#to host dinner parties

[backfliips]

one day im gonna live in my own house with my own yard and my own decorations and my own furniture and my own kitchen and surround myself with only the people i want to be with and i’ll be able to sit on my porch and watch the sunrise and the sunset and the seasons come and go and things will be better

[syoddeye]

under the table

gaz x f!reader x price. ~2k words. +18 only. What is this? Who knows. Just wanted to write a little smut. Very loosely based off this. tags: dubcon, manipulation, semi-public fingering

Ten months into your marriage, you give into Kyle’s pestering. No, perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to phrase it. You finally accept one of his many invitations to meet his commanding officer, his Captain. 

(Though, is there any other way to describe Kyle’s incessant requests? When he asks repeatedly over breakfast or on dates, or when he drapes himself over your back mid-fuck, slowing to a teasing grind in an effort to make you change your mind? Think you’d like him, babe, like him almost as much as–)

You tell him it’s weird to bring up his boss while he’s inside you, but he just laughs and wipes the sweat off your brow.

“He’s important to me. He saw my potential. Just like you.” And how can you refuse when he puts it like that?

You tell him one evening after dinner, drying the dishes as he washes. Ceramic meets steel in a clatter as he drops a plate to cage you into the countertop, pressing kisses to your neck. You can feel his big, pleased smile against your skin, the chorus of thank yous. He barely remembers to turn the sink handle before he drags you off to bed, dishes half done.

It’s only drinks at the pub around the corner, and you don’t know why Kyle’s stressing and fussing over your outfit. Not every day does your husband pick your outfit, so you play along. You perch on the end of the bed to judge the dresses he presents and laugh at the fact that he thinks you’re pulling on three-inch heels for a place with tacky floors.

Kyle relishes that you must lean on him the whole way to the pub, the impractical shoes seemingly bent on catching every crack in the walk. His grip around your waist tightens the moment you cross the threshold, his grin a sly crescent.

He settles you into a booth in the corner, stepping away to buy your drinks. Beneath the table, you tug at the hem of the dress he convinced you to wear. It’s a classic black number, short, one of his favorites, and a bit much for your surroundings. But the fact that he pulled it out tells you the end of the evening will be good for you, that you’ll be duly rewarded for finally agreeing to meet his Captain.

A man appears at the table, eyes giving your top half an unabashedly appreciative once-over. Your mouth falls open as he slides onto the curved bench, stammering out a protest.

“Excuse me, I’m–my husband is at the bar, I’m flattered, but I’m–“

“Easy, love, just wanted a moment alone. Get a look at you.” The deep timbre of his voice is practically a purr, his mouth an amused line beneath an imperial beard.

Your brow pinches in annoyance. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, not with the pretty ring on your hand. You make a point to lay it on the table. “I’m not here on display, so if you’d please fuck off–“

“Captain Price,” Kyle chirps, a pint in each hand. “See you’ve met the missus.”

A hand pinches your knee, and it’s not attached to your husband.

“I did. Spirited, like you said.” The hand retracts as Captain Price exits the booth, exchanging a look with Kyle you don’t quite understand. “Back in a tick.”

You watch the broad-shouldered man head for a drink, then glare at your husband. “‘Spirited’?”

“Aren’t you?” Kyle chuckles, sidling up until his leg is flush with yours. He pushes the lager to the space in front of you and slings his arm over the back of the booth. “Did he scare you, babe? He can be a bit friendly, but he’s harmless.”

You sincerely doubt it. ‘Friendly’ is a loaded word. It’s how you describe Kyle and his hands’ bad habit of wandering. Ask him, and he’ll say he’s simply smitten and proud to have such a cute thing for a wife. Like it is now, his arm practically lives across your shoulders or around your waist when you’re out and about until his hand ‘gets cold’ or ‘lonely’, and he slots it between your legs or rests it on the swell of your ass. ‘Friendly’ is not something you want his boss to be.

Cordial. Polite. ‘Friendly’ in the way bosses are supposed to be, detached and unassuming. 

The older man scoots in close, muttering something about the noise, effectively sandwiching you between him and Kyle. You retreat into your husband’s side as their conversation kicks off, catching up after weeks of leave. A few names you recognize from Kyle’s stories sprinkle in, giving you minimal context. You drink your beer and nod when appropriate, but otherwise, you people-watch. Though, you don’t watch the right people.

Over your head, behind your back, Kyle stares at his Captain, gaze darting down every so often to how the fabric of your dress pulls taut over your sides. The sliver of lace from your brassiere peeking out underneath a dress strap. He watches a man he trusts with his life openly examine his wife’s profile, effortlessly carrying on the conversation without meeting Kyle’s eyes once. 

“Have we bored you to tears, love?” 

You lift your head, pressing against Kyle, when Price plants his forearm on the table to lean closer. “Not at all. I don’t mind listening, Captain.”

“Told you to call me ‘John’.”

“Sorry,” You apologize. “John.”

John hums, musing. “So she can listen.”

The mild condescension leaves a taste in your mouth, but Kyle squeezes your shoulder, soothing.

“She is, sir.” 

John’s gaze is heavy, dropping to your mouth to your cleavage in one swoop before excusing himself to buy the next around.

“Kyle,” You turn, finding him staring at the back of John’s head. “Can we leave soon? I don’t feel well,” you lie, shifting in your seat.

“Really?” His eyes snap down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sure? You haven’t even finished your first.”

“Please,” you glance sidelong at John. I–We can skip to the good part at home.” Usually, the offer works. It gets him on his feet quickly, tugging you to the car or along the walk within seconds. But he hesitates, mirroring your quick look at John.

“One more drink,” Kyle insists, tugging you back into place and forcing you to face forward. His breath hits your neck as he dips his head to whisper into your ear. “Think you can handle it? Be good for me?”

The tone of his voice makes you consciously aware of your nipples protruding through the thin material of your bra, instantly rising to attention at the sheer promise behind his words. Without thinking, your knees press together, capturing his attention. You watch his tongue glide over his lip. Surely, he won’t. Not with his boss here.

His arm remains in place, and his free hand inches closer atop the table. 

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Don’t what, babe?” He smirks, looking away as John reclaims his spot.

“Miss anything?” 

“Not at all.”

While they return to their chat, you cannot disconnect as easily as before. Both men press against your sides despite the booth’s available space. Your heart thrums in your chest, ratcheted to a speed that makes you fidget. Twitch. Kyle’s honeyed words repeat in your head, and you subtly squirm, feeling the heat between your legs pulse.

You don’t notice Kyle’s hand slide off the table until his fingers cup your bare knee. You turn your head, lips parting, but he’s not looking at you. You swallow hard when he pulls, opening your legs. His name is on the tip of your tongue, confusion mixing with embarrassment, and it fizzles into a choked silence. Another hand, broader and more calloused, slips over your opposite thigh, searching.

The din of the pub meets the rush of blood in your ears. The edges of your vision blur, your thoughts static, and it isn’t until a finger drags up the gusset of your underwear that you come crashing into consciousness. You jerk, and two bodies of solid muscle keep you in place like bookends.

“Easy,” John purrs, repeating the movement, slower.

“Kyle–”

“It’s okay, babe,” He coos in your ear.

Your eyes fall to your lap, where Kyle’s hand wrenches your dress to your upper thighs, giving his Captain access. Indignation swirls, beating violently against your skull, a swell of shame racing with a rogue wave of want.

“We leave in a week, right? Cap could use a boost. Think you can send him off with something nice?”

“Kyle, I don’t–” Your breath hitches as a second finger joins the first in rubbing gentle circles, pressing into the dampening cotton. Your leg tries to reflexively close, and Kyle’s hand returns to your knee to stop it. Your hands, formerly weighed down by pure shock, reach for John’s forearm, sinking your nails into skin dusted in coarse hair.

“Babe–” Kyle starts sternly.

John tuts, unaffected by the angry marks you impress into his arm. “It’s alright, Gaz, I don’t mind. We’re just warming up, gettin’ used to the idea.” 

No, no, you are not getting used to the idea. You’re not. You’re not letting him, Kyle’s boss, John, touch you like this in a pub where anyone could see if they stare too long. Any second, you’re going to yell. Tear Kyle a new one. Then John’s fingers deftly slide your underwear out of the way, and instead of a scream, a squeak pushes out as a finger pushes in. Kyle’s hand lifts from your shoulder to guide your face toward his for a kiss.

John’s finger dips in, teasing, and you hear him groan while Kyle’s tongue licks into your mouth, keeping you fixed to him until you need air. You suck it in through short pants, eyes glazed over with a cloud of lust. You’re stupefied and trembling, inhaling sharply when the finger sinks to the webbing and curls. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, pressing kisses to your temple as your chin dips to your chest.

“Warm, fuckin’ soaked,” John chuckles at how it makes you clench.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stare into the shadowed valley between your open legs. The table blocks the dim lamp above, but the slick on John’s digit, as it withdraws, catches the light. The noise of the bar ought to drown it out, and perhaps it does, yet you hear the lurid, wet sound of his finger plunging in.

The men hold their breath as you go offline, mouth opening and shutting several times like a fish dying in too-shallow of a tidepool. The hand continues its work, stoking a heat you want to both smother and feed. 

“Kyle,” You try again, a breathier, whiny pitch to your whisper.

“I know, I know,” He kneads the fat of your thigh, knuckles bumping into his Captain’s. 

The men exchange a few words you can’t make out. Your foggy eyes lift to scan the bar, some lucidity begging you to at least check for an audience. In the corner, there’s nowhere for someone to linger or gawk to catch what’s happening beneath the table. In a distant corner of your mind, it occurs to you that Kyle must’ve planned this. 

A mounting pressure digs your fingertips into John’s arm harder and harder, which he responds to with a quicker, more insistent rhythm. Kyle’s hand grips your thigh, but there’s no need with how wide you spread them yourself. You bury your teeth into your lower lip, then slap a palm over your mouth. The heel of John’s palm grinds into your clit. 

“Lookit you,” John puffs into your ear. “Thought you weren’t on display?” 

You come, whimpering behind your hand, squeezing John’s finger in a vise.

Somewhere in the bar, a glass breaks, and a chorus of drunken voices boo. Two fingers slip out of your heat and pat the ruined cotton against your sopping cunt.

Outside, the temperature dropped considerably, not that you’d feel it with your husband’s arm over your shoulders and his Captain’s hooked around your waist.

The world’s fuzzy, their words clear.

“She’s a good girl, Gaz.”

“You ought to apply, sir. You might get lucky.”

“Why would I do that, when we’ve got her?”

[sportsthoughts]

Day 16 of offseason gifs - geno and nikita go to hockey school!

[moraygrotto]

ok but carbonated drinks as aperitifs. opening the stomach up with the expectation that you'll belch, stretching the insides with gas first so you'll be ready to accommodate the volume of the meal to come.

[astriiformes]

Combination of watching Dungeon Meshi and not having had a kitchen for over three (3) months means that I am physically dying to cook for my friends right now. Once I can make delicious food again. Then you will see.

[flock-of-cassowaries]

I really don’t think that parsley-thyme infusion is going to make it through the blood-brain barrier. Like, I don’t know, perhaps it’s compromised if you have, say, untreated anti-NMDAR encephalitis… but even then, it’s been what - 20 minutes?

So he’s just doing it to terrorize Will.

Fucking hell man.

[xoxo-beth]

In my last relationship, there was a vastly unequal distribution of household labor, physical and mental. In short, I somehow became his mom. To avoid repeating this pattern I've been instructed by the girl council to tell men I don't cook or clean.

So, this is how I ended up looking a boy dead in the eye on our first date and saying, "Oh, I don't cook," even though I actually cook/bake really well.

Technically, "don't cook" and "can't cook" are not the same thing, so is that really lying? 🤷‍♀️

[jazz-kitty]

team rocket if they were gay[er]

+ shaded version. i didnt feel like actually cleaning up the lineart so i just rolled with it

[ferronickel]

I have covid :(

[summernightsdream]

[blackswaneuroparedux]

However grand our sacramental downsittings and updressings may be, they remain only and precisely sacraments: real presences, under particular signs, of the happier order that faith can discover under any and all signs. They're a bit like the church. As long as we see them as an earnest of the kingdom, they're all right; when we put on airs and act as if they were the kingdom itself, they look just silly.

- Robert Farrar Capon 

So I get asked about how to do a more formal dinner party by my followers. I don’t know what impression I’ve given to make people think that I am an expert but I shall endeavour to present some thoughts around my own beliefs and experiences. I’m sure there are some things I have left out or have temporarily escaped my mind, so do please bear with me.

It is sadly the case that the age of the formal dinner might be over for some but for others they bravely soldier on flying the flag for civilised discourse over dinner.

Yet the reality remains that for many, eating at home with friends or family, or even a volatile mix of the two, is still hugely popular and important. Even if one is throwing a casual dinner party with a laidback “I’m just doing a bit of food” nonchalance, it still needs to be navigated with careful sensitivity. 

My rough guide to a good dinner party:

Don’t become a victim of vaunting ambition. Assess your culinary skills and budget before tailoring your social dinner occasion to fit your capabilities. Under no circumstances attempt a maiden voyage. It might seem like a good idea to try a new recipe for your guests, but there are few things sadder than realising that the pork was supposed to have been butterflied by a butcher or rest for four hours...45 minutes before guests arrive.

Send invitations if you can. The more formal the dinner the better you should send an invitation. Make clear (on the invitation preferably) on the time of arrival so that guests are punctual. Except if you’re hosting a dinner party in France then expect French guests to arrive 15 minutes late. While in many countries this may be considered rude, in France this is a golden rule. It’s an unspoken agreement between the host and the guest because the host might be a little late preparing everything and the guest won’t want to embarrass the host by arriving early. Strangely this rule only applies to dinner parties and not for dinners at restaurants. Hmmm.

Make the nature of the dinner event absolutely clear to your guests. They will feel understandably annoyed if they turn up to a formal dinner in jeans and sneakers.

Make sure your drinks cabinet is well stocked. Don’t ever rely on your guests to bring anything. Make sure you choose a different wine to go with each course you are serving. But don’t get too hung up on the food and wine pairing - one can always ask the wine merchant who is both helpful and is dying to show off his knowledge.

Work out your timings. Don’t let drinks go on too long and ensure that food is ready when you call everyone to the table. 

Always have a seating plan. Even if it’s an informal one in your head, explain to your guests where you would like them to sit. Chemistry between guests is everything. Choose wisely.

Don’t apologise for the food being served. You made it. You own it. 

Remember that your primary role is to be the host/hostess. Attend to your guests at all times and don’t allow yourself to be drawn into an intimate tête à tête with someone. It’s rude to give one guest all the attention at the expense of others feeling a little adrift in their seat.

Play the diplomat at dinner. Lively conversation will no doubt wander to the realm of politics, and whether it’s divisive or just plain dull, a good hostess can re-route a boring or inelegant conversation deftly and effortlessly. The best way to steer the conversation if it strays too deeply into politics, religion, or someone’s burgeoning sex life is to politely interject and offer, “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could get everyone’s opinion on X,” and people will be happy to oblige. You invite people into a topic that’s about you and it’s a clear note to the offenders to change course. Important to note also it is perhaps the only time you ever make yourself the subject of the conversation. The role of the hostess is to move the conversation along effortlessly without becoming the centre of attention.

Deploy subtle hints by asking if anyone would like: cups of coffee, offers of taxi service or spare beds, if the evening is going on too long.

Don’t let the guests do dishes - unless they're related to you or they're psychotically compulsive. If they are neither, you might be calling their bluff on an empty offer, and then you've made your guest use your ratty sponge, which is not a very gracious experience.

Most of all, breathe and relax. It will all go swimmingly. Just enjoy yourself.

Bon appétit!

[blorbocedes]

sober partied today. I know in the age of body positivity and acceptance it's very gauche to have horrible body dysmorphia to the point your brain (unless on alcohol) decides you're an absolute freakazoid looking gollum like creature ruining people's lives and causing vomit inducing disgust by existing on the dance floor. turns out I didn't need the alcohol, I just needed to party with a bunch of shy nerds and I was so invested in making them dance and have a good time that I momentarily forgor my diseased brain. it was fun and now im going to pass out cause my whole body is aching ✌️

[eggtrolls]

The statement on the RAADS-R autism screening test that throws me the most is ‘I can “put myself in another person’s shoes” because. while I think I (probably?) can, I simply do not do that without conscious effort. I don’t have much of a visual imagination and when I do imagine something, it’s either a) an actual memory (which doesn’t count imho) or b) a tremendous mental effort. Kind of like watching a movie of the event more than experiencing it myself. I will say that animals tend to be a little easier since their emotions seem less complex (i.e. Jellybean is sad and mad because I stepped on her tail)

If I had to guess, this is why talking about “gross” topics (see: the infamous ‘colostomy bag gonorrhea’ story) while eating is not disturbing for me. I’m quite literally just saying words. I understand the meaning but nothing is appearing/resonating for me unbidden; I’m not experiencing an emotion or a sensation or anything else along those lines. Is this making sense to anyone else? If I wanted to think about what a colostomy bag gonorrhea infection, for example, would actually look/feel/smell like, that would actually be very difficult. I’m actually not sure I can do it tbh.

[jewfrogs]

brennan getting up to hug everybody coming in is sooo sweetie

[cogentranting]

It makes me so happy that from now on watching any Star Wars movie or show that takes place after this point, I can know in my own heart that whatever is actually happening on screen, off somewhere in the same world, Jack Black and Lizzo are happily ruling their little deranged dome utopia.