#all of this knowledge is 100% spite driven to reduce my own frustration

[celestial-sphere-press]

what kind/style of endbands do you usually do? they look so good 👀

hi!! sorry for taking a while to answer, I wanted to make sure I could give you my best answer.

I usually do what's called a "double core" endband. I use double core endbands over the "bead on front" method because bead on front style is not great for uneven distributions of color, irregular patterns, or using more than three colors. Functionally it works by having your extra threads wrapped up inside the thread that is showing, forming the smaller secondary core. Ultimately you are doing figure 8s around the main core & then your secondary core of thread. This keeps things pretty neat & tidy. The tutorial I first used was this one by DAS Bookbinding, though I don't think his endband tutorials are his best ones. Another binder I've spoken with endbands about a lot is maleeka, who recently did an endband tutorial herself.

maybe I should do one... but it takes a lot for me to get enough motivation to make videos. I'll take this opportunity to write up some tips I've shared when people ask instead:

1. Endband core material is the MOST IMPORTANT component. You need a core that is stiff but flexible - it should NOT be floppy because it wiggles everywhere under the tension of the thread, but still needs to flex with the opening & closing of the book. You want something that doesn't compress, to reduce tension shifts in thread creating a lumpy endband. Have a smooth core is less critical but helps to avoid snagging threads & allows you some leeway on sliding threads around for adjustments. My personal choice is smooth leather jewelers cord (link is just an example, I get mine from a local craft store).

2. Thread size. All your threads need to be the same size; it will be visible if you are using two different sizes, and mess with your front core. Additionally, I know lots of people will use larger twists of multiple strands of embroidery thread, which can work, but is more likely to compress & alter its size in unexpected ways. A single strand is preferable. If you want something thicker you can find some thread weights that are heavier twists intended to be used in a single strand, not pulled apart. I prefer smaller sizes because it works better for the gradient designs I like.

3. Silk thread is your friend (if you can spend the money on it). It reduces fuzz (no fuzz like you get with cotton/DMC embroidery thread), it's usually easier to manage, has a more compact twist, and a higher shine. I use Japanese silk hand sewing thread in size #9 (9号). There's multiple brands (Tire, Daruma, KNK/kanagawa, etc). Here's a wholesale listing (minimum 20,000¥ for international). A non-Japanese brand is Guterman silk (German brand). Both the Japanese & German threads come in a heavier weight (Japanese is #16, Guterman is buttonhole).

4. Thread tension is the most important part of the actual technique. You need to ensure the threads currently wrapped in the secondary core keep tension when you are working the thread around them.

5. Working on a curve. This is only really relevant if you're doing an endband on a rounded book, but the circumference of the curve means there's more real estate on the outside vs inside of the curve. Sometimes this can cause bunching on the secondary core. My own solution to this is that sometimes I wrap the primary core but drop a wrap here or there around the secondary core (only between two wraps of the same color I'm dropping). I uh... don't know of anyone currently recommending this besides myself so I can't point to any pro endorsement for this method, it's just what works for me. Forgive my terrible writing:

6. Pattern management. I... don't really plan much how my patterns sit on the spine, which is not very helpful. HOWEVER you can do some pattern management on the fly, if you really want your pattern to end at a certain place. Thread can be packed more or less densely on the core, resulting in some pattern compression; you could also strategically drop wraps in less noticeable locations. An unintended example: I was replicating the pattern on this endband (left) when I realize I wasn't packing the thread as densely as I had the first time around (right), which resulted in the overall pattern taking up more space. You can do this on purpose, if you need to.

this was way more than you asked but it gave me a chance to put all this in one spot. Best of luck in vanquishing the dreaded EndWyrms.

[roseategales]

100(ISH) WORDS A DAY CHALLENGE: NOVEMBER 2019 — DAY ELEVEN TO TWENTY-FOUR: WHISPER, BITTERSWEET.

rating: explicit. | categories: smut, modern au. | pairing: solavellan. | content warnings: mentions of alcohol. | word count: 2.2k.

previous days: day one. | day two. | day three. | day four. | day five. | day six. | day seven. | day eight. | day nine. | day ten.

author’s notes: idk what i’m doing. is that new tho? this wasn’t supposed to be uhhhh this long or take up two weeks afashfgsas oh well. i may actually end up using this an outline and turn it into a three chapter fic somewhere down the line, with more detail. i have Ideas.

                                                                              The main venue for tonight’s date is provided courtesy of Josephine.

Spare tickets for a new musical at one of Grande Royeaux’s theatres were given to her by an acquaintance hoping for good graces, and, as she had prior engagements, she passed them to Eludysia to do with as she pleases. It’s another modern retelling of Andraste’s rebellion against Tevinter, focused on her early life and the beginnings of the war she fought. The mythos is thoroughly known throughout Thedas of course. A centerpiece of faith and nations, it’s the subject of innumerable non-fiction and fictionalised works of controversy, so Eludysia had little inclination in carving out time to see it. But it has been weeks since she and Solas last had a night out together, and critics and audiences have raised this one to acclaim; thus, she has persuaded him and they are meeting tonight.

She wears a dress that flows to floor-length, with an asymmetrical neckline and a slit along her left leg, the shade of myrtle leaves. Her hair is bound into a simple side-braid, her makeup done with a subtle hand. Her heels and matching clutch-purse are an off-white colour. The overall effect is one that satisfies—and, she anticipates, is prepared well for the evening.

The show is at eight. In midnight black suit and tie, he picks her up at exactly six. It gives them enough time to have dinner and conversation at a restaurant nearby the theatre. They talk about the usual things: the current affairs of the city, her cases and their successes, his classes and the books he’s read, the new discoveries of the lost Elvhen empire. He tells her she looks beautiful. She jokes that he should wear a suit more often. His hand brushes her palm and she holds it. Their reconnection is natural. Smooth as the dark red wine which fills their glasses and they raise a toast to.

They arrive at the theatre on time to be seated. An usher escorts them to a private box for two, at the side of the stage. Soon, the seats below them are filled, to the very last one. And then the lights fade out. Applause follows. The play begins.

For the next half hour, they relive the times of old through the music of their own day. The tragedy of the story should be dissonant with the vibrancy of the beat, but the presented narrative is instead enriched. It’s something to be appreciated.

By Eludysia’s asking, Solas gives commentary on the historical inaccuracies and creative liberties taken. She’d be lying if she said she doesn’t prefer the deep baritone of his voice to the cast’s, talented though they are. In exchange, he asks for her thoughts. Their seats are side by side, close enough they are still be audible to each other over the orchestra. It’s close enough for their knees to touch, and for their hands to find each other’s after each applause break.

After half an hour, Solas’ hand doesn’t return to Eludysia’s. It drifts.

At first, his placement of it is innocuous—right above where her knee meets his. But then, his fingers trail a line. His touch whisper light, they wander up and up, across the skin bared by the opening of her dress’ slit, up toward her thigh. And he shifts the fabric.

Her breath hitches, of its own accord.

Solas hasn’t even begun.

She glances from the stage—where Andraste’s actress is delivering a conflicted soliloquy on her marriage to Maferath—to where his fingertips trace the curve of her thigh, back and forth. As if awaiting a decision. “Solas… What are you doing?” She asks, like she is unaware of his intent. Like she has to read his expression to glean it.

“I’m observing the show, vhenan,” he says, as if it’s obvious. He toys with her hem, but tenderness rests on his features. “Is there a problem?”

He’s offering an out. Affirming what she wants. One word from her, and he would stop. He wouldn’t question her. If she expressed any discomfort, he would let her push him away to undo it. The night could pass by without incident, and he’d bring her back to her apartment.

His concern cuts at her heart. She loves him. She does.

But the desire for this is mutual. She craves for it as much as he. So, “not at all,” she says, with a sweetened smile.

A smirk lurks at the corner of Solas’ mouth. His ivory hand dips beneath green.

He has knowledge on just how to unravel her seams, in both contexts of speech and touch. That may be the most dangerous part. She adjusts herself to help him push aside the fabric of her underwear, and his fingers are expert; he skims her inner thigh, teases at her folds, strokes slow circles around her clit, effortless. He does it all without looking directly at her, his attention still seemingly on the reenactment of the politics of the Alamarri border to an outsider’s eye. But while she tries to steady her gaze on the same, she grows wet and wanting. Her posture slackens to allow him better access. He slides a finger inside her, two, and she has to bite her lower lip to cage her gasps and moans as her hips seek and seek more and more of him.

He summons a tension Eludysia is driven to chase. She bucks forward, and he evades. She quickens her pace, and he delays his. The discordance of their rhythm is deliberate. It turns her frustrated and impelled to grasp for the cuff of his sleeve to synchronise their movements.

It’s a mistake. He withdraws.

She has to clamp her hand over mouth, muffling a scream of his name.

Distantly, as her head rests on the seat, she realises he’s remarking on the musical.

“…how vital Shartan’s role was in the rebellion. It is refreshing to see it recognised,” breaks through the drumming of the music—through her wild, erratic pulse—Solas’ tone somehow casually academic. He looks at her, wearing a spurious innocence, expectant. “Don’t you think so?”

Breathless, she laughs.

“I think…” What does she think? The only roles she cares about now are the ones she and Solas play. She is feverish, restless. The set of the theatre is reduced to a two-dimensional backdrop, fallen away and out of focus. The script’s pages are lost. She resolves to rewrite. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

Solas follows. “I always enjoy giving you what you want, vhenan,” he says, placing a soft kiss behind her ear. “In due time.”

He returns a long, slender finger to hover and drag along her sex. She writhes. The high ceiling is less dizzying to stare at than the stage lights and her mind.

For a fraction of a second, Eludysia weighs a plea on her tongue. Solas might relent. It’d be easy and she’d be satiated. But it occurs to her that if he keeps her on a precipice, there is a chance he will not. And she is rarely one who begs for leniency. If it’s a struggle he hopes for, it’s a struggle he will get. “How long?” she asks, for she has knowledge on Solas too.

He chuckles, shakes his head at her. Rubs patterns on her thigh to soothe. “Be patient.”

“No, no, I meant—” She wets her lips and considers him, and her laugh is of daring impulse. “—how long, do you suppose, until I can touch you the way you’re touching me now?” She ventures and leans toward him, cloying, promising. “How long until your cock will be stroked by my hands, my—”

His thumb presses her clit. Her legs squeeze and her hand flies to her mouth.

“Lest you forget,” Solas warns, the storm-grey of his eyes darkening. He parts her legs; fully revealing the left and more. The way her skirt drapes over her now is almost precarious. “I still have an advantage.”

A whimper escapes her, unhidden. She grips at the edge of her seat to rein herself. “You said you enjoy giving me what I want.”

“Unless what you want is to incite me any more than you have. That will not end well.”

She doesn’t give up. “Why? Will you bend me over and fuck me—”

“Eludysia!”

The thrust of his fingers is as sudden as his hiss. Thought is abandoned and she jolts and buries her face into his shoulder. He moves faster and deeper this time, a furor, that spurs her on and on and on until she is trembling around and beside him, smothering her keens and sobs as pressure builds, pushes her to the edge. She maintains her grip on the seat, knuckles whitening. Her hips press against him, her legs squeeze to snatch him there. Her insides are molten and the sought for high nears—

And Solas retreats again.

Strings of Elven curses tumble from her lips onto his sleeve.

Regretful, Solas calms her. His breathing is irregular, as is hers. The hand working her goes back to gently caressing her thigh, the other cradles the back of her head. He kisses the top of her hair, mumbling an apology, and ascertains if she’s all right. She collects what she has of her strength to nod and articulate an apology as well, in spite of her wound up state, and encircles his arm with hers to reassure.

There’s a sliver of Eludysia still conscious of their surroundings, the possible consequences of their actions; muted in the obscene but present. Applause is heard, a break before the next song. What would happen, if someone were to sight how she and Solas hold each other? She is ragged, covered in a sheen of sweat and her skirt askew. He is stiff and strained, fingers glistening from her slick. The balcony’s marble enclosure hides their misdemeanor, but not their unbelonging embrace.

She draws back, glances at the silhouette of the audience, then at him. “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” It’s a genuine question, apart from tricks and tactics. Absurdity underlines their situation like crimson ink. A portrayal of a battleground is just downstairs, and here they are, irreverent, above, with one of their own. All it would take is a slip of her voice, or for someone to look up, or for intermission to arrive. And yet, they go on.

“I calculate my risks,” Solas says, pausing his ministrations to pull at her skirt’s fabric so she is less exposed. He regards her appearance, her visage. “Not unlike you.”

Eludysia can’t help but smirk. “Referring to the dress, or?”

“You had your suspicions on how I’d respond if you chose it, didn’t you?” he sighs and stills, the statement coarsened. “Like you how you had suspicions on how I’d attempt to silence you if you stirred my fantasies.”

“Well,” she says, eyes bright as the purest emeralds, “I enjoy giving you what you like, too.”

“The games we play should frighten us,” he observes, his mouth forming a grim line.

“They would—if we weren’t aware of what we were getting ourselves into.”

“We aren’t always.”

“We’ll work on that,” she promises, and tugs on his arm. Her body is still as sensitive as a livewire, but her words are tender. Earnest.

Solas hums, and he allows himself a smile and the approval. The hand in Eludysia’s hair moves to tip her chin up, closer. “Perhaps you’ll stay quiet, then?”

It’s her turn, now, to shake her head at him. “One day, ma’lath,” she says, with a lilting affection, “you will tire of your need for restraint.”

“Ma vhenan,” he chokes, the endearment a bittersweet sound. Behind his lust, his delectation, his solicitude, is an unnameable despair. He sets it before her and indulges, “that day came when I fell in love with you.”

And so he kisses her roughly. A lash of hunger upon her, his mouth and nipping teeth inflict silken heat, his fingers finding her sex to delve in once more, so she gasps and his tongue can steal its way to entangle with hers. He conducts a new, headier rhythm, strikes in and out in concert with her need, how her hips rise and buck and pursue. He takes her moans, he takes her breath. Her nerves sing, burn, pulse. She becomes lightheaded and begins to seize as he finally, finally delivers unto her a delirium. She pushes away for air, but he keeps a vice-like grasp by the nape of her neck so their lips and her cresting cry remain sealed and secret.

There is a beautiful irony in the paradoxical act; what is meant to restrain is itself a surrender. What should conflict is inseparable. Where does one end and the other emerge?

As Solas releases Eludysia and rights her, she lets her head lay on his shoulder. He doesn’t protest. Oxygen floods her lungs, and in the equilibrium of weightlessness and the sense of gravity, a line from the Chant of Light rings crystalline: —a vision of all worlds, waking and slumbering / spirit and mortal to me appeared.

They don’t wait for intermission. He takes her home. Her dress is ripped, discarded on his bedroom floor with the rest of their clothes. She makes good on her word, strokes him with her hands, her mouth. He then has his way with her; marks her skin like she could eternally be his own. Like they’ll be all right. And together, they relish in their sounds and avowals of love saturating the room through and through.

He doesn’t know Eludysia wakes in the middle of the night to wonder at the profoundness of him and his confession, as she’d done months ago when he came to her door.