#needlepoint lace

[lacewise]

Okay so the full version of this meme is indefinitely postponed because I can not find, for the life of me, my earliest lace projects but here’s what I have so far:

And here is the link to that video series: https://youtu.be/bNxdoB9dpkI?si=RH_DxQk-mq7VR34Q

[groverarms]

My most prized possession:

Needlepoint by my great great grandmother circa 1850 in Scotland. I'd stare at it for hours as a child and make up stories about the people in it. Now it hangs in my TV room with the rest of her textile art.

[salroka]

Do we think Harding's mom embroidered her shirt? Or do we think our girl did it herself?

[onlinesweetheart]

<3

[sleepgarden]

thought I’d try asking here- other than eBay/Etsy are there any sites you guys like that have antique and vintage sewing supplies? Specifically lace, trims, and ribbons! if there are specific shops you recommend from eBay/Etsy though I’d love to see that too!

[knittingmagscans]

Needlecraft for Today March/April 1982

Page 38 – Back cover

[wildbeautifuldamned]

Antique Dresden Lace German Porcelain Lady Figurine 6.5Hx5.5Wx4D Exceptional ebay Stamps and Beyond

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[fromankyra]

you can tell it's summertime cause i'm starting to get highly normal about lace again

[azullumi]

"it's you hiding in limelight" ; aventurine

requested by anon — “can you do or already done pre-relationship aventurine headcanons? like what is he like before and how he warms up” premise — it takes a lot for him to trust someone. it’s a gentle and steady process; the fire burns slowly between you and him, and despite the uncertainty whether the flame is going to burn out or consume him in the end, he lets the warmth seep through the cracks of his soul. content tags and warnings — pairing: gender-neutral reader w/ aventurine | pre-relationship, fluff, a little word vomit, not proofread | wc: 0.7k ; headcanons

note from me — i was so conflicted while writing this,, and it doesn't help that i'm trying to figure out if my cat is pregnant or just fat...

It’s not easy to make AVENTURINE warm up.

He doesn’t trust anyone easily, seeing relationships as superficial, as something that is simply a give-and-take thing, a bet, a deal. He has quite a one-way view on relationships, only seeing it as something that would be beneficial to him—it’s not like he knows how to maintain such relationships either. He thinks that showering them with gifts, no matter how expensive, would make them stay, a key to securing loyalty and affection.

So when he finds himself slowly being drawn to you, being at ease whenever you’re around, as he initiates small talks and silly bets, he wouldn’t know how to break it down from there. You’re just so warm and easy to talk to, it’s comforting (like a gentle breeze). He simply keeps everyone at arm’s length, maintaining a careful distance, and yet, like a living paradox, he can feel intimately close at times to you—it’s his subtle flirting, consistent compliments, and often lingering touches.

He is hesitant in all of his bones, hard to grasp, complex and distant, but if you reach even for a little, he’ll let you hold him in your hands. He’s confusing; the thread of his words and actions are intertwined with each other but you can never find the meaning of it. It’s a heavy needlepoint of embroidery that can never be finished, a small part missing from the piece and you could never figure out what it is that you’re lacking. It’s not easy to tell if he sees you only as a friend or something more than that.

You need to be patient and persistent with him, understanding that he himself struggles with the idea of vulnerability; he fears that opening up to pain and disappointment, leaving him on his own in the end. However, over time, he eventually lowers his guard and allows himself to trust you, finding solace in your presence. When the two of you first met, his shoulders were always tense and he kept his emotions guarded behind a mask, but now, he lets go of what he carries even if it’s just for a bit, as long as it’s you he is with.

You can feel the distance closing in, the fine-drawn line of vulnerability and wariness seaming into one. You can almost touch the vanishing point between you and him, intertwining with each other, and you don’t fail to recognize the subtle shift in his actions, in his gestures, in everything about him and all that you knew.

It may be a small and mundane thing but his tendency to shower his “friends” with expensive gifts and asking to choose among which one that they would like—albeit he also does to you on some occasions—all contrasts with the simplicity of the tokens he gives you. He reserves a different kind of gesture for you, one that is laced with thoughtfulness and sincerity rather than the utter value of the gift itself.

Probably brought a bracelet one time and told you of it, but didn’t mention that it has a pair, a matching one, which he bought for himself (and never wore). He has it hidden in his drawers, amidst his precious items, only to take out from time to time to stare at it. It’s a secret he’ll forever take to his grave.

Your constant reassurance, gentleness, and kindness breaks down his defenses, the mask crumbling into unrecognizable pieces. He didn’t think he would trust someone this much, nor would he ever harbor such soft feelings—velveted affections, sweet sounds of laughter, benign words that buries itself in his chest, finding solitude in one another’s presence, basking in the warmth of it all.

Oh, to have someone see him beyond the walls he built, it scares him in some way—when you have forever listened to the chorus of condemns orchestrated by your mind, you’ll only think that you’re unlovable to anyone, that’s how it was for him, and yet to you, it comes easy as if he’s simply tangled threads that only needs to be unraveled carefully and gently. He didn’t know nor did he ever think that you'd see stars on his scars when he laid himself bare for you to see the marks that dusted his skin.

Aventurine feels like he could drown in the feeling. It’s a gentle tide that crawls to the shore and drags him along with the warm currents (the smell of blood is replaced with the taste of salt on his lips); a tender fire that burns slowly, and despite the uncertainty whether the flame is going to burn out or consume him, he’ll let the light in.

GRAH DRUM ROLLS PLEASE IM ANNOUNCING THE PRESENCE OF THE OUTSTANDING AND AMAZING FELI @dr-felitas (sometimes i type in your old user and wonder why it's not popping out and then i just go oh!) anyways, this is for you my fellow dry-talker npc,, i honestly find it cute that we're starting to adopt each other's mannerisms or texting language or pattern cause like i only started saying "right!?" (when i agree on something) because of you (back then i only say real or just nothing at all :D) and i think i began to use some of your vocabulary 😭. and somehow my ability to understand and read through typos are getting better all thanks to you 🔥🔥🔥 the world will end first before you even get to spell that word properly jkjk i love you with all of your typos, incoherent words, stupid autocorrect mwamwamwa (i say as if im im not the same) !! anyways you are a light in my life and you're one of the reasons why i still continue to pick up the pen and write !! you've been of great help and inspiration in my writings <33 without you, i probably wouldn't be able to get through the hell hole of last month, thank you. ily lots mwaa !!

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[five-rivers]

Season of the Skies

I started playing a game called Sky: Children of the Light recently, and although this isn't a crossover, it's definitely inspired by the vibes of that. It's a cute game!

Also, based on the feedback I got on AO3, there seems to be a significant overlap between the Phandom and Sky: Cotl players? Is that the case?

.

Reality had broken a month ago, and Danny was having the time of his life.  

He leaped lightly from rooftop to treetop and back again, gravity a dreamy afterthought.  The tiles and bark were rough beneath his bare feet, but not so rough he regretted not wearing shoes.  His impacts shook loose pollen, glitter, and a few stray petals, but did the trees no harm.  On the roofs he was silent, and no one came out to yell at him, but the window glass chimed with flashes of light.

The colors around him were bright and soft. Easy to look at, easy to fall into. The sky above was marbled with dawn-colored clouds and stars caught among distant nebulae.  Light and color were some of the first things to break, and Danny wasn't sorry to see light pollution go.  Most Everything glowed, now, and stargazing would have been terrible if eyes still worked the same way.  

At his next jump, this one taking him up a good ten feet, the feather-soft edge of the shawl he was wearing flared out behind him, brushing his arms.  The shawl was huge on him.  An old project of his great-grandmother's, it had been made with the typical Fenton girth in mind.  Honestly, it fit him more like a cape than a shawl, but he liked it that way.  

He landed safely and straightened the cape.  His dad’s needlepoint hobby had been inherited from her, so the dark blue fabric was covered in fine embroidery, lace, and tiny glass beads in shades of clear, pale blue, and white.  Great Grandma Fenton hadn't been into ghosts the same way the current Fentons were, but she'd been into something, so the patterns were strange.  Icicles, snowflakes, stars, clouds, and trees competed with lightning, runes and sigils, and strange, spirit-like creatures.  

“Hey!” shouted someone from the street below.  “Hey, Fentwerp!  What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Ah.  Dash.  Charming.  Danny leaned over the edge of the roof.  “What does it look like I'm doing?” he asked agreeably.  

“Getting your dumb nerd self killed is what it looks like,” said Dash, glowering up at Danny, his face turning red.

There.  See.  That's what Danny didn't understand.  No one else seemed willing to experiment with how the world was now.  They were all operating under the old rules, or, worse, looking for ways to fix things, as if the new world wasn't better than the old.  

Sure, it had been scary the first few days.  The suddenness.  The uncertainty.  The way systems they had relied on for so long had stuttered or failed outright.  Danny knew people had been hurt, that, in some places, they were still getting hurt.  He had been one of those people, having been in the hospital when the change rippled through the world, a result of an equipment malfunction in his parents’ lab.  

Maybe his opinion would be different if he was still getting hurt.  But as it was… why would he ever want to go back to how things were?  Why would he want to leave this world, where the colors were soft and bright, and the light sang?  Why would he want to leave this world where the air itself seemed to bear him up?  Where the possibilities seemed limitless?

There was so much more potential for good, with the world as it was than as it had been.  So much less potential for harm.  This was a more finished version of the world.  All the rough edges were gone, and filled with wonder.  He could feel it.

“Get down here!” demanded Dash, when Danny didn't respond.  

“No,” said Danny.  

“Get down here or else.”

“Or else what?” asked Danny, genuinely curious.  Dash couldn't get up here.  No one else could, as far as Danny knew. They hadn't taken the time to work out the new rules for gravity. 

Dash clenched his hands into fists, then stooped to grab a fairly large rock.  Danny, seeing no reason to just let Dash throw it at him, left.  

“Hey!” shouted Dash.  “Hey!  Freakton!  Get back here!”

Names like that were a lot less distressing when the people using them had no power to hurt you.  

Danny continued on his path upwards, touching on higher and higher buildings.  It was tough to get the proper amount of momentum to make some of his jumps, especially since he'd stopped to talk to Dash, but he managed to make all of them, and soon he was standing on top of the tallest building in Amity Park.  

In the center of the roof was a small tree, a sapling.  It hadn't been there the first time Danny had made it up here, and it had grown rapidly since then.  Next time he came, it'd probably be taller than he was. 

For now, though, Danny knelt to check the roots where they grew through a widening crack in the building's roof.  He'd warned the people in the building (he had warned everyone in buildings that had suddenly found themselves with roof trees), but he hadn't heard that anyone had done anything about it, and the roof trees felt friendly to him, so he hadn't pushed the issue.  From the descriptions and pictures Sam had given him, this one seemed healthy enough.  

He pulled a bottle from his backpack and gave the tree a generous sprinkle.  Then he stood up, gave the crown of leaves an affectionate ruffle, and made his way to the edge of the roof.

The city spread out in all directions below him, vibrant and changing.  Towards the edges of town, some buildings had lifted off their foundations, becoming floating islands.  Across the viridian, iridescent forest to the north, he could see blue-bright-gray flashes of Lake Eerie.  Fentonworks was easily visible off to the west, silver dishes and spires chased with green halos.  The parks bloomed with flowers both alien and familiar, vines trailing up into the air, trees growing explosively fast.  A breeze from behind turned his attention south, and he saw high clouds letting down shimmering curtains of rain.  

It wasn’t like Amity Park had been drab and horrible before, but why would anyone want to go back?

He looked away, back down at the street far below him.  Steeling himself, he grasped the edges of the shawl, he spread his arms wide.  

“Time to lift off,” he said, quietly.  “T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two–” Where he would have said one, he instead inhaled deeply.  Where he would have said zero, he jumped.  

For a heart-stopping moment, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake, if he’d made an error in his calculations, if reality had chosen that moment to reassert itself and he was about to drop like a rock.  

The moment passed quickly.  He was flying.  Or, at least, gliding.  

He laughed, and flapped his ‘wings.’  The shawl snapped behind him and gave him a small amount of lift.  

He was doing it.  He was doing it.  

And now that he was doing it, it felt as natural as breathing.  All that planning, all those calculations, all that running, climbing, and jumping–

He could fly.  

Oh, maybe it wasn’t as impressive as it would have been in the old world, where gravity was a cruel mistress.  But it was still flight, unpowered, human flight, and no one he knew of had done this before.  

He laughed, and banked to the side, flying in spirals.  He wasn’t brave enough to try a loop, yet, but he would, eventually, when he learned more about this.  

His spirals took him over the park, the school, the mall, even the Nasty Burger.  But he was losing altitude, his arms were getting tired, and he knew that if he got too close to the ground, gravity would get him again.  Not to the point of hurting him at all, but he didn’t want to land just anywhere after all this work.  

He tipped his wings westward, and started gliding home, pumping his ‘wings’ as infrequently as he could get away with.  He didn’t quite make it all the way back to his front door, but he got close, just a few houses down the street.  He rubbed his shoulders.  That was going to leave him sore.  He’d have to work out and practice more if he wanted to fly any real distance.  He'd also need a way to take off that didn’t involve climbing the tallest building in town. 

The front door of Fentonworks slammed open, revealing a pale Jack and a furiously pink Maddie.

“Daniel James Fenton!  What do you think you're doing?”

Danny looked down at his bare feet, then back up at his parents.  “Walking?”

Maddie sucked a breath in between her teeth.  “Inside,” she said

Danny hurried to obey, taking the steps up to the door two at a time and squeezing past her and Jack to get into the house.  Maddie closed the door behind him. 

“So, um,” said Danny, shuffling from foot to foot.  “What, um.  I thought you guys were going to be working all day today?”

“On the Ops Center,” said Jack.  “Not in the la– Not downstairs.”

Danny made note of the near-slip but didn’t comment on it.  He was already in trouble.  He didn’t need to remind them that the lab didn’t exactly exist anymore and make their mood worse.  

“Oh,” he said.  “What were you–?”

“Never mind what we were doing.  What were you doing?  What were you thinking, jumping off a building like that?  You could have died?”

“Or been seriously hurt!”

“But I wasn’t!  I’m fine.  I planned it all out, and it worked.”

“And it shouldn’t have!” shouted Jack and Maddie at the same time.  

Danny blinked up at them.  “What?”

Jack explained.  “We’ve been tracking the changes to gravity, too, Danny.  We’ve been measuring it, measuring all the changes, to see what those darn ghosts did.”

Danny held back a sigh.  There still wasn’t any sign that ghosts had done this, or even that ghosts existed.  

“Gravity might have changed a bit,” continued Jack, “but not enough to keep a human being airborne like that.”

“There are whole buildings floating,” said Danny.  “I’m a lot smaller than a building.”

“The rules seem to be different for different masses, as well as different altitudes,” said Maddie, making a face.  

“Yeah!  It’s really exciting.  We’re trying to measure the ectoplasm levels– It has to be related, but we haven’t been able to detect any yet– Those ghosts are tricky, son–”  

“Well, yeah.  But the rules are also different for things that are alive.”

“Really?” asked Jack, leaning close.  

“Uh, yes?  Otherwise I wouldn’t have done, um.  That.  I tested it.”

“You tested it?  Did you write it down?”

Danny nodded, cautiously.  Jack swept him off his feet.  “Our boy has been doing science, Mads!”

“He’s been jumping off of buildings!”

“Putting his research to practical use!”

“He’s been jumping off buildings without being peer reviewed!”

“Oh, yeah, son, you should have had someone check your work.”

“You never get peer reviewed,” said Danny, scowling.  

“That’s different,” said Maddie, quickly.  

“If anyone else believed in ghosts, you’d be sure we would be!”  

Hanging limp in Jack’s arms, Danny grumbled.  

“Danny,” said Maddie.  

“Yes?” he mumbled.  

“No more testing theories without checking in with us first.  Safety first.  You should know this by now.”

Danny hunched his shoulders and tried not to think too hard about his scars.  They weren’t very visible, and the doctors had said that they’d fade away, probably entirely, eventually, but they were still there now, if you knew where to look.

A month ago, reality had broken.  

A few days before that, Danny had almost died.  Lab accident.  It turned out that his parents thought portals to other dimensions which may or may not exist needed a lot of electricity and chemicals to function.  Danny had been curious.  He’d wanted to explore, to investigate.  He’d stepped on a loose wire that had led to a capacitor.  He’d been horribly electrocuted, and then exposed to a chemical cocktail.  Sam and Tucker, who had been in the lab with him, had called for an ambulance, and he’d been brought to the hospital.

At least, that’s what he was told, later.  He hadn’t woken up until he’d been in the hospital for a few days.  Of course, when he had woken up, he did so because a bunch of the medicines going into him had started to do weird things while reality restructured itself, and that had been… incredibly unpleasant.  Everyone had been grateful that only a very few things - like whatever Danny had been on to take care of the chemicals he’d picked up in the lab - had acted like that.

Later, Jazz had told Danny that for a brief period of time between the accident and reality breaking, Jack and Maddie had sworn off ghost hunting.  Presumably forever.  But once the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology started to rebel and twist, they’d taken it back.  Well, to be fair, apparently they didn’t take it back until the lab disappeared.  And the Fenton Stockades.    

Although, to be fair in the other direction, it was more a case of everyone’s basements disappearing and being replaced by weird misty caverns than ghosts specifically targeting his parents.  It was a whole thing. 

(Personally, Danny was glad to see them go, although it had sounded like Sam was mourning hers.)

“Danny,” said Maddie, “tell us that you understand.”

“I understand.  I don’t test theories without you,” said Danny, grudgingly.  “Not even about cool things like flying.”

Maddie scowled.  Jack beamed.  

“Great!” shouted Jack.  He whirled Danny around again.  “Let’s go see your data!  Where is it?”

“Upstairs,” mumbled Danny.  “I’ve got a notebook.”

“A notebook, Mads!”  

Maddie sighed.  “Alright, let’s see the notebook.”

[lacewise]

I have some free time… Let’s go over aemilia ars vs punto in aria vs reticella/reticello.

Important disclaimer: I am not a formally trained fashion historian and people REALLY don’t like to discuss this nomenclature, because it’s weird. I did what I could.

Okay, so, reticella was the direct precursor to needle lace (well… so was nalbinding, knotted lace, and netting, but different research topic for different day) and is a form of cutwork (carefully removing threads in fabric and then replacing them with decorative stitching instead) that got more and more ornamental and eventually evolved into punto in aria (first unknotted needle lace) which is entirely made by hand. However… sometimes, ‘punto in aria’ is used to refer specifically to non-geometric punto in aria designs (otherwise clumped together as ‘later’ punto in aria) that generally have more support, but still no true ground. When people are making that distinction, true needle lace that is solely geometric is also referred to as ‘reticella’. ‘Reticello’ is just a spelling variation on ‘reticella’ but I have seen it both ways.

While it’s possible to find some form of geometric needle lace/reticella/‘early’ punto in aria being made at most periods after the 17th century, the method was lost several times and had to be relearned (rich people are cheap, the upper middle class isn’t much better). (Needle lace regularly went in and out of fashion and the styles changed regularly based on region.) The only time geometrical needle lace really made a resurgence in fashionable circles was late into the 19th century, when the method was learned and distributed once again.

Because it was often worked in cotton, whereas the original was worked in linen (yes it was because of sharecropping and enslavement) and no one could be *absolutely sure* it was worked the same way as the original (and to sell to people as both ‘new’ and ‘traditional’) it was (re)named aemilia ars. Aemilia Ars was name of the Italian society that repopularized this style. The patterns they used are often later punto in aria designs (the ones that are less geometrical). So that’s why this needle lace can go by several names, based on my research and understanding.

I have no idea if working it in linen (which I do) or silk changes the nomenclature. (I don’t think so, but this is already confusing.) I’ve seen it several different ways and I don’t think there is a set definition anymore, but feel free to correct me if you know more!

And that’s how a wide swath of needle lace and cutwork embroidery is considered the same (unless it isn’t).

(It’s one of the few subsets of needle lace that isn’t named after where the tradition and stitches originated.)

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Being Aemond's conquest is giving me dom/sub feels. He probably wouldn't hesitate in completely destroying his conquests and forcing them to submission (consensually) and claiming them as his in every way he can. He probably only allows a bit of brattiness for conquests he is more familiar with though, lol.

Closer

Warnings: Smut. Pure smut. BDSM style relationship. 18+ Pairing: Dom!Aemond x Sub!Nameless Female Character Word count: 1.6k

“I can’t!” she whines piteously, backing up the bed away from Aemond, prey attempting to escape its predator.

To anyone that doesn’t know any better, Aemond’s face holds an air of cold indifference. However, to her, the sadistic glint in his eye is unmistakable. She hates him when he is like this. Yet she craves it just the same. She needs that steadying hand of correction, to give herself fully to Aemond’s control. And he loves being in control.

Aemond stands at the foot of the bed, looming over her. His long white hair is untied, hanging loose around his face and shoulders. He has chosen to forego the use of his eyepatch for this evening’s activities, the sapphire within the empty socket glints malignantly in the light cast from the fireplace. He is bare chested, the pale skin of his toned chest and stomach creamy white and intoxicating.

Ordinarily, Aemond stays fully clothed for their encounters, preferring a swift exit once they are finished. However, he knows tonight will be prolonged and messy. Best not to create any unsightly stains, he thinks to himself. His cock strains painfully at the laces of his leather riding trousers. The urge to free it and bury it in her tight heat is overwhelming, but he refrains, she’d enjoy that. Tonight is not about her pleasure, it is about correction. She had forgotten her place.

It had started earlier that morning. Aemond had awoken with a deep throbbing ache that he knew only her cunt would satisfy. Ever discreet, he’d waited for the opportune moment to approach her. It would not do for a prince to be seen fraternising with a lady in waiting. They were both aware of this and took great lengths to keep their regular trysts a secret. He had lingered around the Red Keep all day, watching her from a distance, waiting for his moment to strike. An opportunity finally presented itself when he saw her sat in the gardens with Helaena. His older sister’s attention was captivated by a beetle meandering its way across the stone floor, so he’d made a point to quietly walk past, whispering as he did so.

“Meet me in my chambers at noon.”

The rush of excitement she’d had felt had caused a flush to creep across her skin. She imagined the iron clad grip of his hands on her hips, the sobs of pleasure that bubbled in her throat, his whispers of “ilībītsos” little slut. Heat had pooled in her core at the thought, biting her lip in anticipation.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their Septa, calling both her and Helaena inside for needlepoint practice. Late morning gave way to early afternoon, then mid-afternoon. The time was whiled away by girlish exuberance, as she and Helaena giggled and gossiped. The intricate detailing of the spider that Helaena was embroidering becoming more detailed as the hours ticked by.

Realisation suddenly dawned on her and she looked to the Septa. “Is it noon yet?”

“My child, it is four hours past.” Her eyes went wide, dread gnawing at her insides.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be.”

She rushed from the room, not giving the Septa a chance to enquire as to where she was going.

She slowed her pace as she approached the door to Aemond’s chambers, attempting to calm herself. She smoothed her skirts, calmed her breathing and then knocked.

“Enter” came the curt reply.

Her heart hammered in her chest as her hand lingered hesitantly on the door handle. Her sense of reason was screaming at her to turn and run, to avoid the inevitable wrath of the Targaryen prince. Yet another sense urged her forward: lust.

Aemond was seated in an armchair, facing the fire, his back to her as she entered the room. The long nimble fingers of his left hand drummed softly on the arm of the chair. He said nothing to her, the silence felt like it stretched on for an eternity as she stood there.

Finally, she decided to speak up, unable to endure his ignorance of her presence any longer. “My prince, I am sorry I was late, I…” “Late?” he interrupted her, his voice eerily calm, “Riña, you are not late. You have forgotten your prince.” Girl.

He stood and walked slowly towards her.

Fear and excitement made her stomach lurch and her heart flutter.

“I would never forget you, I only…”

Her sentence was cut off as she felt the sharp sting of the back of Aemond’s hand strike her cheek. She gasped, stumbling back, her fingers gently touching the quickly reddening skin of where he’d hit her. When she looked up at him through tear filled eyes he appeared almost composed, yet she could see the slight flare of his nostrils, the burning intensity of his right eye. She was in trouble.

“You are disrespectful, ilībītsos.” He said, “You have kept a prince waiting. A Targaryen prince. And you must be taught a lesson.” Little slut.

She stared at him wide eyed, not knowing quite what to say. The sting of her cheek was far outweighed by the ceaseless clenching between her thighs.

Her eyes flickered to his hand moving towards his hip, watching as he unsheathed his dagger before twirling it skillfully between long digits.

“Aemond, no!” said cried, her expression one of pure horror. Fear clutched at her in an icy cold grip.

He gave a slight smirk, his eye fixed on hers. “You think I mean to cut you? You shall not get off so lightly.”

She flinched as he slashed the blade downwards, slicing the bodice of her gown in two, before dropping the dagger and pulling the rest off with his hands, until she stood bare before him.

Relief immediately washed over her. He had not meant to harm her. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of shame, upon realising her vulnerable state. Her hands attempted unsuccessfully to cover her modesty.

Aemond’s eye roamed appreciatively over her, his lips quirking slightly as he did so. “Get on the bed.” He commanded. “I won’t ask you twice.”

There was a part of her that wanted to defy his order, to find out what would happen next. However, like the wanton little thing that she was, she found herself obeying him wordlessly as she climbed on top of the covers.

His hands were immediately upon her, manhandling her into the position her wanted her in. The next few hours were a heady mess of his lips, teeth, tongue and fingers wrenching climax after climax from her aching body. She swore at one point she could feel him pressing the pommel of his dagger inside of her, but she could not be sure. The mingling of overstimulating sensations made her mind cloudy.

At some point he strips himself out of his tunic and jerkin, remarking on how the mess that’s dripping down her thighs will ruin the material. She does not notice him remove his eyepatch, until she is met with the sight of the sapphire, shimmering and threatening all at once.

Which finally brings her to the present moment. Her abused core is throbbing and sensitive, her thighs are trembling. She is certain she cannot take anymore. She will surely pass out if he brings her to her peak just once more.

“I can’t…” she repeats feebly, when he says nothing.

“You can. You will. You must.” He taunts, dragging her back towards him by her thighs.

“Aemond, please, have mercy! Just fuck me and get this over with.”

“Oh no, ilībītsos, you will not have my cock this night.” He says softly, “I would not fuck you past your peak. You are too loud.”

He settles himself between her legs, pushing his face to her most sensitive of parts. She sobs, tears rolling down her cheeks as he presses his tongue back to her pearl, for what feels like the hundredth time that day, licking at her like a man half starved, eliciting another shuddering crest of sensation from her.

He finally stands, satisfied that the task is complete and admires his handiwork. She is a shaking mess, tangled in the bed clothes. Her cheeks are ruddy and tear stained, her hair fans wildly around her head. The apex of her thighs is glistening with her slick and swollen with overuse.

He unlaces his trousers, sighing with relief as his hand finds his erect cock. This evening has been every bit as torturous for him as it has been for her and he is eager for release.

She looks hopefully up at him as he does this and he lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Remember, I said I am not going to fuck you.”

He knows she hates it when he doesn’t spend inside of her and so he fists his length, ready to deliver the final insult. It does not take long for him to reach his end, having been painfully hard for the last few hours. He sighs as he ejaculates rope after pearly rope across her skin.

The wail she lets out sounds almost heartbroken. He smiles to himself. She has definitely learned her lesson.

“Get out.” He tells her coolly, as he tucks himself away and laces his trousers back up.

“But…but…I am a mess!” She protests.

He smirks. “Yes. Yes, you are. And perhaps you will think on that the next time you decide to behave like your time is more valuable than mine.”

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More Aemond fics

[noonesgaylikegatson]

The "trad wife" thing is hilarious to me. Talk about being blind to privilege.

It's Rich Women Only revisionist history.

Cast your mind back to those Austen and Bronte novels you read as a teenager.

Soooo romantic, right? That was the life! Lounging around your family estate, wearing gowns and doing needlepoint (or whatever.)

But look a little closer. What do you see? There in the background.

Oh.. wait.. are those... SERVANTS?

Why yes!

WOMEN, young and old, helping the protagonists get dressed! Styling their hair! Lacing their corsets! Changing their bedding! Cooking and serving their food! Sweeping the floors and milking the cows and wet-nursing and governessing the brats!

Hundreds of years ago! Women! MOST women.. HAD JOBS. Because they had to. Just like men. Because if they didn't, they would be destitute. Just like men.

The housekeeper in Jane Eyre? Mrs Fairfax? Not at Thornfield for funsies! She got paid! It was her job! (And, what's that? MRS Fairfax? So.. a MARRIED woman with a job?! In ye olden dayes?!)

Women have always worked. Always. Everywhere.

Just because the vast majority of women who have ever existed have not been written about, doesn't mean they didn't exist. Doesn't mean they didn't work themselves to death, as seamstresses and maids and midwives and nurses and washerwomen and cooks and vendors and shopkeepers and brewers and bakers and teachers and scribes and dancers and singers and potters and jewellers, on farms, in factories, in the houses of wealthier women. It just means no man cared enough to write about them.

Women in literature (and therefore in much of recorded history) were either princesses or nuns. The wives and daughters and mothers of rich men. Or nuns.

A woman wealthy enough to stay home all day was a rarity. And she almost certainly had other women working FOR her.

'Trad wives' are cosplayers. Nothing more.

Absolutely!!!!!! Here! Here!

People who fantasize about the pass seem to not see all the women who spent their lives working. I guess they’re just “invisible” set pieces with no inner lives and nothing going on.

[chic-a-gigot]

L'Art et la mode, no. 28, vol. 15, 14 juillet 1894, Paris. Art & Chiffons. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Robe en lainage rose, boutonnant derrière. Garniture de guipure blanche.

Pink woolen dress, buttoned at the back. White guipure trim.

—

Robe en batiste ciel. Garniture de linon brodé. Guimpe plissée.

Sky cambric dress. Embroidered lawn trim. Pleated wimple.

—

Toilette en taffetas changeant. Garniture de bouillonés de mousseline de soie. Col, ceinture et nœuds de satin noir.

Changing taffeta ensemble. Garnished with chiffon bouillons. Black satin collar, belt and bows.

—

Toilette en linon à fleurettes, de point à l’aiguille.

Ensemble in flowered lawn, needlepoint.

—

Ding ding! Ding ding! Le glas du départ est sonné, le Bois est désert, les salons sont clos. Paris a beau être joli et charmant, il faut s’en aller, qui à la mer, qui à la forêt, qui à la montagne, et quand l’époque du voyage est fixée, la malle est vite faite.

Au risque de passer pour rabâcheuse, il faut bien dire encore une fois que le blanc domine.

La vigogne fait des costumes simples et élégants, privés du moindre ornement; on ne les garnit que de grosses piqûres et d’énormes boutons de nacre.

La serge bleue semble être la nuance préférée des bicyclistes féminines, avec galons de mohair blanc ou rouge, ou écru; le chapeau Escadre en toile ou en serge bleue.

La saison s’annonce déjà très brillante à Cabourg, et l’on y fait, paraît-il, deux et même trois toilettes par jour… le matin, ce sont des costumes tailleur en covercoat, avec biais piqué dans le bas, petite jaquette pareille, col rose ou lilas, cravate en batiste; l’après-midi, ce sont les robes de piqué blanc, avec devant froufrou en crêpe de chine, boléro écourté sur des dentelles vaporeuses superposées, ce qui est plus habillé que le simple flottant de surah; mais ce qui domine, c’est la robe de mousseline à pois brochés, enrichie de volants ourlés de dentelles; à côté de ce genre, le style Pompadour, avec dentelles écrues; quant aux nœuds de rubans, on les sème partout, au relevé de la jupe, à la berthe au cou, à la ceinture, jamais le ruban n’a été aussi en vogue.

—

Ding ding! Ding ding! The death knell has sounded, the Bois is deserted, the salons are closed. Paris may be pretty and charming, but you have to go, some to the sea, some to the forest, some to the mountains, and when the time of the trip is set, the trunk is quickly packed.

At the risk of coming across as harping, it must be said once again that white dominates.

The vicuña makes simple and elegant costumes, deprived of the slightest ornament; they are only garnished with large stitches and enormous mother-of-pearl buttons.

Blue serge seems to be the favorite shade of female cyclists, with white or red, or ecru mohair braid; the Escadre hat in canvas or blue serge.

The season is already looking very bright in Cabourg, and it seems that there are two and even three ensembles a day… in the morning, they are tailored suits in covercoat, with stitched bias at the bottom, similar little jacket, pink or lilac collar, cambric tie; in the afternoon, there are the white piqué dresses, with frilly front in crepe de chine, cropped bolero on superimposed vaporous lace, which is more dressy than the simple floating surah; but what dominates is the muslin dress with polka dots, enriched with ruffles hemmed with lace; next to this genre, the Pompadour style, with ecru lace; as for ribbon bows, we scatter them everywhere, at the top of the skirt, at the berthe at the neck, at the belt, ribbon has never been so fashionable.

[sleepgarden]

Lambkin ✢ Handmade headdress "….You have the sweetest scream. My lambkin."  White Mask Varré is one of my favourite characters in Elden Ring. I’ve come to adore his pet name for our tarnished— “lambkin”.  The aesthetic of the headdress, quite clearly, went in its own direction. The pink lettering is very close in colour to the ecru base, in certain light the pink “blushes”. The edges are trimmed with antique linen lace and accented with soft pink ribbons. I even tea-dyed the fabric backing to match!

This is an entirely hand made item: the body is needlepoint (tapestry), stitched to a fabric backing and accented with lace. The ribbon tie can be removed as well! This headdress will be available April 19th at 12pm EDT