#top & tunics collection

[blujayonthewing]

Most Replayed feature on youtube continues to be really funny

[seedsoffusion]

Where Can I Find The Best Quality Women's Dresses Online?

 Online shopping for women's dresses is growing in popularity because it is easy and quick. Online shopping sites let you quickly and easily choose from many different styles, sizes, and patterns to suit your needs. There are a lot of choices, from buying beautiful evening dresses or buying kurta sets for women online. There are many important reasons why you should only buy high-quality clothes online. First, it makes sure that it will last a long time, which makes your purchase more valuable. Better-made dresses fit and look better, which can boost your confidence and self-esteem. Also, good clothes last longer, which saves you money on buying new ones.

Tips To Find High-Quality Women's Dresses Online

Want to update your wardrobe? Look no further! We carry the latest women's fashion trends and classics. We have trendy tops, tunics, and bottoms.

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Tips For Quality-Assurance

Online shopping is popular for ladies updating their wardrobes in today's fast-paced society. With just a few clicks, you can explore a vast array of options to buy Kurti for women online to buy Kaftan Dress for Women and Co-ord sets without leaving home. Online purchasing for women's dresses demands strategy to ensure quality. These five essential tips can help you confidently navigate the internet economy.

1. Know Your Measurements: Fitting is a major issue with online shopping. Online purchasing requires precise measurements, unlike trying on clothes in person. Measure yourself before buying. To choose the right size, consider bust, waist, and hips and consult the retailer's sizing chart. Remember that a well-fitting clothing can transform your appearance and mood.

2. Carefully read product descriptions and reviews: Product specifications reveal dress materials, fit, and features. Read them carefully to ensure the outfit matches your expectations. Customer reviews can also reveal garment quality and durability. Review sizing, material, and satisfaction feedback to make an informed choice.

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5. Explore the Latest Collection: Online collections are a great way to stay up-to-date with the latest fashion trends. For each occasion and style, you may buy the latest saree collection online to buy co-ord sets for women online. Find new designers, patterns, and trends that are not available in stores by using internet platforms to search for them. For both traditional and contemporary things, the online marketplace offers an infinite number of alternatives.

The convenience and variety of options available when shopping for women's dresses online are unparalleled. Fashionable kurta sets, traditional kaftans, and elegant kurtis are all available in an infinite number of options on the internet. Quality should be the top priority for online buyers to assure both enjoyment and value. Remember to put quality, style, and price at the top of your list of priorities the next time you are searching to buy women's dresses online.

[apparelcorporate]

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[houseoffett]

Fashion Forward: The Hottest Summer Looks from House of Fett

"Fashion Forward: The Hottest Summer Looks from houseoffett.com" is a vibrant collection that epitomizes summer style. From stylish dresses to co-ord sets, gowns to jumpsuits, and tunics to tops & pants, this range caters to every occasion. Whether you seek resort wear, partywear, or casual comfort, House of Fett delivers. The color palette is diverse, featuring neutrals, brights, whites, and pastels. Standout pieces like the 'Lunar Rise' and 'Neo-Sage Dress' evoke a Mediterranean escape, while the 'Summer Postcard SS24' collection exudes a carefree vibe. With options for plus size and maternity wear, House of Fett stays at the forefront of the latest fashion trends. Embrace travel wear, party dresses, and cotton comfort in this versatile and chic summer lineup.

[rupymerwar]

Discover the Grape Tunic & Pant Set - Luxury Designer Clothes For Women

The Grape Tunic is a limited edition piece, available in only 4 sizes.  It is made out of heavy viscose georgette fabric that hangs elegantly.  It is embellished with matte gold sequence throughout.  Tunic is sold with pants and together, both pieces create a sophisticated outfit for your next event. Elevate Your Style with Luxury Designer Clothes for Women: Introducing the Grape Tunic & Pant…

[its-poojagupta-shree]

https://www.articleshore.com/tunic-guide-for-different-body-types/

Tunics, with their versatile and comfortable designs, have become a staple in many wardrobes. Whether you’re petite, curvy, tall, or somewhere in between, finding the right tunic for your body type can enhance your style and boost your confidence. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll explore the nuances of tunics for various body shapes, providing valuable insights to help you make informed fashion choices.

[mokshaachennai77]

[eileennatural]

in totk when you come out of the depths wearing the dark tunic there should be a guy who goes um. where did you get that. how did you get that. is there like... a mall down there

[beansprean]

nandor nandor he's our man if he can't do it thats not unusual

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Collection of colored Nandor doodles on a mottled teal background. 1. Knees up of Nandor in red short shorts, a white tank top with the Big Boy restaurant logo, and a loose knit cardigan with apache stripes falling off one shoulder. He is smiling at the viewer with one hand on his hip and the other holding up a peace sign. 2. Hips up of Nandor in loose peach trousers, stretching with his mouth open in a giant yawn. His hair is loose and tangled, right hand scratching at his bare stomach and left arm stretched behind his head. 3. Small knees-up of Nandor, hair loose, wearing nothing but a ripped-off dull red crop top that says 'hole' in big letters. He is standing as if braced to run, arms and legs tensed and held akimbo, panic clear on his purple-flushed face. His decency is covered only by the overlap of the drawing beneath him. 4. Full body of Nandor, wearing his usual patterned tunic and boots, sitting on a bench in profile. He is fiddling with a rubix cube in his lap, hunched over it with his tongue out in concentration as he lines up a row of yellow. 5. Chest up of Nandor sitting at a table in another tunic, leaning his cheek into one hand as he aims a besotted smile at something offscreen, hearts dancing around his head. 6. Hips up of a very drunk Nandor in burgundy trousers and a very loose translucent silk blouse half unbuttoned and gaping open to reveal most of his torso. He is standing with an elbow propped on a nearby surface, hip leaning heavily against it while his opposite hand raises a goblet of blood, sloshing it against the rim. His hair is half up but falling, his eyes are half closed, his cheeks are flushed, and he is aiming a raised eyebrow and salacious smirk offscreen, blood dripping off his chin and onto his chest. /end ID

[undercoverpena]

isn't it

din djarin x f!reader

summary: at first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at. but, at some point between your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.

warnings: mentions of smut/alludes to smut. bad star wars writing (probs, i'm new forgive me). no use of y/n. brief mention/allusion of hand necklace (thanks @rhoorl for the term), m!oral, p in v. loosely season one/two, although likely au. wordcount: 1.7k an: a huge massive thank you to @saradika for firstly convincing me i could do this, and then letting me show her this so i could be assured i didn't butcher him. ily so much 🤍

It’s beautiful.

The sound of wind rustling through it, how it waves in spots up and down the hill—moving side to side like a cosmic wave.

You thought you’d known green until now; thought you had known silver too, assumed you understood the way reflections worked and how quick movements could be. But that was before him.

Before you’d known the feel of his solid body lay on top of yours.

Then, you discovered a lot of things. Like how easy it was to spread your thighs on either side of him. For your fingers to seek in the dark—how they effortlessly hunt and find the parts he’ll expose to the night, but never to the light.

You even found you don’t hate the sound of your name when he says it. Somehow makes it longer, more impactful—like it has meaning when it comes from his mouth.

All of which were things you’d never known before you convinced him to bring you.

A promise, a barter—an exchange. Your hand clutching his blaster slugs, tears clutching to your lashes, flowing from your eyes—aware of what you look like, aware of the desperation you reek of.

Just take me to a different planet. A suitable one. Please.

At first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at.

A bogus reason, a ploy—all stemmed from a rising infatuation with the man under beskar. But, at some point between your cheek against the wall of his ship and your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.

But, this place is a gift—it’s a slice of heaven.

It had been a stop gap you’d almost pleaded at him not to make, a pause in the travel plan. Now you’re not sure you want to leave it.

Because here is a sea of greens, a variety, a never-ending display of every shade between the letters which make up the name. Some are more saturated, some are deeper; some are tinged with yellows and others are blotted with dark spots that aim to discolour, but just make them more unique.

There’s no bounty here—no collection to be made.

Just a sight for your eyes and a moment for him. And, you think you could sit here for hours and bask in it. Take it in. Allow the air of this planet to fill your lungs and carve a space inside of you that no one will ever be able to rip from you.

Stroking your fingers through the ground, you feel how your tunic presses to your spine—how it’s held there by the perspiration on your spine. The fabric desperate to blow, to whip around your ribs and the sleeves to float around your arms.

You don’t care that it’s warm—don’t mind that you can feel your skin prickling under it.

Because you’re lost in it, the limitlessness of this place. How surreal it is that each blade points north to the sky, all upright, anchored pleasingly to the ground it came from.

Things had been beautiful earlier too, you remind yourself.

When you had been enveloped by darkness, not a slither of light—not that there’d be the space for it in the small cot. His hands, forever a staple, an anchor, to your hips, determined to pin you there.

He’s a man who chases after those who run, and you suppose it’s ingrained in him. This belief that everyone, at some point, will leave—will go. You think it’s why he holds you tightly when you’re nothing but bare; you suppose it’s why after, when he unsheathes himself, he always traces his thumb over the places his fingers have been, reminding your skin he’s kind, just in case you need another reminder not to leave.

“We should go.”

You hum because you should. Yet, your mind rationalises that the baby is still asleep and there are more minutes to sit in the silence, to not dwell—you suppose it’s why your hand reaches up, and brushes over the gloved fingers instead.

Action is easier than words when it comes to him.

A game the two of you play, one of silence and strategy—wondering who’d be the first to crack and speak more words than necessary. You suspect it’ll be you in time, likely soon enough.

It’s why you clutch, cling. Weaving and working until you’re holding his fingers at an odd angle, a silent plea there, a wishful hope spoken without using syllables or your lips and mouth.

“One more minute.”

“Okay,” you respond.

Watching the strands move again, swaying, dancing.

A content sigh rolls from you, and briefly—in the back of your mind, you wonder if you’re really awake. Whether this is some form of peace your brain has concocted after the sight of him stained in crimson; his palms flat in the air, modulator expelling he’s fine, it isn’t his, he’s okay, it’s okay—

For a while, you’d believed him, until you felt the bruises—all pulsing and colouring in shades you can’t imagine. An image being drawn, shaded in—forever in black and white, just outlines and half-concocted feelings you have on what lives under his armour.

He sighs next to you, it rattling out through his helmet.

And you wait to hear it, the confirmation he normally hands you. Deep, even through his modulator that this “isn’t it” either.

It’s been a routine ever since the two of you began this dalliance. Ever since you’d smuggled yourself aboard his ship with the promise that you’d never ask him for anything else.

Neither realising how false that would be.

You beg for a lot. For more, for his lips, his fingers and his cock. You wait for the darkness, count down to it—thrum with excitement for it when he steps down the ladder and his helmet is aimed in your direction.

Somehow, no words are said, just mutual acknowledgement, acceptance. Or that's what you call it. It being seemingly better than admitting that you crave it—him. That you care, that the sight of him smeared in ruby still haunts you—lingers there, bleeds into good days and casts shadows while you wait in the hull. The child in your arms, soothing him—telling yourself you’re giving him comfort, when you suppose you gain more from the small being than you could ever provide.

“This isn’t it,” he eventually says from above.

His helmet turned, and you imagine the eyes that live under it. Question if they’re almond-shaped or hooded, whether they’re brown, green or blue. You also wonder if he looks at you with curiosity or want, whether it’s with a thousand thoughts running or none at all.

“No?”

“No. Not this one.”

That’s when you close your eyes. Let your ears do the seeing.

Allow your other senses to kick in, to swallow the lack of sight and make do. You end up lingering on the gloved hand in yours—the one which sometimes slides around your neck, lightly pinches either side as you moan at the feel of him. The same hand which slides down your spine to aid your motion, or lingers there when the terrain isn't trouble-free.

It's the remembering which makes you let go of it, of him.

Quickly managing to pretend your hand doesn’t feel cold when you do. Stuff down the emptiness that begins to drown you in the space you put between you, as you stand up. A part of you admitting defeat, silently saying goodbye to tall stands of green and the rolling hills adorned with shades.

“Thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

It rumbles from you. All heavy, laced in its own metal—ready to slam into him and take him down.

It doesn’t. You’re not sure any words ever could.

You suppose it’s why he says nothing, silently following, not too far so that you’re alone, but not close enough that you can feel the ghost of his touch. The distance measured, all purposeful. It remains so until you’re back aboard, until the door closes behind you and you’re once again surrounded by metal.

A part of you knows you shouldn’t grow used to him, shouldn’t be waiting for him to flood your spine with his chest. But you do—you really fucking do.

It’s why you don’t move, don’t take a step closer to check on the baby or even unclench your hand from around the strands of green you’d stolen. The ones you’d ripped up from the ground, roots tickling your wrist—the rest remaining tucked closely between curled fingers and a sweaty palm.

Yours. The smallest piece of a place you’ll likely never see.

“You should sleep.”

It’s an order. Direct—practically thrown at you. Followed by a tight grip on your waist, fingers finding the same place they always do. His place. The one not needing a mark, but he leaves them all the same, ownership, a possession.

Sometimes in the throes of it, you hear him hiss mine, jus’ mine—your head nodding in the dark, because you are, you know you are, the same as you suspect he knows he’s yours. It’s another thing which festers behind your teeth, keeping lips clamped shut, knowing it requires no confirmation, no words in exchange for the momentary slip-up he lets escape. But then, you offer nothing when you trace mine against him with your tongue, when you muffle the words around his shaft as your mouth widens to take more of him.

It’s just pleasure, an easy-to-choose solution to another body being in proximity—a lie you tell yourself.

One you bargain with when he sleeps and you’re coated in the dark, convincing yourself until sleep carries you away and you wake to find yourself either alone or the very opposite.

Because it’s easier, simpler. Far better than admitting your heart does a double take when he returns, that you yearn for him in the days that pass when he leaves you on the ship.

It’s less complicated than asking him if you’ll ever be worthy of seeing him.

And you’re not the type of person to question. So you don’t.

And so the routine continues.

an: you don't know how long this has been burning in my head.

[lukadarkwater]

Y’all Nintendo really said Zelink rights 😭🥺

I made one of my first goals to get to Link’s house and it was exactly what I was hoping for. It actually feels like a lived in house now! It’s cozy! It clearly has photos Zelda took hanging up in it.

And, what’s more, Zelda and Link obviously lived there together after they defeated Ganon. Her diary is there and the secret well diary was just the cherry on top.

“No matter where I go to offer aid, Link remains at my side” like please 😭

This is so much more than I thought we would get in terms of confirming our collective headcannon that she moved in with him and I love it. I can just picture Link helping her as she built the school and her slowly making their house into a home for both of them.

Them healing and growing together after everything they went through is so important to me because no one else really understands and seeing the proof of that warms my heart. And now I guess I’m going to have to go break into the castle to find my new tunic because her repairing it for him is adorable.

Also I see that single bed Nintendo and you cannot convince me that they aren’t sharing it.

[apparelcorporate]

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[atsadi-shenanigans]

You Could Just Ask

Summary:

“You still gonna be a jackass to our friends instead of just asking me to pleasure you?” you say. He swallows. His adam’s apple bobs. “If this is my reward, absolutely.” He can’t see you smile at this angle. He can feel your grip leave his cock to slide your fingers through his hair before you grab. Still slow, still steady, giving him plenty of opportunity to stop you. He don’t. He lets you pull his head back, bare his throat, and only whimpers and shivers against you.

Or: Astarion is terrible about communicating what he wants. But Eleanor is getting good at translating gremlin.

Astarion has been in a fucking mood for two days now. It’s driving you nuts, it’s driving everybody nuts, and by all accounts, it’s driving him nuts. Ain’t nobody can put a finger on it, neither. He’s well fed, y’all went on a murder spree day before yesterday, and he even found a nice, silk jacket to wear around camp.

Man’s got it made.

And decided to be a bitch about it.

You sit at the breakfast fire, needlessly poking at the embers with a stick while he makes snide swipes at Gale’s cooking (which he don’t eat), Karlach’s clutter (she just found a stuffed owlbear to match Clive), and Lae’zel sharpening her weapons (he got a point, there).

Even Wyll stares at the fire, shoulders set in a tense line. Something’s gonna snap if somebody don’t do something.

“It’s not as if you can deal any real damage,” Astarion says to Shadowheart, who tried to get him off Gale’s ass and is now taking the brunt of it. “We all saw how accurate your spells were in the temple.”

She looks all cool and collected. Just lifts one of her eyebrows. But her knuckles are white as her fists tremble. Shadowheart fought off the mother superior of her former, well, it ain’t called a church, here. But she fought the bitch and won and she paid for it.

“That’s it.” You stand

Astarion clocks the movement and turns to face you (stares down his nose at you; or tries to since you two are the same damn height).

“Y’all wanna head out?” you say over your shoulder to the others as they stash their day gear into their packs. “I think we’ll stay here, today.”

“Gladly,” Gale mutters in an outside voice.

“Welcome to it,” Karlach says which means hoo-boy, even she’s getting pissy.

Wyll gives you a blank look, that slowly morphs into a sly “good luck” sort of grin. Turd. Everybody thinks the Blade of Frontiers is so upstanding, much nobility, wow. But Wyll is a sly little shit, is what he is. He just hides it real good until it’s time to strike.

They all shuffle on outta there double quick. Astarion watches them go as he checks his nails for damage that ain’t there.

Then you’re alone—well and truly, Shadowheart and her half-elven hearing—and you turn to your exasperating lover.

“The fuck was all that?” you say.

He just looks at you, all unimpressed. Sniffs. “What was what, dear? You’ll have to be more specific.”

You will not throw your camp slipper at him. He dodges too well, and then you got to go fetch the damn thing before either Scratch of Sweetums gets it and demolishes it (or drops it in the river, bad dog) (but not really bad bad dog, and he got pets later on, anyway).

“You’re being a dick,” you say.

To which he, predictably, rolls his eyes. “As if it’s my fault we’re surrounded by incompetent idiots.”

His gaze flicks down. Just for a second. You almost miss it, but it landed on the top of your tunic. You got yourself a new one of those, too. But only to wear around camp, cause it’s got itself a damn titty window under some satin neck straps. Astarion’s pupils flare wide a second, and then he glares at you as if challenging you to comment.

You been together several times, in several way by now. He usually initiates (you did once). But you got a suspicion.

You step closer. Reach out slow and careful to crook your finger over the top of his trousers, since he tucks his shirt in and all. Then you pull, slow and steady, leave him plenty of time and distance to stop you or pull away.

But his pupils dilate again, and he steps into you. Lets you drag him flush against your front.

“Astarion,” you say. The man actually licks his lips. “Did you get horny and decide to be an asshole to everybody about it?”

A hint of a smile tugs his lips before he buries that under scorn. “Of course not.”

But you’re learning his tells. The way his gaze hovers over your face, darts down to the titty window and the hint of cleavage like a hummingbird. Also the less than subtle grind against you as he says it.

“Were you being a dick to get us alone?” you say.

A pause, this time. His voice wobbles a touch when he says, “No.”

You lean in. Catch the way his face tilts to meet you.

“I think you’re lying,” you say against his lips. “I think you want me alone, and I think you went all bratty so I’d feel ornery about it.”

His inhale stutters. A minute shiver runs through him. “And what would you do if you were, ahem, ‘ornery?’”

It’s mind boggling how much things’ve changed in the months since y’all met. Since the disastrous first days of…this. That you can be here now, with him, talking like this? It’s a minor miracle.

He’s so fully pressed into you you can feel his cock twitch even through the cotton trousers.

“Did you do all this so I’d fuck you?” you say. You cannot keep the smile off your face or outta your voice.

He finally cracks. Closes his eyes and runs his lips over yours. Drawls, “Maybe.”

“Is it the strap?” you say. He’d picked it out and purchased it in the city, and then the nice sex shop man showed you how to put it on and, well, implied how to use it. And clean it (that part was very explicit, detailed instructions.)

The tip of his tongue swipes your upper lip. His hands ghost up your sides.

“Would you?” he says.

He takes charge in the sheets. But he bought that dildo to use on him, and he seemed to enjoy it when you did (he whimpered as you fucked him).

You’re learning what you like in terms of dirty talk (it’s surprisingly graphic). He’s an excellent teacher. So you gird your loins, ignore the heat all the way down your neck, and open your mouth. “You want me to spread you wide on my cock and fuck you all better?”

He sucks in a gasp. “Gods, darling, yes.”

Then his lips crash into yours and you’re both stumbling towards y’all’s shared tent.

The rest on AO3 for very, very rated E reasons.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 12, 21 mars 1869, Paris. Toilettes de Mme Bréant-Castel, 28. r. Nve. des Pts Champs. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Robe de dessous en faye vert lumière. Le bord inférieur est garni d'un volant ayant 25 centimètres de hauteur, surmonté d'une ruche chicorée; sur chaque côté cette ruche se sépare, forme un angle droit et remonte jusqu'à la ceinture, de façon à simuler une seconde robe, tandis que le volant représente la robe dessous. Tunique faite avec un crêpe de chine blanc, brodé de fleurs de couleur; la frange du châle sert de garniture à la tunique. Celle-ci est relevée à l'aide de ruches en faye verte de façon à former un très-large pouff par derrière. Ceinture verte se fermant sous un chou assorti. Corsage décolleté en faye vert, recouvert de gaze blanche, et bordé ainsi que les manches courtes de ruches en dentelle. Coiffure de roses thé et roses.

Robe de dessous en pékin rouge à raies satinées, garnie d'un volant coupé en biais ayant 40 centimètres de hauteur. Robe de dessus en cachemire noir brodé, garnie d'une frange noire. Mantelet pareil à la robe, croisé par devant et à revers, fixé par derrière de façon que les pans forment une sorte de tournure assez volumineuse. Le corsage, ouvert, est en cachemire noir. Les manches sont à revers brodés comme ceux du mantelet.

—

Underdress in light green faye. The lower edge is trimmed with a ruffle 25 centimeters high, topped with a chicory ruffle; on each side this ruffle separates, forms a right angle and goes up to the belt, so as to simulate a second dress, while the ruffle represents the dress underneath. Tunic made with white crepe de chine, embroidered with colored flowers; the fringe of the shawl serves as trim for the tunic. This is raised using green faye ruching so as to form a very large pouff from behind. Green belt closing under a matching collar. Low-cut bodice in green faye, covered with white gauze, and edged as well as the short sleeves with lace ruffles. Tea rose and rose hairstyle.

Underdress in red pekin with satin stripes, trimmed with a bias-cut ruffle measuring 40 centimeters in height. Top dress in embroidered black cashmere, trimmed with black fringe. Mantle similar to the dress, crossed at the front and at the cuff, fixed at the back so that the sides form a sort of rather voluminous turn. The open bodice is in black cashmere. The sleeves have embroidered cuffs like those of the mantlet.

[milliesdiary]

i know aemond is seen as this really serious, harsh man, but i can’t stop thinking about him being gentle and reserved when being intimate with you for the first time.

his touch is slow and calculated, especially when he carefully unties the ribbons holding the back of your dress together. his icy eye is on you, and although his sharp stare seems cold, he’s just ensuring that you will not pull away. the whisper of a smile is on his lips when you struggle to unbuckle the belts that line the front of his leather tunic — something he finds endearing but would never vocalize. 

aemond lays you on the bed once you’re undressed and just stands at the end of the mattress, staring down at you as he undresses himself, placing his clothing onto the back of a chair. 

before you can even make a sound at how beautiful he is, aemond climbs on top of you, his platinum hair brushing against your cheeks. he kisses you — once, twice, three times — and runs one of his rough hands from your neck down to your thighs, nose brushing your own as you pant against his mouth. his fingers are so slow to rub at your sex, collecting all of your wetness, and aemond hums at your pretty little reactions. he knows the first time can be painful for a woman, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you, so he takes his time working you open with his fingers and making you cum at least once.

and then once aemond finally enters you, he can see how close you want to be; physical affection is not his his strong-suit, but he pulls you against his chest anyway, breath hitching with yours. his thrusts are so deep and languid, and he tries to get your mind off of any pain by rubbing at your clit methodically and whispering to you in high valyrian. aemond drinks up any moans and whines you give him, and will even let you take off his eye patch if you wish. there’s so much warmth and heavy breathing and grunts and you two are just so connected, in spirit and in body. aemond draws another orgasm from you with ease before finishing with an intense one his own <3

[its-poojagupta-shree]

http://www.articles.mybikaner.com/Articles-of-2020/decoding-art-styling-tunics-every-occasion

In fashion, tunics stand out as versatile and timeless wardrobe essentials. These flowy, longer tops have a unique ability to effortlessly transition from casual to formal, making them a go-to choice for fashion-conscious individuals. In this blog, we will delve into the art of styling tunics for every occasion, exploring how these garments can be adorned to suit various settings, from casual outings to formal events.