#rare book catalogue

[fashionbooksmilano]

Roberto Cavalli Spring/Summer 2003

20 tavole + 8 pagine, 24x31cm, con custodia in plastica maculata

euro 100,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

13/04/24

Prezioso e raro libro della collezione di Roberto Cavalli Spring/Summer 2003 con 20 tavole a colore su cartone spesso e 8 pagine più sottili con 12 fotografie ogni pagina

[dearmrsawyer]

this is a very niche problem but libraries that use a library management system that doesn't allow marc view to be public who are you helping

[alessandro55]

L'albero della cuccagna

Nutrimenti dell'arte

Achille Bonito Oliva

Analisi storica Guido Guerzoni

Skira, Milano 2017, 254 pagine,brossura, 151 ill.a colori, 24x28cm, ISBN 9788857237107

euro 35,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Nell’immaginario collettivo la Cuccagna rappresenta il paese dell’abbondanza e il luogo del divertimento per antonomasia.

Il gioco che da questo mito prende il nome ha alle proprie spalle una lunga tradizione e una altrettanto arcaica memoria popolare. Simbolo di gioia e prosperità – ma anche della fatica e dell’impegno indispensabili a ottenerle – questa immagine è comune a tutte le culture europee, ed è presente nelle sue diverse varianti tanto nei riti diffusi sulle sponde del Mediterraneo, quanto nelle saghe nordiche. Molteplici sono i riferimenti concettuali che conferiscono a questa icona specifica un valore d’identità condivisa, che accomuna civiltà tra loro anche distanti. L’albero della cuccagna è, dunque, identificabile come motivo iconografico capace di una funzione narrativa e interpretativa del presente globalizzato, ma anche come metafora utile a generare riflessioni sul tema dell’alimentazione e della giustizia sociale. Attraverso un innovativo progetto espositivo in progress, partito nell’ambito di EXPO 2015 e conclusosi nel 2017, Achille Bonito Oliva ha selezionato 45 artisti per realizzare opere ispirate al tema arcaico dell’albero della cuccagna, costruendo una mostra diffusa su tutto il territorio nazionale, dalla Valle d’Aosta alla Sicilia, che ha coinvolto musei e fondazioni pubbliche e private. Nel libro l'installazione luminosa di Giovanni Albanese, la “camera a olio” di Per Barclay, la quercia di Gianfranco Baruchello, le opulenze contraddittorie e inquietanti di Bertozzi e Casoni, per arrivare a una varietà di punti di vista con Marzia Migliora, Goldschmied &Chiari, Alfredo Jaar, Sislej Xhafa, Patrick Tuttofuoco, Michelangelo Pistoletto, Luigi Ontani, Mimmo Paladino.

L’esperienza curatoriale ed espositiva, per molti versi straordinaria, di questa mostra è ora raccolta nel volume italiano/inglese edito da Skira che, accanto al saggio del curatore e a un’analisi storica firmata da Guido Guerzoni, documenta le 45 opere attraverso i contributi critici di professionisti del mondo della cultura contemporanea (critici, storici dell’arte, direttori di museo e curatori indipendenti) e la segnalazione delle innumerevoli collaborazioni e sponsorizzazioni – pubbliche e private – che hanno supportato artisti e musei.

Mostra 25 settembre 2015 - 10 marzo 2017 Oltre 40 sedi in Italia

23/06/24

[touchlikethesun]

i kinda want to start asking antique book dealers if they've actually read the $200k book that they own. i think those would lead to some very ironic revelations and a lot of awkwardness.

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

New catalogue Fascicule 52

Early Printed BooksSpring 2024. Part A These 19 books are the authors whose names begin with A from Fascicule Nº 52 1) 508J Thomas, à Kempis, 1380-1471, attributed name.The following of Christ. Writen in Latine by Thomas of Kempis Canon regular of the order of St. Augustin. Translated into English and in this last edition, reviewed compared with several former editions. Together with the…

[safyresky]

Okay another aside bc today is a Neat Day at work,

When the semester starts up again and classes return, Special Collections is FUN bc we have classes come in to see a selection of our books pertaining to their course and it's always SO SO COOL

One of the things about class prep though is grabbing the books from The Vault, bc usually, since it's SC/RB, the curator asks whichever tech (there's two of us) is fetching items for the class to grab the item (if there's multiple copies) with the most interesting provenance and such, or like a dust jacket, but usually in best condition!

We're predisposed now to look through the books for interesting provenance, inscriptions, etc., even if it's not a duplicate copy, so it's always a Cool Time. ESPECIALLY because, due to past lacklustre cataloguing practises, about 80% of the time when we find a cool provenance it's not in the record and our curator is like 😤😤😤 WHY didn't they NOTE THIS!

And then we get to note it! And this is one of my FAVOURITE parts of the job 🤩🤩🤩

So yesterday/today I had a bunch of books for an English Class on controversial Canadian literature (v cool sounding course), and one of the items we brought up was a catalogue of banned books from the 18th century (ish). It was written in LATIN, had The Good Paper (rags, not pulp), bound in VELLUM, so it was. you know. A thing you'd be like "Oh yeah! this should deff be in rare books/special collections!"

Wanna know what ELSE it had?

That WASN'T in the record?

IT HAD:

TWO different ownership inscriptions

(Dated 1756 and 1916, respectively)

(One was a priest/Monk; the other was a doctor so. how did this go from the CHURCH to a DOCTOR, AKA, RELIGION TO SCIENCE? HMMM)

Bookseller's ticket (stamp)

AND IN THE BACK! A LETTER! WRITTEN BY ONE OWNER EXPLAINING WHY HE GIFTED IT TO THE OTHER OWNER!

AND WAS ANY OF THIS MENTIONED?

NO!

So I got to update the record and make the letter a little item file and then the curator and I tracked down the person the letter was FOR to a church in about 1966 and how COOL is THAT

SO FUCKING COOL

[viennacherries]

Prompt suggestion <3 Rolan/Tav NSFW. Tav really likes it when Rolan speaks to her in infernal. She doesn’t understand it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it turns her on. He starts to notice her subtle reactions to when he curses or something in infernal. Which leads to bedroom shenanigans lol. My username is the same on A03 ^^

this has taken me a minute, mostly because i had to spend some time literally making up the infernal language for the purpose of this fic LMAO. if you're interested in my process it's in the end notes on ao3.

i changed the prompt a little though; rolan doesnt notice because he's very silly and keeps failing the perception check. lia notices immediently.

NSFW read on ao3 here

~~~

The first time Tav hears Rolan speak infernal, she doesn't even register it as a word. It slips past his tongue and it's all consonants and noises that she's not sure she could emulate properly with her non-tiefling tongue.

"Zurgan." He mutters it under his breath as he drops a pile of books.

Her quill stops midair where she's busy writing up an inventory of magical items they've found. With everyone else busy or gone from the city, she offered to help Rolan with organising the tower. It's been a nightmare, frankly. The previous tower master (she wont do him the privilege of speaking his name, the bastard) had apparently spent the last who-knows-how-many years stuffing things into random shelves and boxes.

She frowns as she tries to repeat the word, "Zu- Zurgan? What's that mean?"

Rolan jumps, clearly having forgotten she's in the room, "not zurgan, zurgan. It means- well, I don't know if it translates literally to common. It's... an expletive, I suppose ."

She laughs, "so it means 'fuck'?"

He huffs, and rolls his eyes, "I suppose that's a close enough approximation, yes."

"I don't think I've ever heard you swear before."

"Well," his brow is furrowed as he thinks, "I suppose I try not to, really. It's not becoming."

Tav snorts at that, "Gods, how old are you, 150? Besides, how is swearing in tiefling any different?"

"The language is called infernal, you uncultured swine. I'm a tiefling, I speak infernal."

"You speak something alright. Usually a crock of shi-"

"What did I say about it not being becoming, hm?"

She rolls her eyes at him, "so sorry, Master Rolan, please accept my humblest of apologies for disgracing your presence in such a regard."

He rolls his eyes at her, but she hears him snort and sees the quirk of his lip. "I suppose as far as apologies go, that one will suffice."

~~~

Several weeks later, Cal shouts through the door to the study where they're cataloguing evocation books, "Rolan! Lia and I are heading to the market, do you want us to pick up more of the wine you like?"

He laughs, which is rare enough in itself, and leans out the door to reply.

"Fazit drakon'ziz orum?!"

She hears Cal's responding cackle from down the hallway. "alright, alright, little drakon'ziz. I'll get 2 bottles, 'cos I love you."

When Rolan comes back in, chuckling to himself, Tav doesn't say anything. She wants to ask what it means, but she's... distracted.

Something about the way the words sound when he says them is... enticing. She's not sure if she could repeat them without butchering them, but even if she could she's sure they wouldn't sound as delicious as when they come from him. It's something about the rich tone to his voice, which she's always liked, coupled with the harsher edge it takes on when he speaks the foreign language.

Gods, she's been spending far too much time with him,

She clears her throat, "drakon'ziz?"

Rolan turns to her, still smiling, " drakon'ziz , but close. It means dragon."

His lopsided smile, aimed at her, coupled with the gruffness of the unknown word, is a little bit intoxicating.

"What about the rest of what you said? Fa- Fazit something?"

"'Fazit drakon'ziz orum?' It means 'does a dragon want gold?' It's a tiefling saying, basically means 'yes, obviously.' It just sounds better in infernal."

Tav agrees. It sounds rather lovely in infernal, in fact.

When Tav doesn't reply, he raises an eyebrow, "I could try and teach you some? Infernal, that is. If you'd be interested. Tell me something you want to be able to say, I'll try and teach you how to say it."

She thinks for a moment.

"What if I want to call someone a shit-head?"

He barks out a laugh as he rolls his eyes, "of course you'd just want to know how to insult people. I think the closest translation would be uzterku'zereb.  That means 'shit-for-brains'."

Despite the small jolt her stomach gives as he utters the phrase, she starts cackling. "That's even better!"

~~~

It's been about a month and a half since they started cataloguing everything in the tower, and it's basically become a nightly occurrence that Tav stays for dinner with them. Rolan has finally sat down at the dining table, after bringing all the dishes and cutlery through, and right as he hits the chair there's a sheepish voice from beside him.

"... Rolan~" It's Lia, in a singsong voice, and he huffs.

"What do you want?" It's a question, but it sounds more like an admonishment.

"How could you?! Assuming I want something from you. My beloved big brother. I look up to you so much. Also I left my drink in the sitting room."

You and Callum both laugh, and he makes a very dramatic show of pushing his chair back out with a huge sigh.

"You're such a..." He flails for a moment, as if the word in common has escaped him, "an uztanatez. Next time, you're getting it yourself."

She laughs, "My dear brother, I would fall on my sword for you."

"Mhm." He grumbles, " gladiz zurzum kuluz ..."

Cal nearly falls out of his chair laughing as Rolan trudges from the room, and Lia has a grin on her face from successfully riling him up and getting what she wanted.

Tav is blushing.

"What did he say?" She feels hesitant to bring attention to herself when she knows she's bright red, but she's also too nosy for her own good.

Lia looks at her and opens her mouth to answer, but pauses as she takes in Tav's face. Cal, blissfully, doesn't notice.

"Well the first bit was him calling her a suck up," he laughs through his explanation, "and the second bit was him telling her exactly where she could shove her sword."

She laughs, and thanks him for telling her. Lia is still looking at her. Her face warms more.

"What?"

"Hm." Lia smiles in a way that looks slightly threatening; the way Tav imagines a shark would smile at a seal before taking a huge chunk out of it. "Nothing, really. Only, you weren't that flushed before Rolan spoke in infernal. Got a thing for the devil's tongue, have you Tav?"

Cal furrows his eyebrows in confusion, before his eyes widen and his mouth drops in an 'o' of understanding.

She's about to deny it but she can feel that she's even redder now, so instead she buries her face in her hands. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare say anything!"

"Say anything about what?" Of course Rolan would walk back in now. He places Lia's cup in front of her and turns to Tav expectantly, but Lia speaks before she can.

"Tav is just embarrassed because she didn't understand what you said, she felt left out."

His face breaks into a look of confusion, "You shouldn't be embarrassed by that, Tav, you don't speak the language. Uztanatez-" Tav sucks in a breath, and Lia snorts, "means 'bootlicker'. Gladiz zurzum kuluz means... well... 'shove your sword up your rear'."

Cal and Lia are both sporting shit eating grins. Tav thinks now is a good time to pick a God and pray.

~~~

" Pulch'zer."

He says it as she walks through the door to the study one morning.

"Sorry, repeat that?"

His eyes widen, and his face flushes a deep crimson colour. She's never seen him blush before, or at least she's never noticed because of his skin's natural shade.

"Sorry I was just..." He averts his gaze, looking back at the paperwork he's working on, "I was just thinking out loud..."

She chuckles lightly. "Ah, that text will be kicking your ass then. Pulch'zer. What does it mean?"

He looks up at her again. His eyes lock with hers.

"You're close, it's not pulch'zer, it's pulch'zer . You have to put more emphasis on the 'Z' sound."

Gods, she needs to stop asking. He always ends up correcting her, and she always ends up going bright pink. He pronounces the words more precisely when he's teaching her how to say them, it drives her insane.

"Pulch- Pulch? Pulch'zer."

He chuckles, stands and walks over to her. "You're close, but now you're putting too much emphasis on it." He's only an arms length away from her now. " Pulch'zer ."

She gulps. He needs to stop repeating it.

"P- Pulch'zer." She can't tear her eyes away from him, she stares right into his gaze as she repeats it. He sucks a small breath in, so small it's barely noticeable.

"Yes. Very good."

There's a pause.

"So. What does it mean?"

He's flushing again. "It... Well. It..."

She raises an eyebrow, "that bad huh?"

"... it means 'beautiful'."

Tav's face twists in confusion. "What about your book is beaut-"

Rolan surges forward and plants his lips on hers. She gasps into it, the rest of her words swallowed by her inhale and his tongue. She sinks into it. His hands fall onto her waist, and he uses them to drag her closer, pulling the whole length of his body against hers. When he pulls away it feels far too soon, but in his defence he's breathless. He only leans his chest away, his hips still against hers.

"I wasn't talking about the book."

The look in his eyes is vulnerable in a way she's never seen him before. As though he desperately wants her to understand, and yet is terrified that she will. Like he's scared to fracture whatever comfortable thing they've fallen into together.

"Well..." She takes a deep breath, rests a hand on his chest. "Then I'd like you to know that I think you're very pulch'zer."

He sucks in through his teeth and lets out a single disbelieving laugh. "That sounds ridiculously good when you say it, you know."

She snorts, dismissive, "please, it's far better when you say it. I love when you speak infernal."

He stares at her.

She feels her eyes bug out of her head as what she said hits her. "I mean! Not that- I don't mean that like-"

"You love it? What does that mean?"

She can feel the heat in her face. Suddenly everywhere he's touching her is too much, she needs to fall through the floor to a new realm and start her life over with a fake name.

"I don't- I didn't mean-"

As she fumbles over her words, Rolan's face starts to lift into an understanding smirk. "Oh. I see. You love it."

He leans forward towards her, and his lips brush her ear.

"Tibiz plazet link'zon mezoq ?"

She shudders, "Rolan, I have no idea what you're saying."

He chuckles lowly against the shell of her ear. " Zedzit'n, nul'umne? Zede illizquit diko ."

Gods, it's torturous. He's dropped his voice an octave, giving the already heavy words an even more gravelled tone. Her breath is coming out in pants and she whines. The way it's affecting her is ridiculous.

He doesn't stop, " morentez me'zam? Notzo'illi ."

"Rolan, please."

He grins against her, and she feels his length pressing against her body through his robes. " Quid plaket, dilekt'miz ?"

" Rolan , common tongue, please . I want to know what you're saying."

"I said 'please what?'"

Tav huffs in irritation, "I don't know."

He brings his lips up to brush hers, smiling against her as she tries to pull him closer.

"Do you want me to kiss you again?"

She swallows hard around the lump in her throat and nods.

"Mhm. Ask me nicely."

The noise she lets out is embarrassing, a high pitched whine that she couldn't stop if she tried, but she feels his breath against her lips as he exhales in excitement.

"Kiss me, Rolan. Please."

His smile is wide against her, "as you wish, pulch'zer."

When he kisses her, his lips are gentle against hers. Soft and pliant, eager but restrained. When he parts them slowly, she responds in kind and finds his tongue with hers, and he rewards her with a deep, sensual moan from low in his throat. His lips are warm and soft, his mouth tastes of spearmint, his breath flows through her. She feels her small-clothes growing damp.

As he deepens the kiss his movements grow more insistent, more intense, and he squeezes her hips as he grinds her into him. She moans in response and the noise flips a switch in him. All of a sudden his lips are frantic, the kiss turning messy and needy, and his hands are running up and down her body as thought they don't know where to settle.

He pulls back enough to speak, his breath dancing along her lips, his voice barely above a whisper. " Nezkiz quid'mih fakiaz. Volui'illi tamd'umne ."

Tav moans, long and slow as the words rush over her skin, "Gods, Rolan. I wish I knew what you were saying. Fuck ."

He chuckles quietly, "perhaps I'll teach you Comprehend Languages. Then again... Forzit adv'illi."

She groans. "Rolan, please ."

He grins, grinding his length against her, "please, what?"

The huff she lets out is impatient, "you know what."

His mouth traces the shell of her ear again and she shivers. "Perhaps. But tell me anyway."

She groans, "please fuck me, Rolan."

He needs no further invitation. Rolan undresses them both rapidly, swift and efficient just as he treats his work, and they're both bare before each-other in a few moments.

When he looks over her, sweeping his eyes across her form, he lets out a low noise of appreciation. "Hells, Tav, you're beautiful."

She feels nervous, all of a sudden, bare before him, but she smiles despite it. "So are you."

He's back on her, trailing his lips along her throat and collarbone, leaving teasing bites and grazes with his canines. She's a whimpering, writhing mess beneath him but she doesn't care. She can feel his length pressed against her stomach, can feel the grooves of the door on her back, and she's absolutely aching with need.

"Is this okay? Are you comfortable?" His questions make her chest ache with a different kind of need to the one pulsing through her core.

"Yes, Rolan. Please, for the love of- fuck me against this door."

His moan in response to her words is loud and wanton. " Hells , Tav. Lift your leg for me."

She does, and he grabs under her knee, lifting it up so it wraps around his hip, the heel of her foot against the base of his tail while her other foot stays planted against the floor. His other hand comes between them, grips the base of his cock and rubs it against her folds. She throws her head back as she keens, and at the same time he lets out a groan closer to a growl.

"Fuck, you're so wet. Is- This is still okay? You want this?" His voice wavers with lust.

Hearing him curse is almost as incredible as hearing him speak infernal. "Yes , Gods if you don't-"

He's sliding himself into her before she can finish her threat, and the rest of her words fizzle out into a high pitched moan as she throws her head back. His length is ridged and she can feel every notch as it slides into her. He works his way into her slowly, thrusting only an inch at a time until his pelvis comes to rest against hers, and he folds over to rest his forehead against her shoulder.

His first half of his sentence is muttered, the second half directed at her, "Tam strikta , fuck. Ita infek'tum strikta. Tell me when you're ready, dilekt'miz."

"I'm ready, please, fuck me."

He silences his own moan by clamping his mouth over the meat between her neck and shoulder, and begins thrusting shallowly. The slide of him inside her, the ridges on his shaft dragging against her walls, has her tightening her leg around his waist and dragging him closer. He grunts through his mouthful of her skin and starts to pick up his pace, until he's thrusting hard and fast into her.

She's a mess, and she knows it, but it doesn't matter. She's digging her heel into his ass and arching her hips away from the door to get closer to him, head thrown back and eyes wrenched shut. It's too much, but it's not enough. She grabs his hand that isn't holding her knee up and places it round the back of her other thigh. He's a quick study as always, taking a firm hold on the back of her leg and hoisting her other leg up around him, so she's held up against the door by just his weight against her and his bruising grip. It changes the angle, he drives deeper into her, and they both moan in tandem.

He's speaking again, infernal dialect spilling from him freely into her skin, " Nezkiz. Nezkiz quam di'tez vellem. Quamdiu korpuz tuum'kontraz petivi. Vid'tez habzeq. Miz'tib animez'umne ." He speaks the words with a reverence that that has her keening, clenching around him.

"Rolan, I'm so close, fuck don't stop."

He shakes his head, thrusts into her harder, "Hells, I won't, Tav. I won't, I won't, adv'illi, adv'illi -"

The utterance of more quiet infernal words against her tips her over the edge, and she finds her release around him. His movements become stuttered, desperate, " Tez amorez. Tez amorez taz'multo. Perfik'miz. Amaz, amaz, num'quam latuz dezeraz. Morent'illi anim defendam."

He follows her over the precipice and empties himself inside her. She tightens her hold on him with her legs and kisses his neck as his hips twitch through his release, and as he stills they both try to find breath against each-other's skin.

"Gods, Tav." His voice is hoarse, "you- that was- I-"

She chuckles, which makes her walls clench and his hips stutter as he gasps at the feeling. "That was amazing, Rolan. What... Um. What were you saying?"

She pulls away to look at him, and his face is incredibly red. His freckles are barely visible through the violent blush. "Oh, um. Nothing- Nothing, really. Nothing important. Just... babbling. You know."

She laughs, slowly lowering her legs to the ground, both shuddering as he pulls himself from her. He mutters a quick incantation and they're both clean.

"You're going to have to teach me Comprehend Languages, now. I'm far too nosy to leave it at that."

"Hm. We'll see."

~~~

Translations:

"Tibiz plazet link'zon mezoq?" ("You like when I speak to you in my native tongue?")

"Zedzit'n, nul'umne? Zede illizquit diko." ("But you don't care, do you? It's not about what I say.")

"Morentez me'zam? Notzo'illi." ("Moaning for me already? Aren't I lucky.")

Quid plaket, dilekt'miz?" ("Please what, my beloved?")(he lies and tells her it means "please what?")

"Nezkiz quid'mih fakiaz. Volui'illi tamd'umne." ("You have no idea what you do to me. I have wanted you for so long.")

"Then again... Forzit adv'illi." ("Then again... Perhaps I won't.")

"Tam strikta, fuck. Ita infek'tum strikta. Tell me when you're ready, dilekt'miz." ("So wet, fuck. So tight and wet. Tell me when you're ready, my beloved.")

"Nezkiz. Nezkiz quam di'tez vellem. Quamdiu korpuz tuum'kontraz petivi. Vid'tez habzeq. Miz'tib animez'umne." ("You have no idea. You have no idea how long I've wanted you. How long I've craved your body against mine. I have dreamt of having you like this. My soul burns for you.")

"adv'illi" ("I won't.")

"Tez amorez. Tez amorez taz'multo. Perfik'miz. Amaz, amaz, num'quam latuz dezeraz. Morent'illi anim defendam." ("I love you. I love you so much. You complete me. Please, please never leave my side. I would protect you to my dying breath.")

[arsnof]

ArsCo Presents the Inaugural Arsnof's Great American Yard Sard Comics and Sundry Sale 2024!

Hello there! I'm Arsnof. You may remember me from content such as "Canadian Illustrator", "Dungeon Mentat", or even "Transformers Meme". I'm here today to host a celebration of buying things, thinking they're so super cool, and then putting them away and never looking at them again. Comics, books, toys, anime, manga, CCGs, rare webcomic goodies, tiny figurines of yokai, a Little Golden Book adaptation of Gremlins that ends before midnight, Chuck Norris's Karate Kommandos, can you read Japanese because I can't, official Soul Coughing stickers, a hoard of well read Wizards and Toyfares, Funko Pops, feet pics (you can get off, but only if you can correctly diagnose what's wrong first), Transformers...

I could go on forever, but I got it, you want it, we can make a deal (no tongue).

Why is this happening? I'm shit broke and getting shitter. Going down like a Trump Casino. Guy paying his bills on time? I haven't heard that name in forever.

I've been taking care of my ailing father (tried to die on us three times so far this year) and the rest of my family (I don't owe you an explanation, cop) and then someone just up and decided to make my automobile a notomobile.

They didn't have insurance, but that's okay because we have full cov-*hand to ear*-what? We don't? Only comprehensive? Since when? FUCKING shit... Okay, but we still have uninsured motorist, so-four thousand? Four thousand. Dollars. $4,000. To replace an entire ass truck.

We are in desperate need of a car. I've got a lifetime of memories. You, on average, have some change sitting around. Can I have some? I'll trade you stuff.

I'm starting with my comics because they're easiest to catalogue. See something you like? HMU, as the kids say (please God don't let that be a sex thing) and I'll see what I can do. I'm giving the comic shop at which I used to work a vague preference, but I can be swayed.

Next up will be the trades and manga, DVDs of varied origin, toys, and so on.

Criminitly.

If life can stop kicking us in the gender neutral pain zone for five fucking minutes, @paulyollyoxxenfree and I will get back to handicrafts. They're getting back into the amiguroove and I'm going to hit the pad - finish and print Kitty, start Dr. Doctor. Stickers and stuff. I'm not shaving for a while to put me in mall Santa shape by Thanksgiving.

But what if you've got too much money and you're sick of it, but you hate being given things? I take donations. If you put a special request in the memo, I won't even give you the thanks. I'll just spit. I take requests.

Papal

Cache

Fuck, I don't know, antelope? My email - arsnof@gmail.com

I might make one of those kofi things.

Oh and, heheh, one more thing...

Launching in the fourth quarter 2024, ArsCo is proud to announce Alone With Arsnof, the happening new app that gives you the power to have some one-on-one time *gunshot* wit- *sudden fade to red-tinted black, gunshot echo. Sirens fade in. HE'S DOWN! OVER THERE! THE ROOF? A high-pitched whine. Bright light. The late afternoon sky comes into focus. Fireballs? The sun is so bright. Automatic gunfire. No, jets. Falling. Screams. Recognizable screams. Unrecognizable screams? Inhuman? The sun blinks*

[oristian]

I truly believe that the fundamental importance of a mating bond has become misconstrued across the fanbase. A mating bond is a soul connection, something more profound and more integral to self than a simple relationship—a reflection of one’s inner being onto another person. Fae would spend their entire existence searching for their other half, as there is nothing leveled higher than a mating bond in regard to love and relationships within that culture.

Elain and Lucien were chosen by the Mother to be mates for a reason, and I am inclined to believe that their book will document the intricacies and nuances of a mating bond that the reader has been kept from knowing beforehand. A connection between souls that allows the other to feel emotions, to fundamentally understand their partner, and to know that half of them exists within their world.

A mating bond is not a simple string of fate that can be sheared and disregarded. Simply speaking, a mating bond never disappears, not even upon rejection. Not only will the two individuals be tethered to one another for the rest of their existence, but they will both suffer greatly from any impact to the other. If one were to be injured, the other would feel such. If one experienced great emotion, the other would feel such. If one were to die, the other would feel as if half of their being had perished, as well. The bond is a soul tie; a link between two individuals. A rejection simply allows the bond to simmer and dim, but never leave.

There is something so hauntingly romantic about a mating bond. Two distinct souls handpicked by the higher position of power, the most holy and sacred source of religion, to find one another and to live out their long lifetimes together. Two souls meant to sing to one another—a song that only can be heard between them. Certainly, there are matches that simply do not work and not every mating bond will bring about success in a relationship. However, according to what is known from canon, those very rare instances stem down to abusive partners, power hungry reaches, and previous engagements/marriages to other fae. Elain and Lucien have nothing of the sort against them.

Elain and Lucien are the most well-matched and compatible mated pair across the entire catalogue of SJM’s work. Down to the very bones of their personalities, they are so incredibly similar. The awkwardness between them currently is intentional, as a means to set tension up for their book. To find solace and healing in an individual picked just for you? There is simply nothing more romantic than that. Elain and Lucien are it for one another, as the books have foreshadowed.

[fashionbooksmilano]

Missoni Winter 1999

Photo Mario Testino

Styling Carine Roitfeld

Missoni - Skira editore , Milano 1999, 22 pagine, 24,5x30cm

euro 90,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Missoni's catalog for winter of 1999 illustrated from photographs by Mario Testino

22/12/23

[tadpolesonalgae]

Play-mate[***]

Dark!Rhysand x reader

a/n: something so comforting about writing dark!character fics (is that worrying?)

Warnings: dark!Rhys, non-con, light choking, smut, fingering, degradation, brief impact ‘play’, overstimulation, squirting, nipple play, dumbification, breeding kink, this is a sequel to Desk Pet but can be read on its own

Word Count: 7, 245

-Desk Pet- -Two-Faced-

Perhaps the one pleasure you can still keep safe is those rare but precious nights he works late. The ones where you’re allowed to resign yourself to lethargy, fatigue soothing your muscles as you melt across the small pallet that lays beside his own, much larger bed. Relaxing into the soft sponginess of the plump bedding, silky smooth fur swelling around your body as the plushness dips, swallowed by the single thick blanket you’re allowed in the winters.

With the darkness covering the lands so swiftly, you often find yourself lighting a few candles, disliking the obtrusive glow of the fae lights, plucking a thick book from his shelves, and curling up to read upon your meagre but wonderful pallet. Something more likely to be offered to a pet than a fae, but somehow large enough to comfortably contain you.

In your world of passiveness, it’s the single joy you’re allowed—reading on a cold winter night, tucked up cozily with a book, left entirely to yourself. No rough palms bruising your jaw, no deft fingers pushing into the slippery wetness of your mouth, nor touches that hurt more than frostbite.

Hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end, raising across your bare body, still kept entirely naked for his ease, and you discard the book, noting the page number. The wet roughness of your tongue swipes across the soft pads of your fingers, suffocating the tiny flames swiftly, keeping your digits flush until the skin stings, careful to keep too much smoke from filtering to the air. You want him to think you’re asleep—he’s less likely to take interest if he knows you won’t be reluctant. Less likely.

Freshly oiled hinges swing open silently, but you know he’s entered the chambers and you remain mostly concealed beneath the thick blanket, the soft cotton brushing your shoulders, hiding the intimate skin of your breasts.

The night before he’d taken a particular liking to them, teething across the aching peaks, suckling them into his mouth one at a time, grinding for a seemingly endless period between your legs, only the cloth of his finely tailored trousers protecting you from him. He’d bitten, sucked, pinched and flicked at your breasts until he’d finally been satiated from whatever sexual interest had initially grasped him. Tongue soothing the raw peaks, swollen and freshly-licked from attention, gleaming in the low lights like candy.

Now they ache more intensely, small threads of soreness plucking through your chest, small throbs of pain soothed into your flesh like a balm being rubbed into skin until it’s absorbed by the surrounding tissue. Brought in and softened, slowly seeping across your breasts, nipples still aching most acutely.

You hear him now, walking on cat-soft feet across the wooden panelling, skin prickling with familiar awareness as his attention skates over you like how your eyes would have, at some moment deep in the past, scanned your own bedroom upon entering it. Counting your belongs, making sure nothing had been displaced or removed without your knowledge: potted plants still sitting pretty along the windowsill; candles still decorating the side table; clothes folded unobtrusively atop a chest of draws to be put away. And so as your eyes would have once mindlessly catalogued your belongings, now his brush over you, curled neatly to the side of his bed, waiting patiently for use.

The thought has a kind of disgust rising in your stomach, one you thought had long since been numbed. Becoming so warped and twisted it would never flare again. Yet here it is, sitting gelatinously at the back of your mouth, resting fully in your throat, as if waiting to be regurgitated—spat out and disposed of so it’s no longer a bother.

He pauses adjacent to your bed, and you wonder if he’s reassessing your positioning. If he should have instead set your pallet at the foot of his bed so he wouldn’t be tasked with travelling to the other side for access. Instead the sound of muffled fabric floats to your pointed ears, conditioned to recognise all of his noises: onyx black buttons being slotted through midnight blue holes; fabric whispering as it’s shucked off broad shoulders that can carry the width of your waist, having been unkindly tossed over it more than once; ties that rasp like rope, and he pulls them free, loosening the band of his trousers before leaving to prop himself upon the bed, likely removing the rest of the clothes before disappearing into another room.

Even in the moments of his absence, his sense clings to you, as if he’s somehow been granted ubiquitous sight, observing you while he should not be able to. His magic settles in the air, thick and dense, like the fog that pools in valleys, masking the dangerous potholes and rocks that manage to stumble themselves into one’s pathway, creating a lethal road to navigate.

Sheets rustle, and you realise he must have re-entered at some point, having gone undetected as your mind helplessly wandered, seeking escape from the dreadful pleasure he so regularly subjects you to, forcing you to take long, languid drives of his hips, hands pulling and tangling with your hair, intrusive power seeping into your mind, controlling you from the inside out.

It’s only once he’s seemingly settled that you allow yourself to consider a hell-free night. Liberated, if only temporarily, from his deep aches and contagious pain. How he enjoys putting his sickness into your body, releasing his cruelty upon your bones, like you’ve done something wrong enough to be deserving of his inflictions.

Sheets rustle again, and your heart stumbles despite even breaths, ones that are deep and regular, suggesting peaceful sleep in the hopes of remaining undetected by his attention.

“I know you’re awake,” he says lowly.

Your skin prickles tightly, littered with goosebumps as his words send small thorns pushing into your tender flesh. He shifts on the bed, and you can feel as his eyes settle, taking in your form and the things he’s free to do to it.

“You think pretending to sleep will save you from me?” He asks, mirth clear in his honeyed voice, softer than satin, softer even than a lover’s, like warm clouds and fresh feathers. “Do you have any preference for what happens tonight?” He asks idly, as if speculating upon an item from a menu, considering his options with careless interest. He will get a meal no matter what he decides on.

Roughened fingers grip your shoulder firmly, and you fight the jolt that urges to burst through, remaining tight but relaxed, melting into the softness of your floor bed, willing him away. Willing yourself to appear quiet and uninteresting. For a short moment it appears to work, his touch leaving your dirtied skin, pulling back into the great warmth his own bed, as if he’s a beast who’s curling his tail in preparation for sleep, coiled tight to whip out at a moment’s notice.

But then the sheets rustle again, and a firm heat snakes down, slinking down as his power pulls back the corner of your blanket, allowing the naked sturdiness of him to collect at your back. One arm slides beneath your rib cage, folding at the joint to wrap across your middle, his large palm gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you flush to his chest while his free hand trails between your breasts, fingers feathering up to your throat, wrapping around the comparatively small extension. A heightened pulse drums against his digits, bumping against his tight hold, alerting him to your own awareness. Lips stretch beside your ear, hot mouth grazing its shell as he strokes your hip like you’re a pet to be soothed.

“Nothing to say for yourself, or do you simply not care?” He asks mildly. The sinister question registers fully in your mind, already beginning to shut down in attempts to preserve what little pieces you have left that he hasn’t already touched. “You were so vocal for me last night. What happened?” He laughs softly, the arm beneath you shifting so his fingers can graze your ribs, stroking just below your breast, still aching from his rough attention. He squeezes your throat a little tighter, eyes prickling with the pressure, the burning in the bridge of your nose. You won’t ask him to stop—you’d only be wasting your breath.

The High Lord hums at your back as if he’s disappointed by your lack of a response, put off now you aren’t doing as he likes, a small reminder while he may have control of almost everything in your life, he cannot control your thoughts. Or rather, if he did, there would be nothing left of you to enjoy: if he continues to replace small pieces of yourself, is it still you he’s playing with?

He releases your throat in favour of dipping to your breasts, the arm beneath you skating over the softness of your stomach, brushing with a feather-light touch over your abdomen, feeling the slight flutter of tension beneath his fingertips. Rhysand brings his mouth lower, suctioning over a small spot below your jaw, trailing along the tendon keeping your head to your shoulders, following to your collar bone. “Should I give these some more attention?” He inquires, and you bite back a pained noise as he pinches your nipple, tugging lightly on the bruised peak.

His other hand drops lower, exploring the familiar area leading between your legs that you’ve preemptively tried to lock together. The digits pause, feeling your obstinance, your clear reluctance to let him touch you any further, and he hums approvingly, pleased with your resistance. “Better,” he murmurs onto your skin, even as his magic wraps tightly around your thigh and ankle, pulling you back to lean against his chest, guiding your leg over his hips. You squirm at the invasive press of him between your thighs, gently forced open as his mouth latches over the intimate skin of your throat, lapping up your flavour as if he isn’t in possession of such sheer power that he’s able to have you whenever he pleases—and fully takes advantage of it.

Lips part as he cups your heat, pressure building behind your eyes as his fingers splay across the intimate part, lazily taking his time, both going slow for his own enjoyment and for your torture, making sure it’s dragged out as long as possible. He doesn’t want this to be something you can switch off for a few minutes a day, he needs it to be hours long, twisting you until you fit the shape of him, so wary and worn from taking him you end up bending and slotting to hold his impression within your bones. His finger presses to your clit and he relishes in the flinch he feels within your stomach and thighs, desperately suppressed on your side in attempts to keep his hunger at bay, as if the possibility of remaining indifferent to him might stave off the ferocious starvation than comes alive in him every night without fail.

“One day, lovely lamb, you’re going to break,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, digits lazily circling as he plays with you mindlessly, so well familiarised with your body he no longer needs to pay attention to where he’s touching—it will always be the right spot. “You’re going to shatter for me, and fall apart at my feet. All soft and pliable. Begging for me to either give you the pleasure you’ve spent so long resisting and hating, or for me to give you your end right then and there.” His fingers slide lower, his touch dripping across your skin as he flicks across your nipple, drawing a pained inhale from your mouth, caught off guard.

“Would you like to know what happens after that point?” He asks mildly, as if he can’t feel the way you’re trembling in his arms from the effort of keeping yourself together when he can pull you apart with such ease. There’s always that edge of terror when you’re forced to lie with him, that he might one day tire of your resistance and pluck at your mind for good, banish your rationality and lock it up somewhere, or simply annihilate it completely. That one day, he might decide to go into your mind, and steal it from you entirely, take control of you and make you truly beg for him like he enjoys seeing, having you perform for him dumbly, crawling toward him across the floor, touching yourself upon his bed, pleasuring him of your own accord. The fear never leaves you, that he might one day decide to make use of his daemati powers, and leverage them against you.

His palm smacks across your cheek, digits digging into the soft muscle of your jaw as he grips you punishingly, drawing you away from the torment of your inner thoughts. “Are you sure you want to do this dance tonight?” He asks lowly, able to feel the tautness of your limbs, how you’re trying not to squirm or recoil, trying not to fight against him. “I’m in a rather pleasant mood for once. I would suggest you try to appeal to my better side,” he advises coldly, hot lips brushing bare skin. “Is that clear?”

“Go to hell,” you manage weakly, tremors making their way into your voice.

The High Lord’s lips stretch into something wicked and pleased, hand sliding down to your throat, tilting your head so you’re leaning to give him more access, his grip swallowing your back whole. A low sound of pleasure drags from his chest, hips rolling languidly into your hind, fingers slipping lower to bask in the stiffness of your body as he presses to your entrance, leg still hooked over his hip so you can’t prevent it. Disgust crawls across your body, having your skin tighten with awareness and attention, focusing on where his touch is branding you, burning in his handprints so they’ll never leave your soul.

“You don’t like it when I touch you?” He provokes, hungry for resistance. “From the amount of times you’ve come on my fingers alone, I would have thought you like the way I can make you crumble.” His digits circle your entrance, keeping you pulled flush against his chest, forced to lean your weight onto his shoulder as he pushes in, and you want to scream at the invasion. How many times has it been, and yet it never gets any better, skin constantly soaked in oil, doused from head to toe in it so thoroughly you wish for a match to end you. One spark, and you’d be gone, blessedly free of him. Perhaps at last released to a place away from his touch, a world where you’re clean and safe, and you’d never met him.

Or at least, he’d never have forced you to be his.

Maybe there could have been a happy ending.

“I hate you,” you manage to hiss out, trying to ignore the sensation of his fingers pumping slowly, curling against spots he has no right to know or touch with such familiarity, digits dragging in and out until slick has begun to coalesce to prevent pain. Again he hums, and it sounds encouraging, like he wants you to repeat it, like the words give life to him, allow him to continue to thrive and feed off you. “I hate you,” you say again, voice breaking from how many times you’ve said so, and yet it never encapsulates the depth of betrayal that squirms in your gut, the anger and frustration that once burned in your chest at the severe maltreatment. Things could have turned out differently, if only…

“I hate you so much, Rhys.”

Pressure spills over, quietly dripping down your cheeks, hot water splashing down into the pillows. You don’t want to cry in front of him, don’t want to allow him that emotional proximity. He’s taken so much from you, it’s unfair that he will ruin this, too. His fingers graze a spot deeper, and your breath catches, familiar heat beginning to take root in the pit of your belly, that disgusting, shameful arousal he puts into your body, something you shouldn’t feel, ever, for him.

“I’m glad to know you feel so strongly for me,” he replies lowly, nipping at the tip of your ear, reminding you of all the other unpleasant things he’s served to you, the ways he’s used those teeth upon your body to summon pain to your skin. You wish he wouldn’t. If just for one night he would soften his touch, lessen the brutality he likes to play your body with.

If you gave into him…would he be nicer? You don’t understand where the thought comes from, but your mind has taken a severe turn since he first put his hands on you, rarely anymore surprised by the things that come and go, drifting by like leaves on the wind. Instead you allow yourself to ponder it, plucking it from the mellow streams of thought, cupping it in your hands to examine a little longer. Would it be worth it? The degradation of following along with him to grant yourself some reprieve? If it’s the only way to maintain your sanity, to keep yourself intact, isn’t that all that matters?

You dare experiment, trying to soften the tension in your muscles, to force yourself to melt over him, to reduce the tautness that’s been tightly stitched into your seams, until you’d become rigid and stiff. He’s surprisingly comfy, body slotting against yours, fingers continuing to slide in and out, and you manage to lean into him, skin pressing to skin, bare and prickling with awareness. You could swear one of his exhales sounds eerily like a laugh, like he’s enjoying watching you attempt to save yourself, but it’s something different, something more sinister you have yet to guess at. That perhaps he’s got some larger plot, and you’re falling nicely into place, manoeuvred by an unseen force.

“Enjoying yourself, lamb?” He asks beside your ear, a shiver passing down your spine at the lover’s caress. Teeth bite together against the sickening pleasure he’s bringing out of you through pumps and curls of his fingers, the base of his palm rolling into your clit. A small sound jumps from your tongue, a wash of heat soothing the pressure across your abdomen. Words of agreement rise to your lips in answer to his question, but you swallow them down thickly, feeling the syllables lodge in your throat beneath his palm. “I hate you,” you repeat, the only things left you can use as a defence, but even those three words seem to be losing their bite as your head lolls against his shoulder.

“You hate me?” Rhys breathes as he drags his fingers out fully, wetness trailing up your abdomen as he raises his hand to your mouth, just another obscene act he likes to watch you perform. The fixation he has with your mouth has never previously taken your attention, seemingly appearing as a familiar gesture when having intimacies with another person, yet you dwell on it for a little longer than usual when he runs the slick pads of his fingers over your lips. The digits part, and you can make out silvery strings connecting them together, like the threads of a cobweb.

“Open,” he goads, and your mouth parts without having to be asked twice. The taste blooms across your tongue, stark arousal that sparks heat in your lower body as he presses his fingers down, causing you to choke, gagging lightly as your throat contracts. His hips roll into yours at the sound, and you’re reminded of what other horrors he has yet to inflict upon you tonight.

“Aren’t you being good,” he whispers beside your ear, soft as silk, warm as freshly baked bread. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this docile. Feeling tired?” The remark should have been a warning to stay aware, you know firsthand that he’ll pounce at the first sign of lethargy. “Answer me,” he orders, but it’s with an ineffable lilt you’re unable to put your finger on. Like he’s finding something amusing, taking pleasure in being able to understand the bigger picture while you’re left to dumbly stumble to and fro, seeking the right path that he can see from high above and chooses to keep secret from you.

The words form in your mind, yes. I am tired. yet they come out softened and muffled, contorted as you babble them onto his long, elegant fingers that are lightly massaging your flavour into the hot, wet muscle. Fatigue weighs atop your lids, and you try again, I am tired, and I wish I could sleep myself away from you, but again, your words are scrambled, garbled into a slushy mess of syllables that feel like froth. Like trying to bite down on sea foam.

He laughs lowly, hips grinding into your backside, pulling his digits away, revealing the wetness that’s now soaking them, slathered in saliva, dripping with silvery weight and you watch distantly as they make the pathway back down your body, sliding effortlessly back into your heat. They push in softly, easing in their return, curling against spots that have you pulling against the urge to widen the stance of your legs.

The fight is often on both sides: why he’s so draining to be at the mercy of. On one hand there is your despair, the visceral hatred and frustration, the betrayal that could splinter your bones with its ferocity; on the other there is the overwhelming pleasure, coming with an intensity that regularly and repeatedly threatens to upend you entirely, to buck you off your wobbly standing and throw you to the floor with the sheer pleasure he knows how to deal you.

Shallow pants reach your ears, and you realise they are coming from your own mouth, pouring like a babbling stream as the unwilling sounds of pleasure crest on your tongue, skin heating as he presses tighter to your naked body, skin flush to skin, sharing heat in what should be an intimate display of affection, not such a gross abuse of power. Humiliation burns across your cheeks as you move your leg further over his hip, leaning more heavily into the supportive expanse of his chest, hands clutching the silky fur of your pallet.

His laugh whispers against your neck, breath fanning erotically across your throat and you shiver, inhaling softly as his long fingers continue to curl inside of you, beckoning you forward to the high he’s pulling up to blossom and bloom across your skin. “Does that feel good?” He asks softly, mischief prominent in his tone. “Knowing you’re going to be coming on my fingers? That I’m taking this from you, too?” A garbled sound floats from your mouth as the heel of his palm rolls across your clit, digits playing with you lazily, drawing pleasure up from the depths of your body as if his fingers possess the powers of dowsing rods, actively seeking out the spots that will swell with heat, flood your body with mind numbing goodness to have you melting into him.

The ridges of your nails scrape against the bedding, breaths stuttering out as he licks up your neck, gleaming white teeth grazing across the well-bitten skin, having been nipped at and had his mark stamped into you endlessly the night before. He hums absently, hand releasing your throat to drop lower, trailing between your breasts, and a drop of dread is dispersed across your conscious, like ink into water. “No…” you breathe weakly, heat building behind your eyes as he thumbs across your breast. “Rhys, please,” you mumble desperately, anxious to spare yourself from the sensitivity, the pain you’ll be exposed to should he choose to continue with his recent fixation on your breasts.

He groans at your back, palming at your chest, arousal concentrating in his veins as your body arches against him, bowing from his torso as pleasure and pain twine together. “Stop it,” you breathe, flinching as he pinches lightly at your nipple, rolling the abused peak between his fingers, tugging to call up more of your sweet pleas, the words that fuel his sadism, stoking the embers of his hunger, whetting his appetite for your reactions. “No? You don’t like this?” He croons beside your ear, talking down to you as if his words need to be dumbed down to be digestible. “Want me to touch you somewhere else?”

The High Lord grazes the ridge of his nail over the peak of your breast, and you gasp, body recoiling into his chest, scent wrapping more firmly around you, infiltrating your lungs, short circuiting your mind as your lids flutter. Your breaths shallow, mindlessly trying to seek out the source of your pain as pleasure pools between your legs, his fingers summoning heat. Weakly, your hand fumbles across the bedding, blindly searching for an end to the soreness. Nails scratch at his knuckles unintentionally, but his hips buck nonetheless, biting gently at your neck. Clumsily you grip at his wrist, muscles weak from his ministrations as you try to pull him away, breathing heavily as you paw at his hand, desperate to find reprieve. Fingers slide between his, curling over into the top of his palm, weakly trying to pry him from your breasts.

“Please…” you pant, hips rolling down onto his fingers, tingling pleasure becoming more and more difficult to ignore, grabbing for your attention as slick drips across your thighs, Rhys creating a sloppy mess with his hand, palm wet as the heel glides across your clit. “Rhys…” you pant, fingers trembling, unable to release him, hands entwined but at least you’re being spared from his pain-soaked touch.

He inhales softly, nosing at your throat, groaning as he feels you tighten once around his fingers, and he knows you’re close, that once again he’s going to pull yet another piece from you, like separating raw cotton, the pieces weakly grasping onto one another, as strong as water-soaked paper beneath his hold. “Ready?” He asks, and you gasp, trying to shake your head, nails digging into his skin as you press his hand to your sternum, as if in doing so you have some sort of control over what he does to you. “No,” you cry softly, “not again. Please, I can’t. Please no.”

A rough groan grazes your skin, and goosebumps rise in its wake. “You don’t want to come?” He murmurs, his breathing pattern shifting, hand pulling away from yours with despairing ease, sliding back up to your throat, hand gripping your jaw and the tingling pleasure begins its countdown, the slow ticking until you shatter, unable to do anything save for squeeze your eyes shut, hands scrambling to try and pull away from him, writhing weakly in his dominating hold. “Rhys…Rhys, please…no…!”

He roughly tips your jaw, flinching beneath his touch, gasping from shock before he puts his mouth over yours, tongue dipping in as he angles you correctly. A shocked whimper spills into his mouth that he drinks down hungrily, caught off guard as his body shifts, sliding slightly out from beneath you while his fingers continue working you. Fear pounds through your body, heightening the acuteness of pleasure and you writhe in his hold, struggling violently but somehow it only results in your legs spreading wider, hips bucking fervently onto his hand, grinding against his palm as you moan into his mouth, jaw opening wider as he takes you for his own.

The piercing edge of of terror sharpens your pleasure, and you cry out into his mouth, sounds the High Lord steals away, satiating himself as teeth nip at your lips, hand squeezing your throat, reminding you of his dominion over your body, his touch demanding utter submission as you flutter wildly around his fingers, hips stuttering against his palm. The pleasure explodes across your skin, body arcing off him, grinding against him in a way you know you’ll hate yourself for once the buzzing sensations subside.

He laughs lowly once your high fades, fingers pressing back in fully as he detaches himself from your mouth, partially atop your body as he gazes down at you intently, attention pinning you to the pallet as he curls his digits gently but firmly, taking in the rise and fall of your chest; the way your breath hitches; your brows curve, eyes gleaming with wetness he’s anxious to have spill over. “Such a whore,” he whispers onto your mouth, more tenderly than he’s ever spoken to you. His hand finally retracts, dragging up over your clit, puffy and sore from attention, and you feel yourself fracture a little more from the humiliation.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe out, forcing venom into your tone, his hellish mouth parting into a feline curve. “You’re the one who just came on my fingers,” he says with silky smoothness, “should I remind you?” Before you can protest he’s rolled on top of you, keeping you pinned to the pallet as his fingers again slide between your lips. You struggle weakly, but he presses his hips against your own, keeping you incapacitated with frustrating ease, feeling the evidence of his own arousal poking obtrusively into your lower body.

“Can you taste that?” He laughs, watching as you struggle pointlessly, his hunger becoming harder and harder to resist, grinding against the alluring wetness of your heat. “Taste how much you liked it? See how wet you got?” He groans as he glides through the slick between your thighs, coating himself, bucking his hips as his fingers press down on your tongue. “Gods I’m going to fuck you so well,” he says lowly, mirth clear as he taunts you. “You’re practically dripping onto your bed, getting it all wet and dirty,” he muses breathlessly. “Such a whore.”

Your hands grip his wrist, both of them desperately trying to pull him out of your mouth, making his lips curve with amusement, enjoying your struggle. “Don’t be so ungrateful,” he drawls, pushing his fingers in further until you gag, throat constricting around his digits as tears gather at the edge of your lashes. He curses lowly, colour tinting his tan skin as saliva gleams on your lips, spilling over like how your cunt does when he stuffs you full, dripping down your thighs and creating a slippery mess. “So pretty,” he murmurs breathlessly, rubbing his fingers over your tongue, feeling it’s velvety heat. Your breath catches at the murmured praise, so rarely compensated for the harsh treatment he forces on you.

His own breathing patterns have turned irregular, arousal piercing his mind as his gaze remains locked with your own, and that starving hunger returns in full force, eyes rolling briefly as he settles on what he’s going to use you for tonight.

The High Lord pulls away from you, allowing you not even a second’s reprieve before his hands are pushing your legs apart, raising them up as he rolls his hips forward, gliding through your wetness. “So wet,” he groans, fingers biting into the soft flesh of your thighs, slick somehow having made its way even there, and he can’t bring himself to wait any longer.

You try to brace yourself for the intrusion, a mix of disgust and hatred building in your stomach with equal parts arousal, knowing from experience how sickeningly right it feels, how he fills you up so completely you’re rendered temporarily mute. “Don’t,” you beg, heart pounding as he lines himself up, tip pressing to the soft indentation between your legs. You close your eyes briefly, hands still weakly trying to push him off you despite his overwhelming strength. “You can’t do this,” you cry out, knowing how sensitive you are, how he’ll no doubt take full advantage of that and not in a pleasant way.

“Shut up,” he grits out, violet flicking sharply as it pierces into you. “Don’t you ever get tired of protesting so much? Whining and complaining at every moment no matter how well I treat you. Such a selfish brat.” He practically spits the words, and humiliation burns through your lower body, opening your mouth to spew back vitriol but he pushes in, hips flushing tight to your own, feeling the bump he’s put into your stomach. He groans lowly, panting as he grinds against your cunt, abdomen rubbing over your clit and your toes curl, back arching at the fullness, having his teeth flash in a vindictive grin.

“You fucking like this, don’t you?” He accuses, pushing your thighs wider, raising your hips, allowing him to settle deeper, feeling as he presses further, stealing the breath from your lungs. Lips part as you try to form words but you’re unable to do anything, grasping for thoughts but it’s as though he’s shoved everything out of you. “Such a liar,” he groans out, hands leaving your thighs to settle further up your body, caging you in as he draws his hips back. “Is the reluctance part of your act? Pretending to resist so you can feel how helpless you are? How easy it is to shove you down? Fuck I could take you whenever, wherever I liked.”

You tighten around him as he sinks back in, pressing flush to your heat, adding a roll to his hips so he rubs against those spots he’d abused with his fingers, having you gasp sharply, nipples peaking as your back arches. “You’re a monster,” you pant, unable to focus on his hazy figure as pleasure sizzles in the pit of your stomach. “You’re…you…I hate you.”

“Say that again,” he breathes, picking up the pace, hitting those overstimulated spots and your press your lips together, trying to keep your cries to yourself. “I fucking hate you,” you hiss out, feeling him twitch inside you, and you realise the protests are turning him on more. Disgust crawls across your skin, realising you’ve been complicit in his pleasure. But the words have already started, and you’re suddenly unable to control it as your thoughts begin spilling from your lips. “I hate you so fucking much,” you cry, “so fucking much. I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re a fucking psycho, sadistic bastard. I hope you fucking burn.”

His hips stutter, panting as he pulls away from your body, fingers biting into your hips as he begins slamming in, making you bump up the pallet as he fucks you into the bed. “Gods you’re so perfect,” he growls, brows furrowed; pupils fully dilated with hunger. “And you’re all mine. All mine, every hour of every day. Do you like that? I can do this whenever I want. Make you scream. Scream until your throat is raw and your legs are shaking.” His hips buck roughly and you bite back a cry at the sharp pleasure, the overwhelming fullness. “I’m going to fuck you so full,” he groans, and for some sick reason, arousal blossoms across your abdomen, a fresh wave of wetness slicking your thighs, squelching noises spilling from your cunt as he drives into you with a conviction that’s both terrifying and obsessive.

“Yes…!” The word is out before you can censor it, and he laughs darkly, pouncing on the lapse greedily. “I knew it,” he growls, “fucking liar. You like this. Can you feel that?” Before you can get a handle on your thoughts again, a moan flutters from your tongue, hands grappling wildly for purchase, seeking stability as his hips drive roughly into you, bucking with a fervour that has you arching from the bedding, scratching at his forearms. His hand splays across your abdomen and you cry out as he presses down, the orgasm building much faster, pleasure ringing in your ears as a heat like sunlight blossoms across your body.

“Rhys,” you moan, brows pulled tight and it’s as though that one cry urges him on, pounding harder, pace increasing as magic flares, the ghostly outline of wings emerging at his back. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your head so you’re forced to look at him as he pounds into you. “Gods you’re such a slut. You should see how you’re taking me, practically swallowing me whole, such a greedy cunt, isn’t that right?” He pulls back, landing a hard smack to your cheek before gripping your throat again, dragging you up from the pallet as your thighs are forced apart from how he’s pressing against you. “I’m going to fuck you so full you won’t be able to move without my cum spilling out. So full you won’t be able to think straight, that you’re going to be able to feel how much is inside you, tucked away where it belongs.”

Your mouth parts in a moan, hands being forced to lock over his shoulders to relieve the pressure on your spine. “Would you like that? Do you like that idea? Knowing you’ll have part of me so deep inside of you at all times? Gods you’re going to swell up from how full I’m going to fuck you.” His words splash across your skin and pleasure spills between your legs, heat coiling in on itself before breaking across your skin, fluttering around him.

Rhys watches as you come, body writhing as he keeps you trapped on your pallet, cock driving in repeatedly as the overwhelming pleasure has your eyes rolling back, muscles seizing, butterflies fluttering as you jerk from the force of the orgasm. “Please, Rhys stop! I— I can’t—” you gasp, body going taut from the sheer intensity. “What was that?” He pants, lips curving as he fucks you through it. “You want more? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think? What a good girl.”

In one movement he’s flipped you over, roughly handling your body so you’re forced onto your hands and knees, arms shaking, mouth parting to scream for him to stop but then he’s slamming in again, picking up the pace from before but now you’re so much more sensitive and tears spill down your cheeks, utterly undone. A soundless scream parts your lips, his hands putting bruises into your hips as he slams you back onto his cock, slick spilling down your thighs as overstimulation fries your brain.

“Fuck that’s it. Finally learning to take what I give you. You like that?” Your eyes blink wildly as the pleasure becomes too much, tears dripping down your cheeks. “Say it,” he snarls, “come on, admit how fucking high I can take you. How you love the way I fuck you.” You babble messily, words fluttering nonsensically, crying, screaming, panting as saliva spills from your open mouth, unable to shut it and your lungs can’t take the intensity. “I-I love it,” you cry, “please, R-Rhys…!”

His hips buck sharply against a spot, breath hitching from your obedience and it triggers something in you, pleasure unlatching as you gush around him. Rhys curses, low and viciously as you squirt, arms shaking as his magic presses up against your abdomen, the pressure making you dumb. “So fucking perfect,” he moans, “say it. Say you’re my perfect little toy, tell me how much you fucking love what I do to you.” His hand drops to your thigh and you scream when he cocks your leg, the angle turning you into a sloppy mess, arms giving out as your face buries into the bedding, back arching deliciously as you soak him.

Rhys snarls, power wrapping around your hips to keep slamming you back on him as his fist tangles in your hair, pulling you up. “Say it,” he snarls, “fucking say it.”

“I love it!” You scream, voice breaking as your thighs are spread wider, his hips bucking to target the spots and terror burns across your skin as overstimulation turns into fresh pleasure. “I’m— I’m your perfect…your perfect little toy!” You scream again, another orgasm bursting across your skin and your world is spotted through with white dots, body trembling as his hips smack against the backs of your thighs, feeling at last as he twitches once before releasing deep inside of you.

Even in your daze you can feel how it’s more than usual, much more. Feel how he fills you up, spilling out, stomach inflating with how much he’s pumping into you. He releases your hair, returning to grip your hips, pounding into your puffy, swollen cunt, allowing you to flop forward into the bedding, head down ass up as the shockwaves of his thrusts pass through you, dumb moans babbling softly from your mouth, muffled by the soft but damp fur of your bed.

His thrusts turn sloppy, hips grinding against you as his breathing stutters, cum spurting from his tip, continuing to fill you up over and over, panting heavily, sweat glistening on tan skin. “Fuck,” he pants breathlessly, “you still there?” He asks, pulling back a little.

A muffled whimper floats up to him, and he sighs contentedly, gaze dropping to the smooth curve of your spine. He gathers his energy, body curving over yours as he roughly pushes his hips back to your own, tight to flushed skin and you cry out weakly. His hand presses across your abdomen, the other curving round your throat, pulling you from the bedding. Tears have dampened your gleaming cheeks, lips swollen from having teeth pulled over them and he grinds against you to spark a reaction. You sob weakly, body trembling beneath his as the pleasure continues to overwhelm you.

Rhysand pulls back, broad palm splaying across the slope of your spine, keeping you pinned down as he rolls his hips firmly to yours, making sure his release is being kept nice and deep. “Want another one?” He asks lowly, and you shudder, sobbing softly with exhaustion, shaking your head numbly, tears long since dampened the fur beneath you. “No?” He smiles faintly, reaching between your legs, “can’t take it?”

He swipes across your clit, and you can’t even muster the energy to jolt away, forced to take the sharp beats of pleasure as he gently oscillates his finger. You babble mindlessly, and his lips curve, pleasure gleaming in his gaze. “I thought you liked it,” he taunts quietly, “thought you loved being a toy for my cock. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Shame crawls across your skin and you try to weakly squirm away, but it just has him touching more spots inside of you, a fresh wave of tears saturating the bedding. He laughs lowly, his arm banding beneath your front to pull you up against his chest. “Want me to stop?” He taunts softly, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t know if you don’t tell me.”

You scramble for words, struggling to function. “I don’t… Can’t,” you manage weakly, body trembling from pleasure.

He drops a kiss to your hair, and relief has your muscles utterly giving out, turning soft and pliable beneath his touch.

“Good girl,” he soothes, hips dragging back from your dripping cunt, pulling out until it’s just his tip inside.

“But when have I ever listened to you?” He muses, pushing you back into the pallet, muffling your cries.

Silencing your pleas.

Aftercare fic

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[alessandro55]

How the West was Worn

Holly George- Warren and Michelle Freedman

Introduction by James H.Nottage, Foreword byMarty Stuart

Abrams, New York 2001, 240 pages, 23,5x30,5cm, ISBN 0-8109-0615-5

euro 180,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

To accompany an exhibition at the Autry Museum of Western Heritage, chief curator James Nottage briefly reviews the evolution of clothing that people actually wore in frontier America. Then a team of popular culture historians trace the versions that have appeared in movies, television, and concert stage throughout the 20th century

26/06/24

[toskarin]

just because I'm thinking about it, here's one of those periodic posts where I list off a few random youtube channel recommendations I've been enjoying lately (or have been enjoying long-term (or for any length of time really))

Masaru. - I like fishing. but I can't do it at the moment. Masaru also likes to fish. he free dives, he brings a fish up, he cooks the fish, then he says how it tastes. sometimes it is an unusual fish. sometimes it tastes good. sometimes it tastes wretched. he will tell you. this singlehandedly solves basically every single complaint I have with most cooking/fishing channels. this is cocomelon to me

MIQ(MIO) - it's MIQ! one of the strongest anison vocalists of... well, basically ever. it's her official channel! she uploads concert recordings, karaoke advice for her own songs, and general updates on what she's doing here. I'm always aghast when I see how low her viewcounts are, given that she's an industry legend who's been going strong for over 40 years.

bellykelly - vinyl collector, uploading some really good cuts that you'd be hard-pressed to find anywhere else. one of those channels where I'm always up to date on uploads, and when I fall behind, I just playlist it all to catch up

Xerxes Vinyl Classics - vinyl collector, hasn't upload in a while, but has lots of older releases and remix pressings that are otherwise pretty rare. has some of the higher quality recordings of cantopop releases that are otherwise a little difficult to listen to in acceptable quality

Zuka Zhvania - music-enjoyer and song-uploader with a VERY frequent upload schedule. he's (as far as I know) not an official promoter or anything, but he's pretty damned good at keeping the tunes coming. if you're looking for someone to set you on some obscure industrial and house cuts, check out this channel

LIVING ONLY RECORDS - official channel for a doujin label with some absolutely fantastic noise rock, punk, and shoegaze bands on it. it's my understanding that this is less of "a record label" and more of a way for 群青リボン and friends to book out live houses together while selling merch at one table. which is a pretty noble cause

Someone45356 - probably laying pretty safe claim to the title of "most genre-firsts in the touhou doujin scene," Someone45356 is a strong recommend just for the level of care they put into their arrangements. I love their video thumbnails and their arrangement notes in the video description. a great channel at any level of musical interest (but an ESPECIALLY good channel if you're also a musician)

UPROAR24 - sick and tired of plguin and samplepack demo videos that are 75% ad copy by volume and still don't manage to show you the stupid thing in action? tired of looking at questionably-useful free vsts and not being able to tell whether you're even comfortable having that rubbish on your pc? UPROAR24 runs a channel that's pretty explicitly a reaction to this, making dodgy demos of dodgier plugins. works lovely as a catalogue to browse when you're looking for a new toy

USUDA - the pillar of the Armored Core fan community, USUDA has arranged more Armored Core music than anyone else short of actual FromSoft staff. he also releases his music for free download, including his midi arrangements. very friendly guy in all the interactions I've seen, and also pretty good at remembering people he's seen in other comment sections. I'd honestly shoot him a message first if I had any questions about arranging songs from these games lol

Ricardo Cruz - if you've listened to any portugese (br) covers of anison, you've heard Ricardo Cruz. even if you only listen to originals, there's still a pretty fucking solid chance you've heard him, because he's a JAM Project contributor. absolutely wonderful channel if you like watching skilful singers duet with other powerhouses

Saint Mauve - the best Hellsinker channel on youtube, which isn't an especially competitive title. but I think Saint Mauve would probably still be the best Hellsinker channel on youtube even if there were more than like three. my qualifier for when I've found something weird in the Hellsinker periphery is when I haven't seen Saint Mauve post about it. also plays other (often HS-adjacent) doujin stg and has good opinions on them

Tom Green - this is a weird recommendation but if you don't intuitively understand the appeal of a now-early-50s Tom Green calmly talking about his farm animals and riding around on a horse for hours at a time, I'm really not sure I can sell you on it. oddly calming

mercurytower - this channel is run by Asa, the musician behind Souvenirs to Forget. before they started releasing their original work, this was mostly used to upload guitar covers (which are good, but guitar covers aren't really enough to make me give a glowing recommendation of a channel). Souvenirs to Forget is a really exciting solo project and one I'm personally keeping an eye on. naturally, they upload their releases to this channel

Trance Classics - vinyl collector, records videos to go with the music, focuses more or less entirely on trance. I've got no excuse here. I just fucking love trance and always have, so you can pander to me really easily by just making a channel like this. if you like trance, it has hours and hours of trance

SJ HanStone Lee - the early-gen Mabinogi composer, among a lot of other things. it's been a while since he's posted anything new on this channel, but I check in every now and again. by my reckoning, one of the best mmo composers (and honestly one of the best game composers in general) of the past two decades. there's some stuff on here and his soundcloud that serves as wink-wink-nudge-nudge loveletters to his time working on the early Mabinogi soundtrack

[gogandmagog]

Reflecting today on the simplicity of the name ‘Ingleside’ for a house, compared to a good many other homes-with-names in Maud’s catalogue. Ingleside, together with the Disappointed House and the House of Dreams, are rare examples of the very special Montgomery houses… in that are actually given names by the characters in her books, as most houses that we meet in the series have already had their names decided, long ago.  In Anne of Ingleside, Anne says:  “We [she and Gilbert] had quite a time deciding on a name. We tried out several but they didn't seem to belong. But when we thought of Ingleside we knew it was the right one.”   Justaposing this against the importance of names and homes to Lucy Maud, Ingleside seems so schematic. Even if you double-up this thought with how choosy Anne is about places and their names.

Ingleside. Ingleside.

Ingle.

Side.

So then I thought I’d google what an Ingle is, or what it means:

And like... a ha.

And like, if it weren’t for the fact that Ingle is a even a Scottish word (Maud was very proud of her Scottish heritage, and very pleased to marry a Scottish man too, not even mentioning all the Scotchy surnames for her characters in all her books), I might’ve brushed this off as stretching. But now when I look at the word Ingleside, or DOMESTIC FIREside, I think of this name as a preservation or sequel of the name House of Dreams, because it points to the fruition and continuation of that dream that Gilbert had and the castle-in-air that Anne always inexplicably saw Gilbert in, despite herself, back in Anne of Avonlea. “I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it...” 

Gilbert’s final proposal, Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

Fascicule #50 is still available! 

50 fifteenth & sixteenth century books : arcane, sacred, sublime & practical. Please email me for a printed copy                     Jamesgray2@me.com Many of these books were on display at the Toronto Antiquarian Book show and the Boston Antiquarian Book Show, in October. TO see it before the printed copy arrives follow this link Fascicule #50 will soon be in the…