#Embossed napkins

[damon25]

Why Should We Use Baroque Beauty-Damask Napkins for Festival Occasions?

Festival occasions call for elegance, warmth, and a little luxury, and when it comes to creating memorable experiences, Baroque Beauty-Damask napkins do just that. These napkins come with intricate patterns designed to mirror the grandeur of Baroque artistry to elevate any ordinary meal to a formality even the most rudimentary of meals deserve. Damask napkins are made with high-quality fabric. They are visually stunning but also durable and reusable, making them green napkins for the festive season. These rich textures and shimmering weaves are versatile. They would pair well with just about any theme, whether a formal dinner or a chill hang and have many table settings. These luxury dining napkins also include an element of tradition and history, which is the perfect thing to have about it, as festivals are about nostalgia and celebration. The soft yet firm fabric adds comfort for guests and elegance and sophistication. No matter the tableware, fine china, or rustic wooden, Baroque Beauty-Damask napkins make every setting look thoughtfully curated. These durable table napkins are a decorative choice and a statement of style and sophistication. Serving them at your festival table seals the deal that your spread will impress family and friends alike.

[lightsoutmatthews]

hi:) can i request willy proposing? just lots of fluff and love lol

I love writing proposals so much 😭 excuse if my google translated swedish is not correct

Just you and me – William Nylander

You arrived in Stockholm early in July, still sleepy from the flight, the morning sun already warming the city as Wiliam wheeled your suitcase out of Arlanda and flagged down a cab.

His hand found yours in the back seat, thumb brushing the top of your wrist with quiet affection. This had been the plan since January. Off-season in Sweden, away from Toronto, away from the noise.

The first few weeks had gone by in a blur. Breakfasts at the small café across from his apartment. Long bike rides through leafy parks. Evenings watching water shimmer from the balcony, his dogs asleep at your feet.

There were friends, teammates and ex-teammates that came over, family dinners with the Nylander clan, but mostly it was just the two of you. It felt right.

You didn’t notice right away that he was acting different. Maybe because it was subtle.

He would hold you a little longer than usual when you hugged. Asked you more often what you wanted out of life, especially out of the next few years. He smiled more during quiet moments, when he was just sitting in the kitchen with you, like that alone made everything okay.

One morning in early August, you woke to the smell of toast and berries. He stood by the stove, hair messy, wearing only shorts while flipping pancakes.

“I had a dream you made these,” he laughed, when you asked what he was doing. “Figured I´d beat your to it.”

You sat on the counter while he made breakfast. His hand found your knee. “Do you ever think about what we´d be doing in five years?” he asked, not looking at you.

“Occasionally,” you replied.

His head tilted slightly, eyes soft. “Yeah?”

He didn’t say more, just handed you a plate and kissed your shoulder.

He suggested a day on Djurgården after breakfast. The weather was perfect, clear sky, temperature warm but not heavy.

He brought a backpack with drinks, a blanket and snacks. That was unusual for him. “You´re awfully prepared for someone who said “let´s just go for a walk,”” you teased.

William smiled. “Well, you´re predictable.”

You spent the afternoon strolling the shoreline, pausing at benches when you felt like it, stopping for ice cream even though you said you weren’t hungry.

He let you choose the path and that’s how you ended up by the Rosendals Trädgård gardens later in the afternoon. The flowers were in full bloom.

He didn’t seem in a rush so you strolled around for a while, hand in hand, chatting about everything and nothing.

Later, he led you back toward the water. You reached a secluded pier, small but neat, wood warmed by the sun. Someone had strung small lights overhead, not many, but enough to make it feel special.

“This is cute,” you said, glancing around.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, “So, okay, promise me to not freak out.”

You turned your face to him, half-laughing. “What?”

He pulled something from the backpack. A small hardcover photo album. The cover was plain white, your initials embossed at the bottom.

“I started this in March,” he started to explain. “I´ve been filling it when we were apart, just with random stuff.”

You opened it. The first page held a photo of you asleep, drooling slightly, in his hoodie. A sticky note below read: still wanted to kiss you.

The next page held a picture of a text you sent that read, “bring snacks or I´ll die:”

Below it another sticky note that said: I brought snacks. She lived.

The rest was filled with ticket stubs, selfies, scribbled captions. There was a small menu from the restaurant you had your first dinner in Toronto, a dried flower from a walk in Yorkville, even the corner of a napkin where you had written “W + me = dumb math, cute couple.”

By the end of the book, your hands were shaking.

“William,” you whispered.

He took it from you gently and set it down on the bench behind him. His voice stayed low when he spoke again. “I´ve been thinking about this for a while. Not just this summer or just now. I´ve known I wanted this for longer than I even realized.”

He stepped forward, close enough that your knees brushed. He looked nervous but not unsure. Focused.

“I don’t care where we live, here in Stockholm, in Toronto or wherever my career takes us next. I don’t care what job you take or if you want three more dogs, kids or no kids or all of it. I don’t need a perfect plan for the rest of our lives, but I need you to be part of it until the end.”

He pulled something from his bac picked.

A small box, navy blue, classic.

He got down on one knee.

Your heart kicked against your ribs like a drum.

He opened the box to reveal a simple gold ring, no diamond, just a thin band with a small, deep-blue sapphire at the center. It was sleek and subtle, it was perfect for you.

He looked up at you, eyes wide open, no mask, none of his usual charm. Just William.

“I love you,” he said. “You make everything better. I want this – us – for the rest of my life.”

He took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

You didn’t cry right away. It was too much, too real and too still.

“Yes,” you breathed barely audible. “God, yes of course I will marry you.”

His grin broke wide and boyish. He stood, fast, hands at your cheeks, kissing your before you could even take a full breath.

You kissed back, arms around him, feeling the joy in every part of your chest.

You were vaguely aware of clapping behind you.

That’s when your turned.

Friends – his brother Alex, a few Leafs teammates who had made the trip, his sisters and parents, your parents and best friends – stood nearby, holding glasses of champagne and phone cameras.

Someone hit a speaker and music started. You didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter.

You and William didn’t let go of each other, bathing in the bliss he had just created.

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

Later that day

You were on a boat. One of his friends had arranged it as a surprise – small, cozy, with open seating and lights overhead.

The city glowed around you as you drifted gently through the water, the air cool now that the sun had gone down.

William sat with you curled into his side, his hoodie around your shoulders, his hand in yours.

Neither of you said much for the first while but at one point you were too noisy to break the silence.

“You´ve been planning this for long, huh?” you chuckled.

He tilted his head. “Since February or so.”

You stared down at your hand, at the ring that still felt almost imaginary. “You were so calm.”

“I wasn’t,” he laughed. “I was sweating under my shirt.”

You laughed softly. “I thought I´d be scared,” he added. “But I wasn’t. Not about asking. You´ve always been the easy part on my life.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, and he placed a kiss to your head. “I´m really happy,” you said, barely audible.

“Me too.”

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

A few days later

The news didn’t stay private. Fans spotted the Instagram posts quicker than you expected. One of Williams friends posted a story, not noticing what he´d done until it was too late.

The Swedish press picked it up fast: “William Nylander förlovad – planerar bröllpö I Sverige?” (Willam Nylander engaged – planning a wedding in Sweden?)

Photos of you two kissing by the water, arms around each other, sunglasses up.

You didn’t really care. Your relationship hadn’t been a secret for a long time.

It didn’t touch the real part of it. The quiet part. The breakfast-for-dinner part. The holding-hands-on-the-ferry part.

William was the same. Still goofy. Still serious when it mattered. Still sliding you could water without asking. Still texting you during workouts: thinking about you. Send pics of the dogs

The only difference was the ring and the way his eyes lingered on yours when you weren’t looking.

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

One week later

You sat on the edge of his bed, folding a sweatshirt into your suitcase. You had to fly home for two weeks. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

“Are you sure you´re coming back?” he asked, teasing but not really.

You looked over your shoulder. “Do you really think I´d leave you after that proposal?”

He smirked. “It was decent.”

You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“It was everything I dreamed of, so, of course I´m always coming back.”

He bent his head to kiss you.

And that was the thing about William. He wasn’t flashy, poetic or overly complicated but when he lived it was certain, firm and simple.  

You were his.

And he was yours.

[tociminna]

Baldur's Book Club, Episode One: Librare

"So it looks like all three of us have thrown off the shackles of an undeserving goddess," Shadowheart said. "Perhaps we should form a book club."

And then they did.

Baldur's Book Club is a new series featuring different groupings of characters and different books for each episode, though Gale will be a consistent appearance since he of course has organized the entire thing.

Tagging: @12thhouse-sun, @residentdormouse, @lemonwoodwrites, @optimisticgrey, @aoifethephoenixqueen . If you would like to be added to or removed from this list please let me know!

Episode 1: Librare

AO3 link

Characters: Gale, Lae'zel, Shadowheart (Team Religious Trauma)

Book: a moral theology text (exciting!)

Words: 1.6k

Lae’zel held a slim, leatherbound book in her lap, somehow managing to sneer and look uncertain at the same time.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” she said, tapping its cover. Its title, embossed in gold, read: What Good the Balance? A Commentary on Aonian Ethics. “Two hundred pages and yet nothing useful contained in any of them.”

“It’s not an instruction manual, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart commented drily, sipping her wine. “It’s supposed to make you think. To elicit a conversation.”

“This is what happens when you allow Gale to choose the text.”

“Perhaps, but here you are regardless. Why did you agree to this?”

“He said he would prepare neogi rolls. I have not tasted them since I left Creche K’liir. I came across some when we were in Creche Y’llek but they were stale and unpalatable - imagine my disappointment.”

Shadowheart paused, wine goblet halfway to her lips. She was unsure what a neogi was, or how it could be rolled, but her memories of githyanki food from the creche were… mixed, at best. “Is that all he’s making?”

Lae’zel snorted. “It is Gale. What do you suppose?”

“He's late. Let's hope that means he's bringing extra food.”

A brief grunt was her only answer. After a few moments of silence Lae'zel spoke again.

“I did not like this book. It was -”

“Shhh. We have to wait for Gale. We’ll be in no end of trouble if we start without him.” Shadowheart poured a generous serving of wine and handed it to Lae'zel. “This will help.”

She had mostly drained it when Gale arrived, bearing a laden tray and another bottle of wine.

“You would not believe the amount of trouble I had sourcing neogi in this city,” he said, hands busy as he set out small dishes. “Cosmopolitan my foot. Why, there are at least three places in Waterdeep where I might have found it.”

Lae'zel eyed the tray with ill-concealed interest. “The smell is… correct,” she said, tapping the book cover impatiently. “Hurry, wizard.”

“Come now, you can't rush quality, ” he chided, placing several rolls onto a plate already prepared with a thick, vinegary sauce. He handed the plate to her with a napkin spread beneath it and bowed slightly. “Enjoy.”

Shadowheart leaned forward as Lae'zel began to eat silently. “Could I try one of those? And what are these?” She pointed at the second dish. On it rested several purplish lumps with slightly fluted edges. The aroma was incredible, spicy and savory, but they were hardly attractive. She knew illithid were functionally sexless, but “mindflayer testicle” kept popping into her mind.

“Those are night orchid blossoms, stuffed with rice and aromatics and gently braised. Also very difficult to source, I might add.”

She looked at him for a moment, mouth open. She hadn’t even known they were edible. “All right,” she said finally, “you are forgiven your tardiness. And your choice of book.”

Gale beamed. “I thought you might like it. Eat up, ladies, you’ll need your energy for our discussion! And here, try this wine. I chose it to match the theme of the book - it’s quite balanced.” He winked knowingly as he opened the bottle.

Lae’zel rolled her eyes, but did not stop eating. Shadowheart groaned faintly as she held out her goblet. 

Gale did not eat much himself, only picking at the stuffed blossoms while he scribbled at a set of notes. Between them Shadowheart and Lae'zel finished the rest, and sat back comfortably when the plates were cleared by his very convenient Unseen Servant.

“Book club might not be an entire waste of time,” Lae'zel said thoughtfully.

“Glad you think so! I've prepared a series of questions to guide our discussion.” Gale held up a sheet of paper. 

“Oh,” Shadowheart said, attempting to summon some enthusiasm. He looked so excited. “Thank you?”

“It was my pleasure. Now, let’s settle in. Here’s the first question: During the Time of Troubles, do you believe the actions of Lord Ao to restore the ‘balance’ of the realms accomplished that aim?”

“Firstly,” Lae’zel said, leaning forward, “I would have you note that at no point did the author define ‘balance’.”

“True,” Gale said, noncommittal. “And?”

“How should we judge? What is being balanced? Does it alter on the whim of some…” she flapped her hands, likely frustrated at not being able to find the word in Common, and Shadowheart hid a smile. “Some higher being? Who determines?”

“Ao himself determines, does he not?” Shadowheart answered. “The Overgod answers to no one.”

Gale cleared his throat. “There is substantial debate on that matter, I think you’ll find.”

Shadowheart scoffed. “By wizards, and clerics with nothing better to do. No thank you.”

Lae’zel interrupted, recovering her momentum. “And, if all the gods who died in the Time of Troubles were lost forever, and all the new gods brought into being were in service of balance, why did the Spellplague happen shortly after?”

“True,” Shadowheart mused. “The only balance I’ve been able to see is a sort of chaos. It’s like if you knocked over all the mountains and then admired the rubble for its flatness.”

Gale held up one hand, and scribbled something furiously with the other. “Excellent observation, thank you.” 

He laid his quill down and looked back to his prepared page. “Lae’zel, you’ve led me into the next question. Do you believe the Spellplague to be directly caused by the events of the Time of Troubles?”

“Chk. It is so obvious a child might see it fresh from the egg. Even one who did not know their history might have predicted what happened.”

“But would you say it upheld a balance, or destroyed it?”

Lae’zel drew her dagger, always at her hip even in camp, with a flourish. A sudden memory struck Shadowheart, of a time when that dagger had been very near to finding a new home in her gut. It seemed so long ago - but it was only a few months, really. 

The dagger winked in the low evening light as Lae’zel turned it. She placed it on the table before her, slowly and carefully, somehow managing to balance it on its round pommel.

“How did you do that?” Shadowheart asked, fascinated, and leaned forward. Even that small motion shook the table enough to cause the dagger to wobble and fall.

“Practice.” Lae’zel lifted the dagger again. “That was balanced, you would agree?”

Shadowheart nodded. So did Gale, whose eyes had lit like torches. He was on fire with some new idea, she was sure. “Continue,” he said. “I think I know where this is going.”

“That was Ao’s balance,” Lae’zel said. “Why would that be desirable? Why not something like this?” She laid the dagger on its side, where it lay still and stable.

Gale grinned. “Yes! Exactly!”

The dagger disappeared into its sheath. “It matters not, in the end,” Lae’zel added. “My people are not much disturbed by the workings of the gods here in Realmspace.”

“I think you’ll find there are other people in the world who mind it very much,” Shadowheart said tartly. “And if you’re so separate from the gods of the Realms, why did your great leader make a deal with Tiamat?”

Lae’zel grumbled, frowning, but did not answer.

There was silence for a moment as Gale poured another round of wine. “So in general, ladies, may I ask your opinion of the book? Overall?”

“We haven’t even got to the Second Sundering,” Shadowheart said. “Why make us read the entire damned thing if we aren’t going to talk about it?”

“I’ll be honest and admit I wasn’t sure you would read the entire thing,” he said with a twinkle.

“It is not a good book,” Lae’zel said flatly. “My only pleasure in it has been denouncing its claims in this discussion. The food was also acceptable.”

“I didn’t like it,” Shadowheart said. “I’ve read enough breathless paeans disguised as reasoned analysis in the course of my religious education to spot one on sight. This one just happens to be about a god with no following to speak of.”

“I’d love to chat with you sometime about what your education was like,” Gale said. “It has to be very different to the way I was raised.”

“Given the memory erasure and frequent beatings, I’m sure it was,” she answered, deadpan, and he winced. 

“Fair.”

“Do you like this book? You haven’t said a word either way.”

“I didn’t want to bias your comments. But… no, I don't like it. I think this book is complete tripe. Utter drivel dressed up in pretty language.”

“What?”

Lae’zel made a show of drawing her dagger again.

“If you knew this book was a waste of time, wizard, why did you force us to endure it?”

“Well, you see,” Gale paused, eyes shifting a little. Was he blushing? “I’m currently engaged in a rather, er, heated correspondence with its author. He’s a dunce of the highest degree, but the man just won’t admit when he’s beaten. So I thought I’d enlist the help of an experienced cleric and an outside perspective.”

Silence.

He looked up, smiling cautiously. “You’ve been tremendously helpful. I shall be sure to cite you when I send my next missive. I should begin it now, really, while my memory is fresh.”

“You can’t,” Shadowheart said. Next to her, Lae’zel had risen, a cushion from the settee in hand.

“Why not?”

“Because Lae’zel is going to smother you with a pillow.”

"Wait!" Gale protested as they advanced. "I made dessert!"

[antiquatedplumbobs]

Spring 1916

It was spring in Brindleton, which meant the calving season was in full swing and sleep was a luxury no longer promised. The whole family felt the strain of it, Hamish and Will the most, but little Charlie came in a close third as Hamish insisted it was time he learned the ropes. Will had experienced almost ten full calving seasons. One morning — when he was unable to crawl to bed until well after the sun rose and breakfast had been served — he found himself desperately glad he wouldn't experience another.

With barely any time for sleep, Will hadn’t seen Clara in weeks. It wasn’t as if she had all the time in the world, either: her own family’s herd wasn’t much smaller than that of Sable Dairy. Despite each other's absence, it would seem neither was far from the other's thoughts. Will had found a small basket of still-warm rolls and a crock of honey sitting on the front stoop in the pearly near dawn that morning; Clara’s initials neatly embossed on the corner of the napkin they were wrapped in.

Will had been unable to stop thinking about Clara after Hamish’s well-intentioned question, and once he began thinking about Clara, he began thinking of his own friends' lives. He had uncomfortably realized that they were all married or engaged, leaving him the only bachelor. Albert and Posie were close to celebrating their second anniversary, and a baby was expected to mark the occurrence. Clive and his new wife had set up his medical practice in a small house overlooking the bay (after throwing the most extravagant wedding the town had seen in years). John — always the more wild of the group — had fallen head over heels for the new baker’s assistant and spent the past six months making an absolute fool of himself as he wooed her. The entire town had breathed a sigh of relief when she had accepted his proposal and the antics came to a halt.

Will had laughed along with everyone else at John (good-naturedly of course) but he had also harbored a secret jealousy of his friend. To find someone and fall so deeply in love so quickly that you would prize your love above all else seemed to Will like a true gift. His father’s stories of love at first sight had set him up with lofty expectations, and Will was still trying to readjust them to fall in line with everyone else's. Most folks knew they wouldn't immediately fall deeply in love; successful, well-matched marriages were built on a foundation of mutual respect and well-matched interests. Clara was a good match for Will.

He had repeated that line over and over again, trying to imbue the truth of it into himself. He repeated it as he looked over the array of delicate rings nestled in velvet at the jeweler's in Britechester; he repeated it as the simple ring was wrapped by the portly jeweler and he parted with a sum greater than any he had ever spent; he repeated it as he sat on the train home, unable to keep from staring at the unassuming ring in its small red box. He had repeated it until it became his truth. He had the ring; her father's blessing had been secured the week before, now all that was left was asking Clara to be his wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next / previous / first

[theswordwrites]

PART ONE (the alchemy)

Juniper receives good news and has no choice but to celebrate with her closest friends, leading her right into the path of Aemond Targaryen (again.)

(TW: 18+ partying, drug use, nothing too crazy!)

word count: 4.3k

NEXT PART

By midnight, June’s feet ached in the heels required by her uniform. It was ridiculous, truly. The gala attendees barely looked at her for longer than a few seconds, so why was she squeezed into a cocktail dress that had probably been handed down a dozen times and shoes that made her calves tense and sore for days? As she ran drinks to and from tables, flashing her best million-dollar smile, she reminded herself the paycheck would be worth it. Her rent would be paid, her credit card debt knocked down, and she could finally buy the cat tree that had been sitting in her online shopping cart for weeks. Maybe she’d even splurge on a night out at The Velvet Throne with her roommate, Arianne, and their friends.

After a night working the Green Party’s latest altruistic-yet-off-putting kickoff gala, she would need at least four martinis and a cigarette. She had spotted Alicent Hightower, as beautiful as ever, gliding through the room in a deep sage silk gown. June wasn’t sure what the gala was raising money for, but they had raised a hell of a lot of it. She had to admit, Alicent was so stunning she might have emptied her own pockets for her, too. The Targaryen-Hightower children had made an appearance. The eldest—whose name escaped her—was drunk by the time the opening speeches began. Helaena had left early, trailed by three bodyguards. She’d seen the second son, Aemond, only from behind. Taller than his older brother, and surprisingly, not wearing green. Odd, considering the rumor was he was at odds with party advisors ahead of the election.

That morning, Arianne, Edith, and Seraphina had dissected the election over bagels and coffee. Edith claimed he seemed different from his father, with more progressive policies aimed at gaining the younger generation's vote. Arianne rolled her eyes and insisted he might put on a good show, but he was just as much a Targaryen as his father, with his scheming grandfather pulling the strings. “I’m sure he’ll say anything to get into office, and once he’s there, he’ll line his pockets like the rest of them.”

June had stayed quiet, editing her thesis on her laptop and mulling over her use of the word "delve." She had no faith in the system, nor those who upheld it. But she had heard a speech Aemond had given about student debt, arguing that education shouldn't have a price because knowledge was power, and everyday people deserved to hold it. It intrigued her—how young he was, and the impact that could have. She promised herself she would research more closer to the election and do her duty as a citizen of Westeros. Her brain was too full of edits and deadlines to give it much space now.

“June, we need more champagnes to the front table, like right now,” one of the other servers hissed at her, voice anything but subtle. She nodded and forced her aching legs to move.

At the table sat the Hightowers and their equally powerful, politically savvy friends. She spotted Larys Strong, who had served the late Prime Minister, looking as intense and off-putting as ever as he leaned on his cane. Jason Lannister's spray tan was a shade too deep, and June had to bite back a giggle. How could someone be so rich and yet so blind? Surely, he could hire someone to remind him that a few hours was more than enough.

She set the glasses down gently, adding a smile and a dragon-embossed napkin. June tried to ignore that Alicent Hightower was looking at her but managed a polite, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I think we’re okay for now, thank you,” Alicent replied, her voice as graceful as her movements.

June smiled again, hoping her lipstick hadn’t smudged, and glanced around the table. The eldest Targaryen son sat to Alicent’s left, and next to him was Aemond, the current parliamentary candidate. He was all sharp lines and elegance, with blue eyes that were now fixed on her. June paled, frozen in place. Her gaze traveled from his silver hair to the scar etched over his eye and then to the gold signet ring on his pinky.

He was a Targaryen in every sense of the word, elegantly leaned back in his chair, hands folded on the table, eyes like steel.

The seconds stretched into an eternity before her brain caught up with her body. With another awkward grin and a slight tilt of her head, she turned—no, scurried—away.

Nothing embarrassed June more than feeling out of place. And that had been mortifying.

Back in the kitchen, she sipped water and fanned her face, hoping she wasn’t too flushed. She quickly asked the manager—an older woman with a sharp determination to break in the new servers—if she could take her first break. The manager nodded, and June didn’t waste a second before slipping outside. The cool air of a late August evening felt refreshing against her skin, drawing out some of the heat as she leaned against the brick wall. Her phone dinged.

TO: JUNIPER GREYSONFROM: DR. ORWYLE

Miss Greyson,

I apologize for the late correspondence. I have just received confirmation that your dissertation has been approved by the committee. Please call my office tomorrow morning to set a date for your defense.

CongratulationsSent from my iPhone

She squealed—a high-pitched, elated sound that escaped before she could stop it. It didn’t matter who heard. She had spent three years on that thesis, hours upon hours of research and writing and scraping by, and now she’d done it. Her fingers found Arianne’s contact, and she didn't care if the brunette was with her “so-not-my-girlfriend” girlfriend.

After a single ring, Arianne answered, “Junie! Are you off work yet?”

“No, not yet. Another hour, maybe. Do you have a second?”

“For my beautiful, smart, strawberry blonde best friend? Of course!” June could picture her now, animated, hands moving as she spoke. Arianne always had a flair for the dramatic—and for flattery, which June usually appreciated.

“It got approved! My thesis, I mean. Dr. Orwyle just emailed. It’s going to committee as soon as I set a date.”

Through the phone came another excited, ear-piercing squeal.

“Oh, Seven! June, that’s incredible! I knew you could do it!”

“I—” June stuttered, adrenaline catching up to her, “I think I’m in shock. I expected another round of edits, you know? The conclusion didn’t feel right on the last read—”

Arianne cut her off before she could spiral into self-doubt. “Breathe, Junie. You got approved! That’s the only thing that matters right now. Any chance you can leave early so we can celebrate?”

June glanced from her phone to the open kitchen door. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be home.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Arianne, Edith, and Seraphina were waiting for her with wide grins and a drink in hand when she finally stumbled through the front door. In the mere twenty minutes it had taken June to get home, they had somehow managed to drape a glittering “Congratulations!” banner across the mantle, fill the room with balloons, and crack open a bottle of champagne. The faint scent of perfume and laughter filled the air.

Her heart swelled as they swarmed her, squealing and hugging her like they hadn't seen her in years. "Junie, we are so, so proud of you!" Edith sang, throwing her long arms around June in a hug that rocked them back and forth. The others echoed their congratulations, their voices bright and cheerful, brimming with the kind of excitement only best friends can muster.

They didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath, herded her straight to the bathroom, insisting she shower and change. She let them fuss over her, laughing as they debated outfits, finally settling on something so skimpy it would’ve made her mother clutch her pearls in horror.

For a moment, June thought of her mother, a sharp pang tugging at her chest. She should call her, share the news— but just as quickly, she shoved the thought away, burying it deep. Her mother had been so distant since the accident, so different from the bubbly, over-involved PTA mom who used to cheer too loudly at every recital, every bake sale. It broke June’s heart, but it had been three years, and she had learned to lock those feelings away in a box that she only opened on rare, quiet nights. She was different now too—tougher, more self-reliant. Or at least that’s what she told herself as she swiped concealer under her eyes and dabbed on a thick layer of blush.

"Come on, Junie, let’s go!" Arianne urged, grabbing her arm with a grin. "The Velvet Throne is gonna have a line out the door!"

She barely had time to grab her purse before they were out the door, tumbling into the warm night air. The city buzzed around them—cars honked, street lights flickered, and the distant thrum of music seemed to pulse from every corner. They giggled like schoolgirls as they raced down the street in their high heels, their excitement infectious. After a few glasses of champagne, the ache in her feet had disappeared and she was ready to dance.

When they reached the Velvet Throne, the line was indeed snaking around the block, a mass of people dressed to impress, chattering with anticipation. But Edith, ever the charmer, knew the bouncer. With a coy smile and a flutter of her eyelashes, they were whisked inside and escorted up to the VIP level.

The music hit her like a wave, a deep, pounding bass that vibrated in her chests. One drink turned into two, two into three. The bartender, hearing their redheaded friend was on her way to becoming a doctor, poured them free shots. June held her breath, pinched her nose, and downed it, wincing at the bitter taste but reveling in the warm, numbing sensation that spread through her limbs. The music was so loud it seemed to drown out her thoughts, and for the first time in a long time, she let go.

She danced like she was weightless, the beat coursing through her veins, her friends spinning around her, hair flying, eyes sparkling under the neon lights. They were all in their own little world, a blur of laughter, movement, and joy. At one point, she caught sight of Edith slipping a small baggie from a man in a dark jacket, his expression unreadable.

Edith grabbed her hand, pulling her into a corner and shouting over the music, "Cregan’s at a party at the Keep! He said we’re invited." She opened her palm, revealing the little baggie with a sly grin. "I say we take our new little friend here," she gestured to the baggie, "and head over! Lots of sexy, rich men and free drinks!"

The girls cheered, their excitement infectious, and June felt a surge of adrenaline. This night was far from over.

The Keep was the heart of King’s Landing, home to the city’s wealthiest and most influential residents. The girls had been to a few parties there before, the most memorable being the one where Seraphina ended up spending the night with a Prince from Dorne. They hadn’t let her live it down for months, teasing her with “Your Majesty” until they were breathless with laughter. The prince had texted her the next day, practically begging her to hop on the flight back with him. Sera had only shrugged, saying that while he was amazing in bed and seemed like a nice guy, living in the public eye wasn't for her.

Arianne and Edith had disagreed, dreaming up all the scandalous headlines they’d make if they were ever involved with someone so high-profile. "We’d be the perfect all-Westerosi girls," Arianne had insisted, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

June, as usual, had just nodded and giggled along, content to listen. But now, with the buzz of champagne and a little powder still fresh in her system, she was feeling more chatty. “How did Cregan manage to get into a party at the Keep?” she asked, her voice louder than she intended, her words slightly slurred.

Edith shrugged, adjusting the hem of her skirt. “Old money, babe. His parents have a house there. I’m sure he’s got connections.”

June leaned in closer, her eyebrows raised, chin tipped playfully. “So, are you two ever going to date? Or finally address all that crazy sexual tension?”

Edith laughed, tossing her hair back, her eyes gleaming under the streetlights. “Ask me that tomorrow,” she replied with a wink, just as a car pulled up to the curb. She quickly touched up everyone’s lipstick and hair with a practiced hand. “That’s us!” she shouted.

The Uber ride was a blur, the city lights whizzing by in streaks of neon and gold. It took only fifteen minutes, thanks to the late-night traffic, but it felt like a heartbeat. By now, it was past three in the morning, and though June wouldn’t admit it, she could feel the exhaustion creeping in, the night beginning to weigh heavy on her bones. Still, she was committed to the bit, the thrill of the night pushing her forward.

Cregan was waiting for them outside, leaning casually against the wall in his usual outfit: an open button-up shirt and jeans that clung just right. They exchanged quick hellos, June’s eyes flicking to Edith, who was already batting her lashes and nodding eagerly at everything Cregan said. She nudged Sera with her elbow, tilting her head toward the two of them.

“He’s definitely ending up at your place tonight, I hope you can sleep through it.” June whispered, twisting the silver ring around her middle finger. Sera managed a quick eye roll before they were whisked inside.

The drunk crowd sprawled across the plush living room seemed almost out of place, like they’d stumbled into the wrong kind of party. The room felt like it belonged to someone who read classic novels by the fireplace or debated politics over brandy. June noticed a distinct lack of personal photos; instead, the walls were adorned with stunning artwork, pieces that seemed to glow under the soft lighting and made her mouth water with envy.

She glanced up, her eyes following the endless ceilings that stretched toward a glittering chandelier, so ornate it looked like it belonged in a palace. Above it, a second level.

“Who’s place is this anyway?” she asked, turning to Cregan.

He tore his gaze away from Edith, though his hand remained comfortably on her lower back. “One of the Targaryens,” he replied with a casual grin. “I play ball with Aegon on the weekends. He’s around here somewhere.”

June raised an eyebrow, amused by the casualness of his tone, as if dropping the name of one of the city’s most influential families was no big deal, “He’s the oldest, right?” Cregan nodded, “I worked their gala event tonight. Rumor has it he left early because he was smashed.”

An arm slid around her shoulder, the weight of it startling her. She could see blonde curls from the corner of her eye. A voice, smooth and amused, spoke close to her ear. “Smashed would be correct, little red. But I have sobered up enough to throw one hell of a party.”

“June, meet Aegon. Aegon, meet Juniper Greyson.” Cregan interjected, gesturing between them. The blonde took his arm away from her shoulders and offered his hand to shake.

June took it, taking him in. While he and his brother shared the same icy hair and serene blue eyes, there was a softness to Aegon’s features that set him apart. His nose had a gentle slope, and his eyes, though strikingly similar in color, lacked the hard edge she’d seen in his brother— but were identical to their mother’s set and shape.

Aegon turned his attention to her friends, his grin widening as he introduced himself. His blue eyes stuck to Seraphina as they walked to the kitchen. June withheld her giggle, watching Sera blush under his gaze.

The girls chatted and the boys eventually drifted away to find more of their friends, not before finding the girls cans of seltzers and bottles of water. June watched as her friends chatted, feeling that odd sensation of being inside the conversation, but also outside of it. She figured the drinking, dancing and coke had caught up to her.

“I’m gonna find the bathroom— be right back.” She gave her friends a tightlipped smile.

“Want me to come?” Edith offered, but June shook her head.

“No, I’m alright. Go talk to Cregan again, he’s been staring at you this whole time.” She nodded her head at him across the room, and he quickly looked away, almost embarrassed that he’d been caught.

The first bathroom had been occupied but what she could only assume to be the raunchiest couple in King’s Landing with the sounds that they were making. She scoffed, sure she hadn’t really ever had mind-blowing sex, but that level of noise was just so obviously unnecessary. The second had just been locked with no answer to her knock. She sighed as she made her way up the stairs, finding not a single bathroom, but a bedroom with one connected. 

After taking care of her business and washing her hands, drying them off on the fluffiest hand towel she had ever touched, she wandered around the bedroom. It felt wrong to snoop, but with the lack of trinkets or personal belongings she assumed it must have been a guest room. The bookshelf was full of classics and history books, a few well-loved first editions she could guess by the aged and worn spines. Now, in the silence, her head began to pound as the music faded away. She counted the drinks in her head. 

One at home. Three at the bar. Add two shots at the bar. One downstairs. Two lines in between. 

She realized she had definitely overdone it. While June enjoyed nights like these with her friends—welcomed them even—it wasn’t something she wanted to make a habit of every weekend. The way her vision blurred told her it would take weeks to muster the courage to drink again. Sitting on the bed, she ran her fingers over the dark green quilt and giggled.

Green. Of course it was green. Like the hand towel and the bathroom rug. She wondered if that’s what the owner of the room had told the interior designer, “Well, you see I like green. And I’m so, disgustingly rich.” She said aloud in the poshest accent she could manage, making herself laugh even harder.

The door swinging open seemed to sober her up quickly, pulling any laughter out of her chest.

She looked up, horrified to find Aemond Targaryen in the doorframe. He was wearing the same dark suit from earlier in the evening, but his jacket had been shrugged off and tossed over his arm and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. “You.” He said, something like recognition washing over his face.

“Me,” June stammered, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “I, uh, just needed to use the bathroom and get away from the crowd for a moment. The one downstairs was occupied by a couple making the most disgusting noises, and the other one was locked—someone probably doing coke or something. I thought this was a guest room. I’m sorry. I should go. My friends might be looking for me.” She rambled on, the alcohol making her spill a play-by-play of how she ended up in his bedroom.

Aemond remained in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Despite leaning against the frame, he was still a head and a half taller than her. “You were at the event tonight, and now you’re in my bedroom. Stalking me?”

“You’re a very tough guy to stalk, Mr. Targaryen. I spent all night knocking on doors until Aegon let me in here,” June found herself looking down at her feet, the carpet much easier to maintain eye contact with. 

“So, you’re friends with Aegon then?”

“No, not really. One of my friends is kind of seeing Cregan Stark, and he’s friends with Aegon. We were out celebrating and he invited us. I didn’t realize whose house it was—or that you must live here with Aegon.”

“I don’t live here with Aegon. The place is mine, but Aegon thought it’d be a good joke to throw a party here.” He crossed his long arms over his chest, and June tried to ignore the enticing hint of skin peeking from his undone shirt.

“Oh, that’s kind of shitty.”

“Kind of shitty should be Aegon’s middle name. I’ve already kicked everyone out. Your friends might be gone, but if my driver is still out front, I can have him take you home.” He gestured to the hallway and began to walk. June followed, too tired to argue.

“You don’t have to. I can call an Uber.” She said, not wanting to be a bother. But she did think, in the back of her mind, that Edith would have a fit if she knew Aemond Targaryen’s personal driver had taken her home. Arianne would pretend to be less impressed, but would hound her later on the make and model; asking if there was a privacy shade and free champagne.

“Ride-share crime has gone up 10% last quarter, I can’t in good conscience—especially not to a constituent.” 

“Trying to win my vote, Mr. Targaryen?” She asked, grinning.

“I was hoping I already had it.”

“You probably do. I saw your student debt speech and liked it, but I’ve been putting off thinking about the election until school settles down. So I can make a well-informed decision of course.”

They descended the stairs. Indeed, Aemond had kicked everyone out, and only Aegon lay sprawled on the leather sofa. “Little red! I see you met my brother, charmer isn’t he?”

Aemond’s gaze was cold as he replied, “Go back to sleep, you oaf. I’m going to have Criston take her home.”

“Oh, I sent Criston back home. Oops.” Aegon giggled, clearly drunker than the last time she saw him. Aemond only sighed as they reached the door.

“I can take you home. I don’t drink, so I’m as sober as can be.”

June nodded, again too tired to argue. The liquor made her pliant, and she was eager to get home. Aemond led her to a sleek black Mercedes, opening the door for her with a practiced ease. She found the gesture oddly chivalrous.

As he turned on the engine, the hum of the car snapped her out of her daze. She glanced around at the luxurious, leather interior. “You’re a PhD student at KLU, right?”

“Stalking me, Mr. Targaryen?” She peered at him.

“Aemond,” he corrected, his tone softer but still firm, glancing over at her as he handed her his phone, maps open and ready for her to enter her address. “Call me Aemond, please. ‘Mr.’ makes me feel old. I stepped out for a smoke this evening and overheard you on the phone. Congratulations, by the way. Dr. Orwyle is not an easy man to impress.”

“Oh.” June’s lips curled into a smile at the praise as she handed his phone back to him. She watched as the map popped up on the car’s screen, showing it was only a ten-minute drive home. “Thank you. I’m excited for it to be over, I think. You studied under Dr. Orwyle?”

She found herself looking at him again, her gaze lingering on his muscular hand gripping the steering wheel. “For my first PhD. He was a hard-ass, but pressure makes diamonds, and I couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Were you nervous for your defense? I know you do speeches all the time now, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s going to be the hardest part.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asked, his voice dropping close to a whisper, as if anyone else could hear him. “I still get nervous. Every time. Whether it's a crowd of twenty or two thousand. But I remind myself that it’s not about me; it’s about the content, about getting people to listen. All the other stuff—the cadence of your voice or your posture—will come naturally.”

She hummed in response, her head resting against the cold window. The city lights blurred past, and she wondered if Edith had gone home with Cregan. “That’s good advice, thank you.”

“If politics doesn’t work out, my mother thinks I should go into consulting. Perhaps I have a knack for it.” He glanced over at her, his gaze intense. June tried to imagine the setting of that conversation. Was he worried about losing, or was the confidence from his team (or his family) faltering?

“You might, but I think politics might suit you better. The whole country seems to be buzzing about you.”

He shrugged, a flicker of something—appreciation, relief?—in his eyes. “We’ll have to see if that's the case in a few months.”

“Oh, this is me, with the red door.” She pointed out, and he brought the car to a slow stop. Before she could unbuckle her seat belt, he was out of the driver’s side and rounding the car to open the door for her. She found his chivalry oddly compelling, a sharp contrast to his earlier indifference to seemingly everything and everyone.

“Thank you for giving me a ride home, Aemond,” she said again, her voice tinged with genuine gratitude and something more. He just nodded, watching her unlock the door and step inside.

Juniper and Aemond failed to notice the blacked out SUV across the street, a long camera lens poking out of the passenger side, snapping away.

okay part one is out! I see this being 7-12 parts, depending on how much i daydream about it in class tomorrow. please leave comments questions etc! so excited to share this <3

[shardminds]

coffee shop au perhaps..... your choice of pairing 🥺👉👈

liz ily

velaris fog / feysand / 283w (sorry this is entirely in lapslock, i wrote it on my phone!)

coffee, although a necessity, was not something feyre liked waking up at six am for. if her favourite spot had been even a little bit closer to her home or workplace, she would’ve nixed the early starts entirely. an extra half hour in bed was a luxury not all could afford. neither was walking fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of her studio to grab a velaris fog (some variation on an earl grey tea latte and, given the way she’d been craving them lately, laced with crack) before the rush outside NC Coffee & Co. got too much.

luckily, cassian was twisting the sign from ‘sorry we’re closed’ to ‘welcome to the night court’ as she reached the entrance, even going as far to open the door as she stepped in from the brisk morning. three years living in the north still did not prepare her for the chills that leeched far into early summer. but it was home. she’d learned to love it.

“good morning, early bird,” cassian smiled, all teeth and crows feet, ushering her to the counter. far too enthusiastic for six thirty. “it better be the usual.“

feyre rolled her eyes. as if she’d get anything else.

“two fogs.” rhys - rhysand, the owner, looks, and brains of the place - leant on the counter, chin resting on his palm. feyre itched to paint him - he had a look that deserved to be captured in oils, or marble, or film. there were two to go cups placed on embossed napkins at his side. he slid one forward, offering a wink. “on the house.”

another reason for the six am starts —his undivided attention. and the best damn latte in the city

[thecglcatalog]

It's a Pickle Party!

A fun anytime theme for babies and their grown-ups!  Encourage your dom friends to dress their regression slaves in something green for this fun at-home afternoon or park birthday party.

“Pickle-licious” party supplies arrive in four hilarious giant jars – clear pebbled glass with ceramic and wire clip lids and handles.  One of them is fitted with a spout for use as a drink dispenser; use the other three for name drawings or decoration!  They’ll ship in a big wooden crate painted Jelly Bean Green, which is sturdy enough to use as a seat or pedestal at the event.

Things to See. Spread a place setting for each little guest with a green cowboy-style bandana as a place mat, a scalloped paper plate, a green gingham luncheon napkin, a spoon with a “splat” cutout in the handle, and a cucumber-shaped bottle with a green rapid-flow nipple.  More “splats” are cut out of bright green crepe paper to highlight the floor.  Meanwhile, owners can graze on relish trays or charcuterie from the three oval metallic serving boards and the plastic pickle dish with its lacy embossed penis pattern.  Down the center of the table, strew the shiny green metallic Mardi Gras beads for a decoration, and make a fun wallscape with reusable mylar letter balloons that spell out “PICKLE TICKLE!”  An elevated cake plate is a spot for a birthday treat or another little tablescape.

Things to Share.  Upon arrival, each green-clad little can choose one of the twelve pickle party hats: four each of a jaunty fold-flat cap, a stuffed velvet puff, and a tulle frill with a coiled “stem.”  A decorative jar filled with silicone pickle dildos – a full dozen of them! –  is both decoration and favor.  And there’s a giant novelty pump bottle filled with two gallons of specialty dill-scented lube … squish some into the dildo jar if you like and have littles try to fish one out!  (They could also “bob” for them in an inflatable pool or a little tub.)  A jar of Pickle Slickers – our sour-surprise candy bonbon with cucumber-melon flavoring – can be passed or scattered about for more decoration!

Things to Do.  It’s a country fair’s worth of pickle-themed contests!  First, body paints in three shades of green come in little jars with sponge brushes.  Teams of babies can compete to turn each other’s parts into the most realistic batch of pickles!  The two best-painted babies can have a dill-lubed deep-dicking as a prize.  Second, use the green silicone catheter bags to empty pets’ little bladders and fill them back up again, so they can toddle over to release in a mason jar.  Which caregiver-little team can produce a brimming jar the fastest?  Third, start a game of condom musical chairs with the 48-pack of green latex condoms and 12-pack of identical-looking, pickle-flavored condoms.  The sex slave who licks a pickly dick or dildo is Out! 

For more casual fun, inflate the three giant beach balls – they alternate white wedges with bumpy bright green print – for littles to roll around and play with (or for grown-ups to bat over a volleyball net while the littles dig in the sandbox).

What fun to pickle-flavor little’s birthday tickles or just theme a meeting of your CGL play group with these pickle items.  And so many of them are reusable for future fun!

[fontainefanatic]

Even Ice Melts | Chapter Two

A/N - Hey guys! Here's chapter two! Sorry if it's a tad boring, I promise the next one will be super juicy / fun! Also, tag list sign up is linked below!

Taglist | Chapter One | Masterlist

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Truth be told, I think that napkins do not matter. At least, not to the extent that I have to decide on a napkin design and crest for a ball that I will only attend for at most three hours. I sighed, looking at the table before me with at least twelve different designs, with the changes of each creme colored cloth being minimal at best, my head falling into my hand. “Do I have to decide all of this? I mean seriously, what’s next? Dishware?”  I asked rhetorically as Violet crossed her arms at me.

“Yes!” She responded, exasperated as she threw the blanket off of a cart that must have held at least 25 different plates and bowls, all of varying design and color. My eyes bugged out my head as I looked back and forth from the cart to Violet. “It is both my duty to your family, as well as to the Ton to make sure that your ball goes as smoothly as possible!” She admonished, tapping her finger against the napkins.

“Violet you know as well as I do that I do not care about napkins, or dishware, or cutlery, or dresses, or any of this. Truth be told I don’t even want a ball.” I responded, staring at the creme napkin with gold embroidery before picking it up and handing it to the stern woman before me.

“Believe me, I am well aware.” She responded, taking the napkin from my hand before handing it off to another servant, no doubt for it to be replicated and used at the ball. She began to place plates on the table, their corresponding bowls on top of them. “But, this ball is not only to introduce you as a lady but also to-”

“Find a suitable lord to court me, yes I know.” I groaned, overwhelmed by the pure amount of porcelain on the dining room table. My mind immediately thought of Duke Wriothesley. It had been a weak since my escapade down to the Fortress of Meropide, and still no word from the Duke. 

The ball was in two days- “Y/N.” Violet’s voice jolted me from my thoughts, as I looked from the bowls to her. A Melusine now stood at her side, adorning the uniform of an officer. I quickly placed my fingers along the china that had garnered my vision, a creme colored plate with gold embossing to match the napkins. Violet nodded as the Melusine began to speak.

“Lady Y/N, you are requested for a meeting with Monsieur Nuevillette at the Opera Epiclese.” She spoke firmly. “I am to escort you there at your earliest convenience.” She informed as she watched Violet hand the chosen dishware to another servant. 

“We are almost done.” Violet assured Melusine before turning to me. “Gold or Silver cutlery?” She questioned as I thought for a moment.

What on earth did Monsieur Neuvilette need me for? “Gold.” I decided, before standing up as Violet nodded to the third and last servant in the room. The man quickly ushered out as the Melusine began to guide me to the Aquabus.

<*>

The melusine guard guided me to an upper room of the Opera Epiclese before stopping in front of a pair of doors in the corridor. She stopped before them, bowing as she motioned to the handles, “Here you are Lady Y/N.” 

I smiled, giving a slight nod to the melusine. “Thank you.” I spoke before pulling the door handle and entering the room, large doors closing softly behind me. The room had bookshelves lining either walls, the doors laid opposite a wall of windows and curtains, through which sunlight shone through. Two couches laid in the middle of the room, a long chocolate colored table resting between the two, a glass vase holding some rainbow roses front and center. 

It was at this time that my eyes landed on the delicate tea set that sat next to the vase, and the man sitting on the couch, not facing me. My brows furrowed as I quickly assessed the head of fluffy black hair. Duke Wriothesley? I coughed to announce my presence.

The warden turned his head over his shoulder, a smirk as his gaze landed on my standing form. “Ah, Y/N. I was beginning to wonder when you’d make it.” He announced, turning back as he poured a separate cup of tea. “Please, sit.” He motioned to the ice blue sofa. 

I rounded the seating, taking a seat in front of the Duke on the center of the couch as he pushed the teacup towards me. I picked up and drank, raising my eyebrows at him expectantly. The smirk on his face never faltered, “I’m sure you know I didn’t just bring you here to drink tea.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, placing my tea back down on the table, “I love this little tea party of ours.” It was now my turn to smirk as the Duke nodded, sipping his own tea. It was at this moment that I noticed the magazines lying on the table. ‘The Steambird: What to expect from Lady Y/N L/N’s Courting Ball!’, the picture on the cover being one of me shopping last week at a fabric store, holding up a violet textile. 

‘Lady Y/N L/N - What Color will the dress be? More on Page 5!’ Hubel read with a photo of me outside the Opera Epiclese admiring the Marcottes. “Bit of light reading.” Wriothesley teased, tearing my gaze from the papers to him. “Seems the media and I are wondering the same thing.” He spoke, leaning back as he crossed his arms, grinning at me. “What color is the dress?” 

“You invited me here to ask me what color dress I’m gonna wear?” I laughed, as the grin was replaced with a smirk, almost defensively. “Relax.” I waved my hand as his crossed arms seemed to relax slightly.  “Besides, I haven’t really… Y’know…” I trailed off, grabbing one of the tea cakes off the table. 

His grin returned. “You haven’t gotten a dress yet.” He spoke aloud in realization. I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly realized I had no words. I shut my mouth in discontent, as he burst out laughing. “What would the precious Ton say if they knew the Lady to be courted in less than 48 hours didn’t even have a dress?” he posed, a smile evident on his face as a blush rose on my cheek.

“I- Shut up!” I implored, hitting the Duke with a rolled up magazine as he continued laughing. “I was supposed to get fitted today, mind you, but you summoned me here for this tea party!” I spoke, striking him with the magazine to punctuate my sentence.

A small knock was heard at the door. “Ah, seems Coutrie is here.” Wriothesley spoke, before standing up. “Don’t worry, this is why I came prepared.” He winked at me before moving to open the door for the Melusine.

Coutrie walked in, holding a room divider as well as a suitcase that seemed to be bursting at the seams. Wriothesley offered his help but the Melusine shook her head, “Hello.” she spoke, nodding to me as she sat her things down. “You must be Lady Y/N.” She looked at me as I could only nod in response, out of shock. 

This was the best seamstress in all of Fontaine, how did Wriothesley convince her- “Have you decided on a color yet?” She asked as she set up the folding wall. I quickly stood up, walking over. 

“Uh, not quite to be honest. The theme colors for the ball so far are going to be gold and a cream color. We were planning on doing silk flowers from Liyue for the tables and vases.” I nodded.

The Melusine grabbed my hand, leading me behind the room divider. “A nice maroon will do then. You’ll match the flowers.” She nodded, before going over to her suitcase. She looked up at Wriothesley who stood on the other side of the divider, her eyes narrowing in on his tie. 

She rummaged through the trunk before finally grabbing a maroon tie. It seemed to be the same color as the one the Duke currently wore, only with a slight floral pattern embedded in it. She handed it to the lord of the fortress. “Thank you.” He nodded, as Coutrie headed back towards me. 

I looked towards Wriothesley, confused. “You… hired Coutrie to make a dress for me?” I asked as he placed the tie in his pocket. 

The Duke took a moment to think before continuing, “Yes, but to be fair I also had to find a matching tie to your dress, so two birds one stone.” He smiled, leaning against the arm of the couch he previously sat on.

He took another sip of his tea before continuing, “Besides, according to these magazines, your dress color is the greatest mystery for this week.” he commented, holding the tea in his hand, “Apparently, even such a great mystery that you have two tails from other Lords trying to figure out what color dress you are going to wear.” He spoke, looking outside the windows as he sipped on his tea.

My brows furrowed. How had I not noticed that? Coutrie had grabbed a measuring tape and was starting to take measurements. “Will you need a corset for the day of?” She asked, placing the tape around my waist. 

“No,” I spoke, watching as the Duke walked over to the windows, looking out. “I uh, I have one. I just wasn’t aware I was going to be fitted here.” I spoke to the Melusine as she nodded, rummaging through the trunk before handing me a corset. I nodded in thanks as she put it on.

“Anyhow, the one thing people will certainly be talking about at the ball is who found out your big secret.” Wriothesley spoke, turning around and walking back towards the surface, making eye contact with me over the dividing wall. “And if you want me to be the one to win, then I’m afraid two things are necessary.” He spoke, placing the now empty teacup back down on the table.

I breathed in as Coutrie tightened the corset, Wriothesley giving me a small sympathetic look. “Total secrecy for your dress. Coutrie here,” he motioned to the Melusine who peaked her head around the divider, giving a thumbs up before continuing to take measurements. “Has promised complete discretion and is the best seamstress in Fontaine.” He nodded, arms crossing as he leaned against the couch once more.

“You’re lucky I owed Sigewinne a favor, your grace.” The Melusine spoke as I raised an eyebrow at Wriothesley, who looked jokingly annoyed at that comment. 

“Indeed I am.” He nodded, “The second thing is that I match your dress.” he addressed me once more as I realized that’s why Coutrie has handed him the tie earlier. “Besides, it’s nice to see the sun for once.” He spoke, smiling as he looked over at the windows, sunlight pouring in through the glass.

I took the time to admire the Duke’s face. My brows furrowed as I stared at the scar trailing down his neck, highlighting how soft his skin looked- “If you feel so inclined to stare, you could always take a picture.” He spoke, smirking as he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks once more as the Melusine grabbed some fabric out of her trunk. She handed it to me, “This is going to be the material and color for the dress. Let me know if you have any problems with it.” I chose to direct my concentration to the maroon cloth rather than the awkward air with the Duke. 

I nodded at Coutrie. “This should be fine, thank you.” I spoke, handing it back to her as she put it back in the trunk before taking off the corset. 

Wriothesley turned to me, “I suppose I should get going. People will talk if we leave at the same time, and we can’t have them thinking I’m cheating for your hand in marriage.” The Duke winked, holding out his hand over the paper wall.

I smiled in response. “No, we cannot.” I nodded as I placed my hand in his. He grinned, before kissing the back of my hand.

“I’ll see you at the ball then, Y/N.” He nodded, handing a  pouch of Mora over to Coutrie, who nodded in thanks as she began to pull out more fabric in preparation for the dress. 

“I can pay you back!” I exclaimed as Wriothesley headed to the door. Heturned before exiting.

“No need, Princess. Just promise me you’ll actually wear it.” He winked before closing the door.

<*> “So… How’d it go?” Sigewinne asked as Wriothesley stared at the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence. 

Eyes growing wider, if at all possible, the Duke sat in his chair. “I’d say it went well.” He spoke as the medic Melusine placed her latest health concoction on the desk, much to the chagrin of ‘His Grace’.

“You know the deal.” She spoke as he winced before picking up the drink and taking a sip from the waiting straw.

“Yeah yeah. Let me get to this mountain.” He spoke, waving her off as she happily skipped out of the office. “The things I’m doing for that woman…” he trailed off, his pen now scratching the first of many official Fontanian documents to come.

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

Taglist:

@zworllyx

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 6 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 9305

chapter summary: a honeymoon of sorts.

chapter warnings/tags: relapse, depictions of drugs/alcohol/actions under the influence, dubcon because neither character is sober, lots and lots of smut

a/n: this chapter is particularly bittersweet for me. so begins the continues the downward spiral. highly recommend reading this on ao3 so you can see the proper formatting for the text!

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“Refill on your whiskey, sir?”

His fingers hover over the keyboard on his phone. Her question broke his concentration, if there had been any at all. He has rewritten that last line at least three times now. 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

The flight attendant smiles at him, a tall brunette with a bob down to her chin. If she recognizes him, she gives no indication.

“Your whiskey, sir. Would you like another? We still have an hour before we land.” 

He rattles the plastic cup that’s mostly ice water now and then throws the remnants back. He nods.

“Thanks.”

She takes the cup and puts it in the trash bin in her trolley. She unscrews the bottle of Buffalo’ Trace before preparing a new cup. 

This early, the plane is mostly empty. The lights are low, the air is warm, and most passengers are asleep. The flight attendant speaks softly as the plane rattles in the wind. 

“Is this your first time visiting New Orleans?”

He nods.

“On your honeymoon?” She nods to the woman asleep in the seat next to him, her head on his shoulder. He spins the gold ring on his finger with his thumb. 

“Something like that.” 

She wipes the bottom of the cup with a small napkin before giving it to him.

“Congratulations, then.” She smiles brightly. “As they say, laissez le bon temps rouler.”

The trolley squeaks as she rolls down the aisle, gently asking those still awake if they’d prefer coffee or anything stronger. Beneath the half-closed window blinds, a strong pink light peaks through. 

His glance returns to his phone. He still hasn’t sent the text he means to. It won’t go through this high up, but he doesn’t want to look at it once the plane lands. 

He looks at the woman next to him. His heart swells. He kisses her forehead. He goes back to his phone, types the first thing that comes to him, and taps send. 

It’s not his problem right now. It’s not going to be for the next two weeks. Two weeks and he has to be back in Los Angeles to start touring for the press junket. He intends to make the best of it. 

He clicks the phone to lock it, and he slides it back into his jacket pocket. And without much thought or hesitation or anxious overthinking, he slides off his wedding ring and pockets that too. 

He picks up the sleeping woman’s hand and kisses her knuckles. She stirs in her sleep and he smiles. 

Maybe it’s the second glass of whiskey he’s had in two years, but he feels good about this.

His last text sits, waiting for reception. 

 

“Dieter, you cannot be serious.” 

He slips his hand into yours and kisses your knuckles. He can do that here. “I am.”

You let yourself be dragged, mouth agape, as he guides you past a cobalt blue swimming blue, lined by red brick. Your baggage bumps and clatters as it knocks over the ridges. He leads you through a green door, where the French Colonial style homes have been refurbished into individual rentals. Black metal railings puff and curl on the upper balconies. Pastel green shudders line white windows. Flowering dogwood trees bend and wave in the breeze from their stations in the courtyard between doors. 

He leads you down to unit 162, gold and embossed on the front of a green door. Grinning over his shoulder, he unlocks it with a comically large brass key. 

“Hey, now, I’ve seen Skeleton Key,” you tease. The humidity in the air makes his curls extra tight, scooping up the back of his neck. “This isn’t going to end badly for me, is it?”

“Depends on how you define ‘badly’,” he shrugs and shoulders his way through the door. 

Inside is a gorgeous kitchen that manages to straddle the old and new. Modern appliances tuck up against the wall on the right, while on the other wall sits a beautiful square kitchen table, with fat knobs and white molding. Above the table, the entire wall is made of chalkboard.

You frown at the French written there in an elegant hand.

“What does that mean?”

He shuts the door behind him, smiling. “It’s an old Creole saying. It means, let the good times roll.”

You smirk at him, eyebrow raised. “Expecting a lot of good times here, Mr. Bravo?” 

His hand takes a big squeeze of your ass as he pulls you into his chest. You giggle as his sharp nose trails along your cheek. 

“It’s certainly on the itinerary.” 

He can almost smell the desire that flickers within you. You bend your head to catch his mouth, but he turns away at the last minute. He runs his finger underneath the strap of your white dress. It's currently in the running for his favorite of yours, tied only with those fucking denim shorts. 

“Go look upstairs. I’ll get our bags.”

Your cork heels clatter as you bounce up the white wooden stairs. He smiles to himself when you gasp. He takes your bag and his and follows you up.

The white shutter doors are flung open to tempt some bayou breeze, offering the beautiful view into the courtyard below. From this cottage, you can see over the private wall, down into the street on the other side. You smell sugar and molasses, and you sigh. Inside is a white bed with a brass frame. The tan walls are offset by a single wall of red brick, similar to the pathway outside. Above you, a fan spins, a much needed relief to the humid heat. 

You stand out on the porch, clearly enjoying listening to the music that can be faintly heard from Jackson Square, hands wrapped around the railing. The breeze blows your dress and any remaining anxiety around the phone in his pocket is gone. 

He hasn’t heard from Chloe.

He hasn’t heard from Heidi. 

He’s made a decision. It’s time to fucking commit. 

Finally allowed to, finally where no one could see, he joins you out on the porch and tangles his hand into your hair. He thumbs the curls there encouraged by the humidity and with a sigh, he presses his lips to your hairline at the back of your neck. You wait until he pulls back, to turn over your shoulder to him, his arms ensnaring your waist.

“This is beautiful, Dieter,” you murmur as you nose his jaw, your hand scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know how you found the most perfect place, but you did.” 

“I want to take care of you, baby.” You smell like lemons and lavender, as he runs his nose against the length of your neck. “I want to show you how much I care.”

You stiffen momentarily before folding into his open arms even more. 

The cottage block is quiet, discrete, and rather empty of prying eyes. He intends to take you out, to let you wander as any other normal couple in the Crescent City, but not just yet. His hands rub up your sides, thumbing your exposed skin on your shoulders where the shoulder straps are tied together. The sweet smell of powdered sugar in the humid wind and the curve of your neck is making his mouth water. 

“Besides, I’m making up for my other decisions. One regarding an office and a very sturdy desk,” he whispers in your ear, delighting in the way you shiver from just his words. Delicately, he slides up the hem of your dress and squeezes your thigh as a reward. His hand travels up, then in, and his finger brushes the line of your panties. 

“I’m suddenly very interested in your apology.” You turn in his arms, the bunched up fabric of your dress running against the front of his jeans and he has half-a-mind to take you on this goddamn balcony in the open air. Because he can. 

“Hmm, it’s going to be very long.” 

He eases your legs up and around his waist and your arms glide over his shoulders. Your breath smells like the gum and champagne you bought at the airport. He swears he can see your pulse point flicker on your throat.

“Oh? And?”

“Very complicated.” 

He carries you back into the room and folds you backwards onto the bed. Your cheeks are flushed from the warmth outside as you slide your feet out of your heels and he positions himself in between your legs. You drop onto your back, fingering his belt. 

You mock-frown. “Complicated? Oh, I dunno if I can follow along.”

The two whiskeys he’s had are thrumming in his veins, wants to taste that biting sweetness off your mouth again. He takes you by the heel and kisses your ankle, his other hand diving under your dress and back up to your panties. Your eyes flutter when he finds the spot he wants. He drops your ankle over his shoulder and steps forward, closer. You’re losing the ability to speak –  he can tell by the way your mouth parts as his thumb rubs your clit through your underwear. 

“You won’t be able to do much of anything, once I’m done with you.” 

“Dieter–,” you’re already getting impatient. 

“Oh, don’t ‘Dieter’ me. What’s the saying, good things come to those who wait?”

“I like the other one more. Especially the part about things rolling.”

You grab at his wrist and, as if to demonstrate, roll your hips against his fingers, trying to angle them where you want. He smirks as he twists his hand and grinds the heel of his palm into your clit, his fingers stroking you through the fabric. He nearly loses himself when he feels just how wet you are. The thin strip of underwear you so foolishly decided to wear is hardly anything more than damp twine now. 

You whine as he gathers your slick with his thumb and crowns your clit with it. “Dieter, c’mon.”

“I told you I was gonna go slow. Maybe I need to be reminded of what comes next. What do you need, baby?” 

“Your fingers,” you huff, eyes half-lidded as you watch his forearm flex, not being able to see but instead, feeling exactly what he’s doing to you. Do you always close your eyes when you come? He wonders. 

“You have them.” He steps closer, your ass against his thigh. 

“I want them inside of me.” 

Grinning like the bastard he is, he drags your underwear off one hip, then the other, then he rolls it up your thighs – you gasp when you see just how completely destroyed they are, slick making them sticky – and he tosses them by the luggage. 

Your eyes drop shut when his warm hands return near to where you need them most, but not quite exactly. He’s kneading your thighs, your ass, dragging his middle finger up through your slick and sucking on it. He hums, lips all the way down to his knuckle, and you drip more at the thought of sucking him off. 

“What do you want?”

You swallow, mouth dry. “F-fingers. I want your fingers. Inside of me,” you clarify, as you learn how to ask him properly. 

There should be an award for the amount of restraint he shows by not flipping up your dress and watching as he slowly presses his finger into your pussy. He wants to watch, but he also wants you a little bit angry with him, teased to the point of frustration, so he explores you with his finger. And then a second one. 

Your walls pinch his fingers and your back arches. “Oh, yes, Dieter, that’s it.” 

He brushes and strokes and fucks you with his fingers. Slowly. Methodically. He follows every line of your face, every twitch of skin, as you frown with pleasure. Your nails bite his wrist, your other land flat out next to you, fingers clenching the blanket. If there are stories of the Legendary Dieter Tongue, there had to be fucking songs about his fingers. 

He groans and drops your ankle from his shoulder, pushing your thigh to the side and exposing more of you. 

“Do you like this, baby? How you’re spread out for me?”

You nod, bottom lip chewed beyond recognition. He curls his fingers and you moan, the sound stifled and muted. He gently presses down on your lower abdomen to feel himself fuck up into you.

“I’ve already opened your legs. Do I need to open that mouth too?” He leans over you, somehow getting even deeper with his fingers, the sound lewd and squelching. He kisses you on the corner of your mouth because he wants to keep your lips parted. “You have to be loud for me, okay?”

You huff, skin pink, and nod. 

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Yes, Dieter. I’ll be loud for you.”

“Good girl.” And he adds a third finger. The stretch is exquisite and you let him know with a moan that digs into the ceiling. 

“Told you you’d like it if I took it slow.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, voice strained. “But I want it rough later. I need it, Dieter.”

That intensely satisfies him. He beckons you towards the edge just for that. He thumbs your clit in purposeful, deliberate circles as his fingers curl and twist inside of you. “We’ll stay here as long as you need it, alright, baby? For as many orgasms as you can give me. And speaking of, I’d like one now. Please.”

Maybe it’s the low gravel of his voice– laced with need and want – or the faint tease of his mustache and beard against your throat, or it’s the final relief after a thousand denials. For once in your life, you listen to him and the orgasm sparks out from your core and up through your spine. Your back, hips, shoulders arch off the bed as that wildfire sends you into orbit. 

He should make you clean yourself off him, but he wants that scent, wants his fingers coated in you. He watches you ride your orgasm and he licks his fingers. His pants are unavoidably uncomfortable right now. As you spiral back down from your high, he takes you by the waist and pulls you up near the head board, to give himself enough space to lie down. 

“Fuck, Dieter . . .” 

“I hope you do,” he grins as he bends your knees, planting your feet wide enough for him to get between your legs. You do your best impression of exasperation while still trying to remember which room you’re in. Your skin is glowing from sweat. 

He knows he’s sweating too, feeling it in the valley of his spine, and he doesn’t want to overheat this quickly. While you finally center, he takes off his shirt with one hand over his head. He unzips his pants and your eyes widen, hips arching up, so eager and willing to take him.

He kisses your knee. “Not yet, baby girl. This next one is for me.” 

He peels down the hem of your dress and his mouth floods with spit. 

Your cunt is pink, swollen from the pump of his fingers. It’s wet and your curls are wet and he knows that is the only thing in the world he needs to drink when he’s so parched. You ache to be filled again. 

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

He hums in appreciation and drops to his elbows between your legs. His bare shoulders up against the back of your thighs and his fingers pressing into the creases of your hip, he spares a glance at you. 

Your chest is flushed, breath hitching, and your hair has fallen down from its bun. You can feel his breath on your exposed cunt, the burn of his beard feeling as warm as though you held your hand out over an open flame. 

As an actress, you are confident, striking, and serious. 

Under him, you’re reduced to pathetic whines and humping the air. 

“Baby, please,” you huff, voice small as if truly uneasy. 

He licks one bold stripe up the length of your cunt, swallowing your slick like he would chase an errant drop of melting ice cream– and then he goes back for seconds. 

It’s not sweat-drenched whiskey. 

It’s better. 

“Oh, Dieter,” you sound on the verge of tears. He strokes as far as he can reach with his tongue, before sliding it back out to wrap warmly around your clit. He sucks once and your hands fly to his hair. He sucks again and your moan is strangled, coming deep from inside of you. 

He holds you to him, mouth and tongue wrecking every single sensitive part of you they can reach, his gaze on your face. He adds his fingers back in as reward for yanking so divinely on his hair. 

He doesn’t feel like he’s conquering, though he should. After all those fights, he finally managed to make you incoherent, but watching your face contort with pleasure, your moans making the heartbeat in his neck spike, he instead feels more possessive. This isn’t a stupid fuck for him. This might not even be to get back at Chloe. This doesn’t feel like backsliding. How he feels about you is entirely unique to any of the other fucked up shit in his life. This is different.

Mouth more attached to you than if he had fangs, he eats you whole. He grinds his hips into the mattress and the rough rub of the zipper on his hard cock makes him groan wet, damp air into your pussy. 

You vibrate against the sensation, as if you are overwhelmed. He drops his forearm across your hips like a steel bar. He’s not letting go until you rattle out a second orgasm. He tongues that one spot that made your breathing stop with his fingers inside of you. That white hot heat inside of you is blooming, the fires expanding every time you look down and make eye contact with him. He’s watching you with determination and focus as though you were an intricate puzzle he wanted to pick apart, its guts all exposed, and remake to hear it click. 

He’d rather be flung into the sun than take his mouth off you but he can’t talk to you the way he wants. He mouths the words in between licks.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

I can’t stand it when I’m not around you.

Your cunt is so pretty. 

I wanna fuck you on all fours but I know your legs won’t work after this. 

You’re not allowed to come for anyone else but me. 

He takes off his mouth for a moment, you hiss at the emptiness, and then he blows warm air all the way up your cunt before taking your clit into your mouth and sucking, adding his three fingers again.

Ecstasy makes black spots cover your vision as he carries you through another orgasm, pleasure sparking out from your core again, your muscles locked in sweet rapture. He swallows and laps up your release into his mouth, greedy and eager. Your hips jerk and he stays latched on, thumb rubbing what could be comforting smooth circles over the bunched up fabric of your dress – if his hand wasn’t so fire hot. 

He thinks you were close to squirting and he remembers that little spot on the left side for later. 

He leans back onto his heels, chin, cheeks and the end of his nose glistening, as you sink into the mattress, your legs and back muscles spasming slightly. 

In all your jerking and bucking, the strap on your shoulder became undone. The top of your dress is uneven. 

He finally lets himself picture what he only suspected earlier. You are absolutely not wearing a bra. He strains in his pants. He palms himself, knowing he’s not going to last but he needs to see those pretty tits of yours bounce. The last time he fucked you, he could only imagine. The time “before” that, they were bound with tape and he refused to look at them anyway. 

“Baby, can I?” 

You tear your eyes away from his swollen red cock, visible through his zipper. He’s fingering the other strap’s knot, waiting for permission. You nod, your irises swallowing the lovely color of your eyes. 

He plucks the strings loose and, pinching the fabric by your waist, he gently tugs your dress down. You arch as the hem drags across your sensitive nipples and he groans when your tits bubble up as the dress gets to your ribs. He continues pulling, his heart pounding in his ears, and then you’re naked for him. He takes in a breath and your cunt throbs at the sound of adoration. 

He feels it. His brain inhales this moment in a snapshot, a flash and a pop of smoke, before he’s ready. This moment will always be there. 

You’re scrambling to meet him as his fingers dig into your hips to pull you up. His arm digs around your back, pressing the back of your neck towards him as he kisses you desperately, wildly, as though some sort of apocalypse was minutes away from unleashing hell on earth. His forearm hooks around your low back as he pulls you into his lap, thighs tense. 

His nose and mouth run the length of your neck. He feels your pulse jump under his lips and there he finally uses teeth. He bites you and sucks just enough for your hips to jolt in his lap. Hickeys are not part of taking it slow but desire is rubbing itself up his spine, his cock so hard it was painful. He palms your breast, gathering the weight and flicking your exposed nipple. He ducks his head to taste the sweat as it runs from your throat down your under the swell of your breast. 

He slips his pants down and off, with your arms around his neck. The second he’s freed, you crowd him, hand dropping to his lap to squeeze him. 

“Don’t,” he hisses, “later. Need to be inside of you, now.” 

With shocking strength and dexterity, he picks you up by your thighs and hauls you to his chest. You reach back, finding him below you and slowly, slowly, slowly sink down. 

He was right. He took his time with you and now, with a single thrust of his hips, he’s inside you with barely any resistance. But –

“Fuck, Dee, the stretch,” you gasp into his ear, head tucked into his shoulder. He murmurs filthy secrets of desperation, mapping you from the flush of your ass, all the way up to the knot of your spine in his hands. He has you, you’re here. You want him. You want his cock. He tugs your knees around his hips, shifting him inside you. From collar bone to pelvis, you are skin to skin– your breasts pressed flat against his chest, your stomachs riding up against each other, you’re seated on him and he is fully inside of you. He grinds his teeth, his mouth pressed up to your shoulder, and then, his hips roll in and out of you, an inch at a time. 

Slow. Tense. Filthy. 

You whimper.

“That’s it. Take it, baby, take all of me.” 

It’s almost too much. You’re sensitive and sore from your other orgasms but just as the last one ebbs, another one is kindling, pleasure knotting again and again in your core. He fucks you almost like he’s bored– playing with a toy, a cock-sleeve, a place to rub one out. But it’s the drag, the controlled thrusts– he’s making sure you feel every slide and touch of his cock inside you. His pace is maddening. 

He pulls away from clutching you to him, pulls back to look you in the eyes. His hands slide and grip you by the hips, pushing you down so that his thrusts are that much deeper, almost painful. You tighten your grip around his shoulders, burying your face into his neck, the sweat and the heat radiating from him like a solar flare. He knows you need it hot and fast but he doesn’t want it to end yet. He knows he’s being mean, too much teasing, overstimulation. 

He fucks you like he’s trying to break something. Or fix something. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath ragged and mouth parted. He cups the back of your head, the smell of your hair making his eyes roll back in his head. 

“Tha’s right, baby, hold on t’ me. Grip me. Let me do the work. I’ll get you there. I’ll do it.” 

“Dee, please, move faster,” you moan. “I’m almost there. Just give it to me.” 

He tightens his grip on you again, easing you against his chest – he’s trembling, control slipping– but he doesn’t change his pace. It’s steady, it’s constant. Your orgasm is staggering, lumbering towards you, so large and all consuming you almost fear the weight of it. 

“I can finally-finally fuck sweet baby’s pussy the way I want to.” He puts a hand to your cheek, your jaw, upturning your face to him to kiss you. He thrusts lazily and you feel like you’re going to drown. His back is damp. He’s so warm. “I’m gonn-nuh— make it last.”

“Fuck– please. Please. Dieter, I wanna come. Please.” Your voice is wet, like you might cry.

He can’t resist begging. Or praise.

“Gimme one more like this and I’ll fuck you like you want, alright?” 

You squeeze your thighs around his ribs, the only sign you can give him that yes, you’re listening, yes, he’s wrenching another orgasm out of you– thank you, Dieter, oh God, Dieter – 

Just as you crest the wave, he shifts up onto his knees in a particularly brutal stroke, holding your knees to his waist, his other hand wrapped tightly around the curve of your shoulder— and starts jackhammering into you. 

It’s like he’s rung a bell inside of you. 

“Oh, shit—,” 

You can feel your body ringing. 

Your next orgasm nearly knocks the wind out of you. You call his name – “I’m here, baby, tell me what you need,” – and his fingers dig deeper into your shoulders. There’s no comedown, you’re still coming, as he rams his hips into yours. 

“I’ll give you anything you want – just keep saying my name.”

You aren’t sure you’re actually saying anything over babbling words of praise, his name, and some blend of it all. 

The puffy pain around your cunt makes you dizzy and now there’s wetness all over his thighs. You arch in his arms as your orgasm steam-rolls you flat, eyes rolling in the back of your head. The steady buildup then his new pace hits you like a train as the detonation in your core sends you into orbit.

“Oh, fuck, that’s it, baby—,”

Three strokes later, he tumbles over the edge after you with a gut-deep groan. 

You’re marked in his fluids and he’s marked in yours. 

He’s shaking as he lowers you down and your limbs slip off him, every ounce of strength and control seeping from you and into the mattress below. You’re both sweat-streaked and panting, the humid air nearly drowning you. With a care you certainly couldn’t have performed, he crawls back, and one more aftershock leaves you trembling all over. 

Dieter is red faced. He’s got crescent-moon indents on his shoulders and neck. It smarts but he’d leave that pain for days if he could. Though a little-light headed and desperate for water, he slips his cock out of you, his hand on your knee. He pushes your knee to the side, just enough to watch his cum leak out of you. He scoops it with his thumb and pops it into his mouth. His eyes close as he sucks. 

“Jesus Christ, Dieter,” you moan, flopping your arm over your eyes as if another minute of watching him will send you into another tailspin. 

He chuckles weakly and moves your knee to crawl into the empty bed beside you. He tucks his arms up under the white pillow and tries to breathe, his perfect ass exposed to the air. Your last few pants are louder than the spin of the ceiling fan. It might be several minutes, if not hours before feeling returns to your limbs.

“So why New Orleans?” You ask, only a little breathlessly, your arm still over your forehead. 

“Are you kidding me?” He lifts his head, the hair at his temples darker than the rest of it. He’s only marginally offended. “Sex like that and that’s the first thing you say?” 

“Well, there were other things on my mind,” you shrug against the pillow beneath your head. “That was the only thing that was coherent enough to voice out loud.” 

“Damn fucking right.” He kisses your overturned wrist before rolling onto his back with a groan so deep, you’d think he was restarting. “And I, uh, don’t know. I’ve always wanted to go see Jackson Square and I think I’ve been kicked out of my own house, so now seemed like as good a time as any. I just need to be in a place with a lot of people right now.”

You lift your head as if expecting to see a full orgy at the foot of the bed.

“Well, you might be off track there. With the tons of people thing.” 

He smirks and adjusts to his side. He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb on the other side than his fingers. With an encroaching dark haze in his eyes, he lowers his hand around your throat. Not squeezing. Not even putting any pressure. But just a reminder. A thought. A promise.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” 

You press your chest up against his forearm, tilting your head back to give him more room. You’re not actually interested in more sex but it’s this game you play. Coin flip. See who can survive the longest. 

“You did promise to be rough with me next time.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist and at your hip, you can feel his cock twitch. 

His hand compresses once around your throat before he lets go and lets out a deep sigh. He pulls away, huffing, and collapses back onto the bed. 

“And people call me crazy.” 

You smirk, now completely satisfied. You stretch like a cat in sunlight. But then something he said earlier makes you frown. You roll up onto your elbows, looking down at him.

“I didn’t know you were kicked out of the house. Why did you say anything?” 

He takes the inside flesh of his cheek and worries it between his teeth. He’s not sorry, exactly, but this is not at all where he wanted this conversation to go. “Thought it was kinda obvious when I asked you to come with me to the airport at three in the morning.” 

You stare at him, something transfixed in your gaze, before you nod. You lean forward, a curtain of your hair closing off you and him from the rest of the world. His stomach flip-flops; rarely do you let anyone see this soft side of you.

“I’m glad you did,” you whisper as you kiss him, gently, patiently, sweetly. “It’s not like this with other people. For me.”

Beneath the curtain of your hair, it’s just the two of you. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, awe-struck that he finally has you. He feels it humming under his skin, his want for you, itching to dig his fingers in. It’s a high unlike he’s ever known. “You’re all I have, you know. Even when you don’t want me, I’ll still want you.”

“I always want you.” 

When you finally pull away, the light outside the window has gotten heavier, shadows forming in the corners. 

“Sun’s going down,” you say, the light of the (still) open shutter doors making the outline of your head glow. “Probably cool enough to wander the streets, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, in a little bit.” Looking up at you, he tucks your hair behind your ear. In the warm late afternoon light, you’re radiant and he is transfixed. Finally, all mine. “I think there was something about a promise in there.” 

Your eyes twinkle as he pulls you back down on top of him.

   It’s nearing ten o’clock when you’re finally seated at your table. The restaurant is dark, hidden away from the noise of Jackson Square and Bourbon Street. The only indication that anything existed inside of the low, squat building was a copper sign, a cut out in the shape of a Magnolia tree. But Dieter seemed to know where he was going, going on about having heard rumblings about the jazz music and grilled oysters. He simply walked into the unmarked building with all the confidence you’d expect from a man so boldly named Dieter Bravo.

The hostess seated you in the corner, each table designed with half walls, making them slightly enclosed like a carved out egg. The set of the man with the cello on stage in the front of the room ends and you clap softly, along with the rest of the room. Except for Dieter. He’s flipping through the bourbon offerings and has his hand on your thigh. A gentle hum grows in the room as its occupants return to hushed conversations before the next act arrives.

When he told you to bring a nice dress, he couldn’t have fathomed this is what you would bring in his wildest dreams. 

It’s long, gossamer, and so dark blue it looks black. The front is held up with a silver halter that connects around the back of your neck, exposing your sinful chest. But his favorite might be the back. Or rather, the lack thereof one. The material cups your chest, but drops like a chandelier down at the back of your ribs. It flows and pools at the base of your spine and the instant he saw you in it, he had you pressed up against the nearest wall to lick your shoulder blades. 

“Dieter, I will strangle you if you mess up my hair,” you huff breathlessly while at the same time digging into his own curls. 

“Why are we going out? Whose stupid fucking idea was this?” He rubbed the crotch of his dress pants up against the curve of your ass, as if he hadn’t actually had his cock in you from this angle less than an hour ago. After a bottle of champagne to celebrate, the shower to finally clean off hadn’t really gone as planned. 

“You made the reservations, dumbass,” you said before hissing as he sucked the soft spot below your earlobe.

He still can feel the bubble of the champagne under his skin, in his mouth. Still pouring over the bourbon selection, he mouths your shoulder, gently using teeth. He’s being overtly playful, the low lighting and single burning candle at the center of the table as the only nearby light source making him even more daring. But he knew he’d be admonished – it was too much in public and –

His breath catches in his chest when you lift your hand slowly from the edge of the menu and palm him over his pants. Like him before, your eyes don’t leave the menu, as if morbidly interested in the catch of the day from the Pontchartrain. 

“Don’t dish out what you can’t take, Bravo,” you say lowly, cupping the curve of his shaft before dragging your fingers back up to his crotch. 

“Th-that’s cheating,” he hisses, fighting the urge to roll his eyes back in his head. “I wasn’ even close to touching you anywhere n-ngh-near there.” 

“Well, that sounds–,”

“Is that fucking Dieter Bravo?” 

You retract your hand so fast, it bangs the table underneath, as you both look up to watch a young man with bright blonde hair, a blue suit, and an annoyingly punchable face approach the table.

He snags the chair from another table, twirls it around, and sinks into it like he owns the place. And judging by the Jaeger LeCoultre watch around his thin wrist, he very well might. 

Dieter blinks as his pale face solidifies in the half-dark. “Oliver? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Come now, dear boy, that’s no way to greet an old friend.” His posh accent speaks of boarding schools and yacht clubs. “Especially one you haven’t seen in ages.”

Those pale eyes slide to you and his lipless mouth drops open.

“Well, if I had someone half as stunning as you to keep me company, I too would fuck off and not look back. Oliver Hastings, madam.” He reaches out across the table and you take his hand, which he quickly presses to his lips. His blue eyes sparkle in a way that makes Dieter put an arm around you. You don’t look at him, but a small smile uncurls across your lips. 

“Pleasure to meet you. Where did you two meet?”

Oliver and Dieter exchange knowing glances. 

“A club in the Netherlands. My people knew his people,” Oliver says, simply. It was as close to the truth as time allowed.

“I never thought I’d see you in New Orleans,” Dieter says, genuinely surprised. “Didn’t figure this was your scene.”

“Oh, it’s not.” Oliver sniffs. “What are you drinking and can I have some?” 

He pokes a pinkie into each of your drinks, unimpressed.

“I’m here on business,” he continues and turns to wave down a waitress. 

“You don’t work, Oliver,” Dieter says, smirking. “You never have.”

“One of the pleasures of being distantly related to the Queen of England, I suppose,” he says when a waitress comes and asks for their drink orders. You gape up at Dieter while Oliver looks away. 

“That Queen of England?” You hiss at him and he grins.

“A bottle of your most expensive bourbons and three glasses. They do drink bourbon here, right? That’s a thing?”

Dieter nods, still grinning. For all his immediately off-putting mannerism, there was a charisma about Oliver that one could perhaps only buy. 

The waitress leaves to get their order and Oliver inches closer and wraps his arms over the back of the chair. 

“So, yes, on here for business, not that kind of business, but the other kind of business. The kind of business that the wealthy elites and ravers alike all fall over themselves to get.”

“I wonder if that sort of thing is hard to get through customs,” you smirk over the dredges of your red wine. 

Oliver stares at you as if seeing you for the first time all over again. And then he smiles wickedly.

“I’m sorry, I just cannot get over the fact how stunningly gorgeous you are. Did I already ask your name? You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve forgotten, I haven’t slept in three days.”

“I’m Natalie Lorraine. I’m Dieter’s co-star in an upcoming movie.”

“Ahh, well, that explains a lot of things, doesn’t it? American movie stars are rather quite fit, aren’t they? Much more than our old birds back home. Well, I can already guarantee that I’ll be first in queue to buy a ticket.” 

The waitress returns with the drink and glasses. “Thanks, love,” Oliver says and hands her a one hundred dollar bill. “I’ve got it from here.”

Shocked by the tip, the waitress nods and wanders off. 

Oliver uncorks the bottle and begins pouring out three fingers for everyone.

“Oli, you still haven’t told us what exactly you’re doing here in New Orleans,” Dieter teases. He runs his thumb nail lightly over your shoulder and in return you put a hand on his thigh. 

The British man smirks and caps the bottle. “I still haven’t told you what exactly I’m doing here in New Orleans. And I could. Or I could just show you.”

In a move that would have impressed the most skilled of card sharks, he coaxes out a small plastic bag from his sleeve with his middle finger. 

Inside are three gold dots on white cards. “They call it Stevie. Because it looks like gold dust when you rub it on your skin. Or put it in your drinks.” 

You sit forward and Dieter’s fingers nudge the knots of your spine. “What is it?”

“Bit like ecstasy, bit like Molly. None of the bad comedowns.”

Dieter snorts and chews on the leftover ice in his glass. “That’s what they all say.”

Oliver gasps softly and puts a hand over his white-collared chest. 

“Are you doubting my stock, Mr. Bravo?” 

Dieter rolls his eyes. “How long does it last?”

“Eight hours, twelve max.” 

You take the bag and hold it up in the low light. “And it’s new?”

“Originally started as a pain-killer that could be absorbed on the skin. FDA never approved it so the pharmacy that developed it went under. The blokes that made it tinkered to make it more of a party drug and here we are.”

You look over at Dieter, an excitement in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in weeks. He’d be offended if he didn’t feel the same sort of stirring. 

Oliver leans forward, his pale eyes looking up under pale lashes. By the upward tilt of his mouth, Dieter knows he knows he has you both. 

“C’mon, Dieter boyo, for old time’s sake. You should show lovely Natalie here how to have a good time.” 

He’s fine. He’s not hurting anyone. He’s having fun. He’s in control.

He can stop at any time.

You know he’s going to say yes before the words form in his mouth. You lunge forward and kiss him on the lips. 

“Alright-y then!” Oliver pops open the bag and on three fingers, he plucks up each of the gold dots. 

“To old friends,” he says as he dips a gold dot into each of their drinks, “and new.” 

Your eyes glitter as the three raise their glasses. 

“To friends.” 

And he drinks. The gold mist swirls.

   If the time he spent with you in New Mexico was slow, like molasses, dripping in sunlight, the rest of the trip in New Orleans is a blur. 

   He stands on the precipice of a mountain, the wind whipping through his hair and his cheeks. Lights unfocus and flash. There’s music and then there isn’t. There are sensations –

“Oh, God, Dieter, faster, harder, more – please, more,” 

Sweat flows down his neck, down his back, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your voice is high, breathless, as he drives himself deeper, deeper into you. You are warm and pliant beneath him and he thinks he’s going to choke on the taste of your neck under – 

– the paint is cool underneath his palms. He wipes streaks of yellow and red and green and blue up the side of the wall. He can smell the chlorine from the pool outside and the birds are singing and he thinks he can taste the yellow in the back of his teeth. The morning air is fresh and curls itself up in his bare chest and –

– he wants pastries, sweets, his mouth is tangy with the taste of your cunt –

– giants on stilts wander over his head, their pants gold and green and purple, you curl up next to him giggling and it's the most perfect sound he’s ever heard in the world. The crowd around you pushes you closer to him and he’s struck by you, by everything you are. He stops you in the middle of the street, the dark night sky arching above the streets, his hand up by your cheek, your beautiful eyes black and wide and tripping –

No, wait, I have to go back. Go back to her.

– The mural in the kitchen grows. It expands up into the ceiling, down onto the floor. The kitchen table and the chairs are thrown out into the brick courtyard. He paints and he paints. But he doesn’t know what it is yet – 

– the bed is a mess, blue paint everywhere. Your beautiful thighs are smeared with blue. His eyelashes feel heavy with paint but he can’t tell what color. His chest is cold and sticky. You’ve got one hand pressed up against the headboard, your thighs spread around him as he finds the missing warmth in the clutch in your cunt. Your tits, stained with purple, bounce and sway with the forces of his thrusts. The shutter door is open, fluttering in the wind, and it’s raining beyond the balcony. It’s pouring and he’s pouring out blue. He stains your cunt with orange, his thumb pressing up into your clit and you shriek. He can feel the white in him burst out and coat your chest and throat in his own paint –

– it’s quiet. You lay on the grass next to him in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. You’re pointing out constellations in the sky, a white powder near the corner of your mouth and the sweet scent of out-of-reach beignets hovers near your lips. As you talk, he reaches over and swipes the powder from your lips. You giggle because he’s only made it worse. There’s powder all over his hands –

You’re an artist. It rages in your blood.

No, it’s paint – 

– he wakes up and it’s quiet. 

The racing has stopped. The universe has settled. He lifts his head, barely able to comprehend where he is, but beyond grateful for all of it to end. He’s back in the cottages, on that white billow-y bed. It’s morning. The world is still quiet. He drops his head back against the fluffy pillow and sighs deeply.

But that smell is . . . it’s familiar. That sweet smell and . . . something else.

Girlsex. 

He glances down, suddenly recognizing a weight on his chest. 

Your back curves down his side. You’re covered in paint and powder and his own cum, but you rest soundly with your arm across his chest, the rise and fall of your breathing slow and deep. His cock actually aches from overuse. He picks up your hair and twirls it in his fingers, marveling at the way the light catches it. The way it smells like him. 

“Dieter Bravo,” you mutter into his clavicle. He smiles, his right leg hanging off the mattress. He skims his toes along the warm wood. “That’s not even your real name, is it?”

He can feel you grin against his chest and the drowsy, unused thing in his heart stretches. 

“Just as much as Natalie Lorraine is yours.” 

You both laugh quietly, too spent to really do anything else. You lift your head and purple is smeared by your cheek. He wants to lick it into his mouth. He feels like you are peeling him down to his bare essentials and he doesn’t know what you’re going to find. You’ll have to tell him when you do.

You kiss him, gently, as much as your aching body will allow. He hums. If he never comes again and can only kiss you like this, he’ll be satisfied. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you whisper against his lips. There’s only gold light separating you from him. 

“Okay,” he says, thumbing the apple of your cheek. There’s nothing he ever wants to hide from you. “Dieter Bravo is a stage name. My real name is–,”

– he wakes up again, just as your tongue slips a thin, square paper into his mouth. The air is moist and his jacket is too hot but the thumping beat of the music curls into the base of his spine. The building behind you shakes with noise and you’re next in line to enter the club. The crowd of people behind you vibrates with excitement. It smells like piss and vomit. 

“See you on the other side, baby,” you murmur into his throat.

   Music. Music music music. 

It’s in him, it’s grinding up in his teeth, he swears he feels it behind his eyelids. It’s coming out of him, leaking out of his pores and thrumming in his pulse. His heart — it slipped out of its natural rhythm and attached itself to the new beat, this new pulse — and he is everywhere and nowhere. He exists only in this sea of pumping, sweating bodies and never existed anywhere else. 

The only thing centering him, the only thing real, his living heart outside of his body, is you. Your sweat-streaked hair is in his face, the damp back of your neck is inches from his mouth, flooding his senses with the taste of your sweat, your scent. For a moment, he thinks he can see the electric blue synapsis of your brain firing in pace with the music, with the LSD in your body, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He wants to feel the threads with his fingers. 

He wants to bite through your neck and slurp your synapses up like noodles. 

“Baby,” you murmur below him, barely audible above the thunder of the music, “you’re squeezing too tight.” 

He blinks and the image is gone. He sinks his jaw over your shoulder, loosening his grip on your elbows and sliding his hands over your forearms. He tries to focus on dancing, swaying with you between his thighs.

“Sorry, darling, sorry.” He holds you to him, oozing back into that blackness with you as a warm light. 

Your ass, in that black leather skirt he bought you, moves out of sync with the beat, with the swaying you had both fallen into, and rubs him through his jeans. The light travels to his crotch. 

It’s like someone dripped honey all over his brain. 

“Fuck, baby.” He noses your ear and takes your earlobe into his mouth with the curl of his tongue. You moan and, with his hands over yours, he pushes the heel of your hand over your clit. His grip moves around your waist, to the bare skin between your skirt and your high-cut top. He can’t see in the purple haze of the twitching lights and thick, fluorescent fog but he can feel you. You are dripping with sweat, almost feverish. He thinks about the blue in your brain and his dick jumps. He laves the knot of your neck with his tongue. 

“I want you. I want you right now.” 

You lean back into his damp chest and clutch the back of his head in your hand. You draw his other hand to your thigh. Your breath reminds him of flowers, flowers pressed into a book, pressed until they aerosolized. He can’t find your eyes in the dark, in the haze, and in the pulsating light, your face looks blurred. “Then don’t wait. Fuck me here, baby. Right now.” 

In the beat, the cleft of your ass rubs his cock and he thinks he can see the blue in him. Glowing blue in his gut. He nods, frantically, hand leaving your thigh to undo his belt, then the buttons of his jeans. 

He rucks your skirt up, the leather sticking to your damp skin, and he adjusts his hips. You moan, feeling his cock hard at your back. He’s sure his dick is glowing in the dark. 

“Are you ready? I can’t get you wet like you need it–,”

“Baby, I am wet. Just need you. Need you rough.” 

He thinks he might puke blue but the blunt head of his cock rubs in between your sweaty, warm thighs and the pressure in his stomach collapses. If he doesn’t fuck you right now, he’s going to break apart. 

Your skirt clutched in his hands, he swipes your underwear to the side and slides up into you in one stroke – now you’re both blue, from the tips of your heads down to your toes. He doesn’t even move, it feels so good – he says this outloud. You whine loud in his ears, the music distant and far away. You’re closer than you were before, even if it didn't seem possible at the time. 

He grinds his hips and you throw back your head against his shoulder, gasping, nails digging into the backs of his hands at your hips. He throws his forearm around your waist, before grinding his hips back and forth – never leaving you. He wants to be this close to you forever. He can’t imagine ever pulling out of your sweet, hot cunt. He thinks of his cum leaking down your thighs and he groans low in your ear. He wonders if his cum will glow and everyone will see who you belong to. 

He wants his cum all over you. His hips jerk back an inch before slamming them up again. 

“Tha’s it, baby,” you whine. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. “Keep going.”

He does. At some point, he hears the blood in his cock thump to the beat of the music, and he wants you to know.  

“Can you feel that, baby?” He slurs in your ear. He pushes your wet hair over your shoulder and presses his teeth into your skin. “You’re takin’ me. All of me. Wanna paint you blue.” 

His hand slides over your thigh again, his thumb diving in towards your center, then up. He hopes to find your clit but your entire cunt is hotter than a furnace and he’s afraid of rubbing up against metal. His hand ghosts over your clit and you cry out. 

“Fuck me harder, baby. Leave a bruise. I need you.” 

There’s a memory of being surrounded by people, but it’s not here. It’s not now. It’s ages ago. A lifetime ago. The only thing that ever existed was your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you up,” he hisses. There’s a chemical smell in the air and he thinks it’s from the lights or it might be from inside him. No, there’s only music inside him. Music he wants to share with you. Gift to you. Fall to his knees and lick up inside you.

You both only exist in blackness and there’s nothing to press you up against, but he tries. He adjusts his hips, his grip, and he fucks you deep.

Pretty thing.

Pretty girl.

Pretty cunt. 

Blue. Blue in your hair. Your eyes. Gonna paint you in blue. 

He wants to split your skull and live in your brain. 

Your moans are higher, airless, gasping, begging. The pressure behind his gut is a black-hole and he wants to fall, wants to drift. 

He braves metal burn and presses down on your clit with his middle finger. 

You are gushing blue. 

He fills you up a moment later, hips stuttering, thighs quaking. And that makes you come again. 

It’s never ending. It’s a cycle. It’s infinite. You’re infinite. If you ever leave him, he’ll die. Broken blue. 

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear in a voice so soft he purposefully won’t remember it the next morning. He drags you into his chest, to feel his heart burning for you. Only when he gets like this again, which is soon after, does he remember. When he’s sober, it’s only a feeling. When he’s out of his mind, higher than God, he has to say it. 

“I love you. I fucking love you. So much.”

When he’s this high, he doesn’t remember if you say it back. 

[damon25]

Why Choose Baroque Beauty-Damask Napkins for Banquet Halls?

The ambiance of your banquet hall plays a considerable role; every detail matters in creating a perfect atmosphere. Among these details, napkins are essential when choosing which table linens to select. The Baroque Beauty-Damask Napkin is an excellent choice for adding a little spice to a banquet hall’s aesthetic. These premium, high-quality Napkins are made with distinctive patterns showing couture and grace. The opulent Baroque era inspires their timeless design and is ideal for high-end occasions, including weddings, corporate events, and gala dinners. Set against a vintage table, these napkins add grandeur and work with a more modern chic table. These napkins are crafted from premium quality fabric and are durable and luxurious throughout multiple washes. The soft texture gives guests comfort, and the absorbency gives functionality without sacrificing style. Baroque Beauty-Damask Napkins are used in banquet halls to indicate attention to detail and dedication to excellence. It is their sophisticated charm that elevates the complete guest experience. Perfect for the venue customer looking for an exquisite way to achieve functionality with disposable items — these luxury table linens are inspired by dining in fine restaurants and offer an investment in refined elegance and distinction.

[dissonantdaydream]

where; hex girls with; open

echo wasn't on the stage tonight which was altogether fine with her. while the tips weren't as lucrative, people were less prone to gawk and stare at her while she was behind the bar. unfortunately, they were still keen to talk. "mm." she hummed and found the bright metal shaker filled with ice. she picked it up and started to rattle it loud enough to ignore the next question. admittedly, the selkie girl was not the ideal conversationalist. it wasn't that she was necessarily opposed to the idea at large. she liked people who could comfortably talk to her. the problem was that most people just talked at her, and there was no desire in her to respond to that anymore. "mhm." echo poured the drink and set it along with a small napkin which had the word 'hex' embossed clearly in the corner on the bar top and nodded. she turned away from them and onto the next patron, lifting an eyebrow as if to ask 'what will you have?'

[worpleroad]

50th Birthday Napkins Foil Print Cocktail Napkins Trending Now Happy Birthday Decor Birthday Girl Custom Napkin Personalized Decorations by WorpleRoad

72.49 USD 🎉 Custom Foil 50th Birthday Napkins – Elegant Party Decorations! ✨ Celebrate your 50th birthday in style with these custom napkins, beautifully foil stamped for a touch of elegance. Whether for a birthday girl or birthday boy, these personalized napkins add a luxurious accent to your birthday decorations. Featuring a happy birthday message and the option to include a portrait from photo, these cocktail napkins are the perfect party decorations for your special milestone. #WorpleRoad #trendingnow #cocktailnapkins #customnapkins #50thbirthday #portraitfromphoto #happybirthday #personalizednapkins #birthdaygirl #birthdaydecorations #partydecorations #birthdayboy #birthdaydecor #birthdaynapkins 💬 Have questions? Send us a message, and we’ll gladly assist you! 🎉 Join our VIP list and enjoy exclusive savings! Get 35% OFF your entire purchase. Sign up here: https://ift.tt/mwRIS1G 🔗 YOU MAY ALSO LIKE: 🛍 Check out our birthday decor collection for more custom napkins and party essentials: https://ift.tt/2CJOV9Z 🖌️ PERSONALIZE TO PERFECTION: 🎨 Add your own text, date, or name for a personalized napkins touch. Choose from a variety of foil colors to match your theme! 🍹 FOIL STAMPED COCKTAIL NAPKIN DETAILS: 🌟 Material: Crafted from three-ply tissue, offering a soft yet durable texture. 📏 Size: 4.75” x 4.75” – ideal for serving drinks. 📦 Quantities: Napkins are available in sets of 50. For larger quantities, simply adjust the number in your cart. For example, to order 200 napkins, add 4 sets to your cart. 🎨 Printing: Elegant foil-stamped design on one side. 🎨 Napkin Colors: Available in White, Ecru, Coral, Violet, Black, Blush, Claret, Gold, Hunter, Lavender, Magenta, Marine, Melon, Navy, Orange, Sand, Silver, Slate, and Wine. ✨ Foil Colors: Choose from Gold, Black Matte Foil, Silver Foil, White Matte Foil, Rose Gold Foil, and Copper Foil. 🍽️ FOIL STAMPED LUNCHEON NAPKIN DETAILS: 🌟 Material: Made from premium three-ply tissue with an embossed edge for a luxurious feel and enhanced durability. 📏 Size: 6.5” x 6.5” – perfect for luncheons, weddings, and formal dining occasions. 📦 Quantities: Napkins are available in sets of 50. For larger quantities, simply adjust the number in your cart. For example, to order 200 napkins, add 4 sets to your cart. 🎨 Printing: Elegant foil-stamped design on one side. 🎨 Napkin Colors: Available in White, Ecru, Coral, Violet, Black, Blush, Claret, Gold, Hunter, Lavender, Magenta, Marine, Melon, Navy, Orange, Sand, Silver, Slate, and Wine. ✨ Foil Colors: Choose from Gold, Black Matte Foil, Silver Foil, White Matte Foil, Rose Gold Foil, and Copper Foil. 🚀 FAST SHIPPING & PRODUCTION: 🏭 Orders ship quickly within 1-3 business days. 🚚 Delivered within 1-5 business days after production. 📦 Tracking number provided after shipment. 🚀 Need it faster? Ask us about express shipping options! 📦 GREAT FOR GROUPS: 🎉 Bulk orders are welcomed! These birthday napkins make the perfect party decorations for a 50th birthday celebration. Contact us for special rates on large orders. 🔄 OUR GUARANTEE: 😊 We take pride in creating your custom napkins just for you. If we make a mistake, we’ll make it right. Otherwise, as each item is uniquely made, we can’t offer returns or exchanges. 💬 CUSTOMER REVIEWS: 💬 “Absolutely love these! The foil-stamped design is stunning and added such a classy touch to my 50th birthday party.” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 💬 “Great quality cocktail napkins and fast shipping. They were a hit at our event!” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 💬 “Perfect for my birthday dinner! The foil print looked amazing.” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 🔗 EXPLORE MORE: 🛍 Discover more personalized napkins and party accessories in our WorpleRoad Shop: https://ift.tt/2CJOV9Z 📱 STAY CONNECTED: 📍 Follow us on Social Media for the Latest Updates, New Arrivals, and Special Offers! 📌 Pinterest: @worpleroad 📸 Instagram: @worple_road 📘 Facebook: @worpleroad 🎵 TikTok: @worple_road 💛 Thank you for choosing us! Your support allows us to continue creating birthday decorations that make every celebration unforgettable! via https://ift.tt/MFPNgOW https://ift.tt/DFOzfAm

[terencejscott]

Vanity Fair Paper Napkins – Everyday Soft & Strong Dining Essentials

This post contains affiliate links which I may receive compensation for

Upgrade Your Table with Vanity Fair Everyday Paper Napkins

Looking for an elegant yet practical napkin for daily dining? Vanity Fair Everyday Paper Napkins offer a cloth-like softness combined with strong absorbency. These durable, 2‑ply napkins come in convenient multi-packs—ranging from 100 to 300 count—ideal for family meals, casual gatherings, and quick cleanups. With their classic embossed design and reliable strength, they elevate any table setting while providing everyday convenience.

Whether you're serving lunch, dinner, or snacks, Vanity Fair delivers a touch of elegance without sacrificing practicality.

Key Features

200-count pack of premium-quality napkins

Soft and smooth texture for a cloth-like feel

Strong, absorbent, and gentle on skin

Ideal for family meals, picnics, and entertaining

Disposable for easy cleanup

Best For

Everyday family dining

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Stocking up on kitchen or pantry essentials.

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Add convenience and comfort to your meals with Vanity Fair Paper Napkins

[theworldisyours-sourcing]

Printed and Embossed Napkins

[sokkideor]

Best Plates and Bowls Sets for Hosting and Parties

Great hosting starts with more than just good food—it’s about creating an inviting atmosphere that guests remember long after the meal ends. One of the easiest ways to elevate your hosting game is by investing in high-quality dinnerware plates and bowls that combine style, function, and durability. Whether you're throwing a casual brunch, a festive dinner, or a special celebration, having the best dinner plates can set the tone for a well-curated dining experience.

From elegant porcelain sets to bold ceramic styles, the right dinnerware plates can transform any gathering into a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. And when paired with thoughtfully chosen bowls and serveware, your table setup can truly impress. So let’s explore some of the best dinner plates and bowl sets that are perfect for entertaining in style.

1. What to Look for in Dinnerware for Hosting

When selecting plates and bowls for hosting, keep these factors in mind:

Durability: Look for materials like stoneware, porcelain, or bone china that can handle multiple courses and frequent use.

Design: Go for neutral tones for versatility, or bold designs for a themed or festive look.

Set Size: Make sure the set has enough pieces to serve all your guests—typically 6 to 12.

Microwave & Dishwasher Safe: Convenience is key during and after the party.

Your dinnerware plates should be versatile enough to handle everything from starters to main courses and desserts.

2. Best Dinnerware Materials for Hosting

Porcelain: A timeless choice for formal events. It’s lightweight, durable, and elegant.

Stoneware: Heavier and more rustic, perfect for casual parties with a modern aesthetic.

Melamine: Great for outdoor events and kid-friendly parties—lightweight and nearly unbreakable.

Each of these materials offers a unique touch that can help you choose the best dinner plates to match your hosting style.

3. Popular Styles That Impress

Classic White Sets: Always in style and can be paired with any theme or table décor.

Patterned & Embossed Plates: Add flair to the table and work well for special occasions.

Color-Coordinated Bowls: Complement or contrast your plates to bring depth to your setup.

Matte Finishes: A modern, sophisticated look that works for both day and night gatherings.

These designs not only add beauty to your spread but also enhance the food presentation.

4. Complete the Look with Smart Pairings

To make your dinnerware shine at a party, pair your plates and bowls with:

Coordinated cutlery

Decorative chargers or placemats

Cloth napkins

Statement centerpieces or candles

These small touches make your dinnerware plates feel more luxurious and elevate the guest experience.

Conclusion: Hosting Starts with the Right Tableware

When it comes to entertaining, the little details make a big difference. Choosing the best dinner plates and bowls ensures that your meals not only taste delicious but look beautiful as well. Whether you're planning a formal dinner or a laid-back get-together, stylish and sturdy dinnerware plates can help you host with confidence and ease.

So, if you’re ready to upgrade your hosting essentials, now is the perfect time to invest in the best dinner plates that combine elegance with practicality. From everyday entertaining to once-in-a-lifetime celebrations, the right dinnerware plates will always leave a lasting impression on your guests.

[trendyyfashion1]

Best Plates and Bowls Sets for Hosting and Parties

Great hosting starts with more than just good food—it’s about creating an inviting atmosphere that guests remember long after the meal ends. One of the easiest ways to elevate your hosting game is by investing in high-quality dinnerware plates and bowls that combine style, function, and durability. Whether you're throwing a casual brunch, a festive dinner, or a special celebration, having the best dinner plates can set the tone for a well-curated dining experience.

From elegant porcelain sets to bold ceramic styles, the right dinnerware plates can transform any gathering into a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. And when paired with thoughtfully chosen bowls and serveware, your table setup can truly impress. So let’s explore some of the best dinner plates and bowl sets that are perfect for entertaining in style.

1. What to Look for in Dinnerware for Hosting

When selecting plates and bowls for hosting, keep these factors in mind:

Durability: Look for materials like stoneware, porcelain, or bone china that can handle multiple courses and frequent use.

Design: Go for neutral tones for versatility, or bold designs for a themed or festive look.

Set Size: Make sure the set has enough pieces to serve all your guests—typically 6 to 12.

Microwave & Dishwasher Safe: Convenience is key during and after the party.

Your dinnerware plates should be versatile enough to handle everything from starters to main courses and desserts.

2. Best Dinnerware Materials for Hosting

Porcelain: A timeless choice for formal events. It’s lightweight, durable, and elegant.

Stoneware: Heavier and more rustic, perfect for casual parties with a modern aesthetic.

Melamine: Great for outdoor events and kid-friendly parties—lightweight and nearly unbreakable.

Each of these materials offers a unique touch that can help you choose the best dinner plates to match your hosting style.

3. Popular Styles That Impress

Classic White Sets: Always in style and can be paired with any theme or table décor.

Patterned & Embossed Plates: Add flair to the table and work well for special occasions.

Color-Coordinated Bowls: Complement or contrast your plates to bring depth to your setup.

Matte Finishes: A modern, sophisticated look that works for both day and night gatherings.

These designs not only add beauty to your spread but also enhance the food presentation.

4. Complete the Look with Smart Pairings

To make your dinnerware shine at a party, pair your plates and bowls with:

Coordinated cutlery

Decorative chargers or placemats

Cloth napkins

Statement centerpieces or candles

These small touches make your dinnerware plates feel more luxurious and elevate the guest experience.

Conclusion: Hosting Starts with the Right Tableware

When it comes to entertaining, the little details make a big difference. Choosing the best dinner plates and bowls ensures that your meals not only taste delicious but look beautiful as well. Whether you're planning a formal dinner or a laid-back get-together, stylish and sturdy dinnerware plates can help you host with confidence and ease.

So, if you’re ready to upgrade your hosting essentials, now is the perfect time to invest in the best dinner plates that combine elegance with practicality. From everyday entertaining to once-in-a-lifetime celebrations, the right dinnerware plates will always leave a lasting impression on your guests.