#women wood engravers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

6saints · 10 days ago

Text

Aemond Targaryen x Artist! Reader

Part one? Maybe a smutty part two

Synopsis: Aemond is embarrassed by Aegon. His brother laughing at him for continuing his intimacies with Sylvi. He finds comfort in a little corner of the brothel, where a girl and her drawings seem to capture his affections.

Warnings/tags: Not much to say ngl, sexual themes, suggestive, dude is naked the whole time, it's a brothel yall, Aemond is kind of a jerk at first, soft Aemond at the end tho hehehe, reader is a cutie patootie, cursing and mature language

___

Paper, much less sketchbooks, were difficult to come by through the smallfolk of Westeros. A luxury; coveted by skillful artisans and noble families emptying their pockets for masterful art to be made of their loved ones. You were unfortunately deprived of those luxuries, being born a common girl with no household to claim. Therefore you learned to steal and barter; a skill that has served you faithfully into your adulthood.

It was not an honorable hobby of yours, you could admit, stealing low quality paper from struggling vendors. But when you would return home (and by home you really meant a small room in the back of a brothel. Paid for by your labor in cleaning, cooking, and fetching for the women and mistress) and look at the beige, tawny sheets on your walls, you were proud.

The city was overpopulated, and the people that spent their time out and about at night tended to be delinquents or drunkards. Occasionally, you could swear some of the sleeping drunks were dead. Though you would never check. Lest you wanted an angry fellow to attack you for your coin and body. The moon at its fullest always seemed to cast an odd glow on the faces of these men. You had often wished to recreate it in a drawing if only you could kneel next to them and do so.

It was always easy to slip through the walls, the darkness cloaking you from the wandering eyes of people and into the shacks that held the art materials. And once you would return to the brothel you would have an abundance of not only new supplies, but new muses to illustrate.

Brothels were a goldmine for artists who, like you, enjoy drawing the human body. The anatomy of a man and woman, the way their bodies contort and the plushness of their skin, the markings and scars that often littered their body, disheveled hair and drunken smiles; it was all so beautifully human to you. You had been invited on a number of occasions to join, perhaps earn a little more than just a small space that could barely fit yourself. But you would refuse.

You had kept your maidenhood, if not for anything else but the romanticism that artists always seem to cling faithfully to.

You wanted a lover, not a visitor.

So, you would sit hidden in the corner of the brothel, watching and sketching beneath your cloak merrily. A contentment that only a poor girl in a brothel could enjoy.

"My prince," Sylvi greeted, a smile dancing across her lips as she took the young prince's hand.

Following behind the brothel owner was Aemond Targaryen, a man who by all rights demanded power and authority. Zealous in his endeavors to usurp the throne from his brother Aegon. You knew of the gossip, the smallfolk regurgitating rumors heard through the grapevine and around some.

You had always, always, wanted to draw him properly.

But Sylvi accommodated the prince's needs impartially. Reserving a grander room covered in silks and fabrics befitting the district was her way of comforting him, you had noticed. He only ever came to see the older woman, clad in darkened clothes and hidden away from the other whores, as patrons liked to call them.

Once had you caught a view of his face, proper and thorough. It was just long enough to engrave his features in your memory; though like wood, chips away as time passes. Two attempts were made to sketch him from memory, both looking rather peculiar, different and not at all how your brain wished to remember him so. You hung the sketches up as a way of keeping his face in your memory. He was beautiful, that was all you could remember properly.

You flinched at the sound of bellowing laughs erupting from the pretty room of silk, a small group of men encircling the entrance. A tuft of messy white hair was all you saw before the men obscured your vision momentarily. He seemed to cradle himself, arms crossed overtop his knees as he looked away from his elder brother, shame rising within himself.

WOOF WOOF WOOF

Was one of them... barking?

You could not hear with the sounds of men and women moaning, skin slapping and idle chatter. But suddenly the young prince revealed himself, no cloak to hide his features nor his nude body. Despite the open wound on his face, his body was barren of any imperfection. Milky skin adorning broad shoulders and a lean figure. Aemond carried himself as a ruler, his strides confident and unwilling to cower despite the situation.

"...There are plenty of other whores," was all that escaped the man's lips audibly before he turned the corner towards your little nook in the hall.

Panicked, you backed into your small room, tripping over the sheets on the floor (which was your bed if you were to be specific). Only a few candles lit your room, an easy to miss area that if you continued walking straight would almost look like a compact storage space. It was a generous space for the work you offered, and often times you found yourself rather grateful. Most smallfolk without a bloodline to care for them slept on the streets, or in the beds of men and their sexual whims. This nook of old wood and even older fabrics was entirely yours.

Unfortunately for you, however, it seems the prince might have found comfort in the small space, deciding to turn towards it; only to be met with a girl on the floor, a sketchbook in hand and jostled (h/c) hair covering her, clothed he noted, body.

You were pretty, he pondered for only a moment. Your (s/c) skin was glowing against the wax candles’ light, the flames and brown of the wood around you seeming to cast a glow atop your cheeks and shoulders. You were certainly a stark difference to the white haired and unenchantingly pale family members of the Red Keep. Your clothes were hidden beneath a tattered cloak, small as the fabric seemed to dwindle against your head from what is likely to be many years of use.

And that was when he took notice of the walls, shrouded in ornate and tawny scraps of paper. Charcoals and ink covered them beautifully. The curves and figures replicated on the pages as though he were staring at real people, if not for the lack of color confirming otherwise. His eyes scrutinized every single piece before falling upon the two stuck to the wall beside you, low enough that he could not see the intricacies.

They were of him, he was certain. The familiar scar on full display; and you had decided to depict such in your work as though it were not a foul thing. As if he were not crippled and unworthy of being made into art.

Immediately you moved onto your knees, arms stretching to cover the drawings of him. "My prince, please don't look!" You whisper-shouted, rather embarrassed.

He's gonna behead me for drawing him! He's gonna be so offended, they're such horrible depictions of him! This is the end-

Your thoughts were cut off by his movement towards you, almost saccharine despite the threatening layer he carried in his being. He plucked the pages off your wall easily, the dried sap you had used to place it leaving a residue behind. He was knelt beside you now as his breathing was ragged and heavy, yet his eye softer. It was clear he was still angry so you stayed immobile, opting to quietly allow the prince the respite of looking at your, as you believed to be, shitty drawings.

"How did a lowborn whore get access to all this?" Aemond questioned, almost accusatory though not quite as menacing.

"I'm not a whore, my prince," you corrected rather brashly, "And I bought it."

"You bought it?" He repeated, turning to you.

Gods, that face of his was truly a work of art. You had never seen something sculpted so faire and enchanting. "Yes, I work here. As a cleaner and cook. Among other things." You muttered the last bit. Perhaps being titled ‘thief’ would not sit well with the prince, or any noble for that matter.

"Do you think me stupid? The most fucked whores here could not nearly afford this much paper." He eyed you up and down, causing insecurity to slowly creep up your spine. "Yet the cook can?"

You gulped, fingers shaking as you set the sketchbook down and began kneeling entirely, head pointed downward. "Please, my prince," you begged, "It is something I enjoy."

For some strange, insignificant reason, Aemond found himself enjoying this power he held over you. He could take away this passion of yours, take his frustrations of what had occurred only moments ago out on you; the helpless little brothel servant. He and Sylvi had a certain dynamic that bordered on motherly in its own twisted way. She had taken his virginity at the age of 13, she being well and along into her adult years and well past the taking of her own maidenhood.

And his brother, politically speaking, was mightier and thus rendered Aemond helpless against him. He could saunter into the brothel and laugh at him as he pleased. Even his own mother did not truly care for him as she did his siblings, and his father's weak resolutions were only fitted towards his bastard carrying half-sister. And yet you looked up at him from your knelt position, eyes big and (e/c) and watery. Your dress was ragged but not entirely ugly, or perhaps it was your face; flushed and puffed out that compensated. There was fear present, but not entirely of Aemond himself.

Certainly not of his eye, the disgusting scar that was on full display due to his elder brother's and cousin’s cruelty had not made you avert your gaze entirely. You did not even seem to notice it, staring impartially at the prince as though the ugly thing were not present.

All you cared about was some low quality paper.

"Why did you choose me? To illustrate, I mean." This time his voice exuded authority, the white strands falling against his face as he stared idly at your sketch. "Speak now."

You had been given the opportunity to admire his features more carefully, focusing on the prominence of his nose and thinness of his lips, his working eye soft and welcoming whilst the other was pointed and jeweled. The scar that aligned his cheek, across the sapphire and ending above his eyebrow was healed enough, a wound forever carved into his features.

"You're beautiful," you mindlessly said, soft enough that Aemond almost had not heard it. You caught yourself almost immediately, straightening your back and creating a distance between you two. "I-I'm so sorry! That was rude of me!"

You weren't sure if drooling over a prince could be considered treason or criminal, and you honestly had no desire to find out.

"You find the cripple beautiful?" He laughed out.

Self deprecation was something he had never truly let anybody see, opting for an authoritative approach. All the people of Westeros saw when looking at him was a crippled boy, one unfit to rule a kingdom despite the training and studying he endured, well beyond the abilities of his brother, who did not even seem to enjoy the thought of ruling. If he pretended to be confident for long enough then surely others would believe it too. Power is power, a loss of an eye nor sleeping with a whore could take that away from him. Aemond was chosen by Vhagar, one of the largest dragons who had only recently lost its companion. He was chosen. A privilege not so easily befitted to others.

And yet here he knelt; naked, angry, and oddly frustrated with the girl in front of him.

"Do you take me for some kind of joke?" He was a looming presence, like a gargoyle. A beautiful statue bearing intricacies and underlying dread.

"I only draw things I find beautiful," your trembling hands reached for your notebook to show him, ripped papers sliding between your fingers as you turned the pages deliberately. "Mostly people, mostly those in the brothel." You admitted.

"And I?"

Aemond sounded almost defeated, like the world was weighing on him and the compliment from a pretty little brothel worker was the final push.

"Yes, and you, my prince."

A silence enveloped you both. The lewd sounds outside of your little nook in the corner of the brothel seemed to wane within your ears, the both of you rather present and yet distant at the same time. You pondered if he needed comfort, the abrupt entrance of his brother weighing heavily within you both. You would have preferred to see him again from a distance and not entangle yourself with the affairs of a highborn who could, by all accounts, harm you. You wondered what led the prince to grow up so ashamed of himself. Aemond who felt frustrated and embarrassed, weak even, and you who felt pity and shyness. A need to comfort the insecure prince overwhelming you.

"If you'd like..." You began unsurely, "I will not lay with you, um, intimately. But if I may offer you comfort?"

The sketchbook in your lap held one of the drawings of Aemond atop the pages. It sat gingerly, the ornate paper crinkled slightly from the prince's touch. You were about to remove it to allow the prince to rest his head atop your lap before he stopped you abruptly, his hand overtop yours and stilled. His thumb brushed over yours for a moment, a ghost of a feeling that you were unsure it had occurred at all.

"Leave it." He commanded.

And so you did.

You lifted your hands while Aemond shifted his body weight, laying on the sheets that were scattered against the floor with his head gingerly placed atop the sketchbook as your hands delicately traced along his hair, neck, and shoulder. His legs found themselves beneath the sheets, his arms curled forward to hold onto your thighs. The feeling of your skin against his hand only served to soothe him, fingers rubbing circles harsh enough that it almost hurt, the fat and muscle in your legs massaged into a redness.

Your fingers were soft to the touch, a chill reverberating against himself as he inhaled the mix of your scent and the paper; wood, sap, and the slight fragrance of the rose oils you bathed with. It was different to the stench of the common areas within the brothel, and the intense perfumes that the castle halls were brimming with. Your maidenhood was intact, you had not lied. His hands trailed upward, speculating your morals as he found himself reaching within your cloak and holding onto the side of your waist.

Although you made no move to stop him, the stiffness in your body and the way your breath hitched in your throat gave him an idea of your discomfort. When his hand returned to its original position atop your thighs your body relaxed and you continued kneading at his skin. He thought of you almost like a kitten; only allowing the touch that you wished to receive whilst being tucked away from the peering eyes of others.

"I will return," he spoke matter of factly, "And you will accept me."

"Yes, my prince."

"Aemond," he corrected. "When we are here, you will address me as Aemond."

"Yes, Aemond."

This was a little nook in the corner of the world, untouched by sex and politics.

Just a pretty little girl and her drawings, taking care of the insecure prince who reveled in her touch, art and soft manner of speech.

#ao3 #fanfic #romance #reader insert #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #aemond x reader #smut #wattpad #house targaryen #house of the dragon smut #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen #aemond Targaryen x reader

241 notes · View notes

insatiable-hungey · 4 months ago

Text

You know what I want to see more of?

Ankh Morpork Souveniers

SPECIFICALLY

Lace bobbins

So, info dump time, round world historical lace bobbins are made from wood or bone, specifically horse or cow shin bones, and they can be plain or decorated. English midland style bobbins have beads called spangles to weigh them down and keep them flat.

Historically you had a large portion of poor and working class women making lace (because it's tedious, repetitive, and was worth a fair amount compared to other home crafts of the time) and they would often sit in their front gardens/on the street/in their doorways making lace because they needed good light.

Now, people would wander by and see what people were working on/what could be purchased, so one way people would promote things, say an election candidate, a moral bible message or an event (like a hanging) would be with engraved bobbins.

Bobbins, the free pens of the semi- literate world

They would also be given as gifts to the lacemaker from family members or sweethearts, sometimes with names or messages etched into them (theres a saucely one with 'kis me quick my mome is comin' etched into it in the Cowper & Newton Museum)

Now back to the Disc.

Thanks to Guards Guards we know that there is lacemaking on the Disc because Vetinari is reading a book on it in prison.

Ergo, there are lace makers*

Lacemakers who would go head over heels to be brought a tiny dwarf battle bread shaped bobbin by their friend who visited Koom Valley, or be gifted an antique troll bone bobbin that sparkles with tiny diamond flecks (new troll bone products since been outlawed everywhere but Uberwald much like the round world's ivory laws)

But most of all

I want to see hanging bobbins.

You know with absolute certainty that CMOT dibbler is hawking badly made bobbins, made from the finest (rat) bones yessir, to watchers of the seasons hangings.

Which means after the events of going postal...

There are ALBERT SPANGLER commemorative SPANGLED BOBBINS

VETINARI PROBABLY COMMISSIONED THEM

I AM LOSING MY MIND over moist von lipwig having to deal with the shipping hassle of every lacemaker and their aunt sending a bobbin to their far distant friends COMMEMORATING HIS OWN DEATH

I'M TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT THIS I SWEAR

*Vetinari would 100% enjoy lacemaking**, as it is all about following the strings and making sure they are heading where they need to go to complete the pattern.

**He would attend the Thursday morning club because lace ladies are incorrigible gossips and know everything about everyone

EDIT:

Ohmygod I forgot about the potential of souvenier PINS

#lace making #lace #bobbin lace #discworld #moist von lipwig #vetinari #info dump #long post

228 notes · View notes

dumbsoftheart · 1 year ago

Text

threads of fate

pairing: peacekeeper!coriolanus snow x preachers daughter!reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dub-con, heavy and dark religious themes, dark themes, fingering, kissing, swearing, sliiight voyerism, corruption and innocence kink,

summary: after a chase in the woods, coriolanus becomes devoted to making you his one and only follower.

notes: i don't know what came over me.. enjoy!

word count: 7.2k

౨ׅৎ

the blood of the lamb, washed over the sins of those strayed away from god, atones those begging to be spared from destruction. the saccharine ichor was the ultimate gateway towards deliverance- and thus sought out by sinners and saints alike to be granted eternal redemption for the transgressions that permeated the sweats and tears of the individuals whose secrets would have them damned to the dreadful inferno beneath their feet. the sweet lamb; symbol of innocence and purity, and the wolf who hunted it, the face of deception and treachery, stood now in the heart of the woodlands, the sweet kill hidden shamefully in the asylum of the crowded aspen as it’s predator tauntingly whistled in pursuit of it’s coveted prize.

tears fell in a waterfall down into the vessels of your collarbones, trailing down and staining the frail white fabric of your dress, unveiling the soft tanned skin of your chest in its wake. with one hand clasped tightly against your mouth, you tried to conceal your wails of fear and the threatening thumping of your heart so as not to draw attention to the towering figure looming dangerously close to you, chuckling lowly as he carefully made his way through the maze of trees and forestry. your other hand was clutched desperately on the golden cross that hung around your neck, thumb haphazardly caressing the delicate engravings and etchings of the cool metal.

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.

shame washed over you as you thought of your mother and father- your dear father, and what they would make of your inevitable disappearance. you were taught the way of the lord since you emerged from your mothers womb; it followed you everywhere you went. by all means, you had lived your life for god himself. what would he think of you now? the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of god. and yet there you were, a thief, running from, no doubt, god’s punishment for your sins.

despite your fathers widespread fame throughout the district, your family struggled to bring food and water to the table regularly. seeing the despair that clouded your mothers eyes as she failed to provide a dinner some nights for her family had driven you towards madness. you grew desperate- desperate to alleviate the stress that haunted her and satiate the hunger that settled in your stomach for the fifth day in a row. you rationalised, that with your undying devotion, god would find it in him to forgive you. with all the work your father put into his sermons and dedication to delivering god's word to the poverty stricken peoples of district 12, the divine being would be forgiving in his punishment in recognition of the loyalty you harboured.

now, you knew you were wrong.

you berate yourself for even entertaining the stupid idea of pilfering from the small bakery near the marketplace. in truth, it wasn’t even stealing. you had waited until dark threatened the sky, then snuck behind the establishment to snatch a few meagre, stale loaves that had been carelessly discarded in a small bin beside the refuse receptacles. combined with the butter you had been gifted earlier in the week, these provisions would barely suffice to stifle the persistent pangs in your stomach for a few days, at most. you naively assumed you were in solitude and hastily fled when you’d filled up your small leather bag with as many old rolls and loaves as possible.

oh, how wrong could you have been? you never caught sight of the face of the man who now charged after you- only a faint glance at a familiar blue that weaved its way through the trees- but the adrenaline rushing through your veins urged you to run, and to never stop. and now, here you were, caught in the act, pathetically weeping as you waited for the repercussions of your actions to find you.

you moved to press your back harder against the thin trunk of the tree, a twig snapping under the weight of your foot, and your eyes widened with fear as the sound reverberated against the still of the forest, the soft footsteps that trailed behind you coming to an abrupt stop. then, a voice.

“my dear, it would make it so much easier for us if you just came out. i promise you, i don’t bite.” it purred. the way he spoke was low and unrecognisable, laced with an amusement that had you shiver with the depravity of it. your crying ceased at an attempt to remain as hidden as possible, nary a whimper escaping from behind the painful grip of your hand across your mouth.

“i know you know what you did was wrong. i mean, stealing from a bakery? i wonder what your father would think of you now, his daughter a thief.”

you fought back tears at the mention of your father, shame once again weighing at your conscience, “come out, and i promise your punishment won't be as harsh as it should be.”

the proposition had you thinking for a bit, the truth behind the words appealing to you for a sliver of a moment. before you could consider your next step; find an out or comply to the omnipresent man’s offering, a gunshot pierces your ears, and you let out a shriek so loud you swore all of panem could hear you.

you begin to wail again then, uncontrollably, screaming and begging for respite as your body gave in under the weight of itself; your knees buckling and falling harshly against the ground. you shake with the ferocity of a small rodent before you’re pulled up by your shoulders and engulfed into a familiar, warm hug. your eyes wide with panic, you thrash your head back in forth in an attempt to find the man who was tormenting you, only to see that he was now gone, and in his place, a small search party lead by a peacekeeper cheered in glory at the sight of you. relief washed over you as you looked up to find your father, falling into the safety of his arms as he escorted you out of the forest, giving a curt thank you to the peacekeeper and another man you recognized to be one of your fathers students, before dragging you to the comfort of your home.

౨ׅৎ

when your father found out the reason behind your being in the woods, you’d landed yourself a life of extra chores and punished to more frequent church visits until your father decided you had repent enough. your father, reassuring you of god's forgiveness as his child, warned that your actions wouldn't fade from memory. he emphasised the necessity of restoring your relationship with the lord and savior. you were under his constant watch, now. each morning, before dropping you off at school, he compelled you to pray fervently for protection over your family and yourself, urging you to plead for deliverance from the consequences of your actions.

with your increased presence in church taking up most of the time you had to yourself, you found yourself taking note of the other frequent church goers. your father, of course, and his dedicated student, were a constant in your peripheral vision. the old couple who lived only a few minutes away from you, mrs. harmon and her froofy, dirty church outfits, her boisterous children, and her grumbling husband. you noticed small things; like how the wife of the newly-wed couple in town had stopped wearing her wedding ring, and how her husband seemed to never give her a second look. how the twin boys in the grade below you suddenly surpassed you in height, and their younger sister now seemed to lack a certain innocence that was pertinent in her character before. you made a small promise to yourself to pray for her.

there was one person, however, who you were not familiar with, yet you could feel it in the deep ends of your bones that you knew exactly who he was. he had begun to appear only once a week, his shiny buzzcut and blue peacekeeper uniform sticking out sorely from the rest of the crowd. then, twice a week- then three- and then suddenly you found you could not escape from him. everywhere you turned, he was there. when you walked home from school, you would catch him patrolling somewhere nearby, or laughing and chatting with his peacekeeper friends. when you opened the church doors for mass, he would be first to walk in, handing you a small smile before making his way to sit in the pew farthest away from you. he was there, everywhere you looked, and it unsettled you greatly. there was a lack of sincerity in his eyes when he smiled, and for a moment you thought that it had seemed like hunger, but you pushed the idea away before your brain could process it. one night, when closing the church doors and heading to your home, the small sound of rapid footsteps triggered your fight or flight response, the latter winning. when the man rested his hand on your shoulder politely, handing you a handkerchief you had dropped, you felt a strange sense of deja vu. the speed at which it sounded he had ran towards you didn’t match how he stood before you now; breathing even, chest pushed out pridefully, his dark sapphire eyes never leaving yours. but you were so sure that the man had been sprinting, just like the man who had sprinted after you a few weeks ago had. you gave him a small thank you before speed-walking your way to the front door, panting heavily as you locked it shut behind you and your hand made its way back to the pendant on your neck, grasping it so tightly it hurt, the stipe digging into the soft flesh of your palms as a way of grounding yourself back to your senses.

that night, when you got on your knees to pray, you couldn’t shake the look on the mans face from your thoughts. his features themselves were even, lacking any sense of emotion, but his eyes troubled you the most. the way they bore into yours made you feel as if you would burst into flames right then. it made you feel as if there was something he wanted from you, but your poor innocent soul couldn’t figure out what. when you nestled yourself into your bed that same night, you vowed to stay as far away from him as possible.

you hadn't realised how hard that would be.

he approached you the next morning. it was saturday, and the usual gloomy weather of district 12 had been forced away and replaced with the harsh, bright sunlight. it shone spectacularly through the stained-glass windows, gracing the dark wood of each side aisle with vibrant reds and yellows and blues and brightening the deep red carpet that lay evenly along the nave. you stood behind the pulpit, readying your fathers sermons and homilies for that week's sabbath. he had barged in unannounced, making his way towards you slowly as you pretended to ignore the tall figure making its way down the red path.

“good morning, miss,” he spoke lowly towards you, peering upwards slightly as the pulpit was slightly taller than the rest of the church, and you pretended to read through the cards and flip through your bible as if it were you preparing to speak in a mere 15 minutes. he cleared his throat once, and you waved your hand nonchalantly towards the pews, “the preacher will be ready shortly. please, have a seat.”

from behind your fathers flashcards, you could see a small tick of his jaw and he pressed his lips together tightly, nodding slowly before making his way to his usual seat, feigning interest in the architecture of the building.

“its quite beautiful, no?”

you hummed.

“i wonder how the district could afford to pay for it.”

the comment caught you off guard, causing you too look up at him with scrunched brows, your lips parted in confusion. surely, he knew the capitol had paid for it- and even then, what did it matter? a sanctuary for god deserved only the best of resources, you thought. the beauty of the church was a reflection of the beauty of your religion, the intricacies and meticulous carpentry of the building spoke to one of the three transcendentals that point to god. of course, it would be beautiful.

before you could think of a response to the bizarre musing, your father burst in, pressing a light kiss to your cheek and thanking you kindly for preparing for him. the man stood up to make his way to greet the preacher, and you were out of sight as fast as lightning.

that cycle continued for a while. he would sit in the pews, admiring the architecture (when really, he was admiring you), then stand to greet your father enthusiastically, frowning ever so slightly when you disappeared the moment he made any closer to your father. eventually, you had become quite good at avoiding him. you saw him less in the markets, saw less of him in church, and rarely caught sight of him anywhere else. that was, until you found him at your doorstep one hot summer day.

you and your mother swore it was the hottest day to see district 12, and you sat on the porch in a small, lace trimmed top and cut-off jean shorts. your hair was carelessly tossed into an updo to relieve your neck of some heat, and you sat in your fathers old chair as you sipped on some juice your family had been given earlier that day.

you weren’t expecting any visitors that day, so it was safe to say you nearly choked when the man appeared from behind the path of thrush that hid your small home from sight of the church, dressed only in the blue dress pants of his peacekeeper uniform and a thin white shirt, silver dog tag swinging like a pendulum across his chest as he made his way towards you. your father had emerged delighted, mr. snow!, he cheered, patting the man- snow, what a fitting name- on his back and urging him inside. you scrambled to the backdoor and into the kitchen where your mother rest, the door slamming behind you loudly as you entered, causing her to jump.

“dear?”

“that man daddy’s talking to- who is he?”

she gave you a halfhearted shrug, “i wouldnt know, pumpkin, it’s probably business with your father. he goes to the church, no?”

you nodded, pacing back and forth, ignoring the crazed look your mother threw at you as you processed the information.

“do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she reminded you, and your jaw dropped at the silent accusation she threw at you.

“absolutely not, mother!” you stormed back out the door, drowning your mother’s laughter out with frustrated mumbles of has she lost her mind? and what a woman! how she could ever think something about snow was tempting you was beyond your understanding. however, when you made it back to your chair and your watered down glass of juice, the sight of a shirtless ‘mr. snow’ and your, otherwise fully dressed, father in the garden, dripping sweat shamelessly into your mothers vegetable patch, a snap thought breached your mind that perhaps there was something tempting about the mysterious man.

that sent you into a frenzy. your knee bounced anxiously as you silently begged god to forgive you for the thought, and that it was simply intrusive, and not reflective of the morals and high grounds you held closely to your heart. nervously, you grabbed the book you had abandoned weeks ago and shoved your nose into the pages as if to distract yourself from your own brain and its wicked ministrations.

you weren't sure of how much time had passed, yet it felt like the man's stay was suspiciously short as he and your father made their way inside. you gave him a curt nod, and your father gave you a small lecture about manners, insisting that the two of you become accustomed to one another. and there you were, legs drawn up to your chest as if to protect yourself from the sinful looking man before you.

“my name is coriolanus snow,” he said. coriolanus. it was unlike any name you’d heard before. you returned the gesture softly, hoping that he would disappear behind your father into the house and you could breathe again, but he stayed and stared at you with that look, “your father tells me we’re the same age. he’s a nice man.”

you bit your lip at that. the same age? there was something about coriolanus that seemed older. it also begged the question: what was someone his age doing as a peacekeeper? you opened your mouth to pry at him, but he cut you off, stepping closer.

“tell me, dear, what sins weigh in your heart?”

you drew yourself back further into the safety of your chair, face laced with disgust as you tried as hard as possible to distance yourself from the imposing man now caging you into your confinement. his breath was heavy on your nose, and your heart pounded harshly- from what, you weren’t sure. fear? a sense of danger? temptation? his lips were so close to yours now, you could smell the faint scent of cologne that mingled with the saltiness of his sweat, and you tried your best to keep your breathing as even as possible, feigning indifference to his proximity to you poorly.

“i dont know what you mean, mr. snow.”

he smiled at that, laughing lowly. he didn’t expect you to know what he meant, of course, but he had an inkling that if he played his cards just right, he’d have you right where he wanted. he leaned closer now, lips dodging yours, lightly brushing your nose as his head turned to whisper in your ear.

“do you think of me at night? our little chase?”

“wh-what?”

“you’re smart, miss. think about it.”

he disappeared into the house, bidding goodbye to your mother and father and whisking himself away. your mouth remained parted, eyes wide with confusion as you tried to process what his words could have meant.

surely, he couldn’t mean..

no. absolutely not, you decided. coriolanus may have unsettled you ungreatly, but he was a peacekeeper- and your father had always told you that they served to protect you, that they would never harm you purposely. you stood shakily and made your way quietly into the old house, reeking of old wood and boiled vegetables. you sat on the couch near your brother, holding his head to your chest as you stroked his hair comfortingly, still trying to process. from the kitchen, your father called, “he’s a nice boy, no? perhaps he could be of some influence to you, sweetheart.”

you agreed meekly, despite disagreeing with your father completely. you werent entirely sure what he saw in the man at all, yet you were adamant that he was, in fact, not a good influence, but a parasite. you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. he made you feel unsafe- unsure of yourself, and for some reason, your faith. you decided he was no good; but yet you couldnt make any understanding of the bittersweet ache between your thighs.

when coriolanus walked home that evening, he couldn’t fight his smile. he saw you, in all his glory, struggling pathetically under his gaze, squirming and fidgeting uncontrollably as he trapped you within the cage of his arms.

the sacrificial lamb has been caught, he thought.

what a stupid, stupid lamb.

౨ׅৎ

you rushed into church near 5 am the next day, sleep deprived from the constant running of your mind and the damned words of coriolanus snow.

“our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” you repeated to yourself, kneeled below the large wooden crucifixion of jesus, hands clasped tightly together, your head resting painfully against the white of your knuckles.

what you were praying for, you didn’t know. you couldn't go to the confessional- heavens forbid, no. confessing secrets of your dreams of coriolanus’s hands, the outline of his jaw, the way he whispered his sinister words so sweetly into your ear- to your father? you would rather be hanged for the whole district to see. there was nothing sinful about your dreams, exactly, but it felt sinful, dirty, downright hellish. you thought of his lips, the soft and pink flesh of them, the stormy blue of his eyes- and, oh god, you couldn't stop replaying his words in your head.

‘do you think of me at night?’ he had asked you so earnestly. as if he needed you to tell him yes, you did think of him, every night. it wasn't a lie, of course, only the way you had begun thinking about him had changed. but that wasn't your doing at all, was it? no, he was to blame, for speaking to you like that, for dangling his dog tag so close that it brushed your cross indecently, for showing up to your house and stripping himself half naked, sweating impurely over the soil you and your mother sowed and reaped with love, with innocence, purity. it was entirely his fault, from the way he seemed to be forcing himself into your life. the church door creaked open, and you continued to pray, “give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

your heart raced as footsteps neared closer, as if you knew exactly who they belonged to.

“what troubles you, little lamb?” his voice took you with fear, the way it rumbled in his chest and reverberated on the walls confining the two of you, alone. you raised your head, refusing to look back at him, “i do believe that's none of your concern, mr. snow.”

you heard him chuckle lowly, repeating the words mr. snow to himself under his breath. it made you shiver, and you recited the bible verses your father drilled into your head from as young as you could remember: vindicate me, o god, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation; rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.

you could feel him now, knee pressed lightly against your back. you stood up and turned to face him, eyes wild and daring as they searched the azure maze of his own. his hand reached to stroke your hair, and you flinched.

“why is it that you fear me so much, do you think?”

“i’m not afraid of you.”

he tsked, “‘fear’ is different than ‘being afraid’, darling. to be afraid is a fleeting moment. your brain's immediate response towards danger,” he moved to touch your hair again, now more forcefully, tucking the loose strands along your hairline behind your ear.

keep back your servant also from willful sins.

he continued, “i asked, why do you fear me?”

you tried to search deeper into his eyes, trying to grasp any understanding at what he was trying to communicate to you. your mind ran amok, and it was no help that coriolanus's hand now snuck its way into your fingers, fidgeting with the soft digits mindlessly.

“i don't.. i don't know-” he cut you off by stepping closer before you finished. you had wanted to tell him that you didn't know why he thought you feared him, that you didnt understand the question, and that you needed to get home soon, so to please excuse you.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

you let out an involuntary laugh, giggling childlishly at the accusation. you stopped, when his eyes darkened.

“i’m sorry, mr. snow, but i really don’t know what you mean!” you were struggling to contain your girlish giggles. what he imposes between me and god? it was such a bizarre statement, so plainly laid out for you, that you couldn’t even comprehend it entirely. your laughing ceased, for good now, when his hand circled tightly around your wrist.

let them not have dominion over me.

then i will be upright.

“i’m not stupid, love. i saw you, yesterday, practically drooling over me. i wonder what your father would have to say if he saw the sinful way you ogled at me,” he paused, and you swallowed painfully, “and dont tell me you’ve forgotten all about our little chase, hm? wasnt it exhilarating?” now, panic engulfed you. you tried to back away from him as the pieces etched themselves together in your brain, but his hold on your wrist was only getting tighter.

“that was you?” your voice was impossibly small, weak from the alarm that blared in your head. your eyes darted back and forth desperately, searching for an out, hoping and praying that someone might burst in and see the scene before you, tear hades away from his persephone and save her from her impending doom.

i will be blameless and innocent of great transgression.

he dipped his head to your neck, lips deliciously grazing over the supple skin of your collar bone, pressing kisses so light you could barely feel them as you tried to wriggle from his grasp.

“of course it was me, darling,” the way you felt him smile against your skin was chilling, and you fought back tears as he moved impossibly closer to you, “isn’t that adrenaline rush just addicting? tell me, dove, what do you think about me when you lie in bed and replay our precious little moments together in that pretty head of yours?”

your breathing quickened, and you winced as coriolanus gripped tighter at your wrist, his other hand painfully gripping the small of your waist, massaging the gentle muscle of it. you could feel his entire body pressed against yours, and a tear threatened to slip when you felt the hard pressing of his lower region on your stomach. you shook your head, refusing to give in to his line of questioning, but his grip on your waist tightened and you cried out in pain, “your hands!” you whined, relief slowly making its way to the sore area of your waist as he loosened his grip. he made to grasp your chin under his index, forcing you to keep eye contact with him and urged you silently to keep going.

“your..” you let out a shaky sigh, “your h-ands, your voice, the words you speak to me. i don't understand why.”

he cooed at you now, as if proud of you for speaking up. your eyes darted to his lips, and you saw something flash in his eyes, “anything else?”

let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,

lord, my rock, and my redeemer.

you tried to look down at your feet as if to run away from the question, but his hold on your chin was unrelenting. shamefully, you whispered, “your lips.”

he let out a small ahhh, as if the admission shocked him. he knew, of course. of course he knew. you poor thing. sweet, little lamb, so innocent and pure. untouched by lust, blind to its deceptive allure. he knew from the moment he’d gone after you in those woods and failed to catch you, that he would do everything in his power to make sure you would never escape his grasp again. he knew when his frail attempts at getting closer to you failed, he had to resort to a harsher solution. he needed to infiltrate every space you breathed in, and break his was into your mind until he had you right where he needed you to be: malleable, so he could corrupt you just as easy.

he knew your father protected you, the extent to which he went to protect you, as well. banning sex education in your school, ensuring your mind stays as pure as possible to the exploits of fickle men and their wants. you knew the basics, thanks to your mother and her worrisome self, but her teachings were meddled down into some confusing allegory that left your mind as clueless as before, so that you stayed intact, perfect and pristine in the lords eye as well as the rest of the district, in your white frilly dresses, light makeup, and perfectly crafted manners.

he knew how easy it would be to get in your head. the human body is funny, like that, wherein it begs for things it doesn’t know of. he knew when he flexed his hands you caught sight of it, when he swallowed you intently watched the way his adams apple bobbed, he knew when he showed up to your home and stripped himself almost bare it would plague your mind with an unknowing want and desire, and soon enough, you’d have no choice but to give in to it, abandon your god and his lessons for coriolanus alone.

he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, swiping his thumb across yours as if to mirror himself, and then ducked his head closer, “go on.”

you squeezed your eyes shut. everything felt so, so wrong, and you didn't know why, but you couldn't stop. when he continued to toy with your lip, slightly plunging the tip of his finger past them and into your mouth, you let out an involuntary, small moan, and your legs shook and quivered as the strange ache from yesterday returned.

“wh-what?”

“kiss me.”

your eyes widened, and you shook your head. coriolanus thought it was adorable, how you struggled to piece together what was about to happen, how your brain tried desperately to fill in the blanks with information it didnt know. you heard coriolanus sigh disapprovingly at your protests and he shoved his thumb further into your mouth, causing you to choke. he removed it, then wiped the saliva that remained over your bottom lip before inserting the digit in his mouth, tasting you.

“its okay, little one. you can kiss me. he wont mind,” you didnt realize your fingers lingered over the necklace nestled on your chest, and your gaze followed his finger as he gestured upwards. he wont mind. you racked your brain over the things coriolanus said to you from he entered the church.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

now, you truly hoped someone would burst in, and you could scream and wail as you explained the horrors coriolanus was about to commit to you (even if those horrors were unclear). he was so close, and something still pressed hardly against your stomach, and suddenly you couldn't breathe, “he would mind. i promise to pray for you coriolanus, i don't know what troubles you, but the lord-”

he cut you off by shoving his lips onto yours harshly, groaning at the contact. his hands made their way to rest on your clothed breasts, and you wriggled and struggled to try get away from him, but your efforts were fruitless. you were cornered, now. a lamb with nowhere to run or hide, forced to face its fate. he ravaged your lips, hands restless as they caressed all over your protesting body. the ache between your legs grew, and a small part of you realized that the last thing you wanted right now was for someone to walk in, and see the preacher's daughter being completely defaced by a peacekeeper.

“your god cant give me what i need, angel. cant you see? you did this to me,” his hand grabbed yours as he pulled away to speak, trailing it down the hard muscle of his abdomen and palming the hardness that threatened to burst through the seam of his pants. your eyes were wide and doe-like, and coriolanus never needed to fuck you more. his lips met yours again, and his other hand fumbled to remove his pants, hissing when the air hit his straining cock, all while you tried your best to distance yourself from him as much as possible. your face was hot, and your hands remained in the air, unsure of where to rest them, as you slowly allowed coriolanus to slip his tongue into your mouth.

“good girl,” he practically growled, and you let out a pathetic squeak when you felt your core tighten, pleasure washing over you at the small praise. coriolanus was turned on beyond conception, moaning disgracefully as he stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear. if you could see the spectacle the two of you were making, in the middle of church- no less, the thought alone had coriolanus close to the edge. you gasped when you saw him palm himself, and without thinking, your hand brushing his ever so slightly, lingering a second too long before his eyes snapped up at yours, pleading you to go ahead and touch him.

when you finally pressed your hand to his clothed region, you swore the way coriolanus threw his head back with a small mewl and moan would land you an eternity in hell alone.

“thats it, baby, jus’ like that.. keep going..” you gasped when his hand sneaked its way under your dress- your sunday best- your hand faltering a bit when his long middle finger lightly grazed your clothed cunt. the foreign feeling it elicited from you had you desperately searching coriolanus’s eyes for an answer, unable to speak as his fingers that toyed with the most intimate parts of you had you moaning softly and lowly, uncontrollably. you continued to palm him, and his hand slipped into the lacy cotton of your panties, cursing hotly under his breath when he feels you.

“so wet for me. you dirty fucking girl, look at you: making a mess in church.” you didnt know what he meant, but shame burned through your skin. confusion grappled at you and you began to sob, not ignoring the way your tears seemed to make coriolanus throb beneath you, “please stop, coriolanus, this is immoral.”

“baby, if it feels good, then it cant be bad,” he stroked the tear stains on your cheek softly, cupping your face with false earnest as he pulled your head to lay on his chest, “does it feel good?”

coriolanus reveled in the way you looked up at him, like a devoted follower in the arms of their saviour. when you nodded slowly, he gently spun you around and shoved your face into the cool wood of the crucifixion behind you, his hand painfully pushing against your cheek enough so that you couldn't look anywhere but above you, into the sad eyes of jesus.

your panties were ripped off with a shriek that was muffled by coriolanus’s hand around your mouth, and you sobbed as pain mixed with pleasure as he gave a few slaps to your dripping cunt, mumbling about how pretty it is. in a desperate attempt to wiggle out of your new position, you accidentally arched your back further, giving him more access.

“let me show you how i can love you,” he whispered into your ear, before returning his fingers to the slick mess that coated your cunt, your body jolting when they occasionally brushed over your clit, the unfamiliar sensation already too overwhelming for you to handle. with a few more agonising strokes of his fingers, he prodded at your hole, teasing your entrance in a way that had your eyes roll to the back of your head. when he finally slipped them in, your hand pounded desperately against the cross you were pressed up on, pleads to stop falling pathetically into the hand of coriolanus and onto deaf ears. he was merciless with it, greedily pounding his fingers into you in a way that had your knees gravitating towards each other and animalistic grunts of pleasure vibrating through his hand.

something in you burned, your body was pleading for more as an unfamiliar coil formed in the pit of your stomach. your hand continued to bang against the cross, tears falling as you forcibly peered into the eyes of your saviour while you got your cunt ravaged in the middle of his shrine.

“oh god, oh god” you mumbled through his hand. you were unsure if it was shame, or the delicious way coryo pumped his fingers into you, but you grew lightheaded and dumb, eyes hazy as you grew closer to your release.

“thats it, take it. you’re filthy, taking my fingers so well in the middle of church.” now, both hands scraped desperately against the cross, leaving marks in the wake of your fingernails digging into the hardwood. coriolanus tugged your head further up, forcing you to stare at him with tears streaming down your face and desperate pleas for him to stop going unheard. he smiled coyly when he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, and he withdrew them just before you reached your release, a loud, agonising whine of relief and desperation leaving your smushed lips. he was quick to replace his fingers with his cock, the slow intrusion of it making you let out a low, droned out groan as he stretched your virgin cunt past its limit.

he removed his hand from your mouth, and a string of prayers tumbled out of it, “o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended thee,” and “and i detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend thee, my god, who art all good and deserving of all my love.” it earned you a slap to your ass, and you cried out loudly as coriolanus shoved your dress off of you, watching as it fell uselessly around your legs into a pool of white. he flipped you around, admiring your soft breasts and the way they spilled over in the hold of his fingers, and he traced the soft, plumpness of your belly as he chuckled lowly at your continuous prayer. with his cock still nestled into you, he leaned forward to whisper in your ear.

“god loves you, but not as much as i do,” and then he thrust his cock into you with such force that you nearly tumbled to the floor. his hand rest on your lower back, forcing you to arch closer to him, your hips meeting his unwillingly at his fast pace. coriolanus’s cock grazed the inside of your gummy walls perfectly, and you found yourself slipping from reality as he continued to pound his dick into you, moaning when you contracted around him without rhythm, your inexperienced self almost overloaded with pleasure, unable to control your body.

“you’re being such a good girl, taking my cock like this,” he weaved a hand through your hair, “‘n you’re gonna let me cum inside you, yeah? gonna make a woman out of you.” you couldnt focus on the words he was throwing at you, lost in pleasure as the tip of coryo’s dick hit that one spot over and over again. the way he spoke to you had you at a crossroads, and it didnt help that he was fucking you into oblivion, and now you understood what he had meant when he said he imposed between you and god, because you were becoming addicted to the push and pull of his cock inside of you.

“thats right, take it. you look so pretty all dumb and fucked out on my cock,” you reached to grab his arm to steady yourself, your orgasm creeping in closely, “you gonna cum for me?”

you didn't know what it meant, but you nodded anyways, completely lost in bliss, “coryo..” you moaned out, his brows raising slightly at the new nickname, a smirk settling on his face. moans and mewls lewdly left your mouth as he quickened his pace, his unused hand massaging at your tits, twisting and pinching softly at your nipples as you thrashed with pleasure under him.

“gonna make you worship this fucking cock, baby” he was close himself now, his head falling and his voice itching up an octave, lewd moans clashing with yours as the rhythm and pace he set began to falter, and he fucked you as hard as he could as he chased your high and his own, “gonna make you devoted to me. you’re never gonna wanna be away from me again,” his face twisted with pleasure, and you circled your arms around his neck as you tried to ground yourself, the coil in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel and threatening to snap. a shadow passed, and your eyes widened with terror as you slapped coryo’s arm haphazardly, begs falling from your mouth to stop. he turned his head lazily to look at what you were whining about, but his thrusts didn't stop.

“let them see what a dirty fucking girl you are.”

your walls tightened and your eyes rolled so far back into your head you were scared they wouldn't come back up as your orgasm reached you. you covered your mouth, shrieking desperately as the shockwaves of pleasure rolled over you, the newfound feeling unrelenting as it took over every part of your body. coriolanus repeated words of encouragement and praise as he fucked you through your high, before bottoming out and releasing his load in you, christening your walls. you whined at the feeling, so full and drunk off of it that your concerns of the passerby faded. the both of you stood there, panting heavily, both groaning when coryo slid out of you. he slapped his tip on your puffy clit one, two, three times, before a loud knock rapped on the church door.

you could feel coriolanus’s spill leaking out of you as you crouched on your knees, hidden, and you cried silently, the reality of what had just happened to you settling in. coriolanus snow had corrupted you, in the worst possible way, and now you could only feel yourself crave more of him. as he spoke to the intruder, egging them to run along, a thumb caressed your head gently, as if to tell you he had everything under control. the small southern drawl he’d begun to pick up was more prominent. when the intruder finally left, you were forced to your feet, and coriolanus grabbed your ruined panties, resting on his knees below you to shove them into your used cunt, before making his way back to his feet, towering over you. he spoke to you like he would if he were on duty:

“you go on home now, miss. and tell your father i say hello.”

and you did.

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow smut #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

397 notes · View notes

ltwilliammowett · 2 months ago

Text

Chinese Flower Boats

Flower boats had already existed for centuries, perhaps since the 14th century, but earlier is also possible. They were initially only available to the noble elite. They were luxury brothels with noble courtesans on board and they resembled luxurious pleasure boats with a sun deck with a private chamber and a pavilion at the stern. Not much can be said about the early designs and appearance, as records only began around 1700.

At this time the boats began to change, the stern became more and more drawn upwards so that it looked very much like a beak. There was a special reason for this, but more about that in a moment.

Flower Boat at Shanghai" wood engraved print with recent hand colour, published in All Around the World, about 1880 (x)

From then on, the boats were available in different sizes and even in different price categories. There were small ones with only one or two girls, or large ones with up to 10 or more, all of different ages, even little girls were included, although they were still learning until they were 12 before they received their first customers. Moste of these women were no longer noble courtesans but rather women from poor families who were sold to the ship owners. With the emergence of the European trading companies, they also got access to the flower boats, albeit illegally, but this could be regulated with a small bribe to the officials. Unfortunately, these meetings also further encouraged the exchange of exotic sexually transmitted diseases.

Ivory Flower boat model, late 18th century (x)

What was to be expected on such boats depended on the price of the respective ladies, with the high-priced ladies there was already entertainment and culture included, the middle price ranges offered some additional types of games and the cheap ones were, and I'm sorry to say this, for the quick number.

A model from the late or early 20th century (x)

These boats were to be found at all harbours and rivers, there were even whole streets of them. But let's move on to the very high stern, which from the 18th century onwards could take on very bizarre proportions. The ships did not always stay in the harbour to save space and prevent epidemics. The ships were be towed or sailed by their own, up and down the rivers and because they were so high at the stern they started to bob faster, which was supposed to increase the fun of the customers even more.

A Canton Flower Boat on the Pearl River, late 19th century (x)

Surprisingly, they continued to exist into WWII, although from the 19th century onwards these trips became increasingly rare and then ceased altogether. And many boats were also abandoned and became floating restaurants.

#naval history #flower boats #china #14th century #wwii #age of sail #age of steam #floating brothel

67 notes · View notes

uwmspeccoll · 2 months ago

Text

Wood Engraving Wednesday

JULIA TIMMINS

This 6" x 5" print by English wood engraver Julia Timmins, entitled Ancient Tides, is one of 60 selected for the Fifth Triennial Exhibition, 2024-2026 of the Wood Engravers’ Network (WEN), the national organization for American wood engravers, juried by our head of Special Collections Max Yela. Society of Wood Engravers.

Timmins began her career as a fine jewelry designer, and uses the skills and attention to detail developed by working with jewelry in her wood engravings. On her website she writes:

It has been a natural progression for me to use my jewellery making and designing skills to create prints. I love to work from natural forms, plants, flowers and birds and I am continually inspired by my garden and the surrounding Shropshire countryside. I respond to the rich patterns in nature and translate these into prints.

Timmins is an elected member of WEN's venerable British counterpart, the Society of Wood Engravers, and serves as its secretary.

View other posts from the WEN 5th Triennial Exhibition.

View more engravings by members of the Wood Engraver’s Network.

View more posts with wood engravings!

#Wood Engraving Wednesday #wood engravings #wood engravers #women wood engravers #Julia Timmins #Ancient Tides #Wood Engravers' Network #WEN #WEN Fifth Triennial Exhibition #exhibitions #exhibition catalogs

65 notes · View notes

jadeseadragon · 2 months ago

Text

Eileen Lucy "Tirzah" Garwood (British, 1908-1951), The Dog Show, 1929, wood engraving.

#tirzah garwood #20th century #women artists #wood engraving #dog show #dachshund #dalmation #scottish terrier #west highland terrier

5 notes · View notes

drewsbuzzcut · 10 months ago

Text

So Lovely, It Feels So Right

Mat barzal x model!fem!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: SMUT, alcohol consumption, and mentions of tattoos (let me know if I missed anything)

Tonight’s the Isles wags’ annual galentine’s get together. It’s nothing fancy, just an intimate gathering at the Martin’s house. There are drinks, snacks, and a small gift exchange.

After laughing so hard your stomachs hurt and drinking various bottles of wine, it’s finally your turn to open your gift. You gently pull out the tissue paper and uncover a black thong with “i ❤️ barzal” printed on the front. You let out an infectious giggle, your cheeks growing red hot.

“Syd! Oh my god. I cannot believe you got me this,” you shriek, hands covering your eyes in faux shyness. You actually liked your little gift- that’d also be a gift for Mat.

“I wanted to get you something on brand for your relationship. We all know you love taking your man to bed. Anyways, soon you’ll be a Barzal,” she points out and you grow flustered thinking about your upcoming nuptials.

Once everyone opens their gifts and finishes their last glass of wine, someone suggests going to a tattoo shop and who are you to not go through with it? Maybe it isn’t the best idea for a bunch of inebriated women to go get tattoos, but you’ll never be one to deny a good time. Mat’s in for a treat later.

Walking up to your front door serves as a challenge, your heel keeps getting caught in the cobblestone of your driveway. It doesn’t help that your buzz is still lingering in your limbs. Finally pushing the door open, you sashay into your house. The sting of your fresh tattoo is very well present as you think about what Mat’s reaction will be like.

You walk in looking disheveled but content. Your cheeks are rosy and your eyes are glossy. Your hair is in its signature messy bun, tank top hiked up your chest to hide your newest addition to your ink collection. You don’t get far before you find Mat in the game room, playing around at the pool table.

“Baby,” you announce your presence, slowly making your way towards him.

As you round a corner of the pool table, your fingers trace the “Barzal” engraved in the wood. Your engagement ring catches every angle of the lighting, making it shine and making Mat’s heart race. He cannot wait to marry you.

“Hey, have a good night?” He asks, pulling you into his arms and swaying with you.

“A wonderful night. We laughed a lot. We also had a lot of wine,” you answer with your eyes closed in delight.

“I can tell,” that piqued your interest. You pop a single eye open.

“What do you mean?” You hop onto the edge of the pool table, arms looped over your fiancés shoulders.

“You’re all giggly and touchy. Major signs that you’re drunk,” he explains, kissing your neck.

You stay silent, too focused on his lips on your skin.

“Did Nolan go down easy?” You finally clear your head from thoughts of the man in front of you.

“Of course. He’s the most perfect baby. He had his bottle and I rocked him in the chair for a couple of hours before putting him in his crib. He’s all bundled up, too. He looks so precious,” Mat says and you coo just thinking about your baby boy.

“I’m glad he didn’t give you any trouble with his bottle. He’s been giving me hell just because I try to feed him with the bottle,” you sigh, body leaning into his.

“He’s a little momma’s boy. I can’t blame him.” You definitely agree with that.

Minutes pass by, Mat and you just looking into each other’s eyes. Every now and then he’ll play with your ring. It’s become a habit of his.

“I’m not drunk you know you,” you tut and tilt your head to the side, your eyes playfully glare him.

“Tipsy but not drunk,” you add, your heel clad feet reaching out to rub against his muscly thighs. He immediately catches your hint. You are feeling needy which is a usual occurrence when you drink wine.

“What do you need, pretty girl?” His voice gets raspy and he picks up your legs one by one and takes off your heels.

“You, baby. I need you,” you pull him down into a kiss, head starting to spin when he invades your mouth with his tongue.

His hands caress your thighs over your jeans, steadily rising to the button and zipper. The heat in the room rises and the moisture starts to collect in your underwear when he starts to undo your pants.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs when he sees your specially made panties.

You giggle and pull him into another kiss, this time you’re the one shoving your tongue down his throat. You grip and pull at his soft locks, just the way his touch grips your every nerve ending and sets them alight. Plus, the moans that vibrate through his chest are enough of a reason to not let go.

He guides you back to lay down, your body erupting in chills from his touch on your bare skin and the cold of the table. He softly squeezes at your legs in a subtle tease before pulling down your thong with his teeth, eyes zeroed in on your reaction. Just by the way your chest heaves and your legs subconsciously widen is proof enough that you’re enjoying what he’s doing.

Your core glistens for him and he wants so badly to dive into your wet folds, but he always wants to tease you. If it’s for a minute or more depends on his mood. He’s feeling giving and generous, so he won’t tease you too much but just work you up until you’re antsy. He kneels down, eyesight perfectly level with one of his favorite sights: you, wet and begging. He lays kisses up your legs, nipping tenderly at the stretch marks on your inner thighs. You reach down and intertwine your fingers with his, your ring biting at his skin, a reminder of your future. Continuing on his path upward, he purses his lips and blows a cool stream of air on your wetness, eyes darkening at your whimpers. He lets a small laugh pass through his lips and presses a sweet kiss just below your belly button.

“Do something, please,” you beg, squeezing his hand.

“Do what?” He acts innocent, but you know he’s just trying to get you to voice your needs.

“Eat me out or fuck me. Just do something,” you whine, a low scream falling from your lips as he leans up to mouth at your neck. His clothed cock rubs against your pussy, sending tingles throughout your entire body.

“You’re sexy when you’re bossy,” he whispers in your ear, sending you into a frenzy of sexual tension that’s dying to be resolved.

“If you don’t do anything, I’ll just get myself off,” you sass, closing your legs just a bit.

Mat stops you before you can close them all the way, his fingers opening you up so he can spit on your clit. The feral urge you have for him increases just by the action alone. You lift up your hips, but he quickly pins them down. Your annoyed huff turns into an airy moan when his thick fingers spreading your wetness around your fluttering hole. He delicately kisses around your mound, pressing a loving kiss to your clit.

The few deep breaths you take don’t prepare you for the way pleasure engulfs your body when Mat wraps his lips around your clit. His tongue nudges it while his lips continuously suction around the bud. You tug at your own hair, feeling your mind grow fuzzy when you hear his obscene moans. The vibration feels even better.

“You like that, baby?” He speaks his words into the apex of your thighs.

You numbly nod your head, already high on the overwhelming bliss that comes from his mouth alone.

“Words, baby,” he trades his lips for his finger tip, softly massaging slow circles into your bundle of nerves.

“I love it so much. It feels so good,” you comply albeit being breathless.

Every rational thought flees your head when he starts tracing his name with the tip of his tongue, sending you on a hazy spiral towards your orgasm.

“Fuck, baby. I’m yours,” you chant, knowing he was staking his claim even though he doesn’t need to.

You don’t even realize him pulling away until he’s pushing your tank top further up your chest, unveiling your boobs. He loves when you’re braless. He licks his lips, leaving sucking kisses all up your torso. For a quick moment you snap out of your daze, remembering your new tattoo that your fiancé still doesn’t know about. Luckily, he doesn’t pull your top off all the way.

“Is my pretty girl still sensitive?” He knows damn well your boobs are still sensitive from breastfeeding for 7 months.

You whisper a yes, but it’s quickly replaced with a cry as he softly sucks them into his mouth. It doesn’t last long because you’re still producing milk, so he decides to suck on the flesh surrounding your nipples. No low cut tops are in your future unless you want people to witness the craving Mat’s mouth had. You will definitely be looking like a cheetah after he’s done with you.

You lift your hips up into him, begging for friction, but also distracting him from eventually making his way to your tattoo. You didn’t want him to see it just yet.

He spreads your folds open again, not holding back and he immediately starts lapping up your arousal. The slurping noises fill your ears and his ravenous moans make you even wetter.

“You taste so good, pretty girl. I can eat your pretty pussy all day,” he praises, voice sweet and thick like honey.

“I love you,” you reply.

“I love you.” His words are followed by his tongue entering your weeping hole.

Your body arches off the pool table, screams and moan ripping from your throat as he fucks you with his tongue. Again, your hips lift up, but this time Mat doesn’t press them down. He holds up your lower body, burying his face in your pussy.

“Fuck. Just like that, baby. Please don’t stop.”

The vibrations from his moans and grunts make your brain short circuit, the mind numbing sensation has you in its palm.

You reach down, a hand back in his hair and the other planted on his upper back. The cold metal of your ring feels nice against his warm skin.

“I’m going to cum,” you whine, your cunt clenching down on his tongue.

“Not yet.”

“Please,” it comes out in a gasp, Mat’s thick fingers sinking into your pussy.

His fingers move slowly in a come hither motion, dragging out your pleasure and making you wait until you can let that knot in your stomach snap. His tongue flattens against your clit, his face moving side to side to continuously apply friction.

“Maty, please. I can’t do it. I need to cum, please,” you beg, legs closing around Mat��s head.

“I need you to hold it baby,” he whispers against your soaking cunt.

“I can’t. I can’t,” your body is trembling and you’re trying to steady yourself, but it feels too good. Your orgasm is on the brink of destruction.

He sets you down, one hand pressing into your lower abdomen while his fingers fuck up into you. Throwing your head back, both your arms reach out to grip onto something. Tears stream down your face, but you’ve never felt more alive.

“Cum for me, baby. Make a mess,” he finally gives you the green light.

Everything goes blurry, the pressure in your stomach releases and you feel liquid squirt out of you, and the state of euphoria your body is in is unexplainable. Mat’s fingers work you through your orgasm with slow strokes but still enough to make you twitch.

“You’re so beautiful, my love. I didn’t know you could squirt like that,” he muses, pecking your thighs.

You whimper when he pulls his fingers out. It’s erotic the way your release drips down his hand. For a moment, you think he’ll lick it up, but you’re proven wrong when he gets you to sit up. He guides his fingers to your mouth and you willingly suck on them, moaning at the taste of yourself. Your eyes peer into his eyes, hooded and dark, they reel him in. Out are his fingers, and his lips press to yours. Salacious moans pass between your mouths when he sucks on your tongue. He’ll never get tired of your taste.

“I love you,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips, nipping and pulling at your bottom one.

You smile dazedly at him, feeling sleepy and cuddly in his arms.

“Come on, baby. Let me take you upstairs and get you in a bath,” he coos, rubbing at your back.

“In one minute. I want to stay here in your arms for a little while. I missed you today,” you kiss his chin and the side of his jaw.

“Nols and I did, too,” he says.

“Tomorrow we cuddle in bed all day,” you state.

“Whatever you want. Happy Valentine’s Day, baby. I love you,” he tells you.

You look over at the clock hanging on the wall and realize it’s well past midnight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby daddy. I love you so much,” you kiss him once more.

“I actually have a small surprise for you,” you whisper into his mouth.

“What’s that, pretty girl?” He looks at you expectantly.

You pull your tank top over your head with one hand, so the other can still cover up your tattoo. Slowly, you move your hand away to finally show off the ‘13.’

“Holy shit. No way, babe. That’s hot,” Mat gasps, reaching out to touch it.

“Just for you, baby,” you softly whimper, your skin still sore from the incessant needle.

He looks at you with such tender love and feral, sexual desire. You can feel the tension fill the room again, your cunt begging for him and his cock straining against his basketball shorts. You’re both in for a long night.

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day my lovelies! I hope you know you’re loved so much🫶 I hope you all enjoy!

#mat barzal #mat barzal fanfiction #mat barzal angst #mat barzal blurb #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal smut #mat barzal imagine #mat barzal fic #mat barzal fluff #nhl imagine #nhl fic #new york islanders #visceral in doses

196 notes · View notes

abwwia · 3 months ago

Text

Doris Hatt, Walton Castle from Dial Hill, 1930

Signed, inscribed and dated in pencil (Print No. 11)

Wood engraving | 4.5 x 6 inches

#Doris Hatt #art by women #art #Wood engraving

3 notes · View notes

sinelanguage · 4 months ago

Note

i propose lusan and 30 + 45 :excellentemoji:

This is not how Sanji expected this island adventure to go down.

When the Sunny ported at an idyllic spring island in the middle of an annual festival dedicated to romance, Sanji thought he was in a dream. Everywhere he looked there was a romantic vignette, from the secluded benches with perfect cliffside views off the water to the countless intimate restaurants with oceanside seating. There were food stalls up and down the island’s main road, all selling unique specialities the likes of which Sanji had never seen before.

There’s never been an island that appealed to Sanji more specifically than this. It's perfect.

And yet he doesn’t get to experience the perfect night of romance with one of the lovely women on the island. No, instead he’s stuck with Luffy.

As soon as they port, Luffy drags him around by the arm and says they’re going on an adventure today, and despite Sanji’s very loud and desperate protests Sanji’s along for the ride. Everyone else on the crew had already left, leaving him the only one to make sure Luffy didn’t either piss off someone important or eat something inedible.

And despite Sanji’s best efforts, Luffy still eats something inedible. It’s a pastry from a shop that forbad Devil Fruit users from buying anything, and yet Luffy still did. The pastry makes him wrinkle up like a salted snail, and the only cure is apparently a goodnight’s sleep.

What a damn joke.

And so instead of enjoying the festival, sampling the cuisine, romancing the women of the island, Sanji drags a half-catatonic Luffy to the nearest inn so he could sleep off his mistake.

“So, what? Typical suite?” The inn clerk says, bored. He pages through a book in front of him, not even looking Sanji in the eyes.

Maybe fighting the inn clerk would make him feel better, but no. He’s on a mission here. Sanji takes one deep breath in and one long breath out.

“One typical suite,” he grits out, throwing a handful of Berri on the counter. Luffy almost falls off his shoulder as he does. “For whatever room you have that’s already set up, I don’t care as long as it’s available now.”

The clerk shuffles through his desk without even looking away from his book, fumbling around until he plucks out a small key with a large pink heart keychain with Room 15 engraved on the front. It chimes loudly as Sanji grabs the thing and shoves it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” Sanji says. The clerk simply grunts.

Dragging around an ungrateful Luffy, Sanji ignores any and all protests on his mission to find the room. Each of the doors are brightly colored with little hearts engraved around the side, and it doesn’t take him long to find Room 15.

The door opens easily, creaking up slowly. Shoving Luffy inside, he flops on the ground as Sanji shuts the door behind him. He locks it for good measure, shoves the key as deep into his pocket as he can considering how large the heart keychain is, and takes a look at the room.

The room is lit only by candlelight, soft flames make the pastels of the walls and decor glow. Despite the obnoxious size of the keychain, the theming of the room is remarkably subtle by comparison; it’s a normal inn with dark wood furnishings and soft floral touches, and one tall, floor to ceiling window with an unobstructed view of the ocean. The smell’s subtle, too, a soft seabreeze with a hint of floral.

Okay, fine. Things are looking up for him, he and Luffy can get a goodnight’s sleep, Sanji can wake up early in the morning, and he can explore the island to his heart’s content. A romantic breakfast isn’t as ideal as a romantic dinner, but he’ll take what he can get. He looks around the room for the beds, and–

With a jolt, Sanji realizes that there’s only one bed.

That makes a remarkable amount of sense. Of course. Of course this is a typical suite on the island of romance. It’s perfect and lovely and he’s here with Luffy. It makes Sanji want to cry on the floor and drown in a puddle of his own tears.

“Hey, Sanji,” Luffy calls from the floor; he still links wrinkly, but at least he’s talking again. “Sanji, where are we? What happened to the food? And the festival? We were having so much fun.”

“You ate poison, dumbass,” Sanji says. He picks Luffy up by the scruff and sets him down on the edge of the bed, watching as he practically melts into it. Before he has the chance to crush it, Sanji takes off Luffy’s hat and sets it on the dresser. “You need to sleep it off.”

“That’s so lame,” Luffy says, flopping down on the bed. He tries uselessly to grab at Sanji, he’s still wrinkly and weak. “I wanted to do the whole festival.”

So had Sanji; in retrospect, Luffy dragging him around did mean he got to experience as much of the island’s food as possible. Every booth had its own specialty, from freshly seared meats to delicate pastries, and Luffy made sure to drag him along to every single one of them. That was somewhat unusual in itself; Sanji expected him to stay by the barbeque and eat the island’s entire stock of meat, but instead they got the full sample of the island.

Including the mysterious pastry that somehow took Luffy out of commission.

“You’ll have time in the morning, as long as you don’t eat anything stupid again,” he says. He takes off Luffy’s shoes then shoves him further up the bed so he’s not hanging half off of it. “What even possessed you to eat that thing? There were plenty of warning signs saying Devil Fruit users shouldn’t buy them.”

“But I wanted to try everything with you,” Luffy complains. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do?”

Sanji snorts. “Yeah, well, unlike you, I didn’t turn into a snail after eating a croissant.”

The noise of complaint Luffy makes is as passionate as it is pathetic.

Sanji could probably leave Luffy now; he’s fine. He’s probably fine, Sanji doesn’t need to babysit him all night. He can enjoy himself on the island himself, like he planned on.

Luffy tries to hold himself up by his forearms, then falls back down onto the bed with a pathetic groan. He looks truly miserable, his hair mussed unevenly and his skin still wrinkly. He's like a fish set out to dry.

No, there’s no way Sanji could just leave him here. With a dejected sigh, he starts taking off his shoes, and then his tie, setting them together with Luffy’s hat on the dresser. They don’t have actual sleepwear, so just that will have to do.

“Get under the covers and scoot over,” Sanji says. “We’ll finish the festival in the morning, okay?”

With a hum of agreement, Luffy squirms around the bed until he’s halfway under the covers. He doesn’t seem to be able to manage much more, pouting up at Sanji with his cheek pressed into the bed, one leg fully over the covers and the other just over them.

“Idiot,” Sanji grumbles again, scooting himself in bed right beside Luffy, trying to get the entire bedspread over them both. “You can’t pout, this is your damn fault.”

As soon as Sanji’s horizontal under the covers, Luffy whines and clings to him as much as he’s able to. It amounts to one arm over Sanji’s chest and his nose pressed into his shoulder, his legs still not fully under the covers with how much he’s squirming.

“But you had fun, right?” Luffy asks, his breath hot against Sanji’s shoulder. “You liked the, uh…” he struggles; Sanji can feel him frowning. “You liked the fruit things. The lemon dragon one.”

“The dragon fruit tart with lemon curd,” he says. He did like those best; the flavor profile was unusual, and he bought a second one just to examine how the baker flavored the tart crust itself with lemon zest, just subtle enough to compliment the curd. “Yeah, I liked those best.”

He’s expecting Luffy to go on, but instead he doesn’t. Then, there’s a loud snore in his ear, and Sanji realizes he’s fallen fast asleep.

Well, he’s not sneaking away now. So much for Sanji’s adventure on the island of romance; the place offered so much promise, too. Each of the food stalls he and Luffy visited were perfect, and if Luffy hadn’t been taken out of commission, they’d have toured the entire island before nightfall.

Despite Luffy’s typical reckless adventure, he’d even taken the time to bundle up their snacks to some of the better lookout points, too. His mouth watered the whole time, like he was ready to pounce, but grumbled and dragged Sanji up to one of the benches with a view of the water. They’d eaten their tarts, there, Sanji chattering the whole time about how this island had the perfect conditions for fruit trees.

It was, frankly, nice. Sanji wished he’d gotten his perfect date, but really, he’d have just done everything Luffy took him on today.

The soft sound of the waves outside is barely audible over the sound of Sanji’s heart in his own throat. That wasn’t– that wasn’t Luffy’s ideal adventure, Luffy had taken him on Sanji’s perfect adventure, from going to every single food cart to trying everything he could, even if he didn’t like it, up to and including a pastry that made him wrinkle up.

This was a date, wasn’t it? And Sanji didn't mind. Actually, he rather enjoyed it, up until Luffy took himself out of commission. He’d been so disappointed about the night ending, he hadn’t even thought about the details before.

Luffy mumbles something incomprehensible in his sleep, pressing up further into Sanji. Sanji can’t seem to calm down, his face heating as he realizes Luffy essentially took him on a date, and Sanji booked them a room in what amounts to a romantic honeymoon suite.

“Shit.” Luffy grumbles beside him, holding him closer. “Oh, no,” Sanji says. He just went on a romantic date? With Luffy? “What the hell.”

He hadn’t minded the date. He really hadn’t minded the date, and Sanji has a bad feeling that the thought is going to keep him up all night, and ruin his chances of a date with anyone other than Luffy in the morning.

Groaning, he tries to force his eyes closed, listening to the gentle sound of waves and Luffy’s considerably less gentle snoring. Then, in a moment of pure curiosity and self indulgence, Sanji puts one hand on Luffy’s head, carding his fingers through his hair. He makes a satisfied sigh, and Sanji’s heart races without his permission.

Oh, no.

This is not how Sanji expected this island adventure to go.

#bagelbagel #ask game #one piece #lusan #the face I made seeing these two prompts together........

47 notes · View notes