hand woven fabrics

the queen’s affairs (t’challa x reader smut) 1/3

T’challa and his queen have a day off, and decide to spend it having a bit of fun.

Word Count: 1347

Request: Can I have a multi chap fix with T’challa and his queen? Can the first be smut, basically what they do when they’re not tending to their royal duties? And I read in another fic that he likes lingerie lol // @macfizzle

Warnings: oral sex (female receiving)

A/N: i haven’t written smut in like 731095283 years and i’m rusty so this is just oral and some kissing i’m sorry and i rly hope you like it (maybe come back in like a month or two and i’ll be more used to writing smut i s2g)


Your name: submit What is this?

It was, for the first time in a long time, a relatively quiet day in the Wakandan palace.

You and your husband T'challa had been lounging around your bedroom all day. You had both been surprised to find out that there was nothing on the agenda for the day, and you intended to make the best of your time off — and by ‘make the best of it’, you both meant sitting around and eating copious amounts of cereal.

The two of you were propped up, sitting against the headboard of your bed. You were wearing nothing but a loose old flannel of T’challa’s and your underwear, and he was in boxers and a tight black t-shirt. Considering the warmth of the summer months, neither of you were under the covers, and you were enjoying your time by watching some random game show on the television. A man had just lost a chance to win a car when you were oh-so graciously distracted by T’challa.

“Y/N…” he spoke, his voice doing the thing: that one thing where he most definitely wanted something from you, and you would end up giving it to him more often than not. The tone of his voice would go all gravelly and husky, and your knees would tremble and you’d give in almost instantaneously.

“What is it, T'challa?” you asked, eyes not wandering from the TV screen. There was a feeling festering in your gut that what he wanted was going to require physical exertion. After almost two weeks of constantly running up and down and working, that was the last thing you needed.

“My queen, I’ve missed your affection in the past few days,” he murmured, suddenly much closer to your ear than you remembered. It took your entire will (and then some) to not shudder at the way his breath puffed against your sensitive skin.

You hummed softly under your breath and then collected your racing thoughts.

“T'challa, we’re supposed to be relaxing,” you said with a sigh, clutching the remote control in your trembling left hand. Your teeth dug into your lower lip, almost to the point of drawing blood as you tried to contain any more embarrassing sounds. You knew that he could sense your arousal and anticipation, but it was more fun if you at least tried not to give in sometimes.

But then, he pressed his lips against your jaw and said, “I’m relaxed. Are you not?” and you knew that you were absolutely done for.

You allowed a breathy moan to pass through your lips, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his skin on yours — and you couldn’t help but think, ‘God, I’ve missed this.’

“Shit, T’challa,” you hissed. Your grip on the TV remote weakened, and you let it slide from the previously tight hold you had on it. Your fingers went straight to the bedsheets, clenching them between your fingers as if life depended on it. He chuckled against the soft skin of your neck and knew that he had you.

He took your hand in his own and tugged gently, and you knew what to do.

Wordlessly, you shifted over and straddled him, your chest pressing up against his own.

“Hello there, my love,” he said with a cheeky grin, eyes crinkling at the corners from his smile.

Rolling your eyes at his childish behaviour, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his.

If there was one thing about T’challa that you could never get enough of, it would be his lips. They were oftentimes just barely chapped, but always full and soft. Everything about them drove you crazy — when he told you that he loved you, they’d curl up at the corners. When he spoke, watching them just captivated you. The way that they moved against yours made your entire body sing , and heat rush to the area between your legs.

The scent of his cologne (a strong, musky concoction of amber, pine, and sandalwood) pervaded your nose and overwhelmed your senses. Before you knew it, your arms were looped around his neck: fingers of one hand were woven in the fabric of his shirt, and the other hand planted firmly on the back of his neck to pull him closer to you.

He grunted quietly against your lips, his fingers already at work unbuttoning the loose flannel shirt you were wearing.

When all the buttons were undone, you pulled back to take a hearty breath and shrug the shirt off your shoulders. T’challa’s lust-glazed eyes drank in your disheveled form, and he smirked when he saw your remaining attire.


He’d always loved seeing you in lace, from the first time you two had been intimate. And so when he saw you in your red, lace-detailed panties and bra, he was more than excited.

“Oh god, yes,” he murmured, right hand going up to cup your breast. “God, you look good enough to eat, my love.”

You pressed your crotch down onto his, gasping in satisfaction from the contact.

“Fuck, T’challa,” you groaned, your hot breath mingling with his in the stale air. “Please, please, I need more.”

You weren’t sure exactly what you were asking for, but he seemed to understand what you were begging him for. With another smirk and a low chuckle, he wordlessly helped you onto your back in front of him, legs spread.

“Don’t worry, my queen,” he breathed, calloused fingertips trailing gently along your stomach. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Before you could even fathom a response, he had pushed aside your panties (not bothering to take them off) and dragged his tongue down your cunt.

“Fuck!” you hissed, instinctively bucking your hips upwards. One of his hands came up to press your waist down firmly, and the other gripped your thigh. You knew you’d have a fresh collection of bruises along your waist and legs to show for your activities the next morning.

You trembled under his touch. His tongue delved deeper into your slit, and it took all your willpower not to grind yourself against his mouth.

“A-ah, T’challa,” you breathily moaned, clenching the bedsheets with your shaking fingers. “Fuck, yeah. Right there , Jesus Chr—   yes!”

T’challa maneuvered his arm so that it pinned down your waist (not enough to hurt you, but enough to keep you from bucking up into his face).

Before you even knew what was happening, he used his free hand to slide two thick, warm fingers into your slick heat.

You let out a quiet gasp of “shit!” , his calloused digits pumping inside of you while his tongue relentlessly lapped at your your clit. His fingers were abusing your spot, pushing you closer and closer to your approaching release.

“T-T’challa, harder,” you uttered between loud moans, and he complied with nothing but a soft chuckle.

His fingers slammed into your g-spot, pressing hard and making the spring in your womb tighten with every second.

When his teeth grazed your clit, you fell apart. With a lengthy string of curses and moans, you trembled underneath your husband. Fingers still pumping in and out of out a leisurely pace, he fingered you through your intense orgasm while you shook beneath him in ecstasy.

As soon as you came down from your high, you giggled and sat up, nibbling your lower lip. T’challa was sucking your juices off of his fingers, a playful look in his eyes. You raised a questioning eyebrow but he shook his head, flopping back onto the pillows and opening his arms.

Laughing to yourself, you crawled forward and settled yourself in his arms. The TV still played in the background, long-forgotten.

“You can return the favour later, yeah?” he murmured bemusedly into your ear, causing you to giggle and nod.

“Of course, my king,” you murmured, smiling and burying your face into the crook of his neck. “What kind of queen would I be if I didn’t?”

T’challa chuckled at your response, strong arms hugging you closer to his chest.

After all, you did have the entire day off.

My Idol: Part Nineteen

My Idol
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

My Idol is a South Korean competitive reality dating game show. It currently airs on Wednesday nights on Jae-bummer’s blog. First broadcast in 2016, the show offers the opportunity for a lucky fan to go on seven blind dates with seven idols. The idol plans the date with the show throwing in specific missions to complete during the day. At the end of the initial dates, the show opens up an audience vote to decide what three idols will move on to the second date.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 -
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 -
Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20  - Part 21 - Part 22

Keep reading


Embroidered collage with hand woven fabric, over paper copy of a photograph. The photo, taken in 1909 by Corbit Studios, shows the Arcade Mall in Bridgeport, CT. There was a Singer sewing machine store, a barber, a dentist and many more businesses. Today, my art & weaving studio is located on the second floor of this mall, and my girlfriend’s studio is a screen printing/art studio called Paradox Ink.

Ruben Marroquin.

Kyo-Maiko by Narui Raisuke 1880s.  When Japan’s capital moved from Kyoto to Tokyo in 1869, Nishijin weaving seemed threatened with extinction. However, the introduction of the mechanized Jacquard loom in 1872, meant that inexpensive machine-woven fabrics could now be produced for everyday use. These new techniques enabled the continued production of the elaborate and luxurious hand-woven fabrics that are the purest expression of the Nishijin style, such as that worn by geiko (geisha) and maiko (apprentice geisha).  Text and image via Blue Ruin 1 on Flickr


Kyo-Maiko by Narui Raisuke 1880s (Front) by Blue Ruin 1

<br /><i>Via Flickr:</i>
<br />When Japan’s capital moved from Kyoto to Tokyo in 1869, Nishijin weaving seemed threatened with extinction. However, the introduction of the mechanised Jacquard loom in 1872, meant that inexpensive machine-woven fabrics could now be produced for everyday use. These new techniques enabled the continued production of the elaborate and luxurious hand-woven fabrics that are the purest expression of the Nishijin style, such as that worn by geiko (geisha) and maiko (apprentice geisha).

Fireman’s Coat Depicting Crane And Turtle (Hikeshi Sashiko Hanten).  1850-1900, Japan.  cotton, paste resist dyed, quilted. Mr. and Mrs. Richard Crane Fund, IMA

Coats worn by non-samurai firefighters were composed of at least three layers of coarsely hand-woven, indigo-dyed cotton fabrics that were stitched together. The heavy quilted coats were wetted down in order to protect the firefighters during fires.

A crane and a turtle are depicted in the interior (shown) of this coat. Their presence, according to a well-known proverb, signifies longevity: “The crane lives for thousand years and the turtle lives for ten thousand years.”  Text by IMA

Clouds Crowd The Night Sky

As I lay flat across a hardwood porch
An imaginary fire place warms my feet
While my mind sails past the non-existent moon

Crippled blossoms hang on for dear life
Nighttime creatures sneak past each other
Hand woven fabrications send me astray
Wandering from star-lit dock–to overcrowded bar–to home alone–to infinity and beyond

My feet scuffle across cold asphalt
Conspiring with each other to plan some great escape
The whiskey has started trying to explain complex things in simple ways
Whatever force is driving me day-after-day
I’m sure it’s up to no good

The trees look nervous
Shaking in their skin
Somewhere in the distance I hear sirens
Frozen tears fall from the sky
The gray squirrel is fast asleep
I sit drunk and dumbfounded
Wondering why my life seems so unnatural

A train derails and then explodes off the side of some mountain into outer space
Chimneys hack and wheeze through the night
A stove lights itself on fire
A skeleton falls asleep studying bones
A masochistic pen won’t stop weeping
A sad saxophone solo won’t shut the hell up

So you closed your eyes
So you lost your breath


outfit post <putting on the ritz>

valentine’s day is just around the corner, and what better time to pull out a festive ensemble? the dress i have on today is one that originally started out as an evening gown. by merely shortening the dress It has now resurfaced as cocktail attire. years ago, while living on Guam, my husband brought back a beautiful bolt of fabric he purchased for me from Thailand. the bodice is particularly beautiful, and is a traditional Thai hand woven fabric embroidered with gold. this is certainly a dress that has sentimental value to me so i was more than happy (and a little relieved it still fit) to wear this on my valentine date with my husband of 32 years. a cute faux fur, a few baubles, and a vintage clutch and i’m off to dinner. 

Happy Valentine’s Day - sending much love to each, and every one of you!

xxoo beth