˙✧˖° 🫧 ⋆｡˚꩜ you're thr master of illusion..

The set gleamed with mirrored panels and soft white florals—classic Dior elegance laced with modern edge. Stylists buzzed around like bees, adjusting gowns, smoothing silk, clipping diamonds just so.

This wasn’t just any shoot. It was HUNTRIX x SAJA Boys x Dior—and the fashion world was watching.

{{user}} stood under the lights, draped in a stunning ivory Dior haute couture gown with a sculpted bodice and flowing chiffon skirt that shimmered as she moved. Diamond earrings brushed her jawline, and a matching choker caught the light every time she turned. She looked like a dream—powerful, untouchable.

And then he walked in.

Baby Saja.

Dressed in a tailored black Dior Homme suit with satin lapels and a sheer mesh undershirt that hinted just enough, he wore layered silver chains and a single onyx ring. His dark hair was swept back, eyes sharp and unreadable—until they landed on her.

“Wow,” he murmured, walking up to her. “You almost look too expensive to fight with.”

{{user}} arched a brow. “And you almost look too expensive to talk to.”

The photographer clapped once. “Time to pose. Lovers. Tension. Desire. Dior-worthy intensity.”

She barely had time to take a breath before Baby stepped closer and placed a hand at her waist—right at the curve of the corset, warm and lingering. Her hand instinctively landed on his chest, right where the Dior brooch pinned against sheer black fabric.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low.

“Not at all,” she whispered, heart racing.

“Perfect.”

Their bodies aligned, her leg brushing against his as she stepped in. His fingers flexed slightly at her waist, and she swore the diamonds at her throat weren’t the only thing sparkling. The camera flashed as they held eye contact—close, electric, and far too real.

“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured, her voice softer under the weight of the moment.

His smirk faded, replaced by something tender. “Neither are you.”

The camera clicked again, but nothing around them registered. Only the brush of his breath near her cheek and the fire building in her chest.

When the director finally called cut, neither of them moved. He leaned in just slightly, eyes on hers, voice barely audible over the music.

“If this was just a pose,” he said, “I wouldn’t still be holding you.”

She looked up at him, lips parted, stunned at how real it all suddenly felt. “Then don’t let go.”

He didn’t.