#moody maximalist furniture

[hermoodymaximalismhome]

@relovedmcr

[terrence-silver]

What kind of bedroom would Terry have

---

I present to you: Ennis House's brutalist, concrete block bedroom!

With the sole exception that I'd make Terry's actual bed in the 1980's into something more eccentric and luxurious. Less typically utilitarian. Something with actual arches and canopies. Something grand and slightly intimidating? Something with a gothic, period type flare? Maybe something like this?

Present day, though, in his Malibu seaside mansion where we're first re-introduced to him, I'd opt for more open concept spaces. Modern minimalism. Clean. Pristine. Lots of whites. Pale colors. An abundance of natural light and glass as opposed to his dark, gritty, gothic (Slightly maximalist?) bedroom of the 80's. Never more furniture than is needed --- in fact, only the bare essentials. A hub meant to rest the eyes and the soul and arranged by precise Feng Shui, without distractions, wholly decluttered, with colossal windows where everything seems pleasantly transparent. Perhaps symbolizing him supposedly turning a new page and his dwelling and sleeping spaces intending to reflect that, being as orderly, clean cut and put together as his life was intended to be. And I do envision something as stark and almost as intentionally and meticulously bare as this, with a vast vista overlooking the ocean. It's only perhaps a little too empty for comfort. De-personalized.

How about when he goes back to his old ways and changes manors once more and he ends up in that forested looking estate where his weapon collection is stashed? The place where he invites Chozen for dinner? The color palette of that home is infinitely different; lots of dark wood, tall shelves, labyrinthian hallways that seem a bit tight, black marble panels, blackout curtains and heavy draperies, a sense of everything being more closed off from all sides, brooding fireplaces and his bedroom is likely to take on a more moody tone by extension too. What I imagine is a lot of modern elegance, a foreboding palette, dim and seductive lights and the overall sense of excess privacy dominating the premises as opposed to before, especially the bedroom, giving off the impression that the place is secluded, overlooking a private, walled off patch of woodland he owns. If anything, Terry's the opposite of someone posturing to be open and rehabilitated in this stage.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

Chapter Summary: The first day in LA is a mixed bag.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, video call, awkward/nervous speech patterns, toxic mother/family of origin issues, food/eating/hunger, argument, mentions of: infidelity, addiction, death, and infertility, crying, comfort sex, dirty talk, eating ass, oral sex (both r) face fucking, deep throating, squirting, anal play and sex, impact play, hair pulling, maybe a hint of degradation

Notes: Chapter title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty. Oooo a new banner, who is she?! I apologize for how long this is, it really got outta hand. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

“Holy shit, Dee,” you breathe, squinting as your eyes adjust from the darkness of the garage to the bright, open home. 

Dieter walks ahead of you, tossing his keys and sunglasses on a glass console table, kicking his shoes off onto the gleaming hardwood floor. Each noise seems amplified in the jarring silence. 

It smells like lemon pine-sol, and, based on how uncharacteristically spotless everything appears, you guess that he has someone come in and clean while he’s away. 

“It’s–I mean, wow–” you stammer, shaking your head as you examine your surroundings. 

The vaulted ceiling’s stained teak backbone stretches from one end of the house to the other, rafters extending from the beam like wooden ribs. On one side of you lies a dining room and kitchen, on the other, a living room and patio entrance. Light pours in through the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows like giant frames showcasing the greenery of the patio, all lush with palm fronds and waxy-leaved bushes. 

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter. 

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist. 

Jewel- and earth-toned furniture, in all different finishes and fabrics, fill the open floor plan. The white walls are cluttered by art, a hodgepodge of creations. Prints and acrylic paintings and black ink illustrations, including some of Dieter’s originals. Plants are scattered around, next to windows and on tables, thriving in their glazed ceramic pots. 

Your fingers twitch, longing to experience every texture this buffet of materials has to offer. You feel yourself getting a little moon-eyed as you marvel at the place he calls home. It’s surreal.

And, if you’re being honest, daunting. 

When Dieter spends time with you in your domain, you feel you know him at his core. A loveable, chaotic, free spirit, who busies himself sketching and “taste testing” while you bake. Which mostly just means he eats cookies off the cooling rack when he thinks you’re not looking, but sometimes he draws pictures of you while he does it. 

You know him as someone who watches shitty TV and shittier movies with you just so you can make fun of them together, someone who theorizes out-loud about existentialism and Garfield in the same breath, who wraps himself around you when you sleep because, even when he’s dreaming, he wants your skin clinging to his. 

You don’t know him as Dieter Bravo, Academy Award Winning Actor. 

No. 

To you, he’s Dee. The man you fell in love with so haphazardly, it sometimes makes you question your own sanity. 

The existence of this other part of his life, with film sets and photoshoots and interviews and stylists and red carpet premieres, all these stringent show pony requirements, so paradoxical to the person you know and love… It makes you uneasy. 

Is he different when he’s here? 

Is Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Movie Star, the same man as Dee, Bubble Bath Connoisseur?

It’s something you’ve largely been able to ignore. 

But, since you’re being honest, you can admit that the disparities between his life and yours make your skin crawl sometimes. 

Like right now, when you’re standing here in the entryway of his gorgeous home, whose property value is probably greater than your lifetime’s gross income, holding the handle of your ratty old carry-on suitcase. Your piece of shit suitcase, with its broken zipper, and this big tear in the side.  

Which, really, has never bothered you before. It’s a goddamn suitcase. It holds things from point a to point b, and this works just fine. 

But Dieter has this ridiculous fucking suitcase with a heavy-duty metallic shell, and 360-degree wheels that glide effortlessly through airports, and a fucking phone charger. A fucking phone charger in a suitcase, seriously?

It’s just so… exactly how you fucking feel standing next to him sometimes. 

And, as if to prove your point, when you release the handle of your piece of shit carry-on, it topples over sideways against his space-age phone charger on wheels. 

All you can do is sigh. Stare at luggage. Try to ignore the voice that bombards your thoughts, telling you he’s obviously out of your league. 

Sneering at you, saying, “Get real, this fucking guy is way too rich to be humoring you.”

Saying, “Louella Rose, once he knows you’re trash, he’ll be gone for good, I can tell you that much.”

“Want me to show you around?” Dieter asks, the low timbre of his voice a butter knife cutting through the thick fog of your thoughts. He steps closer and plants his wide palm on the small of your back. 

You turn to him with a smile you know is flaccid, but nod, “Lead the way.” 

He studies you for a moment, dark eyes darting around your face, no doubt sensing the apprehension you can’t shake, and proves your suspicion true when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens and you drop your gaze to the colorful entryway rug beneath your feet, shaking your head as you admit, “I—I don’t know. I’m… kind of freaking out, I think,” your voice cracks, and words start to tumble from your mouth, “I just keep thinking that I don’t belong here, like I’m too fucking poor to be doing this, I mean, to be here, and-and I’m so fucking nervous that I’m gonna fuck this up somehow—”

“Hey, come on,” Dieter coos, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, “Look at me, Lua.”

You do. 

His eyes bore into yours, unblinking and sincere, “It’s gonna be ok. I promise.”

Your brows press together and you swallow hard, then nod. 

“We’re gonna do this stupid interview, which you’re gonna fucking nail–”

You look away. 

He tilts your chin towards his face again, refusing to let you hide, repeating, “Which you’re gonna fucking nail. You know why?”

You just stare at him, half-expecting him to say because you have to or I won’t love you anymore, but instead, he says, “Because you are fucking amazing, Louella. You are brilliant, and gorgeous, and genuine, and hilarious, and capable of fucking anything. Ok?”

His words, so sure and earnest, soothe your inflamed sense of worthlessness. 

A burning sensation works up your throat, then spreads behind your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and croak, “Don’t say things like that to me, it’s too sweet and makes me cry.”

“Listen here, doll,” he cups your face and raises his eyebrows, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, “I’ll compliment you as much as I goddamn please.”

You let out a wet, nasally chuckle and link your hands behind his neck, then sniffle, “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. His thumbs work against your damp cheeks as he brings his lips to yours, gentle and soft. 

When he pulls back, he clears his throat and turns back to the vacant house, “Alright, sweet cheeks, let’s give you the official tour.”

The term of endearment makes you laugh and shake your head, “Dieter, I swear to god–” 

He grabs your hand and tugs you onward, ignoring your feigned protest. 

At the tail end of the tour, Dieter swings open the door to his spacious bedroom. You recognize the tall, chartreuse walls and the puffy white linens tucked around his bed. 

Of all the rooms in his house, including the art studio set up down the hall, this is the one that feels the most like Dee. It’s a little messy, but in a lived-in way you expect from him. Relatively no-frills. Comfortable. Homey. It smells like him, not like lemon pine-sol. 

You gravitate towards a chest of drawers that sits opposite his bed, grinning at a pile of rings, lighters, coins, and crumpled up cash. A big, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall above it catches your attention. 

All kinds of paper mementos are stuffed into the mirror’s frame. Your eyes wander along the edge, stopping to study a picture of him, much younger and more angular than he appears now, with a woman whose bright, dimpled smile matches his. 

“Is that your mom?” you ask, pointing to it. 

“Yeah,” he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your middle, tucking your shoulder under his chin, watching you through the mirror as your eyes leapfrog to each little piece of him.

A ticket stub to a Prince concert at Madison Square Garden in July 2004. 

An old polaroid of two dark-haired young boys roller skating. 

“Tomás?” 

“Mhmm.”

You tilt your head and frown, “Can I ask you something?” 

“No,” he deadpans, blinking at you through the mirror. 

“Shut up,” you snort, then ask, “Why the fuck are you named Dieter?”

He laughs at this, throwing his head back to boom at the ceiling before returning to your reflected gaze. 

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks. 

“Yes!” you laugh, covering your mouth, “Is that your real name?!”

“No,” he grins, then shrugs, “Well, legally it is. But my parents named me Manuel Diego Soto Flores. Diego is what everyone called me.”

“Stop it, oh my god. You are blowing my fucking mind right now,” you shake your head at the whiplash this information gives you, then pause, “Wait, why did you change it?”

“My agent suggested I use a stage name way back when. Dieter Bravo sounded cool,” he explains, and chuckles a little as he tells you, “I got in an argument with my folks about it when work started picking up, and legally changed it just to piss them off.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows and laugh, “That is… truly petty.” 

“That it is,” he sighs, his smile faltering. 

“So, what am I supposed to call you? Diego? Dieter?” you smirk, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

You hold his gaze for a few moments, relishing the heat that swells in your chest, then resume your study of his artifacts, squinting to read the faded black ink of a few movie stubs lined up together: Eyes Wide Shut, Donnie Darko, The Departed, Fight Club, Whiplash, Titanic, Toy Story 3. 

Next to them, you spot a wrinkled brown paper square, etched with unruly black ink strokes into a blueberry branch. You tilt your head at it, then glance down at the blueberry branch tattooed on your forearm. 

Your eyes flick to the reflection of Dieter’s face and find him already staring at you. A question creases your forehead, and he answers with a shrug. Tingles spread across your belly. You smooth your hand against his and leave it there. 

“Look, I printed the ones from the elevator,” he chuckles, pointing to a picture of the two of you stuffed into one side of the mirror’s frame, stone-faced, black grease paint and mascara co-mingling with red lipstick, smudged all over your mouths and cheeks. Below that, the shot Dieter took a second later when you both broke, faces lit up with laughter, eyes bent up into barely visible crescents. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, hand flying to your mouth, “Come on, we have way cuter pictures than those.”

“Those are my favorite, though,” he smiles, kisses your cheek, then tucks your shoulder back under his chin.

You shake your head and sigh, grinning as you tell him, “Fuck, I like you.”

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his. 

“I like you, too,” he murmurs. 

“Thank god, or this would be really awkward,” you joke as you return your gaze to the relics framing his mirror. 

A snapshot of him, a generation younger, all gaunt and baby-faced, leaning against a high top table crowded with half-empty cups, ice cube islands rising from brown mixed drinks. Two young men across the table from him, his arm draped around a young woman’s shoulders. All four of them glow with a boozy shine, wide and carefree smiles stretched across their faces. 

“Who’re these people?”

“Old friends from my theater days in New York,” he murmurs, “I don’t talk to them much anymore. There’s Glenn, you might’ve met him.”

He points to a tan guy with a brown pompadour and a very punchable face, who’s wearing a baby blue polo shirt and holding up his middle finger. 

You sift through your memory for someone who might have looked like that fifteen or twenty years ago, but come up blank and shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“He was at Katie’s party that one night, and, uhh… actually, I almost brought him up to your apartment the first time I met you, but he was being an asshole and wouldn’t get out of the car.” 

“Not ringing any bells,” you frown, “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he mutters, “Well, I would certainly introduce you to them. If I had any.” 

You try to think of a contradiction to this statement, racking your brain for an instance of him at least hinting at the existence of a friend. 

“What about all the people you party with?”

“Haven't done much of that lately. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip, “Those aren’t friends. Never were. And, uhh… I did a solid job alienating my real friends a long time ago.” 

You look at him through the mirror. 

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away. 

A sharp pain splits your sternum. 

You wriggle around to face him, cupping his cheeks, brushing your thumbs against his patchy beard until he meets your eyes again. Then you tell him, “I’m your friend. Parker’s your friend. You’re not alone anymore, ok?”

His shoulders slump and eyebrows thread together, molding his features into this tender expression that makes your stomach flip and chest ache. 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. You slide your hands to the back of his head to comb your fingers through his soft curls. 

A commotion erupts at the other end of the house. The front door opening and closing. Rustling and conversation. A feminine voice echoes down the hall, calling, “Hello?” 

“That must be them,” he murmurs, and starts away, but you pull him back. You wrap your arms around his midsection and bury your face against his t-shirt. 

“Wait, just… a little bit longer,” you say, closing your eyes to soak up the warmth from his body. It seeps into your bloodstream and feels like sunshine in your veins. He rests his head against your hair, taking a deep breath in, and you feel his body relax again. 

The clack-clack-clack sound of heels against the hardwood floor draws closer, but the two of you just stand there, all wrapped up in the other, until someone crosses the threshold to his room, comes to a stop, and says, “Oh, you are here.”

You part and turn towards the intrusion: A neatly made-up, petite, brunette woman wearing a fitted navy blue pantsuit. 

“Darlene,” Dieter greets, crossing the room to envelop her in a one-armed hug. They press a chaste kiss into the other’s cheek. He returns to your side, palm sliding against the small of your back, and introduces you both, “Darlene, Louella, Louella, Darlene.”

You meet her meticulous hazel eyes and smile wide, outstretching your hand to shake hers, “Hi, so nice to meet you.” 

She reaches out and accepts the invitation. Both your gazes drop to study the contrast of your hands. Hers are dainty, soft, blemish-free; adorned with shiny, blush pink fingernails smoothed to rounded tips. Yours bear the scars and calluses earned by over a dozen years of baking, your naked, short fingernails hosting jagged edges from nervous biting. 

When you step back, heat creeps up the back of your neck. She looks so… unimpressed. Annoyed, even. The barely perceptible twitch of her thin eyebrow cocking, lip curling, eyes flicking around your person like she’s identifying weak spots. Then she plasters on a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and asks, “Do you prefer Louella or Lua?” 

“I don’t care,” you chuckle nervously, “Lou, Lua, Louella, whatever you want.”

You glance at Dieter, swallowing hard. He smooths his thumb against your spine.

“I’ll call you Louella,” Darlene decides with a quick nod, then looks from you, to Dieter, “Should we get started? We have a lot of work to do.” 

On your way to the dining room, you cross paths with a short, curvy woman whose brown, tightly coiled hair bounces around her round face as she hauls two thick garment bags into a bedroom. She peaks over the luggage and calls, “Oh, hi!” when she spots you. 

She spins on the heel of her beige pumps to face you, shifting the bags to one hip, “Louella, right?” 

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her. 

“Kelly,” her hot pink lips stretch into a bright smile and she shakes your hand, looking you up and down before diverting her dark eyes to Dieter, “Nice catch, Bravo.” 

Dieter smirks at the comment, eyeing her tenuous grip on the bags, “Need some help?”

She just scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him before spinning around and starting down the hallway. Dieter shrugs after her, then ushers you into the dining room, where a frantic looking young man is setting out three labeled mint green to-go boxes on the stained oak table, assigning seats to you, Dieter, and Darlene. 

“Lua, this is Lincoln, my PA,” Dieter gestures between the two of you, “Lincoln this is Lua, my girlfriend.”

“Hi,” Lincoln tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear and leans his tall frame across the table, extending his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” you meet his ocean blue eyes as you take it in yours and shake it. Dieter settles into his assigned dining room chair, leaning back against the burnt orange suede. You take your seat next to him. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Lincoln flashes a quick smile, then glances from Dieter, back to you, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” you grin over at Dieter, who’s crossing his ankle over his knee, watching you with amusement, and tell Lincoln, “Good things, I hope.”

“Terrible things,” Dieter teases, letting his head dangle to one side. 

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

A nutty aroma wafts up from the box with your name on it. You recognize the briny sharpness and name it, “Oh, fuck, did you get us pad thai?”

“It’s from that place you wanted to try,” Dieter tells you. 

You wiggle and clap your hands together, reaching for the box as Darlene approaches the table. Lincoln scurries into the kitchen and makes himself look busy. She sits down with a sense of urgency that makes you fold your hands in your lap and sit up straighter. 

“Here’s the plan,” she pushes the takeout box away, leaning over her open notebook, “Interview with DIRT at 4:00 today. Louella, we’ll practice your answers for a bit, then Kelly will help you pick some clothes,” her eyes flick from the notebook, to you, then to Dieter, and she says, “While you’re in town, I think it’ll be good for the two of you to be seen in public together, but I have some ground rules—”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” Dieter groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as he leans his elbows onto the table, “What are we, teenagers?”

“Well, Dieter, play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she blinks at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he scoffs.

“It means,” she snips, zeroing in on him, “With all the bullshit you’ve pulled in the past year, you’re not exactly rolling in prospects, are you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just clenches his jaw. 

She continues, “It’s a goddamn miracle you managed to land that Mike Flannigan job—”

You turn to him and gasp, “You got it?!” 

This big, giddy smile spreads across his face when he meets your eyes and nods, “Yeah.”

“But he could lose it if this doesn’t go right,” Darlene advises, pulling your attention to her. She shoots a glare from you to Dieter, “So we’re going to follow my direction, right?” 

Your face falls and you clear your throat, then stammer, “Y—yeah, of course.” 

Dieter shifts in his seat, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands. 

“As I was saying,” Darlene continues, raising an eyebrow as she drops her gaze to the notebook, “You’re both to be on your best behavior while in public. No drugs, no parties, no more than a glass of wine, no public fornication. We’re going full Disney rules of conduct, ok?”

When Darlene blinks up at you, you nod, “No problem.” 

“Alright, let’s rehearse some Q&A,” she sighs, turning her attention back to her notebook. 

She runs through questions the interviewer might ask, reconstructing your answers from nervous ramblings into practiced statements. It’s like a mental boot camp the way she attacks this, and, honestly, it’s quite impressive. 

When Darlene is confident you won’t respond to questions like: “How did you and Dieter meet?” with answers like: “We dropped acid in a closet with my best friend,” the drills cease. Just when you think you’re safe to open that mint green box with your name on it, Darlene stands from the table, “Alright, let’s go see what Kelly has for you.”

You have to physically restrain yourself from pouting as she starts off down the hall. 

“Here, quick,” Dieter shoves his open container of pad thai in your hands. You manage to take a few bites before Darlene comes back to see where she lost you. 

“Coming, sorry,” you swallow and give it back to him. 

Darlene and Kelly decide you’re wearing a balloon-sleeved white silk blouse and a high-waisted, billowing, floral skirt that comes down to your ankles. 

Once your makeup and hair are styled, and you're all done up and presentable, not unlike a feral mutt turned show dog, Darlene holds her hand out to you, palm facing the ceiling, and says, “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.” 

“Oh,” you frown at her, then at the simple gold band on your left hand’s ring finger. With a heavy blue sigh, you slide it off your finger, and drop it in her extended hand. 

When you emerge from the bedroom, Darlene trailing behind you, Dieter is pacing the length of the living room, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-up and navy blue slacks. He spots you and stops in his tracks. A grin spreads across his face, “Oh wow, look at you.” 

“Look at you,” you counter, matching his smile as you look him up and down. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, then strides over to you and kisses you. His lips are eager when they meet yours. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and arch your back into him, losing yourself momentarily. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “You look like… a sexy kindergarten teacher. I like it.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Oh yeah, this is doing it for you?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” he rumbles, then grips your waist and kisses you again.

“Alright, it’s almost time,” Darlene prods impatiently from a few feet away, “Where’s your laptop?”

Dieter mutters something under his breath, then steps back from your embrace and tells her, “I’ll go get it.” 

As he goes off down the hall, you plop down on the overstuffed couch. Its deep, rich brown leather feels buttery soft against the small sections of your exposed skin. You cross your legs, smoothing the soft fabric of your skirt over your knees, “Is it a video call?” 

Darlene takes a cursory glance in the direction Dieter went, then sits down next to you, her words hushed and serious as they flee her lips, “Louella, his career is teetering on the edge of a cliff right now. One more blow could send the whole thing crashing down. Do you understand how important it is that this goes well?” 

An icy rush of panic floods your veins. You meet her hazel eyes and nod. 

“Good,” she says, searching your face, “Don’t fuck it up.” 

Lincoln and Kelly leave for the day once everything is set up. Darlene stages you and Dieter hip-to-hip in the middle of his couch, then starts pacing behind the laptop, occupying a strip of the living room’s black- and white-striped rug between the glass top coffee table and a black brick-faced wood fireplace. 

Pixelated face pops up on Dieter’s laptop screen. You can make out David Alterman’s egg-shaped bald head and thick-rimmed glasses. He says, “Hello hello, how are we doing today?” 

“Pleasure to see you,” Dieter gives a nod and drapes his arm over your shoulders. You flash a smile to the computer and wave. 

David continues, “I just want to start by saying thank you for meeting with me today. On the phone earlier, Darlene said that there were some things you wanted to discuss regarding your new friend.” 

“Girlfriend,” Dieter corrects, glances at you, then back at the screen, “There was an article by your, uhh… publication speculating who she is. We wanted to go on record and introduce her, get it all out in the open.”

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

“Oh, ok—um, hi, my name is Louella,” your voice comes out too loud, and your heart starts pumping heat through your body, up your neck, across your face. You wriggle in your seat and explain, “Sorry, I’m really nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

David chuckles, “That’s ok, dear. Why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you met?” 

Your eyes flick to Darlene in the background, following her moving form. She gives you a nod of encouragement. You take a deep breath. 

“We met at Katie’s party in February. My best friend, Parker, convinced me to go, and, yeah, I ended up meeting Dee there,” a big smile stretches across your face as you explain, “I remember meeting him, and I felt this connection to him like,” you snap your fingers, “right away. It was fucking bananas—er, sorry, regular bananas. But. It was like I had known him my whole life or something, you know? We—me, Parker, and Dee—spent the night together,” at this, you see David’s bushy brown eyebrows perk up, and your cheeks start burning, “N-not like that, like sexual or anything, we just talked and joked around. Instant friends. It was so much fun. And, you know, it’s funny, because I didn’t even know he was an actor—”

“You didn’t?” David frowns. 

“No,” you chuckle, “The next morning when we were all getting breakfast there was this guy taking pictures of us eating pancakes, which I thought was fu—um, weird, but then Dee and Parker explained… Well, y’know. Paparazzi and all that.” 

“Is that when you started dating?” 

“No,” you shake your head, glancing down to your hands, “We were just friends for a few months before that started. My, um… my husband died about a year ago in a car accident, so I was… not in a hurry to start any kind of romantic relationship.” 

Your thumb rolls along the seam of your finger that’s usually covered by your wedding band. 

“And yet, here we are. What changed?” 

“I fell in love with him,” you explain, flicking your gaze from Dieter, who squeezes your shoulder, then straight into the camera, “You know when you meet someone and it’s like… they vibrate on the same frequency as you or whatever? Like they were made to be in your life? It was like that. I don’t know, it was fucking crazy. Shit, sorry for swearing—”

“It’s fine,” David says, “I’ll edit it out.”

You release a relieved sigh, “Ok. Well, anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, neither of us were expecting this to happen. But it did. So I took a chance on him, on us, and… yeah. I’m so glad I did.” 

“That’s great,” David smiles at the camera, then looks down at his notes, “So you said the two of you met at Katie’s party—Is that Katie Wainwright?”

“Yes,” you answer. It takes all your energy to remain neutral. To keep your body from twitching in discomfort at the mention of her. 

“Are the two of you friends? Do you run in those circles?”

“Oh, no,” you snort and shake your head, “Parker is a drag performer, under the stage name Jackie Lantern, and knows quite a few theater folks in New York. It’s all him. I was just tagging along.”

“I see. And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker.” 

“Pastry artist,” Dieter interjects, leaning forward, “She makes some of the best goddamn pastries I’ve ever had in my life.” 

You beam at this. He gives you an encouraging little wink that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Oh, you have a bakery?” 

“No,” you say with a little too much haste, then stammer, “Well, not really. It’s not a brick and mortar store or anything. I run it out of my apartment. But, I’d love to—you know, someday, open a bakery.” 

“Sounds like a good investment for your boyfriend to make,” David hints.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you clear your throat and shake your head, “I want to do it myself.” 

“Independent,” David observes, then looks down to his notes, “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it. Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Dieter’s body tenses beside you. 

You furrow your brow and frown slightly, then glance up to Darlene, whose stare can only be described as a warning. 

Downshifting your face from confusion to thoughtfulness, you answer, “I think… We both have pasts that present challenges in our relationship. It’s not exactly easy-breezy all the time, but that’s the thing with love, right? You take the person, demons and all, and choose to love them anyway?”

David jots down some notes. Your guts twist when you recognize the opportunity to do what you came here to do. 

“And, you know, speaking of which, one of the things I wanted to bring up during this interview is that I—um, I have a criminal record,” you swallow hard and turn to look at Dieter. 

He takes his arm from your shoulder and closes his hands into fists, thumbs pointed upward as he presses them together and draws a circle with them. 

Together. 

Warmth washes over you and you smile at him. He slides his palm against yours and interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Oh?” 

You turn back to the laptop and sigh, “Yeah. I was arrested in 2018 on drug trafficking charges. I was convicted of a felony—and, you know, I didn’t have to serve any hard time or anything, just probation, thank fucking god, and I’ve changed a lot since then, but it’s still… still a factor,” you drop your gaze to your lap and shrug, “And, of course, the dead husband thing is a considerable amount of baggage. We live across the country from each other. There’s—there’s a lot that’s difficult about this. But I still think that what we have together is so fucking worth it.” 

“It is,” Dieter confirms, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Thank you for being so open about this, Louella. This must be hard for you to do,” David says in a monotone voice, not looking up from his note taking. 

“You have no idea,” you release a big, elated sigh, “But, like mentioned Dieter earlier, we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.” 

“I appreciate your honesty,” David says mildly, looks down to his notes, then squints up at the computer, clicking around as he tells you, “Now, after DIRT published the article questioning your identity, we received a call. I’m going to play that for you now…”

You glance from Dieter, to Darlene. Their confused expressions match yours. 

“My name is Hannah—”

Your stomach drops to the floor. You whisper, “Fuck.”

“—I hear you’re trying to figure out who this woman is with Dieter Bravo. Well, I can tell you, that’s my daughter. Her name is Louella Rose Friedman. Now I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing with this man, but I do not approve. I mean, really now, her husband died less than a year ago!”

Static tingles in your ligaments and fills your lungs. Your head shakes back and forth in protest, but her shrill voice continues to project across the room, scraping against your eardrums. 

Dieter releases your hand and leans forward, trying to speak over the recording, warning, “Ok, David, that’s enough—”

“And this man? Dieter Bravo? Just like him from what I can tell. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—”

Everything moves far away in an instant as your mind disconnects from your body. A high-pitched ringing noise dulls the noises around you. 

From far away, your mom says, “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too.”

“Stop,” Dieter grinds out over your mother’s recorded voice.

“Lost his goddamn mind, tried to kill them both—”

Darlene scrambles over to the laptop and turns it towards her, “David, this is Darlene—”

“I just don’t understand what that girl thinks she’s doing getting involved with someone like this again, especially so soon?” 

“No, nope,” Dieter stands, then booms, “This ends right FUCKING now!” 

The sudden snap of him slamming the laptop shut and the dead silence that follows jolts you like a cattle-prod.

You flee the living room, down the hallway, into Dieter’s bedroom, then dial her number. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“Louella Rose, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” your mother’s heavy midwestern accent pierces your eardrum. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, mom? What do I think I’m doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” your teeth grit and and hiss, “Calling a fucking tabloid, really?”

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

“That is fucking bullshit and you know it,” you growl, crossing an arm over your belly, pacing the floor, “You wanted fucking attention. Well, you’ve got it, congratu-fucking-lations!” 

“I’m just looking out for your best interest. That man is bad news, Louella.“

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

“I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” 

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

“You don’t fucking care! You have never fucking cared! If you cared, you would have talked to me, not a fucking tabloid. That shit you told them—” your voice cracks, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “Mom, that’s not your story to tell. It’s mine.” 

An exasperated sigh crackles in your ear, then she says, “You shouldn’t get tangled up in his world, Louella—”

“What I do, who I date, is none of your fucking business. It’s not your decision. I am a grown ass woman.”

“You might be a grown woman, but you’re still my baby girl, and I don’t want you to wind up dead this time,” she clicks her tongue against her teeth, “I’d say you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids, but that’s just another thing Ethan ruined, isn’t it?”

Your entire field of vision floods with red. 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I hang up the phone, do not contact me ever again. You are fucking dead to me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, come on, Louella, don’t be dram—”

You end the call. 

Dieter hovers a few feet from his open bedroom door. His nerves tingle with anticipation. Hushed sobs call out to him and grip his heart. 

How long does he wait before going in to comfort you? Would you rather have time alone?

Part of him feels terrible for eavesdropping. Well, eavesdropping might not be the right word, considering how your heated words reverberated from one end of his home to the other effortlessly. It’s not his fault the goddamn place is like a resonance chamber. 

Dieter hears Darlene in the living room chewing someone out over the phone. The words “so fucking unprofessional” echo down the hall, filled with venom. She’s in full tirade mode. Out for blood. 

It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction hearing her wield this rage towards someone else. 

If he knows anything about Darlene, it’s that this will take a while. She won’t stop until she’s had her fill, until her belly is swollen and ripe with vindication. Then she’ll lap the sticky blood from her hands, smoke a cigarette, and say, “Here’s what’s next.”

He raps a knuckle against the doorframe and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” 

The word is soggy and muffled. He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and finds you sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, face buried in your hands. You don’t look up at him. 

He crawls onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of your neck. Warm notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts waft off your hair. You feel so rigid under his touch.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, tugging you closer. 

“Did I fuck it all up?” 

Your voice comes out in a squeak, like you squeezed the words from your throat. Wet sobs bubble up your throat and shake your shoulders. 

“No,” Dieter frowns, “Do you really think that?”

You shrug and release a shattered breath. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he assures you, “Hey, listen to me. You were fucking amazing.” 

“But—”

“No, no buts. You were perfect. And—and brave, so fucking brave,” he nuzzles into that perfect space between your shoulder and neck and says, “I’m so proud of you, Louella.” 

“Really?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, smearing black makeup onto the luxurious white silk. 

“Holy shit, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, relishing the way your hunched up muscles seem to slacken, “Before the bullshit that rat fuck pulled, you were perfection. Killed it, I swear to god, doll. And—and none of that last part was your fault. David shouldn’t have sprang that on us, and your mom,” he scoffs and shakes his head, gnashing his jaw back and forth as he tries to choose his words carefully, then finally says, “I’m sorry, but that was fucking despicable. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” you sniffle.

“No, I definitely deserved that,” he mutters, glancing up to the mirror, meeting his own eyes only for a moment before diverting his gaze.

Your hand slides over his and you move your thumb in gentle strokes against his skin, “She’s the fucking worst, Dee.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then inquires, “Was that her on the phone?”

“Yeah,” you answer, and your voice comes out all quivering and squeaky, “I, um… I told her to never talk to me again.” 

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe. 

His pulse jumps and he stammers, “I—I wasn’t trying to or anything, I swear, the noise just carries—”

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “It’s ok.”

Your crying wanes in intensity, but the air around you is still dense and stormy. Dieter kisses your shoulder and asks, “What can I do to help you right now, baby?”

You ponder this for a long moment. When your response comes, it jolts his insides. Sucks the air from his lungs. 

“Fuck me.”

He’s not sure he heard you right, and shakes his head, “Wait, what?”

Then you reach back and run your fingers through his hair. Unravel against his chest. Let your head roll back on his shoulder. 

Dieter cranes his neck to search your face. It’s all tear-drenched, your makeup smeared, eyes puffy and red. He reaches up and squee-gees the mess with his thumb, wiping the excess onto his white comforter as you quietly tell him, “I need to get out of my head. I want—I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want it to hurt. Use me. Please.”

His insides coil and twitch. Your lips part as you scrape your nail along his jawline, beckoning him closer. 

He smooths his palms along your torso, drinking in the heat of your body through your silk shirt. Your mouth draws him in closer: a bright flame, and he’s just a moth. 

That’s how it is with you, Lua, you have to know that by now. He’s just a bug, and you’re this all-consuming fire that could burn him alive and he’d say thank you, my love, thank you for your light.

When your lips meet, his vocal chords crackle. Your mouth, plush and pliable, so delicate, he almost feels bad for the force he uses in response. 

Almost. 

You have to understand how difficult it is for him to restrain himself with you. How the tether between his humanity and deprivation pulls taut when you writhe beneath his touch. 

What you’re asking, to make it hurt, use me, please… it electrifies him. Calls to the part of him that bucks against the restraints. Is that what you really want? For him to unchain that beast?

His teeth catch your lip and you gasp, but you don’t stop kissing him. In fact, you ball his shirt in your fist and kiss him harder. 

You fucking love it. 

He palms your breast and tastes the sweet whimper on your breath when he grips your flesh. Digs his fingers in, squeezes harder. You moan down his throat. Arch your back. Roll your tongue along his, soft and wet and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls through grit teeth. Grabs your jaw and licks the gasp from your mouth. You grind back against his cock and an intoxicating rush of heat rolls through his body, clinging to his bones, sinking into the folds of his brain, tinging his vision with this thick scarlet fog that makes his heart pound in his chest. 

Dieter buries his fist in your hair and sits up on his knees, ushering you to do the same. His lips hover at the shell of your ear and he murmurs, “Is this how you want it? Want it fucking rough?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides a hand to your neck, spreading the webbing between his thumb and index finger on your esophagus. 

“I wanna pull up your pretty little skirt, and bend you over—wanna play with that tight little asshole—”

You let out this throaty moan that vibrates against his palm. It makes his cock jump. 

“Would you like that?” he rumbles. Clamps down on your earlobe. Grinds the flab between his teeth. 

“Oh my fucking god, Dieter, please,” you whine, hips rolling against him, urging him to make good on his word. 

He shoves your face into the mattress and you just prop your ass up for him, pushing back as he rucks your skirt up to your waist. His hands slide up the soft, warm flesh of your thighs, feeling the weight of your ass in his palms. 

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, whimpering for attention, silk underwear all damp with want, clinging to your cunt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, hooking a fingertip around the wet patch of fabric, dragging his knuckle through your arousal, “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You let out a throaty, delirious laugh that quickly morphs into a moan when he rubs the knuckle against your clit, then slaps your ass with a sharp smack.

“Fuck yes,” you gasp. Your hips roll against his touch, seeking stimulation. But he doesn’t want you to have it yet. Not like that. 

He pulls away, and you whine, going to get up on your hands in protest, but he closes a fist around your hair and pushes you back down, grinding out, “Don’t you fucking move.”

Another airy, depraved laugh. 

Dieter grips your hair tighter, explaining in a whisper as he tugs your underwear down your legs, “You’re gonna stay right here, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, and let me do whatever the fuck I want to you. How’s that sound, love? Hmm?”

“Please,” you breathe. He hears the wet gulp of your throat. The hair between his fingers pulls taut when you nod. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, releasing your hair, tossing the underwear from around your ankles across the bed. 

He slides his palms over your ass cheeks. Parts them just long enough to gather a pool of spit on his tongue and let it land on your asshole with a wet splat. Rolls his thumb through the spit, smearing it around, making you gasp, “Fuck, that’s good—”

His cock twitches. Electricity writhes around his insides. He licks his lips, then purrs, “Yeah? It feels good when I touch your asshole, hmm? You fucking like that, princess?”

“Yes—”

Dieter spreads you apart, brings himself closer, throat rumbling at the scent of your heat. At the way your swollen, needy cunt is just fucking dripping, coated in a shiny layer of your slick. 

Fucking beautiful. 

He drags his tongue through the arousal pooling at your entrance with a depraved groan. 

You unleash a moan and try to wriggle around on his tongue, still trying to exert control, still not letting go. 

He raises a hand and lowers it on your ass cheek with a smack, talking at your cunt as he holds your hips steady, “Stop trying to run this, doll, let me fucking use you like you need me to.”

The response that comes is a whimper, but your muscles stop working under his grip. 

“Good, that’s it, baby,” he coos, then returns to your cunt, licking along all the soft ridges and valleys of you, savoring your nectar gathering slick on his tastebuds. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you croak, but you don’t rock against his tongue. Doing just as he asked. Heat surges through him, all that pride commingling with lust and love and need. 

He licks up your middle, painting you with short, broad strokes, all the way up to your tight, puckered asshole. Saliva pools as he laps away, rubbing back and forth, in a circle, flicking his tongue against you in wet little slaps. 

All the while, you’re whimpering and moaning, legs trembling, sweat coating your hot skin, damp against his palms. 

He brings the tip of his index finger to the center of your asshole, wriggling and applying pressure until the tight ring gives and allows him entrance. Your choked moan fills his ears and he moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the sensation. 

One knuckle disappears, then another, and when buried as deep as he can go, he ruts it in and out, the hot pool of spit lubricating his movements. 

You start to slacken, your sharp little gasps for air drawing out longer, surrendering to pleasure, whimpering and nodding, eyes fluttering. 

Dieter pauses and wiggles another thick digit against your tight hole, panting, “Fuck, you’re doing so good, baby. Fucking amazing. That’s it, baby, just relax for me—”

It slides past the barrier and he moans in unison with you, burying his fingers again and again, spitting thick, gooey wads of saliva where he fuses with you, making his movements easier, more fluid, while the hot, smooth inside of you grips around his fingers.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Please—please fuck my ass.”

“Take your clothes off for me, baby,” he sits up straight and begins to unbutton his shirt. You roll over onto your back and start to strip down while he throws the shirt on the floor, then lays back and takes off his pants. 

He reaches into drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube, then squirts a dollop of it into his hand and glances up at you. You're laying on your back, propped up on your elbows, lust-blown eyes glued to his cock. When he spreads the slick along his length, your pink tongue rolls across your lips, stoking the hot coals in his core.

Dieter crawls across the bed to you, murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

Your gaze locks onto his as your jaw drops open. He moves up your body and straddles your chest, holding his throbbing, aching cock out to you, “Wanna fuck that pretty face of yours, is that ok with you?”

You nod, threading your brows together, batting your lashes, eyes all half-lidded and hungry, and purr, “Use me like a fuck doll.”

The request makes his cock pulse in his fist. You curl your tongue against a bead of pre-cum hanging off the tip of him and wiggle it around. His head falls back when the delicate touch floods his body with pleasure and he groans, “Holy fucking sh—”

The words evaporate from his throat when your lips pull taught around his girth, the wet heat of your mouth engulfing him. His lubed-up hand falls to the wayside and he snaps his gaze back to yours. You hold eye contact and move at a slow, steady rhythm, taking more and more of him with each renewed bob. 

Dieter moans at the sight of you, lips all shiny and stretched out around him, eyelids fluttering. He brushes the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, gathering what he can reach in his fist. Tightens his grip. Pushes his hips forward. 

When he breaches your throat, you gag. A hot rush of spit pours from your mouth. Twitching muscles squeeze around him, protesting the intrusion. A wave of ecstasy rushes up his spine and pulls a moan from his stomach. 

“Are you ok?” he rasps, meeting your watery eyes. 

You pull off of him, panting, strings of saliva hanging between your reddened lips and his glistening cock, and nod, “Don’t fucking stop,” before taking him in your mouth again. 

So he thrusts forward again, carefully, every muscle in his body tensing with restraint. Your palms slide up his thighs, around to his backside, where you dig the tips of your fingers into his skin, urging him forward, and he knows now that you fucking meant it: Use me like a fuck doll. 

He nods with understanding, “You want more, hmm?”

The hum of approval from your throat ripples across his body and makes him groan. You bat your lashes up at him, eyes creased like you’re smiling but your mouth is all crammed full of his cock so it’s hard to be sure, but he can tell you’re just fucking loving this shit. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s almost more than he can handle. 

“Want me to fuck that pretty fucking face?” he growls, closing his fist around your hair tighter, rolling his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your mouth. 

You moan and it makes him moan, the vibration of your throat writhing beneath his skin.  

He adjusts his angle, releasing your hair to grab both sides of your head and plunge deeper, down past the back of your mouth, letting out a sharp groan as the firm ridges slide tight around him. His hips work forward in a quick, short burst of wet thrusts that light up every nerve in his body, then he pulls from your mouth. While you gasp for breath, he grips the base of his cock with one hand while the other grabs your spit-covered chin, “Is that what you fucking want? Fuck your face just like that?”

“Fuck yes, just like that,” you choke out, voice all gritted and airy.

“You pinch me when you need to breathe, ok?” he instructs, searching your flushed, messy face, “Pinch me right now so I know.”

This big smile spreads across your swollen lips and you squeeze a chunk of his ass between your fingers, “Like this?”

“That’s it, baby, do that and I’ll let you come up for air,” he nods, “Now stick out your tongue.” 

Your tongue stretches down to your chin, and he slaps his cock against it with a smack-smack-smack before sliding it back into the hot cavern of your mouth. He cradles your skull in his palms and thrusts forward, cramming himself down your throat. Your vocal chords buzz against him, and your mouth emits this sick, wet glug-glug-glug that sets him on fucking fire. You pinch him and he pulls out, both of you gasping and moaning. 

“So fucking good, fuck,” he rasps, waiting a moment for your breathing to be less desperate, then asks, “Ready?”

You hum a little mhmm and open your mouth, welcoming him back to fuck your throat. He can barely fucking stand how hot you look with your face all shiny with sweat and tears and spit, how your eyelids flutter then snap open to meet his gaze, how your body wiggles around beneath him, hips bucking against nothing, thighs rubbing together. 

If he didn’t have you pinned down like this, you’d be touching yourself, he just fucking knows it. 

The ecstasy tingling at the base of his spine starts to spread and you pinch him just before he loses control. He pulls out, but doesn’t dare grab himself this time, for fear that any stimulation will push him over the edge.

He gets on his hands and knees and leans down to press his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck and arch your back into the kiss, pulling him closer, rolling your tongue against his as soft whimpers flutter from your mouth. One of his hands trails down your body, between your legs, and he groans at how fucking wet you are. 

You gasp against his lips, throwing your head back as he plays with your clit, working you at a rapid rhythm that makes your face twist and flush, nodding in approval, quick little gasps and squeaks escaping your throat. 

He grins when he realizes how close you are. So fucking worked up from sucking him off, already coiling up, ready to burst. 

“That’s it, baby,” he husks, kisses you, then presses his sweaty forehead to yours, “That’s it, let me see you fucking cum, baby.”

“Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—fuck—”

Your words disappear with a sharp inhale, muscles tensing up, hips arching against his hand. He continues to move against you, fast and steady and firm, until you find your voice and release a choked sob. You collapse into yourself, body shaking violently, legs clamping shut, gasping for air. 

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and your body starts to slacken, but jumps like a live wire at his slowing touch. 

Dieter slides down your crease, through your arousal, propping himself on one arm to watch how your cum clings to his fingers in thick, heavy strands as he draws his hand away. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he murmurs, licks you from his fingers, then drags them along your warm, gooey seam again, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyebrows press together and lips part with a whimper, but you don’t appear adverse to the suggestion. In fact, you bring a hand to your chest. Cup your breast. Pinch your nipple and gasp. 

His body surges hot with want. He grazes his nose against your face, rumbling into your ear, “How’d you put it? Like a fuck doll?” 

Your throat lets out a little whine and your lips pout out into an O as he sinks two thick fingers into your cunt. You prop yourself up and watch him slide in and out, whimpering and nodding, “Fuck that’s so good, Dee—oh my god, yes—”

The hunger roiling at his core grows. He adds another finger, stretching you wider, and you release a choked moan. 

“Is this what you want, Lua? Want me to fuck you like a little slut, hmm?” he pants, shifting himself to hover above you, pumping his arm, cramming his fingers into your tight, wet heat over and over again. 

“Yes yes yes yes yes,” you babble, and start moving your hips against him, “Do that thing—”

Dieter smirks, knowing exactly what thing you’re referring to, and pulls his hand up towards the ceiling, rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against your g-spot, “That?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes, baby, just like that,” you moan, “That’s so good, baby, such a good fucking boy, fuck me so good—”

He lets out a groan and wiggles his fingers faster, “Yeah? You like when I make you squirt all over the place? Wanna soak my fucking bedsheets?”

Your response is a strangled noise, but you nod your head frantically, and your limbs start to tremble. And, fuck, the sight of you all shaking and whining, skin slick with sweat, makeup running down your pretty, flushed, contorted face, it’s enough to send his insides fluttering, barreling towards oblivion once again. 

Dieter has to close his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reign himself in, forcing himself to fill his mind with mundane thoughts about what to eat for supper, how this disaster of an interview will get resolved, whether or not he’ll wake up early to attempt making breakfast for you, all while trying to ignore the liquid hot squeeze of your pussy around his wiggling fingers.

When he feels he finally has a grip on his pleasure, he snaps his eyes open and moves between your legs. Buries his face in your cunt. Rolls his tongue on your swollen clit. 

“Yes, fuck,” you breathe and anchor your hands in his hair, pulling his curls into tight fists. Your breathing starts to come in shallow gasps. The muscles of your thighs tense and twitch. 

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, and he works you faster, moving his tongue in a circle, tickling the inside of you, groaning as you rub yourself against him, smearing your juices all over his face. You moan when the sound hits you, so he continues, humming from the back of his throat, and it’s just the push you need. 

Your hips stutter and still. A wild, ragged noise tears from your chest. You convulse around his fingers, and he pulls them out, sliding his mouth down to your opening just as a hot wave of pleasure gushes out. It splashes against his face, and he tries to catch as much as he can on his tongue, moaning at the taste of you. Grabs your waist and holds you there, lapping away at your cunt as you gasp for air, body jerking at the stimulation, but unable to move from his vice grip. 

He climbs your body and kisses you, hard and messy, letting you taste yourself. You rake your fingers through his hair, whining into his mouth when his tongue slides across yours. 

His cock aches with neglect. The steady inflow of pleasure burns between the layers of his skin and begs to be released. 

He pulls away from your lips and pants, “Flip over for me, love. I wanna fuck your ass.” 

And, you… fucking hell, Lua, you smile at this like he told you he’s buying you a brand new car. He sits up and you roll over onto your belly, then stick your ass up into the air, “Is that good?”

“Fucking perfect.”

Dieter grabs the abandoned bottle of lube,  squeezes some into his palm, then requests, “Spread for me, baby.” 

You reach back, pulling your ass cheeks apart. He squirts some of the lube on your puckered hole and you yelp, then giggle, “It’s so cold.”

He chuckles at this as he strokes his cock, smearing the slick lube along his length, then he asks, “Have you done this before? Anal sex?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ventured into ass play with you, but only with tongues, toys, fingers. You look back at him and shrug, “Well, yeah, but,” then you drop your gaze to his dick, “You’re, um… a lot bigger than anyone else…” 

The comment makes his ego swell, and he can’t help but grin, spreading the lube across your tight hole with his middle finger. Then he applies pressure to its center until it allows him access. Your eyelids flutter and you whimper, licking your lips, pulling your cheeks apart further. 

“I’ll go slow, but if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod.

He wriggles another digit inside you. You gasp and nod, “Fuck, that feels really good.”

“Good,” he purrs, rutting into you slowly, flicking his gaze between your face and ass, watching the way your lips part and eyelids drift closed, feeling the muscles inside you start to relax. 

You arch your back into the stimulation, breathy little whimpers and moans floating from your mouth like music to his fucking ears. Lust pools hot and needy at his center, making his heart thud and his cock ache. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, studying your face as you open your eyes and look back at him. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, holding his gaze as he pulls his fingers out and brings the head of his cock to kiss the tight, lubricated hole. 

Dieter pushes forward cautiously, pausing when your asshole surrenders to the very tip of him and you let out a sharp cry. After a moment, you nod, “Keep going.”

So he does. The tight ring squeezes the ever loving fuck out of him as he slowly, tediously, makes his way inside you. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, muscles quivering from the effort it takes to move at this pace. Your face pinches up with what could either be pleasure or pain, he’s not quite sure, but it’s accompanied by whimpers and nods, signaling your approval. 

Once the head of his cock is fully engulfed, though, and you adjust to his width, acclimate to the feeling, things start to go faster. He pushes your hands away and spreads your cheeks himself, hissing, “Fuck, this looks so good, baby. Love seeing your sweet little asshole stretched out around my cock—”

“It feels so fucking good,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Give me more.”

The request squirms around inside him and makes his throat rumble. He drives his hips forward steadily, and it’s a fucking vacuum of suction, pulling him in, swallowing him whole. You sputter and moan in reaction, croaking out quiet little whines of “oh my fucking god” over and over again.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, holy fuck, Lua,” he groans, throwing his head back, then starts to roll his hips, still moving at a languid pace, sliding his length along that ring that, even when your muscles loosen slightly, grips him so fucking tight it makes every ounce of sanity flee his brain. 

“Do you like that? Like when I fuck your ass with my fat cock?” he asks through grit teeth.

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes yes—”

“Tell me,” he demands, snapping his hips, heart jumping at the moan you choke out. 

“I like it wh—when you fuck my ass—” he snaps his hips again and you gasp, then continue, “with your big, fat cock—”

“Yeah you fucking do, don’t you?” He increases the tempo, moaning at the squeeze of you, how fucking good you feel wrapped around him, and grinds out, “Little fuck doll likes being used, hmm? Just like this?” 

“Holy fuck, Dee,” you groan, raising yourself up onto your hands, pushing back against his thrusts, “I fucking love it, yes.”

The force of your body moving with his, burying him to the hilt inside you again and again, fills him with fire. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back, heart fluttering in his heaving chest, hands tingling, limbs trembling, ecstasy pooling thick and hot at the base of his spine. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me fucking cum,” he warns, but doesn’t let up his pace. 

“Cum in my ass, baby, please please please,” you moan. 

The request tugs at the edges of him, and he wants you closer, wants to feel the heat of your skin against his. 

“Get up here,” he grunts, leans forward and hooks an arm around your torso, pulls your back against his chest, cradling your neck in his palm. Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your mouth is hanging open slack, frantic little moans fleeing your throat as he fucks your ass deep and hard, rumbling into your ear, “Cum in your fucking ass, hmm? My little slut wants her ass filled with cum?”

You bring your hand to the back of his head and grab a fistful of hair, breathing, “Fuck yes, please, Dieter, please—”

“Anything for you, love,” he pants, then you pull his hair tighter, and you start to rock your hips against his, and your whines get all high-pitched and airy, and he babbles, “I mean that, I really do, fucking anything you want, baby—fill your ass with cum, buy you whatever the fuck you want, fucking anything, I swear to god—”

Your lips cut him off, and you’re fucking trembling now, muscles all tight and coiled, squeezing around his cock, and he kisses you back with fire, groaning against your mouth as you whimper, then your breath disappears completely, you let out a strangled moan, and your body shutters from the force of your orgasm. The static buzzing in his center grows wider, deeper, tingling up his backbone, through his limbs, until it washes over him completely.

He thrusts into you one, two, three more times, spilling his load inside you.

His labored breathing puffs hot against yours. You bring your touch to his cheek and draw a circle into his beard with your thumb. He kisses you again, gentler, lips lingering on yours, then murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

A bright, wide smile spreads across your face. You let out this breathless little giggle, kiss him, then say, “I fucking love you, too.” 

Dieter pulls out and falls back onto the bed, stretching out, catching his breath. You follow suit and cuddle up to him, laying your head on his heaving chest. He curls his arm around your shoulders and rests his cheek on the crown of your sweaty head. 

The silence that settles is comfortable, and he notices that the rest of the house is quiet, too. Darlene must have fled sometime while he was fucking you, no doubt disgusted by the noises that were probably not muffled at all by the barrier of his bedroom door. 

His attention draws back to you when you whisper, “Am I doing the right thing? By cutting her out of my life?”

It takes a moment for him to understand what you’re asking. When it clicks, he frowns, “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.” 

You’re quiet in response, so he inquires further, “What’s your relationship like with her?” 

“We, um… we butt heads,” you shrug and bring your fingertips to his sternum, start drawing little swirls against his skin, “She’s always been so… I don’t know, self-centered? Childish?” you pause here, and he can hear the gears in your busy mind turning. You lay your palm flat over his heart and say, “It’s always about her. She didn’t come see me when Ethan died, or try to console me, or anything. She fucking—”

A frustrated huff of air blows across his chest. You shake your head, then sigh, “She fucking called me all the time crying about it, and posted all this bullshit online about how sad she was, and—and she fucking hated him. It’s like she expected me to comfort her. She never asked how I was doing. It was… fuck, it was just like when Dad died.” 

Dieter smooths circles into your skin with his thumb. Studies the ceiling, waiting for you to say more. Then you do. 

“When I would try talking to her about how much I missed him—my dad, I mean—she would get fucking mad at me. Say shit like, ‘Well, how do you think I feel?’ or—or, ‘You’re not the only one who lost him,’ or—this one’s my favorite, the uses it all the time, ‘It’s not all about you, Louella Rose,’” you pause and scoff to yourself, shaking your head, “So I stopped trying to her about it, and then she would get mad at me for not talking about it, so then I would talk to her about it, and she would either get mad all over again or squirrel the things I told her away to use as fucking ammunition against me the next time I made her upset, and—and, I don’t know. That’s just how it is with her.” 

Dieter’s mind whirs as he sifts through the million thoughts pouring through his brain, trying to find the right one to tell you. It feels like finding the hay in the needlestack, and when his mouth opens, all that comes out is, “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you snort, then comb your fingers through his hair and murmur, “I love your curls, they’re adorable.” 

He almost takes the subject change you dangle in front of him, but something lingers at the base of his throat, begging to be known. 

“Look,” he starts, shifting to meet your gaze, and sighs, “I really don’t think you’re making a mistake by cutting her out of your life, Lua. And-and not because she said those things about me, but because she treats you like shit. And, I know it’s not my place to say shit like this, but,” he shakes his head, searching your face, watching the tears pool in your eyes, “She might be your mom, but that’s not family, you know?”

Your face crumples up. 

He starts to fumble out an apology, “Fuck, I’m–”

You kiss him. 

When you pull back, you whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he breathes, brushing his hand against your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you scoot closer, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. A few peaceful moments go by before your stomach growls so loud it makes both of you start laughing. 

“Let’s get you some fucking food, huh?” 

[peligin-eyed]

Oolong, lapsang souchong, rooibos? ( - the-insouciant-scientist)

(I’ve got doubles of a couple prompts, so I’ll answer half here and half later)

Oolong: How does your OC decorate their space?

Ambrose loves luxury, shiny things, and he’s a bit of a hoarder collector. His decor style is pretty maximalist and the only reason his space isn’t overly cluttered is because he employs a very organized housekeeper. There are a lot of bookshelves, some filled with books and some filled with random trinkets and treasures. He has a nice china cabinet for his T8 item collection (also holding some of his husband’s more valuable stolen prizes). In between the shelves, he’s hung up artwork he bought from various artist friends. There’s also a framed collection of newspaper clippings featuring him or his accomplishments. He likes velvet upholstery, imported rugs, and silk sheets and curtains.

Emery is more concerned with functionality than decoration. Their wife handles most of the decor for their London home, though they have a little study where they have a couple shelves to display their collection of ships-in-bottles and some of their hunting trophies mounted on the wall. The Vake head is positioned so that it is directly above their head when they’re sitting at the desk, staring at anyone sitting across from them. In their shipboard cabin, they have maps and notes tacked up all over the walls, weapons and supplies half-in and half-out of a big sea chest, and extra blankets draped on the bed.

Robin doesn’t like to put too much stuff up on the walls, just in case they need to leave in a hurry. They keep a handful of meaningful notes, photos, and letters in a leather wrap under their pillow. If they put up anything, it’s drawings they get from the urchins they sometimes spend time with. If glow-in-the-dark stars existed in flondon, though, they’d put those on the ceiling above their bed. When choosing stuff like furniture, they like sturdy pieces with soft fabrics and warm colors.

Lapsang Souchong: If your OC was a scented candle, what would they smell like?

Ambrose: black currant, absinthe, vanilla

Emery: sea breeze, leather, musk

Robin: spiced honey, cinnamon, smoky amber

Henry: teakwood, petrichor, lavender

Liam: bergamot, sandalwood, moss

Charlie: caramel, coffee, sweet tobacco

Rooibos: What kind of lighting does your OC prefer? Dim, bright, moody, secret fourth thing?

Ambrose enjoys some nice mood lighting- strategically placed candles, tinted lampshades, lightweight cloth tossed over a lamp. He’ll keep it bright enough to see easily when he’s working/writing/reading, though. He’d love those color changing lights or, like, lava lamps.

Emery doesn’t have strong lighting preferences, they’ll make do with whatever the environment provides. Left to their own devices, they keep it moderately bright.

Robin definitely prefers dimmer light or even darkness. They feel uncomfortable and exposed when it’s too bright. Parabola is an exception though, they actually love the glow of the cosmogone sun.

Tea asks

[istatetheveryobviousofduh]

Dark Acedamia

Cardigans, white, moody, dark green, libraries, calligraphy, coffee shops, all-night studying, cottagecore, autumn, blazers, Gothic architecture, candlelight, museum visits, beige, dark wooden furniture, cluttered rooms, maximalist, nostalgic, beauty, poetry, black, philosophical pessimism, melancholic, classical music, books

[woodviewcottage]

Why I went from being a minimalist to a maximalist...

Before the Farmhouse look was gaining attention, I really loved the primitive decor. My house then got full sunlight, so it didn't really seem so dark to me and I do love some vintage and antique pieces. But as the Farmhouse look started gaining traction in a big way, I just fell in love with it. It was bright, open, and looked so crisp and clean. So, I did away with all my primitive stuff, all of my antiques (including the very first tv ever made) and I decluttered everything. Went very simplistic with my decor and furniture pieces. I had pops of color with pillows and curtains -- really loved the pop of the teal-ish blue that got so big. It was very easy to keep clean. It always looked clean. It always seemed so bright.

I still loved the vintage and antiques but I only looked at and admired them. Never bought them.

After almost 20 years of living in the same house ad raising my children there on the farm, we moved. We bought another house a few miles away on the top of the mountain, back in the woods.

I tried for 2-3 years to turn this cottage into the same look. Over the past year or so, I realized that I really didn't like the fact that I had to dig out anything I needed bc I kept the countertops so minimal and clean. I started not to like my coffee table and bedside tables and countertops and walls being so bare. It started feeling stale and uncomfortable.

I hadn't realized before but I was equating a clean and minimal look to comfort. And it's really not the same at all.

Listen, I am a clean freak. Everything has a place, an angle in which it sits, has to be were it goes, cannot be crooked on the walls, cannot be dirty or dusty. I cannot go more than a day without vacuuming, no more than 3 days without mopping. I'm super weird about it. It used to dive my husband crazy wen we were first married, but he's since gotten used to it and has now crossed over to my OCD side.

Anyway, I missed my old pieces that had so much character, had their own stories, had a long life before I found them. I started looking up cottage designs bc that's what we bought and I wanted it to be true to it's personality.

What I absolutely love about the cottage core aesthetic are the colors, the different textures, wallpapers(!) -- love some wallpaper, the charm, the mixed patterns, the character, the story it shares with people. It's almost fairytale - like to me. With cottage core, you can do bright, you can do dark, you can do both. You can have each room tell its own story. You can be moody and sexy in the bedroom but bright and light in the living room. You can do golds and florals and pinks in the kitchen. You can do PINK, period! I love a light pink and my husband doesn't mind my love for pink at all. (I think since I'm home all day, he just decided to let me run with whatever if it kept me busy and made me happy.)

I love the sunlight (when it finally reaches my windows in the late morning) but I also really love keeping the house's character and surroundings in tact and complimentary to each other.

I was about to give up on this house. I prayed and prayed and prayed for us to find something else. Until one day I realized God had answered my prayers...just not in the way I asked. He gave me a renewed vision, a new inspiration for what this house could be, how we could have the added square footage and bedrooms we needed. He told me: you need to learn to love and appreciate what you have instead of wanting what you can't have.

Bc of His plans for me, we decided to build onto the house in an unconventional way. We decided to use wall mounted solariums, greenhouses, and conservatories for a new master bedroom, a "parent cave" to watch what we want on tv or read or to have gatherings or whatever, and a breakfast room on the backside of the kitchen. The cost is much less than building on. It gives the house a unique aesthetic on the exterior, as well as the interior. It adds much needed light to come into the house. And it almost doubles our square footage. A cottage home is such a lovely home to own. There's so much you can do.

And since changing from minimalist farmhouse to a cottage core aesthetic, I am once again surrounded by the vintage and antique pieces I love so much and have them all out on display -- like my three beautiful complete sets of gold lined china.

What's your aesthetic? Why do you like it? What about it gives you comfort or makes it feel like home to you?

[exclusivelinksestateagents]

Dubai's Luxurious Interior Design Trends for 2024

In the dynamic realm of interior design, Dubai emerges as a beacon of innovation and style amidst its ever-evolving landscape. As we venture into 2024, the city's premier turnkey interior fit-out contractors take the lead in shaping the most captivating trends of the year.

Join us as we delve into the enchanting realm of interior design, uncovering its beauty and charm, and exploring how these trends redefine luxury living, particularly for those investing in property in Dubai.

Embracing Sustainable Chic: A Dubai Affair

Dubai's dedication to sustainable living takes center stage in the 2024 interior design scene. Designers embrace eco-friendly materials, energy-efficient solutions, and recycled furniture to craft spaces that seamlessly blend luxury with environmental consciousness. Experience the allure of sustainable chic as Dubai's interiors mirror the city's commitment to responsible living.

Nature's Influence: Urban Oasis Amidst Skyscrapers

While Dubai's skyline symbolizes modernity, biophilic design introduces a refreshing touch of nature to urban living. Turnkey contractors incorporate indoor plants, natural materials, and innovative green spaces, creating urban oases that harmonize with the natural world. Witness the fusion of concrete jungles and lush landscapes as Dubai embraces biophilic design in 2024.

Desert Palette: Moody Hues and Earthy Tones

Inspired by the captivating desert landscape, Dubai's interiors come alive with rich, moody hues and earthy tones. From deep desert browns to warm terracotta, these colors evoke tranquility and warmth, transforming spaces into serene sanctuaries amidst the desert's allure.

Cultural Fusion: Bridging the Gap Between Old and New

In Dubai's melting pot of cultures, the fusion of traditional and modern design elements takes center stage. Expertly blending Arabic-inspired tiles, contemporary metals, and luxurious fabrics, turnkey contractors celebrate the diversity and richness of Dubai's cultural tapestry. Experience the harmonious coexistence of tradition and innovation in every corner of Dubai's interiors.

Opulent Maximalism: Embracing Extravagance

In Dubai, luxury knows no bounds, with maximalism reigning supreme in 2024. Bold patterns, vibrant colors, and opulent finishes converge to create interiors exuding extravagance and sophistication. Step into a world where luxury knows no limits as Dubai's interiors embrace maximalism with unparalleled flair.

Tech-Integrated Living: Stylishly Seamless

At the forefront of technological innovation, Dubai seamlessly integrates smart home technology into its interior design landscape. From automated lighting to voice-controlled systems, homes in Dubai transform into tech-savvy havens, elevating comfort and style to new heights.

Statement Ceilings: Reaching New Heights

Amidst skyscrapers touching the clouds, statement ceilings take the spotlight in Dubai's interiors. Whether through play of lights, intricate patterns, or textured wallpapers, ceilings become canvases for artistic expression, elevating Dubai's skies to new heights of opulence and grandeur.

As we explore Dubai's interior design trends for 2024, it's evident that the city's turnkey contractors play a pivotal role in bringing these trends to life. Whether drawn to sustainable living, maximalist extravagance, or the timeless allure of cultural fusion, Dubai's contractors stand ready to transform living spaces into stylish havens epitomizing the city's dynamic and cosmopolitan spirit.

Elevating Interior Design to International Heights

Dubai's status as a global luxury hub extends far beyond its local landscape, with branded luxury projects adorning its skyline, redefining interior design trends on an international scale. Backed by renowned names in architecture and design, these projects push the boundaries of creativity and opulence, setting new benchmarks for luxury living. By infusing Dubai's cultural heritage with cutting-edge design concepts, these projects captivate audiences worldwide, transcending geographical boundaries.

The trend of home staging in luxury real estate in Dubai has gained prominence in 2024, aligning perfectly with the city's penchant for sophistication and opulence. Home staging enhances a property's allure through thoughtful design, ensuring it resonates with potential buyers and commands higher prices. In a competitive market like Dubai, staging becomes a strategic investment essential for showcasing properties at their absolute best.

In the dynamic realm of real estate, where every detail matters, home staging has transitioned from a luxury to a necessity, particularly in markets like Dubai. Recognizing its pivotal role as a potent interior marketing tool and strategic investment, is fundamental to success in today's competitive landscape. As Dubai's luxury market thrives amidst digital evolution, home staging remains a linchpin in captivating clients and ensuring properties leave an indelible mark from the very first glimpse.

For those interested in staging and investing in luxury-designed homes in Dubai, Exclusive Links offers a preferred partnership with MHY Homes, leaders in home staging. Contact us at +9714 399 4937 or email elite@exclusive-links.com for more information.

[assiraphales]

for all my life I have been on a quixotic search for the right mix of comfy cozy quirky and moody cafes with mismatched furniture and eclectic maximalist decor and I will never find it

‘tv shows gave me such unrealistic expectations for men’ tv shows gave me such unrealistic expectations for coffee shops

[mi6021alishia]

Set Styling Research

For my new project I have made a complete house layout in Blender. I took a floor plan I liked after browsing a few in a real estate website featuring luxury homes because conceptually considering the original story of multiple heros living together there would need to be ample living space for a lot of people. I made some alterations in order to use the space the way I felt would be the best  for the characters. They are rather jouvenile heros they all have their own interests and I imagined that the house owner and teacher of the heros would likely host parties with high up politicians to raise funds to maintain their secrecy. I watched a LOT of interior design and architectural shows and videos on youtube and really put my head into being a bit like a tv/movie designer whilst still considering functionality of what these characters need from a home.

I watched Grand Designs, Your Home Made Perfect, Interior Design Masters and Dream Homes on Netflix.

 I also watched videos on youtube from The Sorry Girls, Tina Le, DIY Danie, xo macenna, LoneFox, and Alexandra Gater, as they have great ideas on style, on storage solution, on good room configuration (particularly Alexandra Gater as her clients tend to live in tiny cramped studio apartments and she makes those spaces feel much larger.) I also watched a lot of Architectural Digest in their series of designers creating furniture, designing spaces and their Open Door series, from that I took inspiration from the book shelf created by designer Leonard Bessemer in this video:

Troye Sivan, Bretman Rock and Kylie Jenner's homes in the Open Door series specifically the plants from Bretman Rock, the overal cosy, classy eclictic vibe of Troye Sivan's and I fell in love with the living room and light fixtures in Kylie Jenner's home.

I found I particularly gravitated towards midcentury and dark and moody, maximalist styles, they feel cosy, classic, a bit older and especially in terms of midcentury, timeless.

Making all the house in blender really helps keep things to scale when drawing and makes it a lot easier for me to see the character moving through the space for when I'm animating her, keeping everything to scale as the perspective changes.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Amber was a teenage goth and she’s 100% a goth at heart. Here’s how she made a dreamy, dark, moody home for her family, on a budget.

Amber said, “Our home is a Victorian semi. We instantly fell in love, as we both love period properties. It stretched our budget so we decorated by buying second-hand/vintage, upcycling furniture, and painting bathroom tiles. The majority of the changes we’ve made are cosmetic.  

Amber’s favorite room is the lounge. She wanted a room w/black walls, but was a bit nervous. She’s so glad they did it, b/c it oozes atmosphere and pleases her soul.

The dining room is deep teal with white. Amber says, “ Your starting point for inspiration can come from anywhere: A film, a holiday, a cushion.”

The master is a pretty, dark, sanctuary. It reflects Amber’s styles of moody, maximal, eclectic, bohemian, & vintage.

The mural in the spare room was bought from a friend’s company. 

Painted wall tiles and tub in the bath turned out great.

https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/dark-and-moody-maximalist-uk-house-decorated-on-a-budget-36869272

[househunting]

Do you have anymore suggestions for people who want to go full CSD? The tacky 70’s stuff is my favorite.

CSDs need a few things to be Full On CSD:

- One to three colors. EVERYTHING will be this color. Your carpet. Your walls. Your pillows. Your desk. CSD spares nothing when it comes to monochromatic decor.

- Strictly one pattern. What’s it going to be - plaid? Floral? a rainbow motif? You have so many options. Pick carefully, because it’s going to be all over the place. Your drapes. Your bedspread. Maybe even a chair.

- Carpet. Everywhere. Sorry, you don’t have a choice. Yes, this means the en suite bathroom too.

- Moody ass lighting. You have to keep it dim because it’s sexy, but also maybe because you are afraid of the monochrome. Does it really matter? No.

- Some kind of weird, loungey, made-for-orgies giant piece of furniture made for sitting.

Next I will give you some CSD Extreme Inspiration, and then we will move on to a more livable, slightly more modern version of CSD.

LOVE IT. Every bit of it. Even the carpeted bathrooms - I just can’t hate them. 

Think of the above rooms as Paris Fashion Week, and think of the images below as a midend retailer that’s received the trickle down effects of fast fashion.

I think these are great workable ways to have your very own CSD.

You definitely need a big, shaggy rug. The higher pile the better. I didn’t know I needed this until now and now I am terrified my house might spontaneously combust into a CSD. 

Your window treatments need to match your rug. In fact, they should match everything else, so you might as well buy a few dozen yards of your favorite oppressively patterned upholstery fabric and make curtains, bedskirts, and pillow shams. 

You could also pick a motif like rainbow and just go with that. I actually found a bedspread very similar to the one in the post here! It’s really cute and would work in normal rooms, not just CSDs. You could pair it with this rug if you wanted it to be more of a modern, toned down CSD tho. 

You need a swag lamp. I have one because I ripped it off the wall at an estate sale. It was not for sale. They gave it to me anyway. 

You need some chunky plastic furniture. I like this shelf set and this chair (talk me out of buying this for real tho).  If you get them in your motif color that’s even better, but white or clear are perfectly acceptable. 

You need mood lighting, because your swag lamp is not enough. I like this weird set too much. 

You need mirrors! Everywhere! To do cocaine off of! To view your orgy from all angels! I really like this one! 

CSDs are very diverse. You could have a bohemian CSD, a minimalist CSD, a gothic CSD....anything your heart desires. My fav is the classic, maximalist, monochromatic CSD. I hope this helps! 

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Everything Team Domino Wants to Buy This Fall

One of the most fun parts of working at Domino is that we essentially window-shop for a living. Every season, we get a sneak peek at what our favorite brands are launching next, from innovative materials (resin tables, anyone?) to groovy new patterns. You can imagine a lot of bookmarking goes on. With fall collections dropping left and right, we figured we’d share our intel and offer up our wish lists for the season. After all, the loss of summer is less of a bummer when you have a fun little pick-me-up to get you excited about autumn.  Digital Editorial Assistant Lydia Geisel’s Pick: MoMA Design Store’s Mondri Vase I’m gravitating toward primary hues and neon this season, and MoMA’s lineup is super-bright and playful. I’m really excited about the glass furniture by Patricia Urquiola (it’s made with five layers of glass, each with a different colored film) and the new and improved Mondri vase. Mondri Vase, MoMA Design Store ($100) Style Assistant Julia Stevens’s Pick: Beni Rugs’s Blue and Green Rug I’m a sucker for Yves Klein Blue, so you can imagine how excited I was to see these rugs pop up in my in-box. The collection of 13 pieces, woven with bold architectural and botanical prints, was inspired by the iconic Le Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech. It’s out November 1, just in time to cozy up and add some extra color to your space. Blue Rug, Beni Rugs (coming soon) Senior Social Media Editor Alyssa Clough’s Pick: Hay’s Flowerpot This season, I keep going back to Hay’s newest launch. Specifically, its planters. All my plants outgrew their homes this summer, so I’m in need of a handful of new pots and want an upgrade from the usual terracotta—but nothing too pricey. The product designers at Hay must have read my mind, because the fall decor line has two perfectly on-trend options: the Flowerpot, a polystone design that looks like cement and comes in six different colors, and the Botanical Family Pot, a streamlined, ceramic style. Flowerpot, Hay ($40) Digital Editor Rebecca Deczynski’s Pick: Kip & Co.’s Marble Magic Linen Sheets In 2018, I swore off the all-white bedspread I’d favored for the previous five years and embraced my more maximalist side. My bed is the focal point of my room, so I might as well make it stand out—and what better way to do that than with coral reef–printed sheets or a deep blue velvet duvet? I’m also a recent linen bedding convert, and luckily this Aussie brand has plenty of patterned and jewel-toned options. The marbled version, in particular, is something out of my sweetest dreams. Marble Magic Linen Fitted Sheet, Kip & Co ($139) Senior Home Editor Gabrielle Savoie’s Pick: Ferm Living’s Distinct Coffee Table I just moved into a bigger apartment with my boyfriend, so I’ve been furniture shopping a ton these days. One of the collections I can’t get enough of is Ferm Living’s new line. Fluid shapes and mesmerizing materials make beautiful statement pieces that are definitely investment-worthy but not over-the-top expensive. I’m eyeing the multilevel travertine coffee table, the organically shaped seamless mirror, and the navy-glazed, hand-sculpted lamp. Distinct Coffee Table, Ferm Living ($1,499) Editorial Assistant Esmé Stern’s Pick: Hawkins New York’s Simple Waffle Towels I’ve been known to resist the beginning of September, hoping, instead, to live in the naive mind-set of an endless summer. This year, though, Hawkins’s fall and winter offerings are actually making me excited for cooler weather to take center stage. The autumn-inspired color palettes (burnt oranges, soft pinks, forest greens) and mixed materials (rattan, marble, stoneware) instantly transport me to my ideal crisp night: Preparing a warm meal in the Shaker serveware bowls, wrapping myself in a waffle towel, and reading by the light of the Mima lamp. Simple Waffle Towels, Hawkins New York ($10) Deputy Editor Lindsey Mather’s Pick: Muuto’s Ceramic Dots Muuto’s giant wood dot hooks stole my heart way back in 2013, when I saw them in Faye Toogood’s kitchen, taking the place of standard cabinet pulls. (How genius is that?) This fall, the brand has reimagined them in ceramic form—a reactive glaze makes each one of a kind—so they’ve moved up even higher on my wish list. Other highlights from the collection: a cloud-like, Noguchi-esque pendant lamp (group a few for maximum drama) and a ribbed terracotta floor vase, a very necessary purchase since our new office is right in the middle of the flower district. Ceramic Dots, Muuto Brand Partnerships Visuals Director Meghan McNeer’s Pick: Soho Home’s Monroe Cushion This season has me dreaming of a good book in front of a warm fire with a glass of orange wine (preferably in the English countryside). Soho House’s Babbington collection is elevated, English-cottage chic with a color palette based in dusty rusts, rose blushes, and sage greens that will help me softly transition from summer neons to moody winter blues. At the moment, I’m especially wild about orange, so these pillows are my fall essential. Monroe Cushion, Soho Home ($74) Associate Digital Editor Elly Leavitt’s Pick: Minna’s Striped Duvet Cover I didn’t think I needed to switch up my bedding…until I was stalking Minna’s New Arrivals section and came across the subtly patterned duvet covers I never knew I needed. As a general rule, I love the brand’s muted earthy tones, but the latest textile launch is especially ideal for mixing and matching. My favorite is the striped sage option; I have terracotta-colored accents in my bedroom that would pair perfectly with the hue. Stripes Duvet Cover Sage, Minna ($445) What seasonal updates are you making to your space? Dish out your recs in the comments below.  See more new collections we love: The 7 Best Things We Spotted at Maison & Objet in Paris CB2’s New Lighting Collection Should Be Your First Stop for New Lighting Anthropologie Wants to Make Your Home Look Like a Spanish Villa #FallCollections #Trends #TeamDomino #Trends #Design

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/everything-team-domino-wants-to-buy-this-fall

[jimmyandreson]

Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search dining room pictures

Earlier this month, we took a look at a Danish home featuring severe minimalism. Everything was white — walls, furniture, floors. This time, we’re looking at a Danish home done up in the exact opposite style  Scandinavian maximalism!

What does that mean? Try walls painted dark moody colors, ceilings that have been stenciled in a pattern or wallpapered, floors that have also been treated the same, and plenty of art work, objects d’art, shaggy rugs and dramatic flourishes. It’s not a look that you often see in Scandinavia, but the owners of this apartment wanted to try something a little different from the all-white norm.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse dining room ideas

The owner, in fact, says she doesn’t believe in half measures. When you decorate, she feels you have to go all the way. It’s not enough to paint one accent wall a brilliant color and leave everything else white, as, in her opinion, there’s no consistency. So she’s worked toward consistency by stenciling her ceilings to match all the drama down below.

Here is the ceiling during the process:

By Interiorwise København – See more Home Design Photos

And here is the finished product:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search living room design ideas

Opting for a dark color on the walls creates a moodiness that white walls can’t touch:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse home office photos

One of the most impressively maximalist features is a dining room wall papered with the image of a Spoonbill bird. The owner found the poster online for $500:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Discover family room design ideas

The bedroom ceilings have been painted as well, providing lots of color and pattern. The ceiling is painted gold and black and decorated with old playbills and Bjørn Wiinblad posters.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – More bedroom photos

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search bedroom pictures

And here’s the kitchen:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Look for kitchen pictures

Kudos to this homeowner for being brave enough to challenge the conventional Scandi all-white look! We think the moody coziness of the space is perfect for short gray Danish days and long dark Danish nights!

This is a post from Home Design Find Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

from Home http://www.homedesignfind.com/interiors/design-dilemma-maximalism-in-denmark/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[joeyzplaza]

Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search dining room pictures

Earlier this month, we took a look at a Danish home featuring severe minimalism. Everything was white — walls, furniture, floors. This time, we’re looking at a Danish home done up in the exact opposite style  Scandinavian maximalism!

What does that mean? Try walls painted dark moody colors, ceilings that have been stenciled in a pattern or wallpapered, floors that have also been treated the same, and plenty of art work, objects d’art, shaggy rugs and dramatic flourishes. It’s not a look that you often see in Scandinavia, but the owners of this apartment wanted to try something a little different from the all-white norm.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse dining room ideas

The owner, in fact, says she doesn’t believe in half measures. When you decorate, she feels you have to go all the way. It’s not enough to paint one accent wall a brilliant color and leave everything else white, as, in her opinion, there’s no consistency. So she’s worked toward consistency by stenciling her ceilings to match all the drama down below.

Here is the ceiling during the process:

By Interiorwise København – See more Home Design Photos

And here is the finished product:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search living room design ideas

Opting for a dark color on the walls creates a moodiness that white walls can’t touch:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse home office photos

One of the most impressively maximalist features is a dining room wall papered with the image of a Spoonbill bird. The owner found the poster online for $500:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Discover family room design ideas

The bedroom ceilings have been painted as well, providing lots of color and pattern. The ceiling is painted gold and black and decorated with old playbills and Bjørn Wiinblad posters.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – More bedroom photos

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search bedroom pictures

And here’s the kitchen:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Look for kitchen pictures

Kudos to this homeowner for being brave enough to challenge the conventional Scandi all-white look! We think the moody coziness of the space is perfect for short gray Danish days and long dark Danish nights!

This is a post from Home Design Find Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

from Home http://www.homedesignfind.com/interiors/design-dilemma-maximalism-in-denmark/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[bethjuliee]

Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search dining room pictures

Earlier this month, we took a look at a Danish home featuring severe minimalism. Everything was white — walls, furniture, floors. This time, we’re looking at a Danish home done up in the exact opposite style  Scandinavian maximalism!

What does that mean? Try walls painted dark moody colors, ceilings that have been stenciled in a pattern or wallpapered, floors that have also been treated the same, and plenty of art work, objects d’art, shaggy rugs and dramatic flourishes. It’s not a look that you often see in Scandinavia, but the owners of this apartment wanted to try something a little different from the all-white norm.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse dining room ideas

The owner, in fact, says she doesn’t believe in half measures. When you decorate, she feels you have to go all the way. It’s not enough to paint one accent wall a brilliant color and leave everything else white, as, in her opinion, there’s no consistency. So she’s worked toward consistency by stenciling her ceilings to match all the drama down below.

Here is the ceiling during the process:

By Interiorwise København – See more Home Design Photos

And here is the finished product:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search living room design ideas

Opting for a dark color on the walls creates a moodiness that white walls can’t touch:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse home office photos

One of the most impressively maximalist features is a dining room wall papered with the image of a Spoonbill bird. The owner found the poster online for $500:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Discover family room design ideas

The bedroom ceilings have been painted as well, providing lots of color and pattern. The ceiling is painted gold and black and decorated with old playbills and Bjørn Wiinblad posters.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – More bedroom photos

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search bedroom pictures

And here’s the kitchen:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Look for kitchen pictures

Kudos to this homeowner for being brave enough to challenge the conventional Scandi all-white look! We think the moody coziness of the space is perfect for short gray Danish days and long dark Danish nights!

This is a post from Home Design Find Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

from Architecture http://www.homedesignfind.com/interiors/design-dilemma-maximalism-in-denmark/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[audralumin]

Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search dining room pictures

Earlier this month, we took a look at a Danish home featuring severe minimalism. Everything was white — walls, furniture, floors. This time, we’re looking at a Danish home done up in the exact opposite style  Scandinavian maximalism!

What does that mean? Try walls painted dark moody colors, ceilings that have been stenciled in a pattern or wallpapered, floors that have also been treated the same, and plenty of art work, objects d’art, shaggy rugs and dramatic flourishes. It’s not a look that you often see in Scandinavia, but the owners of this apartment wanted to try something a little different from the all-white norm.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse dining room ideas

The owner, in fact, says she doesn’t believe in half measures. When you decorate, she feels you have to go all the way. It’s not enough to paint one accent wall a brilliant color and leave everything else white, as, in her opinion, there’s no consistency. So she’s worked toward consistency by stenciling her ceilings to match all the drama down below.

Here is the ceiling during the process:

By Interiorwise København – See more Home Design Photos

And here is the finished product:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search living room design ideas

Opting for a dark color on the walls creates a moodiness that white walls can’t touch:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Browse home office photos

One of the most impressively maximalist features is a dining room wall papered with the image of a Spoonbill bird. The owner found the poster online for $500:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Discover family room design ideas

The bedroom ceilings have been painted as well, providing lots of color and pattern. The ceiling is painted gold and black and decorated with old playbills and Bjørn Wiinblad posters.

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – More bedroom photos

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Search bedroom pictures

And here’s the kitchen:

Photo by Rasmus Malmstrøm/ Kopenhagen Collective – Look for kitchen pictures

Kudos to this homeowner for being brave enough to challenge the conventional Scandi all-white look! We think the moody coziness of the space is perfect for short gray Danish days and long dark Danish nights!

This is a post from Home Design Find Design Dilemma: Maximalism in Denmark

from Home http://www.homedesignfind.com/interiors/design-dilemma-maximalism-in-denmark/ via http://www.rssmix.com/