You walk forward, composed, professional, because that’s what tonight demands for now. Not a girlfriend. Not a secret. A photographer. A guest with a purpose and a mask of her own, until he decides it’s time to pull you up to his side, revealing you as his girlfriend to the world. But as you pass him — just barely close enough for your shoulders to brush — his hand reaches out quickly, catching yours.

A whisper of a touch. A spark.

He squeezes your fingers twice.

It’s a code. The one he gave you weeks ago. I love you.

You squeeze his hand, too – once, twice – but you don’t look back.

Not at him. Not at the way his eyes probably lingered a second too long, not at the curve of his mouth as he turned back to the press. You can’t afford to — not now. Not when you still feel his touch wrapped around your fingers like a pulse you can’t quiet.

So you walk. One foot in front of the other, heels steady on the stone as the crowd thickens. Voices rise and flashbulbs pop, and it all feels distant, like you’re underwater. But your grip tightens on your camera, grounding you. Reminding you of the role you came here to play.

You move behind the rope — your space. Just left of center, facing the red carpet. The place where everyone passes, where moments are frozen with the shutter’s bite and reputations are lit or buried in an instant. You inhale deeply, adjust your lens, double-check the battery and the memory card. Rituals. Safety.

You steal a glance at your phone. No response from Elena. Your text is still unopened, but you don’t spare a second thought to it. She’s probably busy with God knows who. You slide the phone back into your clutch and wrap your fingers around your camera again, just as the atmosphere shifts.

Suddenly, it’s loud.

The hum of anticipation breaks into a roar as the first wave of celebrities steps onto the carpet — sleek silhouettes in couture, practiced grins, the glide of fabric and confidence. Names you’ve only seen on screens and magazine covers drift past you in flashes of color and diamonds. The crowd surges forward, voices rising like a tide.

“This way!” “Over here!” “Turn to your left!”

Your hands move on instinct. Click. Click. Adjust. Frame. Capture. You breathe through the rhythm, let it settle in your bones. The camera becomes your anchor, your voice, your shield.

And then everything slows.

Not in real time, not really — but in the way that certain moments stretch long and thin, pulled tight by something unspoken.

He’s there. Charles.

Just stepping into the light of the carpet, shoulders squared in that tailored tux, a quiet storm of grace and control. The crowd responds instantly, shouting his name, flash after flash turning his face into something almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

He smiles. Polished. Just enough teeth. Chin tipped at the right angle. He knows this dance. He was raised in it. But then his eyes shift. And they find you.

Across the rope, camera to your face, lens between you like a veil.

You freeze. So does he.

Only for a second. But it’s long enough. Long enough to feel it.

He doesn’t smile. Not the way he does for the crowd. Not the way he just did two steps ago. Instead, there’s something else in his gaze, soft and sharp all at once. Like regret wrapped in reverence. Like he’s trying to tell you something from across the noise and chaos, without a single word.

Photographers shout his name. Call for him to turn. To lift his chin. To look left. But he doesn’t. Because for a breathless, infinite beat, all his focus is on you.

He doesn’t smile. Not the way the world expects him to. His face shifts when his eyes land on you — something unguarded bleeding through the composure. Like a door left open by accident. Like the truth slipping out before he can catch it.

You freeze, your camera hovering in front of you like a shield. You shouldn’t be here — not in this moment, whatever it is. Not in the crossfire of something that feels too personal for the stage he’s standing on.

Because his eyes don’t say hello. They say I’m sorry.

There’s no other way to describe it. No smile. No nod. Just that quiet look of someone who wants to take something back—something already unraveling. And before you can stop yourself, your breath catches in your throat.

Then he lifts his hand.

Just slightly. Just enough. Not to wave, not to pose. He reaches out like he might come toward you. Like he might step off the carpet, over the rope, through the noise.

But then someone steps into the space beside him. Your stomach tightens before you even see her face.

Elena.

Effortless. Composed. Her gown deep burgundy, her arm brushing Charles’s with the ease of a woman who doesn’t have to ask for space — because she’s always had it. She leans in and says something you can’t hear. Something light, probably nothing.

But he turns. Just like that.

His eyes leave yours like a door closing in the wind — without warning, without sound. His hand drops, not back to his side, but to her waist. Settling there like it’s meant to. Casual. Familiar. Not intimate — but not neutral either.

The cameras don’t miss it. Neither do the people behind them.

“Charles! Over here—Charles, who’s she?” “Is that your girlfriend?” “Smile for us—stand closer, that’s perfect!”

The shouts crackle above the crowd, hungry and fast, swallowing everything else. And in the chaos, Elena turns into the noise with a laugh—light, polished, unbothered. She plays it well. She doesn’t answer. Just leans in toward him slightly, shoulder against his arm like she belongs there.

He fucking smiles.

You see it happen — the shift. The settling. The way he straightens his spine and squares his shoulders for the attention. That practiced grin slides onto his face, slow and smooth, like armor being fitted back into place. The softness that was there a moment ago — the reach, the ache — it’s gone.

Now he looks like what they want him to be. Untouchable. Charming. In control.

And next to him, she’s dazzling. Effortlessly part of the picture. Her hair swept up, her dress catching the light, her body angled toward him like they’ve been rehearsing this their whole lives.

Your breath catches, camera still tight in your hands, useless.

You shouldn’t care. Not here. Not like this.

But the crowd doesn’t care about lines. They don’t know who’s behind the rope and who’s behind his heart. They only care about the story their flashes can sell.

“Give us a kiss!” someone yells. “You two together? Come on, Charles!”

He laughs, soft and low, and it carries just enough charm to satisfy them. He doesn’t answer the question — he never does. But he doesn’t deny it either.

Elena just tilts her head toward him, smiling like she’s in on some private joke. Her hand brushes his chest, light and fleeting, but it’s enough. Enough to set off another burst of flashbulbs. Enough to feed the machine.

You flinch at the pop-pop-pop of the cameras. You know that sound. You’ve lived in that sound. Behind the lens, behind the scenes. You know how easily a touch becomes a headline. How quickly truth is twisted into suggestion.

And yet, in this moment, it doesn’t matter what’s real.

What matters is what looks real. And right now, they look like a fucking headline.

You lower your camera. Not because you’re done, but because you can’t. Your hands are steady, but something beneath your ribs is splintering — slow and quiet and devastating.

He’s still looking at her. Not like before. Not the way he looked at you.

But he’s holding the pose. Holding her.

And for all the world watching, he’s letting them believe it.

You take a step back. Just one.

The velvet rope presses against your hips like a reminder. A boundary. A border. You don’t belong out there, not tonight. Not in that image. Not in that story. Not the girlfriend. Not the guest of honor. Just a girl behind the rope with a camera and a dress she suddenly feels wrong in.

You glance once more at him, at the easy way he stands with her — then realize the hardest truth: tonight, you’re not the story he wants anyone to tell.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

fangirling and finances 𓂂 𓇼˚｡ •

Summary: offical merch is expensive. the men who sell it are rich. doesn't mean i won't go in a rant about it.

✿ ln x desi!reader ✦

✿ fluff + humour ✦

masterlist ☾☼

monaco glistened in the mediterranean sunlight, a playground for the global elite. y/n, though, had another purpose. no need for the designer stores; she was tracking lando norris. she gripped her phone, praying she could take a photo if she managed to get close enough. her wardrobe? a much-worn "lando 4" t-shirt, a copy she'd bought from a street stall back home in india. official f1 merchandise prices would make her cry – genuinely, who could possibly afford those prices? seeing a known face by the casino square, y/n's heart leaped. it was him! taking a deep breath, she walked over, attempting to look as casual as possible. "mr. norris, may i have an autograph?" lando grinned, always the professional, and autographed her phone case. as he returned it to her, his eyes fell on her t-shirt. "cool shirt," he said, "but why not get the official merch? the quality is so much better." that was it. the floodgates opened. "are you kidding me? official merch is highway robbery! i could practically fund a small road trip around europe with the cost of one of your official hoodies!" lando blinked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. road trips? he was more used to private jets. "uh-huh," he said, clearly not understanding the financial reality of budget travel. y/n was going strong. "see, a good official t-shirt will cost you about 80 euros, okay? that's, like, 7,200 rupees! i can buy at least five of these fake shirts for that kind of money, and they're not half bad! or, let's look at it this way, that's enough for, like, 140 big mac meals in india! imagine the food coma!" lando stared at her, confusion and fascination warring in his gaze. big macs? he lived in michelin-star restaurants. but she was so vivid, so evocative with her words; the sheer incredulity of her comparisons swept him up in their wake. "right," he answered slowly, "big macs. got it." y/n, unaware of his millionaire thinking, was only just beginning. "and those caps? don't even get me started! 40 euros for a cap? that's 3,600 rupees! i could buy a good pair of running shoes for that! shoes i could use to run away from those ridiculous prices!" lando, however, was undergoing some weird phenomenon. it was akin to "cuteness aggression," but rather than having the urge to squeeze a puppy, he simply wanted to continue hearing her. her furrowed brow, the frantic maths on her phone, the very universality of her money troubles – it was all oddly charming. casually, he suggested, "so, if money did not matter, what pieces would you most want?" y/n, without hesitation, recited her fantasy wishlist: a team polo, windbreaker, the limited-edition monaco hat, even the official team backpack. she listed the prices both in euros and rupees, not even catching lando's discreetly opening eyes at the sum. "and where are you staying?" he inquired, attempting to be casual. "how long are you in monaco?" y/n, still enthralled by her merchandise fever, replied eagerly, sharing information about her budget hotel and the last few days of her journey. lando listened intently, taking it in. "i'll… uh… i'll see what i can do with those prices," he replied with a small smile, well aware he wasn't going to negotiate with the official merchandise vendor. the next morning, an unassuming van arrived outside of y/n's hotel. a delivery man appeared, holding an enormous, unorthodox-looking package. on the inside, wrapped in tissues, were every item y/n had listed. the monaco cap, team polo, windbreaker, even the backpack. in a side pocket was stuck a tiny note, scribbled in pen: "look at the prices… adjusted ;) - lando." y/n gazed at the box contents, her mouth agape. she couldn't believe it. lando had actually… he'd listened to her rant! she messaged her friends immediately, telling them the tale in wide-eyed wonder, exaggerating the details just a little for dramatic effect. the question now was: what next? would this be an isolated act of kindness, or the start of something bigger? she had no clue, but she couldn't help grinning. this was certainly a vacation to remember.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

tf, why do i like this? dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[ghstyles]

Off | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | HS1 Harry | Masterlist | Yours

["Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."]

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the hotel suite bedroom. Outside, the faint sounds of the city create a gentle backdrop to their quiet evening. Harry and Y/N are nestled in the plush king-sized bed, the white duvet tangled around their legs. Harry is sprawled across Y/N, his long limbs completely enveloping her smaller frame, his head resting on her chest as her fingers lazily trace patterns through his curls.

Harry's breathing is deep and content, his considerable weight pressing her into the mattress in that comfortable way she's grown to love. One of his legs is thrown over both of hers, effectively pinning her beneath him, while his arm is wrapped possessively around her waist. It's their favorite way to cuddle–him using her as his personal body pillow.

A mischievous thought suddenly crosses Y/N's mind. Her lips quirk into a subtle smirk as she decides to have a bit of fun with him.

"Harry?" she asks softly, her voice deliberately neutral.

"Mmm?" he hums against her collarbone, not bothering to open his eyes, clearly half-dozing in his comfortable position.

"Can you get off of me?" Y/N says, working hard to keep any hint of laughter out of her voice.

The effect is instantaneous. Harry's head flies up so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. His green eyes are comically wide with shock, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he stares at her with such profound offense it's as if she's just suggested they burn his entire designer wardrobe.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" he asks, his voice pitched higher than normal, absolute betrayal written across his handsome features.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, maintaining her straight face. "I asked if you could get off me."

Harry's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Without another word, he dramatically peels himself away from her body, each movement exaggerated for maximum effect. He rolls to his side of the bed with such theatrical flair that any stage director would be impressed.

He doesn't stop there. Harry continues his wounded retreat, scooting until he reaches the very edge of the mattress, as far from her as physically possible without falling off. He turns his back to her with an exaggerated huff, curling into himself like a kicked puppy, his shoulders hunched defensively.

The sight of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, pouting like a petulant child because his girlfriend asked him to move is too much for Y/N. The laughter she's been suppressing erupts from her in uncontrollable waves, her entire body shaking with it.

"Oh my god," she gasps between fits of giggles, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "You should see your face! I was just joking!"

Harry doesn't move, his back still firmly turned to her, though she can see the slight tension in his shoulders that tells her he's listening.

"Baby," Y/N coos, still giggling as she scoots across the bed toward him. "Come back. I didn't mean it."

Harry remains motionless, his silence only making her laugh harder.

"Harry Edward Styles," she says, reaching out to run her fingers down his bare back. "Are you really going to sulk because I played one tiny joke on you?"

He glances over his shoulder, his green eyes narrowed, but she can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth that he's trying to suppress.

"You wounded me," he declares dramatically, turning back away from her. "My girlfriend, the love of my life, the woman I worship daily, just rejected my cuddles. I may never recover."

Y/N bursts into fresh laughter, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing kisses to his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Please forgive me. I love your cuddles. I love being crushed by your lanky body. I miss you terribly all the way over here."

Harry makes a show of considering her words, his body still rigid in her embrace. "I don't know if I can trust you anymore. This is a serious betrayal, Y/N."

She slides her hand around to his chest, feeling his heart beat strong beneath her palm. "What can I do to make it up to you?" she whispers near his ear.

Finally, Harry rolls over to face her, his façade cracking as a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "You're evil, you know that? Absolutely fucking evil."

Y/N grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You should have seen how fast your head popped up. Like a meerkat spotting a predator."

Harry narrows his eyes playfully before suddenly pouncing and caging her beneath him again. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" he growls, though his eyes dance with amusement.

"I'm hilarious," she confirms, beaming up at him. "And you're so easy to mess with."

Harry shakes his head, his curls falling into his eyes. "You're lucky I love you, because that was some cruel and unusual punishment."

Y/N reaches up to brush his hair back, her expression softening. "I love you too. Even when you're using me as a mattress."

"Especially then," Harry corrects, lowering himself to reclaim his position sprawled across her body, his weight settling comfortably on top of her once more. "And just for that little stunt, I'm not moving for the rest of the night. You're trapped now, love."

Y/N wraps her arms around him, perfectly content with her punishment. "Promise?"

Harry presses a kiss to her collarbone, his lips curving into a smile against her skin. "Cross my heart."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · · 

Harry remains sprawled across Y/N, his weight pleasantly pinning her to the mattress. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the distant sounds of the city below. After several minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N becomes distinctly aware of a growing hardness pressing against her thigh where Harry's hips are settled against her.

She smirks to herself, running her fingers lightly up and down his spine before breaking the silence.

"I thought you said you won't move," Y/N says with playful accusation in her voice. "What's this that I feel poking my thigh, huh?"

Harry doesn't lift his head from her chest, but she can feel his lips curve into a smug smile against her skin.

"That's not me moving, love," he drawls, his voice a low rumble against her collarbone. "That's just my body showing its appreciation for the canvas it's lying on."

He shifts his hips ever so slightly, deliberately pressing his growing erection more firmly against her thigh.

"Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."

Finally, he props himself up on his forearms, hovering above her with that signature cocky grin spreading across his face. His green eyes have darkened slightly, pupils dilating as he gazes down at her.

"Besides," he adds, voice dropping to that gravelly timbre that never fails to send shivers down her spine, "I said I wouldn't move. I never said parts of me wouldn't...rise to the occasion."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his terrible pun, but can't suppress her laugh. "That was awful, even for you."

Harry's grin turns positively wicked as he dips his head closer to hers. "Want to know what's not awful? The things I'm thinking about doing to you right now."

His hand slides under the oversized t-shirt she's wearing, one of his, naturally, and his warm palm glides up her bare thigh.

"Still want me to get off you?" he teases, his lips hovering just above hers. "Or would you prefer I get you off instead?"

Y/N's breath hitches as his fingers trace maddening patterns along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where she's beginning to want him most.

"I'm waiting for an answer, baby," Harry murmurs, his curls falling forward to frame his face as he watches her with hungry eyes. "Should I stop moving altogether? Including this?"

His hand stills on her thigh, his thumb resting mere centimeters from the edge of her underwear. The smirk on his face makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, recognizing his game. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And yet you suffer me so beautifully," he counters, leaning down to place a feather-light kiss on the corner of her mouth. "So what'll it be? Am I getting off or getting you off?"

He rolls his hips again for emphasis, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Y/N reaches up, threading her fingers through his curls and tugging just hard enough to make his eyes darken further.

"I think you know exactly what I want," she whispers, pulling him down until their lips are just barely touching.

"Say it," Harry demands softly, his breath warm against her mouth. "I want to hear you say it after that little stunt you pulled."

Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, effectively trapping him against her and aligning his hardness exactly where she wants it.

"Don't you dare get off me," she says, her voice both challenge and invitation. "Not until you've made me come at least twice."

Harry's answering grin is positively sinful as he closes the minuscule gap between their lips.

"Now that," he growls against her mouth, "is an order I'm happy to follow."

Harry's lips move hungrily against Y/N's, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth before delving inside. His hand continues its teasing journey up her thigh, fingers dancing along sensitive skin. Y/N smiles against his eager kiss, pulling back just enough to look into his darkened green eyes.

"Do you ever say no?" she asks with a knowing smirk, her voice laced with amusement. 

Harry pauses, his curls falling forward as he cocks his head slightly, considering her question with mock seriousness. His thumb traces lazy circles against her inner thigh.

"To you? To this?" he responds, rolling his hips deliberately against her core for emphasis. "Not a fucking chance."

Y/N laughs softly, her hands sliding up his bare chest. "Even when you were dying of the flu last month? You could barely stand, but you still managed to—"

"Best medicine I've ever had," Harry interrupts with a wolfish grin, not a hint of shame in his expression. "Doctor Styles recommends regular doses of his girlfriend's perfect pussy for all conditions. Worked better than any of those pills the actual doctor prescribed."

He dips his head to nip playfully at her neck, his voice dropping to that gravelly rumble that vibrates against her skin. 

"Besides, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly pushing me away when I had my face between your thighs that night."

He pulls back just enough to gauge her reaction, his dimple appearing as his smile turns smug.

"I was delirious with fever, and you still came twice," he reminds her, clearly proud of himself. "Thought I was going to pass out afterward, but bloody hell, it was worth it."

Y/N rolls her eyes, though her cheeks flush at the memory. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," Harry counters, his expression shifting slightly, a rare glimpse of vulnerability beneath the bravado. "Two years and I still can't get enough. Probably never will."

His hand slides higher, fingers finally brushing against the damp fabric of her underwear. His smile turns victorious when she gasps softly at the contact.

"The day I say no to you," Harry murmurs, pressing his forehead against hers, "is the day you should check my fucking pulse, because I've clearly been replaced by an imposter."

He pushes her underwear aside, running a finger through her slick folds, his breath catching slightly at how wet she already is.

"Now, are we going to keep talking about this," he asks, circling her clit with deliberate precision that makes her hips buck upward, "or are you going to let me give you what we both know you want?"

Y/N threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she pulls him back down toward her lips.

"Less talking," she whispers against his mouth, "more doing."

Harry's answering chuckle is dark and full of promise as he presses two fingers inside her, swallowing her moan with a deep kiss.

"Yes, ma'am," he growls against her lips. "Whatever you want, you know I can't say no."

His fingers work skillfully inside Y/N, curling to hit that spot that makes her back arch off the bed. His mouth trails heated kisses down her neck, occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her breathy moans fill the dimly lit room, a symphony that drives him wild with need.

Between gasps of pleasure, Y/N manages to find her voice.

"Harry," she moans, her words punctuated by his insistent kisses. "I want to be on top today. Please."

Harry pauses, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His green eyes are nearly black with desire, his curls disheveled where she's been gripping them. A slow, appreciative smile spreads across his face.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough with want. "Yes."

In one fluid movement that speaks to his strength, Harry rolls onto his back, taking Y/N with him. His hands grip her hips as he positions her to straddle him, her thighs now bracketing his narrow waist. He looks up at her with unabashed hunger, taking in the sight of her hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his large hands sliding reverently up her sides, pushing his t-shirt that she's wearing higher up her body. "Fucking gorgeous."

Y/N reaches down and pulls the shirt over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Harry's breath audibly catches as she sits above him, naked except for her underwear. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathes her skin in warm light, highlighting every curve of her figure.

"Much better," she says with a teasing smile, grinding her hips down against his prominent erection, still confined in his boxers.

Harry hisses at the contact, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. "You're trying to fucking kill me, aren't you?" he groans, his accent thickening with arousal.

Y/N's smile turns wicked as she reaches between them, slipping her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to wrap her fingers around his length. Harry's eyes flutter closed briefly, a low curse escaping his lips.

"Not kill," she corrects, stroking him slowly. "Just torture a little."

Harry's eyes snap open, dark and challenging. "Two can play at that game, love."

His hand moves between her thighs, pushing her underwear aside once more. His thumb finds her clit with practiced ease, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until Y/N's movements falter and a broken moan escapes her lips.

"Take these off," he commands, tugging at her underwear with his free hand. "Want to see all of you."

Y/N rises slightly on her knees, allowing Harry to slide the damp fabric down her thighs. She has to shift to get them fully off, and Harry takes advantage of the moment to rid himself of his boxers as well. When she settles back over him, they both groan at the sensation of skin against skin, his hard length pressed against her wet heat.

"Now who's torturing who?" Y/N breathes, rocking her hips to slide along his length without taking him inside.

Harry's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck standing out as he exercises restraint. "Y/N," he warns, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Don't make me flip you back over."

She laughs softly, enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand with him. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches between them to position him at her entrance.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenges, sinking down just enough to take the tip of him inside her.

Harry's entire body tenses beneath her, his green eyes locked on hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. "Try me," he growls, though his hands remain firmly on her hips, guiding her movements rather than taking control.

Y/N places her palms on his chest for leverage, feeling his heart hammering beneath her touch. With agonizing slowness, she lowers herself onto him, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated inside her. They both moan at the sensation of him filling her completely.

"Fuck," Harry breathes, his head falling back against the pillows. "That's it, baby. Take what you want."

Y/N begins to move, setting a rhythm that has Harry's fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks that she secretly loves finding the next day. She rolls her body in a way that brings him deeper with each movement, her hands braced on his firm chest.

"God, look at you," Harry groans, his eyes drinking in the sight of her above him. "Riding my cock like you were made for it. So fucking beautiful."

His vulgar praise sends a thrill through her as she increases her pace, chasing the building pleasure. One of Harry's hands slides from her hip to where they're joined, his thumb finding her clit once more.

"That's it," he encourages, feeling her inner walls beginning to flutter around him. "Take your pleasure, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude words combined with the dual stimulation quickly push Y/N toward the edge. Her movements become less coordinated as the tension builds low in her belly.

"Harry," she gasps, her head falling back as the first waves of pleasure begin to crash through her. "I'm—"

"I know, baby," he growls, his hips thrusting up to meet her movements. "Let go for me. Wanna feel it."

Y/N shatters above him, her inner walls clenching around him as she cries out his name. Harry continues guiding her hips through her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure as she trembles above him.

Before she's fully recovered, Harry's patience snaps. With a swift movement that showcases his strength, he sits up, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep them connected while his other hand tangles in her hair.

"My turn," he growls against her lips before capturing them in a bruising kiss.

He begins thrusting up into her with renewed vigor, the angle hitting spots deep inside her that have Y/N gasping into his mouth. Her oversensitive body quickly builds toward a second peak as Harry sets a relentless pace.

"Gonna fill you up," Harry pants against her neck, his rhythm becoming erratic as he nears his own release. "Gonna come so deep inside you."

His crude promises push Y/N toward the edge once more, her nails digging into his shoulders as she holds on for dear life.

"Yes," she moans, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. "Please, Harry. Come inside me."

Her words are his undoing. With a deep groan, Harry buries his face in her neck as his hips stutter and he pulses inside her. The feeling of his release triggers Y/N's second orgasm, her body clenching around him as they fall apart in each other's arms.

For several long moments, they remain entwined, breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat. Harry peppers soft kisses along her shoulder and neck, his hands now gentle as they stroke her back.

"Fuck," he finally murmurs against her skin, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Maybe you should tell me to get off you more often if this is the result."

Y/N smiles, resting her forehead against his as they both catch their breath. "Noted for future reference."

Harry gently brushes her tangled hair away from her face, his touch surprisingly tender after such intensity. "I meant what I said earlier, you know," he says quietly, a rare moment of post-coital vulnerability. "Two years and I still can't get enough of you. Don't think I ever will."

Y/N's heart swells at the sincerity in his eyes, so different from his usual cocky demeanor. "Good thing I'm not going anywhere then," she replies softly.

Harry's answering smile is genuine and warm as he carefully lays back, bringing her with him to rest on his chest.

"Good thing indeed," he murmurs into her hair, his arms tightening protectively around her. "Because I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, love. Fame and fortune be damned."

The soft afterglow envelops them as they lie tangled together, their breathing gradually returning to normal. Harry's fingers trace lazy patterns along Y/N's spine as she rests against his chest, their bodies still connected in the most intimate way. After several minutes of contented silence, Y/N begins to stir, pressing gentle kisses up the planes of his chest.

She sits up slowly, their bodies separating with a shared shiver of sensitivity. Harry makes a small sound of protest at the loss of contact, immediately moving to follow her upward motion. His hands reach for her waist, clearly intending to pull her back into his embrace.

"Stay," Y/N commands softly, placing a firm hand on his chest to push him back down.

Harry's eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but an intrigued smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he settles back against the pillows. His green eyes, still dark with lingering desire, track her movements with hungry attention.

"What are you up to, love?" he murmurs, his voice still rough from their previous activities.

Y/N doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she moves with deliberate purpose, shifting her position until she's straddling his chest, her knees on either side of his shoulders. Harry's eyes widen in understanding, his hands automatically coming up to grip her thighs.

"Fuck," he breathes, his gaze fixed on the glistening evidence of their shared pleasure between her legs. "You're not giving me a break, are you?"

Y/N smiles down at him, a mixture of innocence and wickedness that drives him wild. She reaches forward, tangling her fingers in his disheveled curls and gripping firmly enough to elicit a hiss of pleasure from him.

"You said you never say no," she reminds him, tugging gently on his hair. "I'm just testing that theory."

Harry's laugh is low and gravelly as his hands slide up her thighs to grip her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh with possessive intent.

"By all means," he drawls, licking his lips in anticipation, "test away."

He helps guide her forward until she's hovering just above his mouth, her grip on his hair tightening as she positions herself exactly where she wants to be. Harry's eager breath ghosts over her sensitive flesh, making her shiver in anticipation.

"Greedy girl," he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes locked with hers from between her thighs. "Still want more after two orgasms? What am I going to do with you?"

Before she can respond, Harry grips her hips firmly and pulls her down to his waiting mouth. The first broad stroke of his tongue has Y/N gasping, her head falling back as pleasure shoots through her still-sensitive body.

"Oh god," she moans, her fingers reflexively tightening in his hair.

Harry groans against her in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. His tongue works with practiced skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks against her clit. His grip on her hips is firm but not restrictive, allowing her to rock against his mouth at her own pace.

"That's it," he encourages briefly, barely pulling away before diving back in. "Use my mouth, baby. Take what you need."

Y/N begins to move more deliberately, rolling her hips against his talented tongue. The visual of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, eagerly pleasuring her with his mouth while she essentially rides his face is almost as arousing as the physical sensation itself.

Harry's enthusiasm is palpable, his groans of pleasure vibrating against her most sensitive parts. His hands slide around to grip her ass, encouraging her movements as he devours her with single-minded focus. The combination of his skilled tongue, the slight scratch of stubble against her inner thighs, and the way he's looking up at her with pure hunger in his eyes quickly pushes Y/N toward another peak.

"Harry," she gasps, her thighs beginning to tremble around his head. "I'm close already."

He responds by doubling his efforts, his tongue circling her clit with precise pressure before sucking gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves. The sudden increase in intensity has Y/N crying out, her grip on his curls bordering on painful as her orgasm builds rapidly.

"Don't stop," she pleads, her voice breaking as she feels herself teetering on the edge. "Please don't stop."

Harry has no intention of stopping. His hands tighten on her ass, holding her firmly against his mouth as he works her toward her peak. When he feels her begin to tremble in earnest, he slides two fingers inside her, curling them forward to hit exactly the right spot as his tongue continues its relentless attention to her clit.

The dual stimulation is too much. Y/N comes with a broken cry of his name, her body shuddering violently as pleasure crashes through her in waves. Harry groans against her, the vibration prolonging her orgasm as he continues to work her through it, easing up only when her oversensitized body begins to pull away.

As the intense pleasure subsides, Y/N's grip on his hair loosens. Her body feels boneless, utterly spent as she shakily lifts herself from his face. Harry looks up at her with undisguised satisfaction, his lips and chin glistening with evidence of both her pleasure and their earlier activities. The sight should be obscene, but on him, it's nothing short of glorious.

"Still think I might say no?" he asks with a cocky smirk, swiping his thumb across his lower lip before sucking it clean with deliberate showmanship.

Y/N laughs breathlessly, collapsing beside him on the bed. "I think you've made your point."

Harry rolls to his side, propping himself on one elbow to look down at her with affectionate amusement.

"Three times," he says proudly, counting off on his fingers. "That's one more than you demanded earlier. Always exceeding expectations, me."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his self-satisfaction, though she can't suppress her smile. "You're insufferable."

"Ah, but you suffer me so well," he counters, echoing his earlier words as he leans down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "And I'd say you just reaped the benefits of my particular brand of suffering."

She smacks his chest lightly, though there's no real force behind it. "Your ego is almost as big as your—"

"Heart?" Harry suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows, cutting her off. "Talent? Collection of Gucci boots?"

Y/N laughs, the sound full of genuine joy and affection. "All of the above."

Harry's expression softens as he gazes down at her, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face with surprising tenderness.

"Only for you, love," he murmurs, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Only ever for you."

He pulls her into his arms, arranging them so she's tucked against his chest, her back to his front in their favorite sleeping position. His lips press a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck as his arm wraps possessively around her waist.

"Now get some sleep," he whispers against her skin. "Because I fully intend to wake you up in a few hours for round two."

Y/N smiles sleepily, already feeling herself drifting off in the safety of his embrace. "I thought this was already round two?"

Harry's soft chuckle vibrates against her back. "Baby, we're just getting started."

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavfanficsever @spinnic @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[gracie-bird]

Edith Head's costume design for Grace Kelly as Frances Stevens in "To Catch a Thief" (1955).

[kitkatkitzune]

BUILD-AN-ELIJAH

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!reader

Summary: You give Elijah a teddy bear with a suit.

Warnings: Established relationship, Elijah being rich rich, Possible OOC!Elijah, Elijah loving his suits, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (my bad, you should expect this by now.)

Notes: This picture of Daniel Gillies is so cute.

Word Count: 476

MASTER POST , TVDU MASTERLIST

———————

“What is this, my love?” Elijah asks as you set a rather large cardboard box that was designed to look like a house in his lap.

“Please just open it, Elijah.” you smile, moving so you can sit on the arm of his chair.

He sighs, “I do not enjoy you spending your money on me.”

You roll your eyes, “You spoil me all the time ‘Lijah, besides, it's just a silly thing I think you may get a laugh out of…” you pout, “Please…”

Elijah shakes his head and presses a quick kiss to your lips, “I suppose since you asked so nicely.”

“Only you, Elijah Mikaelson, would complain about getting a gift.”

He chuckles and begins to open the box, he raises a brow when he sees what’s inside and turns to you, “Are you sure this is not meant for Hope?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Inside the box, there’s a light brown teddy bear dressed in a fancy looking dark grey suit with a black tie and matching dress shoes. A small smile tugs on his lips as he takes the bear fully out of the box.

He holds it up next to him, facing you, “Is this meant to be me?”

You bite your lip to try and stop your giggles but fail miserably. Elijah pushes the box off of him and pulls you into his lap.

He waits for your giggles to subside, raising a brow, waiting for your response.

You take a deep breath to calm your laughter, “I took Hope to the mall today and when I saw that little suit I couldn’t resist!”

Elijah hums and inspects the suit the bear is wearing, “I suppose we could pretend this is a Kiton or a Brioni… maybe even an Armani? Although this fabric does feel quite cheap.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, “Of course it feels cheap, it’s a fourteen dollar outfit for a teddy bear from a kids store!”

He clicks his tongue, “Now that just won’t do, I’ll get this little guy’s measurements and send them in for a custom suit.“

You hope that he is just joking but you can’t be too sure. You shake your head, “You have too much money you don’t even know what to do with it.”

He pulls you closer to him, “I know that I enjoy buying you whatever you want.”

“I have all I want,” you whisper before kissing him, “all I want is you.”

You then gesture to the stuffed animal, ”And for you to love the little teddy bear regardless of if he has a fancy suit or not.”

Elijah chuckles a bit, “I do love him but his wardrobe could use an upgrade.”

You sigh, “Fine, one suit.”

“Three.”

“Elijah.”

“A man needs options…”

“He’s a stuffed bear!” you giggle.

“I’ll settle for two.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

[alpha-mag-media]

Inside the lavish life of Molly-Mae’s Bambi Fury with 7 holidays in a year, first class flights & a designer wardrobe | 03Y5G06 | 2024-01-04 04:08:01 | January 04, 2024 at 05:08AM

Inside the lavish life of Molly-Mae’s Bambi Fury with 7 holidays in a year, first class flights & a designer wardrobe | 03Y5G06 | 2024-01-04 04:08:01 Read More … Check full articles at Source: ALPHA MAG

[julietsf1]

Holly Jolly Faking - Franco Colapinto x St.Mleux!Reader

summary: Two people who can’t stand each other agree to fake a relationship to avoid meddling friends and unwanted matchmaking during their Christmas weekend away. What could possibly go wrong? (8k words)

content: fake dating! reader is Alexandra's sister; Franco is COMMITTED;

AN: who doesn't love a good fake dating scenario? happy holidays sweeties!

-----------------------------------------

Snow crunched beneath your boots as you trudged up the icy path leading to the chalet, Alexandra practically bouncing beside you. She clutched your arm, grinning as if dragging you along to a winter wonderland wasn’t her latest attempt at orchestrating your personal life.

“You’re going to love this,” she insisted, her voice carrying above the stillness of the snowy evening. “I don’t think you’ve ever been to a Friendmas like this one.”

You shot her a look. “Alex, you’ve been talking about this weekend non-stop. I know exactly what to expect.”

She huffed, playfully rolling her eyes. “Yes, but actually being here? It’s magic. Charles did such an amazing job with the tree. You have to see it!”

“Is that before or after you shove me into George’s arms?”

Her cheeks flushed, though whether from the cold or guilt, you couldn’t tell. “Oh, stop it. George is lovely. You could at least give him a chance.”

“Alex,” you said pointedly, pausing to adjust your scarf, “I’m here for you, Charles, and the snow. Not a setup.”

“Fine, fine.” She waved you off, though her mischievous grin lingered as she dragged you forward.

The chalet came into view, its A-frame design illuminated by strings of fairy lights draped over its sloped roof. Smoke curled from the chimney, and warm golden light spilled from the windows, giving it a postcard-perfect charm. It was gorgeous. You hated that Alexandra had been right about it being magical.

The door flew open before you even reached the steps, Charles Leclerc standing there with his signature grin. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and he wore a red sweater that made him look annoyingly festive.

“Finally!” he called out, spreading his arms as if to gather you both into a hug. “We thought you’d gotten lost in the snow.”

“Blame her,” Alexandra said, releasing your arm to greet him. “She moves like a glacier.”

“Only because you packed half your wardrobe in the car,” you shot back, but Charles laughed, pulling you into a brief, warm hug.

“It’s good to see you. Welcome to Friendmas!”

“Thanks,” you said, glancing past him into the chalet. Laughter and voices carried from inside, blending with the crackle of a fireplace.

“Come in, come in,” Charles urged, stepping aside. “Everyone’s excited to see you—Lando is even more energetic than usual.”

“Lovely,” you muttered as Alexandra pushed you through the door.

The interior was just as cozy and picturesque as the exterior promised. Pine garlands hung from the rafters, and a massive Christmas tree stood in one corner, decked out with ornaments and twinkling lights. The scent of fresh pine mingled with hints of cinnamon and something buttery, probably cookies.

A chorus of voices greeted you from the living room. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were sprawled across the couches, mid-conversation, while Carlos Sainz lounged nearby, sipping from a mug. Max Verstappen, wearing his signature Red Bull polo, leaned against the back of an armchair, holding what I can only suspect is a glühwein in his hands.

“There you are!” Lando called out, bounding up from the couch like an overexcited puppy. “Finally! We need reinforcements.”

“For what?” you asked, setting your bag down near the stairs.

“To take down Max and Carlos,” Oscar explained, deadpan. “They’ve been ruining every game we’ve played since we got here.”

“It’s not ruining,” Carlos corrected, grinning. “It’s skill.”

Max gave a barely perceptible nod of agreement.

“You mean cheating,” Lando muttered, earning a laugh from Oscar.

“Welcome to the circus,” Alexandra said, nudging you forward. “Get comfortable. There’s a lot, but it’s fun.”

“And I’m sure George will be thrilled to see you,” Charles added, his teasing tone making you bristle.

“Where is he?” Alexandra asked, glancing around.

“In the kitchen,” Carlos said. “Probably perfecting the whipped cream on his cocoa or something.”

“I heard that,” George Russell called out, appearing from the kitchen doorway. He carried two steaming mugs, his sweater perfectly fitted and his hair neatly combed, as always.

“Milady, how wonderful to see you,” George said warmly to you, handing one mug to Alexandra.

“You too,” you replied, noting the subtle look Alexandra threw you. You shot her a glare in return.

And then, of course, Franco made his entrance.

He leaned against the fireplace, his green eyes glinting with amusement as he surveyed the scene. His tousled hair and casual stance gave him an air of effortless confidence, which only annoyed you further.

“Mirá vos,” Franco’s voice broke through the chatter, his tone slow and laced with mockery. “What a surprise. I didn’t think you’d make it. Busy schedule of glaring at people, I’m sure.”

“Franco,” you replied, deadpan, without so much as a glance in his direction.

The others continued their conversations, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, but Franco stepped closer, his smirk growing like he could sense your irritation.

“Still radiating warmth and goodwill, I see,” he quipped, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Still trying way too hard to be funny,” you shot back, finally turning to face him.

His grin widened. “Oh, come on. I’m hilarious, and you know it. People have been laughing all evening.”

“At you, maybe,” you replied smoothly.

The retort earned the faintest snicker from Lando in the background, but Franco remained unfazed. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if to keep the exchange just between you. “I’ve missed this, you know. You keeping me in check. Someone has to, I suppose.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, your tone cutting. “Keeping you in check would imply you’re worth the effort.”

His smirk grew as he straightened, undeterred. “You’re quick today. Must be all that Christmas cheer getting to you.”

“Must be,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes.

For a moment, you stared each other down, his grin still annoyingly present as your pulse quickened in frustration. The way he looked at you, like he knew exactly how to push your buttons, made your skin prickle.

“Anything else, Franco?” you asked, your tone clipped.

“Not yet,” he replied smoothly. “But don’t go too far. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

With a final smirk, he leaned back against the counter, casually reaching for a glass like the conversation hadn’t just left you fuming. You turned back to the others, but the weight of his gaze lingered, prickling at the edge of your awareness.

…

The dining room buzzed with warmth and chatter, the glow of candles reflecting off plates piled high with roasted chicken, potatoes, and vegetables. Alexandra had gone all out, decorating the table with garlands of pine and gold-rimmed glasses, while Charles played the perfect host, ensuring everyone’s wine was topped off.

You were trying your best to enjoy the evening, but sitting between George and Franco wasn’t making that easy.

George, ever the gentleman, was pleasant enough, keeping the conversation light. He asked about your travels and your work, always attentive and polite, and while you appreciated his effort, the attention made you squirm. Alexandra, of course, wasn’t helping.

“So, ma cherie,” Alexandra began, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Isn’t it nice to have someone else here who knows Monaco as well as you do?”

You resisted the urge to sigh. “Sure, Alex. It’s always nice.”

George, ever gracious, smiled at you. “It’s been a while since I’ve spent a proper holiday there. There’s something special about it in the winter, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, forcing a polite smile of your own. “The harbor looks magical with all the lights.”

Alexandra pounced on your response like a cat with a mouse. “Exactly! George, doesn’t that sound like the perfect setting for a romantic evening?”

“Alex,” you warned, your voice laced with both amusement and irritation.

“What?” she asked innocently, though the twinkle in her eye gave her away. “I’m just saying. You two have so much in common. You could plan something together when you’re back!”

Your face burned, and you quickly took a sip of your wine to hide your discomfort. “I think George has plenty of plans that don’t involve me tagging along,” you said lightly.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind,” George said, his smile kind. “I reckon it would be nice to have someone to share the nostalgia with.”

Your smile wavered as you searched for a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Alexandra was relentless.

“See? It’s perfect!” she declared. “I mean, what are the chances? It’s practically fate.”

Your grip on your fork tightened. “I think that’s a bit of a stretch, Alex.”

Charles, ever the romantic, sighed wistfully. “Love often comes when you least expect it. Imagine walking along the harbor together, the lights reflecting on the water…”

You groaned, though you couldn’t help but laugh. “Why are we discussing this at the dinner table, guys?”

“Because it’s fun,” Lando chimed in, grinning. “So tell me, do you like horses? I know George adores posh shit like Polo.”

Your laughter faltered, your cheeks flushing as all eyes turned to you. The attention felt suffocating, and you fumbled for a response.

“Lando, that’s enough,” you said, your tone more strained than you intended.

“Oh, come on,” Alexandra added, her smile too wide. “You and George would make such a good match. It’s about time you found someone who—”

Franco coughed loudly, the deliberate sound slicing through the chatter. Everyone turned to him, their laughter and conversation abruptly halting. He leaned back in his chair, his green eyes glinting with mischief as he set his wineglass down with theatrical precision.

“She’s with me, actually,” Franco said casually, his voice ringing with the kind of confidence that demanded attention.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You froze, your fork clattering against your plate as your brain scrambled to make sense of what he’d just said. The warmth of the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a prickling heat crawling up your neck.

“What?” you managed to choke out, your voice barely audible.

Franco didn’t so much as flinch. He shifted slightly in his chair, and before you could react, he reached over, sliding his hand over yours where it rested on the table. His touch was warm, his grip firm but not forceful. You stared at him, wide-eyed, as his smirk widened.

“You heard me,” he said, his tone maddeningly smooth. “I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.”

Alexandra’s jaw dropped, her wide-eyed gaze darting between the two of you. “You’re joking,” she said flatly.

“Not at all,” Franco replied, looking entirely unbothered. His fingers drummed lightly against the back of your hand, a silent challenge. “Isn’t that right, sugarplum?”

The word hung in the air like a ticking bomb. Your pulse thundered in your ears as every pair of eyes at the table turned to you.

Your throat felt dry, brain racing, and your voice cracked when you finally managed to speak. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Oscar was the first to break. His laughter erupted like a tidal wave, loud and uncontrollable, as he nearly fell back in his chair. He clutched his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks. “This… is… the best thing… I’ve ever heard!” he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath.

Lando wasn’t far behind, his wide grin splitting into a delighted laugh. “No way. You two?!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” George said, his tone laced with disbelief.

Charles, however, looked positively enchanted. He leaned forward, his hands clasped together like a starstruck poet. “Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” he declared, his eyes practically sparkling.

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, this is a twist.”

Max leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical look. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

Alexandra, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. She narrowed her eyes at you, her brows knitting together in confusion. “But… when? How? You’ve barely even mentioned Franco to me.”

“It has been a whirlwind,” Franco interjected smoothly, shooting you a sidelong glance. “Right, my little lovebug?”

You glared at him, your jaw clenched as you fought the urge to strangle him on the spot. “Uh, yeah. Something like that,” you said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sure it was,” Alexandra said, still clearly unconvinced.

“Tell us everything!” Lando demanded, leaning forward like a gossip-hungry child. “When did this start? Was it one of those dramatic, enemies-to-lovers things? Did you secretly kiss during a race weekend?”

“Lando,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

He leaned back, unbothered, and waved you off. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

“You’re full of surprises,” George said looking at you, his expression hovering somewhere between confusion and polite disappointment.

“Trust me, George,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes. “I was just as surprised as you are.”

The teasing and laughter continued, the group trading increasingly wild theories about your so-called relationship. Meanwhile, Franco seemed to bask in the chaos he’d created, his smirk never wavering as he leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself.

Under the table, his knee brushed yours, and you shot him a death glare. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath.

“Saving you,” he replied quietly, his tone annoyingly casual.

“By making my life worse?”

He leaned closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Oh, come on. You’d rather sit through more matchmaking from Alexandra?”

You couldn’t argue with that, but it didn’t make you any less furious.

As the group began to move on, shifting the conversation back to other topics, you slumped slightly in your chair, exhausted from the ordeal.

This was going to be a very, very long weekend.

…

The morning sun streamed into the chalet’s large windows, gilding the room in gold. You stirred your coffee slowly, staring out at the snow-covered peaks in the distance. Peace and quiet were rare in a house full of such chaotic personalities, but you’d stolen this moment for yourself.

Or so you thought.

“Morning, sugarplum.”

The sound of Franco’s voice made you visibly tense. You didn’t need to look to know he was leaning against the doorframe, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You’re really committed to that name, aren’t you?” you asked flatly, turning just enough to shoot him a withering look.

“Would you prefer ‘honeybun’?” he replied smoothly, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Or maybe ‘snugglebear’? I’m flexible.”

“How about you don’t call me anything?”

“Not very girlfriend-like of you, sweetheart,” he teased, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning casually against the counter. “People might start to doubt us.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, already feeling your patience wearing thin. “If anyone doubts us, it’s because you’re about as subtle as a flashing neon sign.”

Franco grinned. “What can I say? I’m hopelessly in love.”

Before you could retort, Lando appeared, sliding into the kitchen with his usual chaotic energy. “What’s this?” he asked, his grin widening as his eyes flicked between you and Franco. “Secret lovebird meeting?”

“We’re not—” you began, but Franco cut you off, slinging an arm around your shoulders with infuriating ease.

“Just waking up my muffin,” he said smoothly.

“Muffin?” Lando repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.

“She’s sweet like one,” Franco explained, giving you a squeeze that you immediately wriggled out of.

Lando barked out a laugh, grabbing an apple from the counter. “You two are ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head as he left the kitchen.

As soon as he was gone, you turned to Franco with a scowl. “What the hell have you gotten me into.”

“Relax, cupcake,” he said, smirking. “Although I am loving seeing you worked up like this.”

You crossed your arms tightly, your glare unwavering. “You could’ve warned me before throwing me into this mess.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, his voice maddeningly light. “You’re quick on your feet; I figured you’d keep up.”

Your frustration bubbled over, and you took a step closer, pointing at him. “This is not fun, Franco. This is me playing along so you don’t make it worse.”

“Relax, cupcake,” he said, smirking again. “You’ll get used to it. And honestly? You’re kind of good at it.”

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “Stop calling me that! This isn’t a game.”

His grin only widened, but there was a flicker of something softer in his gaze as he said, “It’s not a game, but it is very entertaining. Trust me, you’ll survive.”

Your jaw tightened, and you turned away, trying to steady yourself. “If you call me ‘cupcake’ one more time, I swear—”

“Duly noted,” he interrupted, his voice filled with amusement.

You huffed, grabbing the spoon and stirring your coffee again, trying to focus on anything but the smug grin you could still feel behind you.

...

Later that afternoon, you found yourself elbow-deep in a bowl of icing, surrounded by flour-dusted countertops and trays of freshly baked cookies. The group had decided on a cookie-decorating contest, and Alexandra had enlisted everyone with the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant.

“You’re going down,” Lando declared, grabbing a piping bag.

“I never lose,” Max replied, his expression as stoic as ever, though his hands worked with surprising precision.

You were concentrating on spreading icing over a snowman-shaped cookie when Franco appeared at your side.

“Need help, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice dripping with false sincerity.

“No,” you replied sharply, but he was already grabbing a piping bag and leaning into your space.

“You missed a spot,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned even closer.

Before you could react, he dipped a finger into a bowl of icing and held it up to your mouth.

“Say ahh,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Franco,” you hissed, your cheeks burning as the others turned to watch.

“Come on, sugarplum,” he said. “You’ve got to taste test your work.”

Gritting your teeth, you opened your mouth just enough to swipe the icing off his finger with a quick flick of your tongue. The room erupted into a mix of laughter and groans.

“That’s disgusting,” Lando said, though he was clearly enjoying the chaos.

“Get a room,” Max muttered, though his lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.

You glared at Franco, but his smirk only grew. Grabbing the nearest piping bag, you squeezed a glob of icing onto your fingers and smeared it across his cheek.

“There,” you said sweetly. “You missed a spot.”

The table roared with laughter, and Franco’s grin never faltered as he wiped the icing off with a napkin. “You’re feisty today, snugglebear.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snapped, though there was a faint twinkle of amusement in your eyes.

Alexandra, who was trying to keep the peace, clapped her hands together. “No arguing please. This is supposed to be festive!”

“Don’t worry,” Franco said, his voice smooth as ever. “We’re perfectly fine. Right, sweetheart?”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, instead turning your attention back to your cookies.

“Don’t be shy, sugarplum,” Franco added, leaning closer. “Tell them how much you love me.”

“I hate you,” you muttered under your breath.

“Love you too, honeybear.”

…

By the time the chaos of the afternoon subsided, you were desperate for solitude. The chalet’s constant buzz of laughter and chatter had become too much, so you slipped away, finding refuge in the small, cozy study near the back of the house.

The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting a warm glow over the room. You curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a cup of hot chocolate warming your hands as you tried to collect your thoughts.

The peace didn’t last long.

The door creaked open, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Found you, booboo,” Franco’s infuriatingly smug voice broke the silence.

You groaned, not turning around. “Go away, Franco.”

“And miss this little brooding session? Not a chance,” he said, closing the door behind him.

You heard his footsteps cross the room, and within moments, he was perched on the armrest of your chair, his presence looming far too close for comfort.

“What do you want?” you snapped, finally looking up at him.

“To check on my darling girlfriend,” he replied smoothly, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “You seemed a little… tense earlier.”

“I wonder why,” you said dryly, taking a sip of your cocoa.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness. “Is it because your sister is practically shoving you at George every five seconds? Good thing I swooped in to save you.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You didn’t save me. You made it worse.”

“Worse?” he repeated, mock-offended. “I saved you from months of awkward George politeness and Alexandra’s relentless matchmaking. You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you?” you repeated, incredulous. “For turning my life into a bad broadway show?”

Franco smirked, leaning closer. “You’ve got to admit, it’s entertaining.”

You glared at him. “For who? You?”

“For everyone,” he said, laughing softly. “But mostly me.”

Your grip tightened on your mug, your patience hanging by a thread. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said, grinning. “Your knight in shining armor.”

You snorted. “More like the villain in a rom-com.”

“Rom-com?” he mused. “I like that. Does that make you the quirky lead who doesn’t realize she’s in love with me until the final act?”

“I hate you,” you muttered, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with the faintest twitch.

“No, you don’t,” he said lightly, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world.

The fire popped loudly, filling the silence that followed. For a brief moment, his teasing smirk softened, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable.

You shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling too exposed. “Why are you really here, Franco?”

He tilted his head, his smirk returning, but a subtle hint of sincerity was now present in his voice. “Just checking in. Making sure my favorite little grape isn’t plotting my demise.”

“I’m always plotting your demise,” you said flatly.

“Good to know,” he said, standing but lingering by your side. For once, his smirk faded, replaced by something softer. “But seriously… take it easy, okay?” He paused, his voice dropping slightly. “I’ll make sure tomorrow isn’t so bad.”

He was halfway to the door when it swung open again, revealing Lando, grinning like he’d just stumbled upon a jackpot.

“What’s this? Private lovebird time?” he asked, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

“Oh, absolutely,” Franco said, his grin widening. “She couldn’t keep away.”

You groaned, setting your cocoa down. “Lando, please.”

He ignored you, leaning casually against the doorframe. “So, Franco, what’s tomorrow’s nickname? Angelcake? Lovebug?”

“Love nugget,” Franco replied instantly, his smirk smug as ever.

Lando cackled, nearly doubling over. “Love nugget! Oh, this just keeps getting better.”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “You’re all insufferable.”

“No, no,” Franco corrected, his grin widening. “I’m the insufferable one. They’re just my audience.”

“Exactly,” Lando chimed in, still laughing. “We’re just here for the show.”

Franco clapped him on the shoulder as he left the room. “Come on. Let’s leave my little honey bunny to her brooding.”

You threw a pillow at them as they walked out, but your aim was off, and their laughter echoed down the hall.

…

The living room buzzed with laughter and chatter, the fire crackling warmly in the hearth as snow fell softly outside. Lando stood at the center of the room, waving a bowl filled with folded slips of paper.

“All right, people!” he declared, his grin as wide as ever. “Time for charades! Teams have been pre-assigned by yours truly, so no arguing.”

“Lando, what did you do?” Carlos asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Created the perfect teams, duh,” Lando replied smugly. “Here we go. Team one: Alex and Charles. Team two: George and Oscar. Team three: Max and Carlos. And finally… Franco and his sweetieboo!”

You groaned audibly, shooting Lando a glare. “Seriously?”

He smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Franco leaned closer, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. “Look at that, sugarplum. Fate wants us to win.”

“How wonderful,” you muttered under your breath.

“Okay, everyone knows the rules,” Lando continued, ignoring the tension between you and Franco. “No talking, sound effects are allowed, but only one person on the team acts at a time. And remember, you’ve got thirty seconds per round. Got it?”

Everyone nodded, settling into their seats as Lando pulled the first slip from the bowl.

The first few rounds were as chaotic as expected. Alex’s exaggerated gestures left Charles laughing too hard to guess, and George and Oscar worked surprisingly well together, securing a few easy points. Max and Carlos turned every clue into a competitive showdown, each accusing the other of overcomplicating things.

By the time it was your team’s turn, the energy in the room was electric, and the scoreboard showed a tight race between George and Oscar’s team and Max and Carlos’s.

“Franco, you’re up!” Lando announced, handing him a slip of paper.

Franco unfolded it, his smirk growing as he read the word. Without a word, he turned to you and held out his hand.

“Come here,” he said simply.

You narrowed your eyes, immediately suspicious. “Why?”

“Just trust me,” he replied, his tone smooth as ever.

Reluctantly, you stepped forward, and he wasted no time pulling you into the center of the room.

“Franco, what are you doing?” you hissed, but he ignored you.

The room fell silent as everyone watched him intently. Without warning, he placed one hand firmly on your back and clasped your other hand in his.

“Wait—”

Before you could protest, he spun you out dramatically, then pulled you back in, his movements fluid and precise.

“Is this—”

“Shh,” he whispered.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as he led you through an impromptu tango, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle, his hand steady on your back as his green eyes locked with yours.

The room erupted in cheers and laughter, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat, loud and insistent in your ears.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he spun you out dramatically, then pulled you back in for a final dip.

“Guess the word, sugarplum,” Franco whispered, his voice low and teasing.

Your brain refused to cooperate. You opened your mouth, but no words came out as your heart pounded in your chest as you stared up at him, completely flustered..

“Uh…”

“Time’s up!” Lando shouted, his laughter ringing above the chaos. “The word was ‘tango!’”

“Oh, come on,” Franco groaned, straightening up and releasing you. “She had one job.”

“I—” You struggled to form a coherent sentence, still reeling from the unexpected intensity of the moment.

“She was too flustered,” Oscar said with a grin. “Can’t blame her for that.”

“You call that acting out?” Max asked, raising an eyebrow. “That was more like showing off.”

“Showing off or not,” Charles interjected, his eyes alight with romantic fervor, “it was beautiful. Truly.”

Carlos clapped Franco on the back. “Points for commitment.”

Lando was practically in tears, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “Please, we should do Friendmas more often! You guys are killing me.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at Franco. “Was that really necessary?”

“I wasn’t trying to win,” Franco said casually, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Just wanted to make it memorable.”

The laughter and teasing in the living room still rang in your ears as you slipped away into the quiet of the kitchen. The glow of the firelight from the other room faded behind you, replaced by the soft hum of the under-cabinet lights. Snow fell steadily outside the large window, each flake illuminated by the warm outdoor lanterns.

Leaning against the counter, you cradled a glass of water in your hands. The coolness seeped through your fingers, grounding you, though it did little to steady the erratic beat of your heart. The tango performance replayed in your mind—Franco’s confident hold, the sharp dip, and the way his gaze lingered on yours a moment too long.

“May I briefly interrupt your private moment?”

The familiar voice made you turn, startled. George stood in the doorway, his posture upright, his expression thoughtful but tinged with hesitation.

“George,” you said, offering a small smile. “Everything all right?”

He stepped inside, his shoes tapping softly against the polished wood floor. “I was about to ask you the same. You seemed, well, rather unsettled during charades. I wanted to make sure you’re… alright.”

You laughed softly, trying to deflect. “Just overwhelmed, I guess. All the attention gets a bit much sometimes.”

George raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. He moved a little closer, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers with an air of casual elegance. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course,” you replied, though a sinking feeling began to settle in your chest.

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on you, his words carefully measured. “Are you and Franco actually serious?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

George continued, his voice soft but deliberate. “It’s just… unexpected. I didn’t think he was, er, your sort of man. But if he makes you happy, that’s what matters. I merely—” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “I’d hate to think you’re settling for anything less than what you deserve.”

Your throat tightened. The sincerity in his tone was disarming, and the lie you’d been weaving all weekend felt heavier than ever.

“I—” You faltered, words failing you.

The door swung open, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Franco stepped inside, his presence filling the room instantly. His gaze flicked between you and George, his green eyes sharp but unreadable. His usual smirk was tempered, his expression calm but watchful.

“Hi there,” Franco said, his voice light but laced with a quiet edge. “Am I interrupting something?”

George turned slightly, his shoulders still relaxed but his tone more clipped. “Not at all. The lady and I were just having a chat.”

Franco’s eyes lingered on you, and without a word, he stepped closer, his hand sliding to rest gently on your waist. The touch was subtle but deliberate, his fingers warm against the fabric of your sweater.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Franco said, his smirk returning faintly. “But don’t keep her too long. I might start missing her.”

George’s brow twitched, his eyes flicking briefly to Franco’s hand before returning to yours. “Right,” he said after a moment, his voice still measured. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” He hesitated, his gaze softening as it lingered on you. “Do let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, George,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

He nodded once before stepping out, the door closing softly behind him.

The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the distance. Franco didn’t move, his hand still resting firmly on your waist.

“You okay?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than you expected.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

His lips twitched, a faint smirk threatening to appear, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” you replied, though the slight shake in your voice betrayed you.

He tilted his head, his gaze fixed on yours. “Because you disappeared pretty quickly after the game.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he continued before you could.

“I came to check on you,” he said, his tone casual but deliberate. “Can’t say I’m surprised though that George went to find you first.”

Your brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Franco shifted slightly, his thumb brushing subtly against your waist in a way that sent an unexpected jolt through you. “He clearly wanted to test the water,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational. “Cornering you in here like that. Asking questions he knows might throw you off.”

“Sure, sweet George had sneaky intentions,” you said, though a soft laugh escaped you.

“For sure,” Franco insisted, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features. “He’s too polite to make it obvious, but trust me, he knows what he’s doing.”

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” Franco replied, the smirk returning. His thumb moved again, a slow, absent stroke against your side as he spoke. “He’s clever enough to know when to push without it looking like he’s pushing.”

“And you think that’s what he was doing?”

“Even is he wasn't,” Franco said, meeting your gaze squarely. For a moment, his usual bravado was replaced by something more sincere, more grounded. “I just wanted to make sure he knows you’re mine.”

Your breath caught, the words hanging in the air between you like a delicate thread.

He must have noticed the way your expression shifted because he chuckled softly, his smirk softening. “You know, for now. Until this whole thing is over and you can go back to being everyone’s favorite single lady.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart was pounding. “Oh, how noble of you.”

“Very noble,” he said, his tone teasing again. “It’s hard work being such a convincing fake boyfriend.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such a pain.”

“A pain?” he repeated, his smirk deepening. “Or exactly what you need?”

The moment stretched, his hand still resting on your waist, his touch grounding and unnervingly warm. For a split second, it felt like the world outside the kitchen had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in this small, quiet space.

“You know,” you said quietly, barely meeting his gaze, “Alexandra’s matchmaking ideas don’t exactly… line up with what I want. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

Franco’s brow lifted slightly, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Good to know.”

He cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to give you some space but not enough to completely break the connection. “Come on, sugarplum. We should get back before Lando starts a search party.”

“Right,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

He gestured for you to lead the way, his hand lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle before he finally let it fall.

As you stepped back into the chaos of the living room, you couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The smirk was back, his confident demeanor firmly in place, but something about the way he’d spoken lingered in your mind.

…

The lake glistened under the pale winter sun, the ice reflecting the snowy peaks surrounding it. The group was a riot of scarves, gloves, and thick jackets, their breath visible in the crisp, cold air.

“Right, bets are open!” Lando declared, pulling his gloves tighter. “Charles versus Carlos: who’s wiping out first?”

“Carlos,” Max said flatly, tightening his own skates.

“I’m offended,” Carlos shot back, puffing his chest dramatically.

“I’ll take that action,” Oscar quipped, producing a crumpled bill from his pocket.

Meanwhile, Franco stood next to you, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets as he watched the scene unfold with a grin. “Think you’ll make it through without falling, pudding pie?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Think you can go a full hour without making a comment like that?”

“Nope,” he replied, his grin widening.

Charles and Carlos were already on the ice, their playful bickering carrying across the frozen expanse as they started an impromptu race. Charles was fast but clumsy, slipping every few strides, while Carlos cackled loudly, skating circles around him.

Lando and Max, true to form, took their positions at the sidelines to heckle and place more bets.

You laced your skates carefully, trying to ignore the fact that Franco’s gaze was on you the entire time.

“Ready?” he asked as you stood, wobbling slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, though the smirk playing at the corners of his lips said otherwise.

The ice stretched out before you, gleaming under the pale winter sun like a vast, treacherous mirror. Each step felt like a gamble, your skates threatening to slip out from under you at any moment. Franco skated backward effortlessly in front of you, his movements smooth and confident, as if he’d been born to glide.

“You look like a baby deer,” he teased, his green eyes alight with amusement.

You shot him a glare, your arms flailing slightly as you tried to regain your balance. “Thanks for the support.”

“Relax,” he said, skating closer. His hands reached out instinctively, steadying you with a touch that was firmer than necessary but far from unwelcome. “You’re doing fine.”

“I don’t need your help,” you muttered, though you made no move to pull your hand away as he laced his fingers with yours.

He smirked, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a way that sent a small jolt of warmth through you. “Sure you don’t.”

Behind you, Lando’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness of the lake.

“Max is going down! I can feel it!”

Max, ever unbothered, glided past with surprising ease. “You’re the one who’s going down, Lando,” he retorted without looking back.

Franco chuckled softly, his gaze flicking briefly toward the chaos around you before returning to your face. “You’re lucky I’m not like them.”

“What, loud and extremely present?” you quipped, your lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.

“Exactly,” he replied, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your shoulders relaxed slightly under his steadying touch.

Taking a deep breath, you let go of his hand, feeling a surge of confidence as you took a tentative step on your own.

The sudden scrape of blades against ice drew your attention to George as he skated up beside you, his posture impossibly straight, his movements smooth and deliberate.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his tone warm and polite, as always.

You glanced at him, your heart sinking slightly at the hopeful look in his blue eyes. His hand hovered just in front of yours, an offer you knew he thought you might take.

“That’s sweet of you, George,” you said gently, forcing a small smile. “But I think��Franco’s got it.”

His hand lowered slightly, and his expression shifted, though he recovered quickly.

Before the silence could stretch too far, you turned back to Franco, raising your free hand toward him. “Hold my hand again?”

Franco raised a brow, clearly surprised by the request, but he didn’t hesitate. His hand slid easily into yours, his grip firm and steady as he pulled you closer. “Anything for you, sugarplum.”

The words, playful as they were, carried a softness that hadn’t been there before, and for a moment, you forgot about the chill in the air.

George hesitated briefly, his gaze flicking between you and Franco, before nodding once. “All right then,” he said, his tone polite but slightly clipped. “I’ll let you two be.”

He skated ahead with a precision that seemed a little too deliberate, his back straight and his strides measured.

Franco watched him go, his lips twitching in the beginnings of a smirk. “Smooth,” he murmured, turning his attention back to you.

“Don’t start,” you said quickly, though the warmth of his hand made it impossible to sound annoyed.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “You could’ve let him help, you know.”

“I didn’t want his help,” you replied, your gaze fixed on the ice in front of you.

“No?” Franco’s smirk deepened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again in a motion so casual it felt intentional. “Guess I’m doing something right then.”

You didn’t respond, though your cheeks burned under his gaze. Instead, you focused on moving forward, your steps growing more confident with his hand in yours.

Around you, the chaos of the group continued unabated—Carlos yelling at Charles for cutting him off during their makeshift race, Lando shrieking as Max lunged at him with outstretched arms, and Oscar laughing so hard he nearly fell over.

But for a brief moment, it all faded into the background, leaving only the sound of your blades against the ice and the warmth of Franco’s hand in yours.

…

The chalet buzzed with noise and laughter as we stumbled back inside from the frozen lake. The warmth from the roaring fire hit me like a wave, thawing my frozen fingers and toes. Everyone was shedding layers—scarves, coats, gloves—creating a chaotic pile near the doorway.

“I had him!” Charles was practically shouting, his voice thick with indignation as he gestured wildly at Carlos. “He tripped me on purpose!”

Carlos, leaning casually against the back of a chair, raised a brow and smirked. “I didn’t trip you, mate. You tripped yourself.”

“Oh, sure,” Charles shot back, throwing his gloves down dramatically. “You just happened to be in my way.”

“Can someone trip him again? I need a replay,” Lando quipped, flopping onto the armrest of the couch with all the grace of a cat falling off a ledge.

“You’re all terrible,” Charles muttered, though the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

“You know what’s really terrible?” Max cut in, pointing a finger at Lando. “Lando’s skating. I’ve seen toddlers with more grace.”

“Excuse me!” Lando sat up, mock-offended. “Who got you to fall, hmm? Oh, right—it was me. Call it strategy.”

“It was chaos,” Oscar said, sipping his tea as he perched on the edge of the couch. “Pure chaos.”

“Chaos,” Alexandra chimed in, walking past me as she unwound her scarf, “is you all trying to one-up each other like you’re in some kind of Winter Olympics tryout.”

“Alexandra, be honest,” Carlos said, leaning toward her. “Who was better—me or Charles?”

She pretended to consider it for a moment before shrugging. “Neither. You were both disasters in your own way.”

I snorted, pulling off my gloves and tucking them into my coat pocket. “She’s not wrong.”

Max turned his gaze to me, smirking. “Speaking of disasters, I saw you almost fall twice.”

“Almost being the key word,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes at him.

“You only survived because of him,” Max said, jerking his chin toward Franco, who was currently leaning against the fireplace like he had all the time in the world.

“Is that true?” Alexandra asked, her eyes flicking between Franco and me.

“Absolutely,” Franco said, his grin lazy as he met my gaze. “Graceful as ever, aren’t you, sugarplum?”

The group burst into laughter, and I felt my cheeks heat. I rolled my eyes, grabbing the hem of my sweater and pretending to brush off invisible dust. “I’m going to make hot chocolate. At least that won’t involve falling on my face.”

The kitchen was warm and quiet, a perfect escape from the chaos of the living room. I stirred the bubbling cocoa on the stove, letting the rhythmic motion calm me as the faint hum of voices filtered through the walls.

The door creaked open, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Franco stepping inside. His hair was still tousled from the cold, and his green eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and something softer.

“Couldn’t resist joining me, huh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, someone had to check on the quality control of this hot chocolate,” he quipped, leaning casually against the counter.

I snorted, turning back to the pot. “As if you’re qualified to judge.”

He grinned, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer. “Bold words for someone who didn’t even add marshmallows.”

“They’re coming,” I shot back.

“Sure they are,” he said, his voice teasing but light.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I focused on the cocoa, feeling his eyes on me. When I glanced at him again, he was fidgeting slightly, his hands shifting in his pockets.

“What’s up?” I asked, my brow furrowing.

He hesitated before pulling a small, slightly crumpled package from his pocket. “I wanted to give you something,” he said, his voice quieter now.

That caught me off guard. “You? Giving me something?”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling out a small package wrapped in slightly crumpled paper. He set it on the counter between us, his movements slower than usual.

“You’re serious?” I asked, eyeing the little package, still in shock.

“It’s nothing big,” he said grinning shyly. “I just… wanted to give you this before the whole Secret Santa circus starts later.”

I stared at the package, my curiosity piqued. “You’re not my Secret Santa.”

“Nope,” he said, popping the “p” as he placed the package on the counter between us. “I’m just really bad at following the rules.”

I looked at the package, then back at him. “Is this going to explode?”

“No, it’s not going to explode,” he said, his grin softening into something almost sheepish. “Just open it.”

I stared at the package for a moment before taking it, the weight of his gaze making my chest tighten. Carefully, I peeled back the wrapping, revealing a delicate gold bracelet with a tiny heart-shaped charm.

I turned it over, my breath catching when I saw the engraving on the back: Sugarplum.

“Franco…” I trailed off, brushing my thumb over the charm.

“It’s just a silly thing, got it in town this morning,” he said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “For when this weekend’s over and you’ll start missing my nicknames. Or, you know, to apologize for dragging you into this whole fake-dating mess in the first place.”

“I don’t mind as much as I thought I would,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced at me, his green eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite place. “Still. I thought it might be nice to have… a funny memory. Or whatever.”

I slipped the bracelet onto my wrist, the charm resting lightly against my skin. It fit perfectly, as though it had always belonged there.

The bracelet’s charm glinted softly in the light as it settled against my wrist, the chain fitting perfectly. I turned it over once more, running my thumb across the tiny engraving.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” I said, glancing up at him.

Franco shrugged, leaning back slightly against the counter. “I know. But… I wanted to. It felt right.”

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Right?”

“Okay, maybe ‘right’ is overselling it,” he admitted, his grin faint and a little sheepish. “But I figured, if we’re doing this whole fake-dating thing, we might as well have something to laugh about later. You know, when we’re telling everyone how much we hated it.”

His words were light, but something about the way he said them made my chest tighten. “I don’t really hate it,” I said quietly.

He blinked, his grin faltering. “No?”

I shook my head, the bracelet shifting slightly as I let my arms fall to my sides. “It’s been… weird. Definitely not what I expected, but not all bad.”

“Not all bad,” he repeated, his tone teasing but softer.

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging a little. “I guess I’ve gotten… used to you.”

He tilted his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Used to me? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want,” I said, fighting back a smile.

“Noted,” he said, his lips curving into something closer to his usual smirk. “I’ll put it right up there with, ‘Franco, you’re annoying, but tolerable.’”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Don’t push it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice dropping slightly, “it hasn’t been all bad for me either. I mean, you’ve got your moments.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Moments?”

“Yeah,” he said, his grin softening. “Like when you aren’t rolling your eyes at me or threatening to throw something. Those are nice.”

I rolled my eyes instinctively, but the warmth in his gaze made my stomach flip. “Oh shut up,” I muttered, though there was no real heat in my voice.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us shifted, growing heavier, and I felt the distance between us shrink even though neither of us moved.

“You’re going to keep calling me Sugarplum, aren’t you?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, his grin returning. “You’re stuck with it now.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the warmth from the stove and the weight of his gaze wrapping around me like a blanket. My heart pounded as the silence stretched, the unspoken words hanging between us growing louder with every passing second.

“Franco,” I began, not even sure what I was going to say.

His eyes searched mine, his lips parting slightly, as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

Without thinking, I leaned forward and kissed him.

The movement startled him at first—his breath hitched, his hands hovering awkwardly—but then he responded, his touch finding my waist as he pulled me closer. His lips were warm and soft, hesitant at first, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to kiss me back.

When my hand slid up to the back of his neck, threading through his hair, the kiss deepened. His grip on my waist tightened, his other hand brushing lightly against my arm before settling on my lower back. The air between us seemed to crackle, the faint scent of cocoa mingling with the heat of his touch.

He kissed me like he was trying to memorize it, his lips moving slowly but deliberately, as though he didn’t want to rush.

When I finally pulled back, my forehead barely brushed against his, our breaths mingling in the warm air of the kitchen. My cheeks burned, and my pulse hammered in my ears, but I couldn’t bring myself to step away just yet.

Franco’s green eyes searched mine, his usual confidence replaced by something quieter, softer. His lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come right away.

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” he finally murmured, his voice low and uncertain.

“Good surprise or bad surprise?” I asked, my tone light despite the way my chest tightened.

“Good,” he said without hesitation, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Really good.”

His hands were still resting lightly on my waist, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of my sweater. The warmth of his touch was bringing my head back to earth, making the moment feel more real than anything that had come before it.

I wasn’t sure who moved first, but before I knew it, I was leaning back in, capturing his lips in another kiss. This one was slower, more deliberate, the kind of kiss that felt like an unspoken promise. His hand slid up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing softly against my cheek as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

The sound of the door creaking open made us jump apart, and I turned sharply to see Lando standing frozen in the doorway, his mouth hanging open.

For a moment, none of us spoke. Then, Lando blinked, his gaze darting between us as his brain seemed to catch up with what he’d just walked in on.

“Oh my god,” he blurted out, his voice a mix of shock and triumph. “You’re actually for real..”

“Lando—” Franco started, his voice low and exasperated.

“No, no, wait. This is—wow. I mean, Oscar’s gonna lose his mind. And ten euros.” Lando grinned, his excitement building.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Lando, can you please just—”

“Leave you to it?” he interrupted, smirking as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “Sure, I can do that.” 

The sound of his retreating footsteps was immediately followed by his voice erupting from the living room. “OSCAR! MAX! THEY’RE ACTUALLY TOGETHER! PAY UP!”

Franco let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to kill him.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. 

I glanced down at the bracelet on my wrist, the charm catching the light. The warmth spreading through me was impossible to ignore, a quiet certainty settling in my chest.

“Still worth it?” I asked, my tone teasing but soft.

His eyes flicked to the bracelet and then back to me, and the smile that followed was warmer, more genuine.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Definitely.”

[deminetly]

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ ACTIVITIES FOR SHIFTERS ಿৎ

activities for people with fame drs

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

⋆ journal as your dr self

⋆ make a collage about your dr self (face claim, hair claim, body claim, hand claim, pets, room, house, style, general vibe)

⋆ write love letters to your s/o

⋆ watch storytimes of other ppl shifting to ur dr

⋆ make your social media profiles (twinote)

⋆ make moodboards for your drs/people in your drs

⋆ design your outfits (everyday, red carpet etc)

⋆ make a uquiz called “which one of my drs are you”

⋆ think of a trend to start in your fame dr

⋆ make up slang that people in your dr use

⋆ make shifting memes

⋆ make your dr room in roomsxyz

⋆ design your dr camera roll (from pinterest or go for a walk and take the pictures yourself)

⋆ go out and take pictures of places that remind you of your dr

⋆ draw/make picrews of your dr selves/friends

⋆ fill in pinterest templates about your dr self and your dr friends

⋆ make up a holiday and script it in your dr

⋆ make your own notion script template

⋆ make your own timetable for your school dr (make up new classes)

⋆ make a shifting bingo card of things you want to do in your dr

⋆ make posters about your drs (movies you acted in, your band, your school etc)

⋆ make yourself look like your dr self

⋆ go on google maps and walk around the area you want to shift to/serach up a yt video of someone walking around that place

⋆ organize your wardrobe and outfits (pinterest, combyne)

⋆ make up the whole film lore for your actor dr

⋆ write down (or even make up new) foods you would like to eat in your dr

⋆ make a playlist about your s/o or just dr in general

⋆ make up shifting methods

⋆ write down shifting methods, try them out and rate them

⋆ research the void state

⋆ make new places ans their lore for your dr, find pictures

⋆ watch documentaries about shifting

⋆ scroll through shifting tumblr and reddit

⋆ write down what a typical day in the life looks like for your dr self and follow that schedule for a day

⋆ write articles about your fame dr drama

⋆ script in a new tiktok trend you can do with your s/o

⋆ plan a halloween group costume for your dr self and friends

⋆ make a vision board for each dr

⋆ invent your own currency system for your dr

⋆ design a flag for the place youre shifting to

⋆ design merch for your fame dr

⋆ give random memes a twist so they would be about your dr

⋆ script a secret society (a hidden group in your dr with its own rituals, symbols and purpose)

⋆ design and script in tattoos for your dr self

⋆ write fanfic about random people in your dr/you and someone else from your dr

⋆ create new seasons for your dr

⋆ invent new amusement park rides to ride in your dr

⋆ invent a new zodiac system for your dr

⋆ make a board game based on your dr (locations, inside jokes etc)

⋆ script in a new restaurant and menu specifically for you

⋆ start a tumblr blog just for your dr (post things like day in the life of me, haul of what i just bought, new concert announcement etc)

⋆ make comics about your drs

⋆ make your own shifting school system (script: schedule, homework, building, uniform, topics you study, friend group, foods they offer during lunch, dorm room etc)

⋆ make a wikipedia about your (fame) dr self

⋆ make a magazine/newletter about your dr

⋆ take the rice purity test as your dr self then as your cr self and compare them

⋆ write a story/journal page/blog post of a success story as if you shifted (where did you wake up, who did you first talk to, what did you do, how did it feel, what was better than you expected, etc)

⋆ make a script for your cr

⋆ talk to people from your dr through tarot cards

⋆ make instagram stories as your dr self (collage pictures that fit the vibe and add a song your dr self would listen to)

⋆ script in fashion shows (think of cool themes, design the stage and outfits)

⋆ draw you and your dr friends / s/o together

⋆ make peope from your dr in metahuman (or other games like that)

⋆ worldbuild your dr in sims

⋆ karaoke your whole discography (fame dr specific)

⋆ make your s/o a gift for their birthday and celebrate it in your cr

⋆ make a list of foods to eat in your dr

⋆ write a story/book/song about shifting

⋆ make up a new video game so you could play it in your dr

⋆ make up a new show/movie so you could watch it in your dr

⋆ go for a walk listening to a playlist you made about your dr and write down everything that reminds you of your dr

⋆ shuffle your dr playlist and think of a scenario that remind you of your dr relating to a lyric of that song/the vibe of the song (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

⋆ write songs or poems about situations in your dr (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

⋆ make a script about your dr selfs childhood (credits to shiiiftz on tiktok)

write a letter to the universe titled why you should let me shift and list reasons

make a shifting bucketlist (ex: ride a dragon, jump out of a window)

make up new snacks you want to exist in your drs

put people from your drs names in a random headcannon generator

make an “oc lore poorly explained” about your dr