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squirrel-moose-winchester · 6 years

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All I Want for Christmas is You

Title: All I Want for Christmas is You

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1212

Warning: Fluff and implied smut at the end.

A/N: This is my submission to Kari (@thing-you-do-with-that-thing) and Ida’s (@like-a-bag-of-potatoes) 12 Days of Christmas Challenge. This was definitely a challenge. My original idea was to do a series, and I got half way through the prompt list (each chapter 1000 – 3000 words long), and decided to ditch them all and start all over. I just wasn’t feeling it. Talk about writer’s problems! But I hope you guys like it! Prompt: December 14th - Christmas Music

12 Day of Christmas Masterlist

Disclaimer: Gif below does not belong to me.

The guys had just left for a hunt leaving you all by you lonesome in the bunker, free of stupid boys and free to do whatever you please, which included walking around in your underwear and blasting Christmas music throughout the living quarters.

Looking for something comfortable to wear, you pranced off to Sam’s room in search for your favorite flannel, which happened to belong to him. You weren’t sure why it was your favorite, but it was. You quickly found the gray and black flannel, slipping it over your head, the bottom hem reaching a couple of inches above your knees.

Running through the hall you snagged your iPhone and connected to the stereo. With a press of a button, the entire bunker was filled with the first Christmas song on your playlist – Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt.

Singing along you swayed you’re hips dramatically to the song. Your motions were wide and a little promiscuous, but you didn’t care. You were going to dance however you wanted. No one was there to stop you judge you.

“Think of all the fun I’ve missed, Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed, Next year I could be also good, If you’ll just check off my Christmas list,”

By the end of the song, your hair had become a mess from running your fingers through them while you danced. Not caring about what you looked like.

Jingle Bell Rock came out and you shouted in glee. Once again, singing along at the top of your lungs.

“Snowing and blowing, Up bushels of fun, Now the jingle hop has begun…”

Every bump in the song you snapped you hips, popped your chest outwards, bounced your ass, and did random dance moves with other parts of your body. Your hair fanned through the air with every turn. You loved being home alone!

“What a bright time, It’s the right time, To rock the night away, Jingle bell time, Is a swell time, To go gliding in a one horse sleigh…”

You shimmied your butt as if you were riding on a horse, placing your hands out, side by side, in front of you. You were having the most fun ever.

The next song on your playlist was Mariah Carey’s, All I Want for Christmas is You. Out of pure joy, you jumped onto the table in the library, gripping your hand in a fist as if you were holding a microphone waiting for the cue to start.

“I… don’t want a lot for Christmas… there is just one thing I need, I don’t care about the presents, Underneath the Christmas tree…”

You had one leg bent and the other straight as you leaned all your weight onto it, your hair draping over your shoulders as you held the invisible mic to your lips as you sang in falsetto. At that moment you felt like a rock star about to kick off her set for the night.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know, make my wish come true… All I want for Christmas is you…”

The music had completely consumed you, as you danced and sang shaking your butt when the music suddenly stopped. You whipped around to see what had happened only to be greeted with an overly amused Sam Winchester. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest with a smug smirk on his lips, his eyes trailing up and down you partially clothed body.

“Sam!” You screamed in surprise. “I thought you were out with Dean on a hunt?!”

“Dean said he could take care of it alone. I went out to get us some dinner,” his eyes glued to your body. “Is that my shirt?” He questioned.

“S-sorry!” You stuttered, climbing off of the table and composing yourself as best you could, straightening your hair with your fingers. “Sorry Sam, I’ll wash it for you and everything,” you stammered, pulling the fabric lower to cover as much of your modesty as you could.

Sam let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine. It actually looks really good on you. I have never noticed how big my clothes were on you.”

“Well, have you seen you? Compared to me, you’re a giant. You could probably lift me with one arm,” you rolled your eyes, remembering how much you hated your height.

“You know, I probably could,” Sam agreed, eliminating the space between you slowly. Your breath hitched in your throat with surprise. Sam was being extremely forward, and as much as you liked it, it was really out of his character. You had never seen this side to Sam before. You could only imagine that it existed, but now you were witnessing it first hand… and you’re definitely not complaining. Okay, maybe you wished you could have known about this Sam earlier in all the years you’ve known him.

You gulped when you found yourself pressed between the table and his firm chest. Your face heated up quickly, completely flushed from the new position. You could feel every crevice of his solid and defined muscles.

“Sam,” you breathed, “what’s gotten into you?” Your voice was shaky and barely a whisper. To Sam it sounded as if you were trying to seduce him, and it was working.

A second later you were hulled onto the table, Sam perched between your thighs, his breath fanning the nape of your neck. In a moment of weakness, you moaned into his ear unintentionally, one hand keeping you propped up on the table and the other pressed flat against his taught chest.

Along with the song, Sam mimicked the lyrics altering his words so that it could fit what he was trying to say.

“I’m gonna make you wish come true (Make my wish come true), all I want for Christmas is you.”

A chill ran through your body, goosebumps spreading across your skin like wildfire. You were becoming uncomfortably aroused, your mind getting hazy with Sam’s presence. The both of you just stared at each other, allowing your hungry eyes to soak in the intoxicating image in front of them.

“Cause I just want you here tonight,” you started to sing along. “Holding on to me so tight, what more can I do? Oh, baby all I want for Christmas is you…” you sang, yanking him by the lappets of his flannel and dragging him down to lock lips with yours.

The kiss was urgent, his hands gripping your bare thighs roughly while your arms wrapped around his neck, hands tangled in his soft brown locks. You reluctantly pulled away just in time to sing the last verse of the song, which happened to be exactly what you wanted.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know, make my wish come true, Sammy all I want for Christmas is you. All I want for Christmas is you, baby.”

Once the song was over and the next tune began, Sam had scooped you up into his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist as he maneuvered the both of you into his room to give you exactly what you wanted and more.

All he wanted for Christmas was you too.

Feedback Is Appreciated!

#Kari and Ida's 12 Days of Christmas Challenge #sam winchester #Sam Winchester x Reader #christmas music #sam x reader #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #a very supernatural christmas #spn #supernatural #sam fanfic #spn christmas fanfic #12 days of christmas #supernatural 12 days of christmas #all i want for christmas is you #squirrel-moose-winchester

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gurguliare · 7 years

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stephen black, C!

prompt: “a moment’s respite”

On one occasion the gentleman took him on a quest. Stephen was never told what the gentleman sought and, because it was early in the term of his enchantment, he made a solitary game of not asking. He had already almost exhausted the power of flattering professions of interest; he had apologized for his stupidity too often to hope it might prompt a clear answer. Apologies inspired the fairy in other ways. More than any thing else in the world, it moved the gentleman to learn he had been wronged.

Stephen did not need to be told that the quest was of that consuming character which besets great men (and great ladies) when they can least afford to be consumed. On the eve of a fashionable party, or the morning of a speech to Parliament, a lost button, a fol-de-lol, becomes the Grail which Arthur lost. The drollness in this furor is rarely evident to Sir Such-and-Such or his servants. It was a new sensation, therefore, to be amused by that familiar posture: the silver head bent low, the hands open and closed, the bright eyes fixed on an invisible trail, which led the stumbling feet toward treasure. At first Stephen hardly noticed he felt any such thing. Then, when he did notice, he was distressed; for six months the strongest sentiment which laughing children, pleasant weather, and friends’ praise had compelled in him was regret that he could not go away and sit where all sunshine would pass him by—regret that if he hid his face, the darkness too would dazzle him. And yet his captor wandered Lost-hope’s rainy wood like an Englishman, and Stephen felt an ordinary tremor of good cheer, mixed with a little scorn, as though the gentleman had yet to do him any injury; or as though the hurts he dealt Stephen could never signify.

Thereafter Stephen did his best to subdue fits of lightheartedness. The reader will judge for him whether the gentleman cut a less or more glorious figure than a mortal would, on an identical errand. The gentleman’s properties were magnificent and extensive—but this may not be counted an advantage, when the article sought is very small. The gentleman looked, not behind bookshelves and under wardrobes, but behind the rain, and under the bones of the earth. Rather than perusing his memory by the traditional methods of tapping his temple, pulling his hair, and complaining to sympathetic onlookers that his study had been disturbed, the gentleman performed a very ancient magic to place himself and Stephen in the world of his own recollection.

He retraced his steps through prior decades, which—it appeared—had not ended, but had been sealed off to the public. Throughout he was very silent; at intervals he shrieked. When he addressed Stephen in English, the words proceeded as if accidentally from his mouth, so that Stephen had the distinct impression that a birch tree or nearby candlestick had joined its king in exhorting him. “Keep a sharp eye about you, Stephen!” (At this the gentleman made a repetitive, scraping gesture, as though to hone a man’s eye on a whetstone shaped for the purpose.) “Do you not find eye-lids a very cumbersome detail?”

I have said that the gentleman turned his attention, not merely to places he had visited, but to times. For Stephen it was all one: he could not distinguish between the Sahara of this century and the desert which so disobliged our Lord. The fairy lands the gentleman toured were if possible more enigmatic. Some were inhabited entirely by men and women dressed after the fashion of ancient Picts—but, then, some always were.

In England it was different. Stephen recognized peculiar boxlike headdress preferred of Tudor women, though the lappets in the engravings were neither so beautiful nor so apt to fly up in strong wind. A dizzy half-step through a stone archway, with the gentleman’s hand propelling him, and on the other side Stephen’s ears were filled with the curious, up-tilted English of Richard of Bordeaux’s London.

It would be misleading, however, to suggest that Stephen got his bearings in that hour through the exercise of Reason. The truth was that he always knew when it was England. The vistas of the past did not overwhelm him with homely English spirit, discernable, perhaps, in the dull colors of the stones. A woad-bedecked Celt is as colorful an occurrence as an Easter Island warrior. Stephen had spent almost all his life on English soil, but what he felt from England’s past was formal acknowledgment, as though the land would turn on its side, just as soon as it freed itself from its preoccupation—would turn and ask directly, Who are you?

But by means of these sojourns to England, Stephen concluded that the gentleman had begun very far back in time—had jumped forward to the recent past—and had continued in that serpentine way toward an unknown center. There might have been some pattern to his peregrinations through space, as well; perhaps he was circumnavigating the globe, although Stephen doubted whether, in doing so, one could cross Faerie and Hell.

He was beginning to wonder whether they might be lost. Or if they were not, what about the gentleman’s prize? Perhaps it had been swallowed by a sort of Time-monster, who had fled back to Eternity with a bloated gut. The gentleman would pursue it for ever, and Stephen would either go with him or be marooned in a time still less congenial to him than his own. At no. 9 Harley-street the country servants would go to war with the London maids and the butter would remain uncovered until it spoiled in the dish. Stephen could not muster the regret and indignation he considered due to either prospect, but he was sorry to think Lady Pole would tell her fairy-stories without anyone to hear the words she meant.

In the midst of these and other sad reflections, he paid less and less heed to the gentleman’s interrogation of a statue of the Buddha. Nor did he remark when the gentleman had conceded defeat and, raising two hands, waved aside the grey sky, firs, and mountainside.

Now it was night. A great, clear night, in which the slurring of the ocean seemed to climb from below one’s feet, so one stood on a carpet of sound, rolling away to the foot of the sky. An army had made camp on the beach. At first Stephen presumed these were ancient Danes, judging from the very fair heads and immense furs, to say nothing of the long-necked suggestion of ships on the water. On approaching the camp’s perimeter, however, they were met by a woman whose brows swept to her hairline, such that her forehead seemed fringed at the temples with dark fur. Further dark streaks tapered to nothing in her fair hair, like the streaks in blond wood. What Stephen had taken for a black bearskin, sewn with beads of jet, was not a cape but a number of ravens, who shook themselves and glared when the lady undertook to shrug.

Then he knew the camp for a fairy host. But he could not fathom it, because they were in England. The stars shivered like dew and the lateness of the hour meant the constellations themselves were, to a Londoner’s eye, strangely disordered; and it was England. Of course, England had shewn herself not inhospitable to fairies. But he had never seen so many gathered all together, outside the brugh. They were as tall and handsome as any of the guests who frequented the gentleman’s balls—which, Stephen had learned, not every fairy was. But he had never met a fairy of stature who could stand to resemble his neighbor. These soldiers wore much the same armor, much the same woollen cloaks, and they shared between themselves a monstrous throng of ravens.

Theyalso regarded the gentlemen with barely-concealed enjoyment. None bowed, though they parted for him. They were not perturbed by his splendid hair or the smart cut of his coat. Indeed the leaf-green coat was changed, in the light of their fires; the silver embroidery flashed and glowed gold, and the green velvet accepted the warm bloom of the fire, as though year’s end crept suddenly over a fair young wood.

Stephen had rarely had cause to give thanks for the numbness brought on by enchantment. Now he was aware that his indifferent calm masked a desperate anxiety, which, however, he regarded with more pity than concern. To slow the wildly beating heart of the thing that coiled inside him, Stephen craned his head to look back at the ocean, that loomed like a black wall behind the escort’s pale faces. Something troubled him about the movement of the ships: they rose and fell energetically, but not in time to the waves—or not only with the waves.

When the gentleman came to the tall, rude tent at the center of the encampment, he advised Stephen to wait for him. His tone brooked no dissent and Stephen found himself sitting on a log. The fairies had built their fires with driftwood, and parts of the flame were lavender or blue-green, as though it had stolen some of the colour from the gentleman’s coat (and other accessories; Stephen was sure he saw heartache among the tangled hues). He drew in his shoulders. Trained to disappear in a well-appointed drawing room, he did the best he could with sand and smoke.

The scout who had greeted him emerged from the tent. She walked straight by him like a child entrusted with a task of some import. Stephen followed her with his eyes, and therefore noted that she moved as through a solid labyrinth, not a crowd. She turned corners sharply. Many times he lost track of her. He was badly frightened when she reappeared in front of him.

Closer to, her hickory-blond hair was less a match for the gentleman’s. Heavy but too abundant to fall straight, it held its tidy curves like a gargoyle’s spew. When she bowed low, it slipped out of her collar and drifted down around her ears. She shook it from her face in mute agitation. Rising again, she said a word in a fairy language, which sounded like the fire.

Heart sinking, Stephen replied, “I beg your pardon. I have not had the pleasure—that is, I find—”

The fairy spoke to a raven on her shoulder. It took flight. Stephen told himself he wished the gentleman were there, to translate or intercede, but he did not; he only wished he could understand. The fairy turned to the pot on the fire, which she removed the lid from. She sniffed the steam, produced a ladle, and ladled some of the cauldron’s contents into a wooden bowl.

Stephen felt exceedingly the unlikeliness of escape. He recalled a formula the gentleman had taught him. “Oh, I am too full to eat, too sick with grief to drink…” She pushed the bowl into his grip and stood above him, smiling. There was no charity in her face; if he had had to name the feeling it betrayed in her, he would have said it held a trace of nervousness. But he could not believe that to be true and so he could not find the word for it. All the ravens had opened one eye.

He considered the bowl, which held cider. Under his scrutiny, the lump of butter shrank, in its lacy setting of foam. Stephen thought it unwise to drink—could one be twice-enchanted?—but he dared to breathe deeply of the steam[1].

“Stephen.”

The gentleman had a hand on his chin. The camp was silent. The gentleman’s fingers were cool. Having finished with history, he seemed to search Stephen’s damp face for the trifle he had lost.

[1] If Stephen had had a magical education, he would have known that the tokens by which a Christian may accept a fairy’s gift are various. As it was, he did not think he had fallen asleep. The fairy departed. He sat very straight on the log, to dispel drowsiness. The camp, around him, made to settle into sleep, fairies stealing into tents or flinging themselves on the soft gray sand; when they were all abed, his mother came to him. He did not know her and she, almost his age, regarded him with mild chagrin before setting a hand on his shoulder. He never remembered it, not even as a king, but I may as well tell you that she said one word to him. Not his name, of course—the country of dreams is contiguous with neither Heaven nor Hell[2]—but a word he was glad to have of her, as he would have been of any word. Also she stooped and kissed the top of his head.

[2] Scholars are all agreed on which nations are not Dream’s neighbors. Otherwise they achieve no consensus, except to say that it borders the sea.

#Anonymous #no one expects the fannish inquisition #very late meme responses #jonathan strange and mr norrell #jsmn

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tagamark · 5 years

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Nature’s cleaning crew

New Post has been published on https://tagasafarisafrica.com/natures-cleaning-crew/

Nature’s cleaning crew

“When vultures, watching your civilization, begin dropping dead, it is time to pause and wonder” – David Brower, environmentalist and founder of Friends of the Earth.

Vultures get a bad rap from many people, yet these much-maligned birds have evolved to fill a crucial role in the ecosystem. We’ve had a long and hot dry season here at Mashatu Game Reserve and as the season draws to an end, the older and weaker animals don’t always make it.

It does not take long for the bodies of these animals to start to decompose but thanks to vultures, jackals and hyenas the carcasses disappear within no time, eliminating the risk of disease outbreak.

Recently an old female impala took her last breath at the waterhole at the PhotoMasahtu hide. We found the carcass in the morning and by the time we returned for the afternoon session there was already a group of white-backed vultures enjoying the free meal on offer. Before long they were joined by a lappet-faced vulture, the “king of vultures” with its mighty bill, perfectly suited for tearing the skin.

There’s an interspecies hierarchy that exists between the various species of vultures. Top of the pile is the powerful Lappet-faced vulture, the only species able to eat the tough remains such as the skin, tendon, hair and ligaments.

The frenetic white backed vultures tackle the softer flesh and organs using their specialized grooved tongues with sharp serrations. With this much competition, they need to get their share and move out as quickly as possible. It’s a dangerous business as they risk getting trapped inside a carcass and being eaten. To aid them they’re able to fill their crop up to 1 kg in 2-5 minutes.

The hooded vulture’s meal of choice is the softer organs like the eyes and intestines. Being low down in the pecking order it will hang around the edge of the feast, snapping up at any scraps that make it their way. Once all the others have had their fill they use their specially adapted small bills to probe into the remaining crevices to clean up the last bits.

With each species adapted to feed on a different part of the carcass, there is little open hostility at a food-source. But this particular party received some unwelcome guests – two black backed jackals. The vultures put up a good fight; flying and diving valiantly at the gatecrashers trying to chase them off. The jackals managed to create a sufficient clearing to get in and have a quick bite before leaving and taking a snack with them.

Just when we thought we’d seen all the action some elephants arrived on the scene. They took great exception to the presence of the vultures and ran at them trying to chase them off. One matriarch was so incensed she even trampled on the carcass spreading it around. The vultures simply moved off a safe distance and came straight back after the elephants left.

When we returned the following morning there was no sight of the remains of the poor impala, a good clean up job by the vultures and jackals indeed.

Text and Images by Janet Kleyn.

Post courtesy of Mashatu Game Reserve

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vdbstore-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Vintage Designer Handbags Online | Vintage Preowned Chanel Luxury Designer Brands Bags & Accessories

New Post has been published on http://vintagedesignerhandbagsonline.com/the-unforgiving-trend-of-sheath-frocks-fashion-archive-26-sept-1924-fashion/

The unforgiving trend of sheath frocks – fashion archive, 26 Sept 1924 | Fashion

FLEET STREET, THURSDAY Views of the new fashion at some of the dress shows that are being held this week suggest that one solution to the problem “What shall we do with our boys?” is to have them trained, as in another aspect one might fear that if these fashions prevail the whole of the distributive trades which have to deal with nourishing foods will be up in arms at the menace to their fortunes. The plain fact is that the average girl, let alone the average woman, is not designed to wear the new sheath frocks. She may contrive to look well in them, thanks to the beauty of the material and her own good looks, but she would look infinitely better with, say, an extra six to twelve spare inches, and if she does not get them the aesthetic sense of the public will certainly send out an S.O.S.

Of course there are girls like hazel wands, “tall and straight and slender,” who can afford the sheath frock or sheath coat provided they carry themselves like hazel wands and do not adopt the undulating walk of those mannequins who balance their heads back at an angle of 33 degrees from their tripping feet. There is, one feels, an element of unkindness about the dress shows where comfortably proportioned women, young and elderly, sit in rows and gaze at the frocks worn by some sylph far too slim and good for human nature’s daily food, and imagine themselves wearing those frocks with just that effect. A sense of tragedy broods above them. The disinterested spectator longs to cry, “Have a care. Trust her not. She is fooling thee.”

Opera singer Yvonne D’Arle, wearing a light sleeveless beaded sheath dress with jeweled sequin diadem, 1926. Photograph: Florence Vandamm/Condé Nast via Getty Images

A WAY OF ESCAPE. There are ways of avoiding the too sheath-like look. One dressmaker may favour side panels. Mme Suzanne, who had a dress show at the Carlton Hotel to-day, has a fancy for slitting the long tunic or overskirt in two or in several places to a depth of twelve to eighteen inches from the hem. This was done very decoratively with an evening frock of cyclamen pink georgette. The skirt was slit to form wide lappets all round the hem and each lappet was fluffy with ostrich feathers and roses. The neck was rounded and an ostrich feather drooped from a gold bandeau to meet the ostrich tip and pink rose placed on one shoulder.

A smart black and white frock was made with a long tight tunic of black satin opening down the front over a dress of white georgette. The wide white sleeves were trimmed with broad bands of black satin half-covered with pointed ends of kingfisher blue velvet, and there were touches of the same colour at the waist. Nearly all the day and evening frocks and costumes were short and sleeves were long and very tight, sometimes ending in wide cuffs. Some of the coat frocks had high collars, some were cut high to the throat and finished with a narrow ruching or inch-high band – this was by no means attractive, – while others had low-cut rounded necks finished with a scarf collar.

One of the most original was of fine black cloth piped with dark orange. The crossover bodice and the very narrow scarf collar were edged with orange. This model was cut rather low at the neck. Another of dark blue had a flared skirt, opening in front and at one side over a black satin skirt. The end of the scarf collar was embroidered in colours. A black afternoon frock, worn by a mannequin whose fair hair was closely shingled, might just as well have been worn by a Bluecoat boy. It was a long tunic shape slashed to show gold tissue underneath. The handsomest of all the evening gowns was of rose pink chiffon velvet. Two straight panels at back and front were edged with a network of gold strewn with tiny roses. The velvet coat worn with this had a collar of ostrich feathers and a deep border of the rose-covered gold network. The skirt of an eau-de-Nil dance frock was trimmed with two rows of long silk tassels in several colours. urther reproduction prohibited without permission.

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#Fashion

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clothdesignbg · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

Elizabeth of York A GIRDLE. ka(j a elaborate for veils richly jewelled on the border and organized to kind a hood and fall down both aspect of the face, the hair being plainly parted on her brow. The image on the other web page exhibits her sporting ( a full robe of silk brocade, with a border of ermine adorning A POINTED SHOE. the hem of this and the sleeves, and placing in its look once more straight throughout the bodice and down the centre of the entrance. On her head hangs a stiff mitred head-dress, the inside rim being out-lined with jewels, and her pendent veil reaches practically to the waist.

Not being content material with the load of brocades and silks they needed to carry, the ladies burdened themselves with canes with handles bearing the picture of a fowl. They carried followers, too, and picked up from Spain perfumed gloves made of child or silk, with the backs embroidered in gold or silver ; the glove, nevertheless, was punctiliously eliminated when the hand was given in greeting.

France exhibited a pleasant sense of color, and the preferred mixture was a veil of white tissue, a girdle of inexperienced wrought with gold, and a glimpse of violet under-skirt beneath a brocaded gown “ set off with black sneakers.”

The cote hardie was improved by being reduce open in a degree in entrance, with revers upon the shoulders, and a lappet of velvet or brocade was used to fill within the opening, and, turning again, revealed some delicate tissue of gauze and lace.

The noble girls of Germany affected

The noble girls of Germany affected a lot simplicity, adopting this perspective in distinction to that of the burghers’ wives and daughters. Their costume was slender in reduce, the close-fitting skirt widening because it reached the bottom. The bodices have been reduce low off the shoulders, laced in entrance, with tightly-fitting sleeves that buttoned the entire size, and have been completed by cuffs extending over the fingers. The over-dress had extensive sleeves and a protracted practice laced beneath the waist behind, the fulness held on the bust with a girdle. Mantles have been of a semicircular form, with a protracted practice fastening to the entrance with a buckle, or completed with a turnover collar held in place with ribbons on the shoulders. The shorter mantle often known as the “ tappert ” was open at both sides, and had a big upstanding collar and hood, and married ladies affected a round cloak gathered on the neck by a twine and falling in voluminous folds to the hem.

#York girdle

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nightsofia · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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biserapink · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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bookingbg · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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myworldbg · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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meandrose · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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gogmstuff · 2 years

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Fashions from the turn of the 17th to 18th century (from top to bottom):

Princess Charlotte Christina Sophia by ? (State Vladimir-Suzdal Museum-Reserve - Vladimir, Vladimir Oblast, Russia). From vk.com/wall-52196838?q=Брауншвейг&z=photo-52196838_380115441%2Falbum-52196838_220373065 1688X2034 @144 3.4Mp. She is wearing a high cleft coiffure and ripon curls over the eyebrows that are a trademark of late Louis XIV style.

1700 Elegant lady, aged 25, together with a young boy and a spaniel by French school (Sotheby's - 8April2020 auction Lot 67). Removed extensive spotting with Photoshop 1546X2000 @300 956kj.

1710 Teresa Woroniecka, née Rydzyńska, Polish noblewoman by ? (location ?). From tumblr.com/blog/view/sketches-a-la-mode 1517X2048 @72 1.2Mj.

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polygraphlife · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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thefishbread · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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nightbulgaria · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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tasteoftravel · 7 years

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York girdle

Elizabeth of York a girdle

The noble girls of Germany affected

#York girdle

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