#fabric talk quilt pattern

[leahstuff]

Working on a quilt for my sister’s birthday (which was in March 😅)

Fabrics: mix from my stash including Sarah Watts and Tula Pink

Pattern: Fabric Talk by JessicaQuilter

[intertexts]

i sgould get really into quiltin.g.

[midnightcarp]

and of course. i came out with much more fabric than i planned to get.

[werewolfcandy]

learning new things tonight in a satisfying way

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[parkerpeter24]

quiet temptations

pairing ➳ tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

word count ➳ 2.3k

warnings ➳ SMUT. characters are 18+ and MINORS DNI. this contains depictions of fingering, oral (m recieving). fluff, peter being sweet but also horny-

summary ➳ you’re awfully quiet but peter can’t seem to take that.

“is everything alright?” peter mumbled as he laid beside you. your back was to him, his arm wrapped around you, “you’re not talking.”

the bed you were laying on was warm, a thin blanket over the sheets because you got extra cold during the winters and a quilt that covered you and peter both. your fingers danced against the wall adjacent to the bed, feeling the cold plaster contrasting peter’s own fingertips that danced on your waist, under your sweatshirt.

“you gonna talk?” he placed a kiss on your hair that was loosely tucked behind your ear, making it fall over your eyes. chuckling when he heard you groan and push the lock of hair back in its original place, “so.. no?”

you sighed softly.

“that’s alright.” peter responded, feeling as if he was just talking to himself now, “we don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”

the sound of your hum was accompanied by peter’s hand gliding under your sweatshirt and caressing your stomach. he was careful, as if you were made up of glass, watching out for any signs of refusal on your face but your features looked solemn, unchanging.

he sighed, not being able to hold in his concern, “alright, just nod if everything is okay…”

he waited for you and surely you did nod after a few seconds, making peter’s worries dissipate.

“what’s gotten you so quiet?” he tried to get you to talk, his fingers taking a detour from trailing upwards, making contact with the elastic hem of your sweatpants– which originally belonged to him, “‘cause one way or another, i’m gonna hear that pretty voice.”

you felt your face heat up but peter still didn’t notice any change in your expression. if he couldn’t see the blinking of your eyes and sense changing breathing pattern, he’d have assumed you were asleep.

“at least tell me you want this.” he mumbled into your neck, pressing his lips against your exposed skin.

“yeah.” you mumbled and peter wasted no time in sliding his hand under the fabric of your lower, arm holding your body against him. you let out a soft breath as his fingers travelled lower. his middle finger slid your panties to the side before making contact with the skin. he pressed soft kisses to your neck before his nimble finger delved into your folds.

a leg pressed between both of yours, parting your thighs as he nestled a warm hand against your sex.

you let out a soft sound, clutching onto the quilt. his finger sank deeper until he found the earliest bit of your arousal and pulled it out, wanting to spread the wetness everywhere.

his finger travelled up to your clit, circling around it and you bit your lip when he fucked it back into you, knuckle deep. he groaned softly, loving the way your muscles almost clenched his finger.

he repeated his actions a few more times until you couldn’t hold back the soft needy moans that he beyond waited to hear. you felt his teeth sink into the skin of your neck before he sucked that spot, soothing the sting from the bite.

you moaned when he curled his finger, trying to search for a spot that would make your sounds louder. his finger dipped into you inch by inch every time, showing he was in no hurry.

peter’s arm was strongly keeping you pressed against himself as you started to arch your back. he could tell you were getting needy but he wished to hear something from you– even though he was loving the musical moans you were letting out.

he pressed his ring finger into the mix, adding it when he pumped them into you the next time. his face pressed further into your hair when you tried to get away. he could tell you needed more– you were writhing, trying to grind your hips into his already hard cock– but he kept going at the slowest pace he could. one brush of his fingers against your most intimate spot and your lips parted in a loud gasp.

you tried to arch your back which only led to peter’s arm pressing harder against your abdomen. his lips were pressed together, letting out soft hums which accompanied each one of your moans as if encouraging you.

he pulled out both his fingers, fucking in again and then back out and in again until it became a faster rhythm. squelching sounds filled the mostly silent room as his leg parted yours even further.

peter rolled his fingers into you continuously, the heel of his palm nudging against your clit which had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, “pete-” you gasped, “m-more.”

the desperation in your voice made peter grind into your ass. his fingers fucked you faster, holding your legs apart, curling them into you just right until you were jutting your hips, chasing your high.

“good girl.” peter mumbled, “keep it up, baby.”

his fingers moved continuously in and out of you. he could tell you were close with the way you clenched his fingers, however before the coil in your abdomen burst, his fingers pulled out of you, a soft wet sound following it– completely opposite to the loud whine that left your mouth.

“oh my god- why’d you stop?!”

“now you wanna talk?” he mumbled into your hair.

you felt your cheeks heating up further than they were. you hid your face into the pillow, but peter wasn’t letting that happen. he tugged at your chin with his free hand, “oh, baby. trust me, i want you to cum.”

you whined, biting your lip softly at his dirty words. you wondered if peter came prepared for this because no other day would you have expected such filthy words escaping his lips. he’d never done so before in all the times you two were intimate.

he turned you around gently, slowly pressing his forehead against yours as he brought up his fingers to his own lips, sucking them clean. he moaned at the taste as his tongue swirled around the digits, sending a wave of shivers up your spine and arousal to your core.

the second his fingers were released from between his soft, warm lips, your own pair replaced them, tasting remnants of yourself on his lips. you moaned softly, pressing your chest up against his.

“want you.” you breathed out heavily.

peter only shook his head, “not until you tell me what’s with the silence.”

“huh-” your brows pulled together in confusion, “you’re really not gonna-”

“first you tell me what happened.” he pecked your lips once, twice, and a few more times.

you sighed, pursing your lips as you tried to formulate what to say to him– or rather how.

when peter saw you struggle, opening your mouth and then closing it, he brushed a thumb against your cheek, “it’s okay, you should take your time.”

you nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand transfer to your cheek as your eyes met. his chocolate brown eyes swam with what you could identify as pure adoration.

“until then…” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss you.

soft at first, it escalated when he brushed his tongue past your lips, quickly finding yours in a slow yet passionate dance. peter pressed you against the mattress, handling the covers to stay over your bodies.

he wasted no time in moving his lips to your neck, hands going to hold your thighs apart as his thumb now brushed against your clothed thigh, kneading gently as his teeth nipped at your collarbone.

you gasped softly, letting him do as he pleased with you. as you held the back of his head with one hand, the soft, brunette sea of hair engulfed your fingers.

peter moved his hands to the hem of your sweatshirt, wasting no time in sliding it up past your chest, careful enough that you weren’t exposed to the coldness of the room. he dived under the quilt, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, the other being knead in the palm of his fingers.

you gasped as peter’s tongue flicked the bundle of nerves, your stomach flush against his torso.

you could feel his lips curl into a smirk before he switched, rolling your sensitive left nipple between his slender fingers as he licked and pulled the right one in his mouth.

you were getting fidgety, squirming under peter as he felt your grip tighten on his locks, not enough to hurt. he moaned against your skin, placing a few kisses right under your breast, moving lower, now seeming in a hurry.

“pete-” you almost pleaded, finding your voice breathy.

his hands travelled under the pair of sweatpants, making quick work of sliding them down as he traced your thighs, down to your knees before you felt the material slide off you.

you lifted the quilt slightly, just wanting to get a glimpse of peter. the few rays of light that touched him weren’t fast enough to warn you as his lips pressed to the wet patch over your panties. you gasped and threw your head back.

you felt peter’s hot breath and the muffled sound of his moan from under the blanket. he pushed your thighs apart, diving deeper as his nose pressed against your clit, the fabric thick enough to make you grit your teeth, wanting his lips and tongue on you.

maybe peter heard the clenching of your teeth or the way that your hand found home in the tufts of his hair again but he was eagerly pushing down the material past your legs throwing it down to the floor.

you felt peter’s forearms lift your thighs as he shuffled closer to your core, licking up a bold stripe across your folds. your back arched but peter’s grip was keeping you against him.

for a moment you heard him groan as he retracted, “what’s wrong?” you breathed out, supporting yourself up on your elbows.

you almost laughed when his hand creeped out from under the quilt, holding his fogged up glasses out for you to take. with a chuckle, you held the frame between your fingers, quickly placing them to the bedside table.

as you laid your back against the bed, peter was quick to wrap his lips around your clit. you let out a moan as he licked and sucked on the bundle of nerves.

he held onto your thighs, keeping you firm against his lips as he explored the very intimate part of you. his tongue darted out, poking at your entrance, but not giving you enough time to notice that as he slid the muscle deeper against your walls.

you moaned, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the lewdest sound you’ve ever made. the bridge of his nose poked against your clit and peter only pressed deeper as his tongue delved in and out of you. it seemed as if he would see no tomorrow if he stopped making out with your dripping hole.

you arched your back, “pete- oh god-”

you felt him hum against you, sending your jaw drop open as you finally felt the pleasure crash all over your body. your toes curled and eyes rolled to the back of your head. you could swear this was the hardest you’d ever come before as goosebumps covered your arms.

you let out a sigh as peter helped you ride out your high, keeping up his ministrations. finally stopping, he placed a soft kiss over your clit, sending your body flinching at the action.

when peter climbed out from under the blanket, surely he looked like he needed to clean up. his chin dripping with your arousal and forehead all sweaty from being so long under the warm quilt.

“you need to wash your face.” you chuckled, brushing back a few locks of hair that were sticking to his forehead.

“and you need to tell me what’s wrong.” he mumbled and you sat up, adjusting your sweatshirt back down.

“it’s nothing-”

“and don’t you dare say it’s nothing.” he sat up as well, beside you, wiping mouth with the sleeve of his shirt– that thing was going in the washing machine the second this conversation was over.

“it’s… just… exams and stuff. you know how anxious i get.” you sighed.

“i know… but you don’t have to! there’s still a week left before-”

“okay, that may seem like a long time but trust me, it’s not.” you looked up at him, meeting the brown eyes that held concern, “i’m sorry, i… i was just overwhelmed. didn’t feel like talking.” you almost pouted, making peter pull you against his chest as he hugged you. you in turn wrapped your arms around his waist.

“trust me, i know how stressful exams can be. but it’s nothing you haven’t been through before.” he placed a soft kiss against your hair, making you hug him even tighter, “you got this, beautiful.”

“yeah, yeah, yeah. easy for you to say.”

he chuckled, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you’re like, i don’t know, the smartest guy of our whole generation.” you mumbled against his shoulder.

peter shrugged at that comment, “hey, even i watch youtube videos for help sometimes.”

“yeah, but you grasp every concept so quickly, like you don’t even have to try.” you looked up at him, blinking when you realised how that must have sounded, “...that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“you’re adorable.” peter chuckled, “how about we study together? i’ll make a time table; and don’t worry, it’s not going to be super chaotic, just a simple time table; and we can figure it out together. how’s that sound?”

you smiled at him, feeling your heart swell at the amount of his care, “sounds perfect.”

his smile mirrored yours, “thanks for telling me.”

you gave him a grin.

“now since i told you, can we fuc-”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

masterlist

[dinosaur-ears]

I love people who craft and I love learning about other people's crafts because every single one is full of little things that non-practitioners wouldn't notice but others in the craft RAVE about.

Like, I'm a knitter, and before I started I couldn't tell a knit fabric from a crocheted one, and I mostly would appreciate pretty color choices and overall patterns. But now I drool over perfectly uniform stockinette or a good stretchy bind off, and don't even start me on neat floats on the back of fair isle!

Quilters will talk about the binding and stitch choice on a finished quilt, ceramics artists will gush over how a glaze turned out, embroiderers will sigh at perfectly smooth satin stitch, and a woodworker can spot a good join from a mile away.

There is so much more beauty and artistry in the world than we can see on our own.

[ladythornofrivia]

Lady with Teal Eyes || Aemond x Aunt!Hightower Reader (Part Two)

word count:

author’s note: writing more chapters of a sad dragon family series. I’ll be on a Norwegian cruise line for Italy and Greece for 2 weeks. I’m gonna be seasick, I already know it. So I’ll be writing this series before I leave. Please enjoy and have a good day.

warnings: incest, cockwarming, teasing, sucking, p in v, rough play, flirting, wholesome moment, jealous aemond, possessive, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex, second hand embarrassment, dark content, mentions of su*cide, Aemond being too touchy with his aunt, degradation, humiliation.

summary: Aemond meets his aunt for the first time, and there’s more than meets the eye. (there will be three parts).

The preparations for the celebration of King Viserys has reached closer whilst you accompanied Alicent into the corridor, corridor after corridor of a long tour within the Red Keep. Servants bowed as you all passed. Cold bows and cold eyes lingered, despite their bare minimums of smiling graciously at your direction, as Alicent presented the halls with lavish decor. However, mostly it was green and gold. But others blended it with black and red.

As always, you’re marveled by the exquisite lace and embroidered patterns and a clear structure of its final design of artwork is invigorating. The stitching is what you’re most impressed of.

As all Targaryens and Hightowers strolling, Alicent parted ways with her children, unbeknownst to you, the one-eyed prince had his hands behind his back, violet shade of eye looming over your new gown designed by the seamstress, all soft-shaded periwinkle, strapped with gold embroidery and green and red, streaks of iridescent shun upon sunlight, your manes healthy and glowing, maintained through and through.

You knew he was watching. With his precious one violet eye gleaming at the back of your head, your body shivered in an alien sensation. As for Aemond, a dragon’s hunger is anything but stable or sane. A dragon’s hunger is like a breath of wild fire casted to the torch of the wondrous nature and life itself. The fire eats and leaves the bones of ash, dwindling in midair.

Aegon I altered the history and thus, House Targaryen must stand with unity and strength and blood.

Still parted aways after an idle chat, for Alicent to task with decorations, as her children were long gone, back into your large chambers, you were unpacking your materials for the completion on a quilt, a quilt with colorful dragons and mermaids and ships, various shades of sews and needles unpacked, as the back of your neck tingled with goosebumps as you felt a hot breath stroking.

Before you turned around, large and slender hands travelled over your clothed waist, nearly close to your chest above. A writhe of hot tingle rushing in your coils and chest. A quiet breath strained, lax down to a low hiss, a hiss nearly tickling your skin. No servants were around, no Alicent or Gwayne.

Aemond, a one-eyed prince has lurked and captured you. A princess sent by a Maiden herself. The fiery dragon must seize the princess.

You thought he has gone back to training yard with Ser Criston, as Alicent mentioned once at the entryway within a prolonged conversation.

“Aemond—”

His face inched close to yours, his supple and pretty lips touched your cheeks, trailed down to your jawline, whilst his left hand grasp your face to stay still. The pool between your legs gradually strengthened its warmth and slick, easily for the prince to prance and insert into your tight hole. Under the layers of silk dress, Aemond bunched the layered fabrics to your waist.

You never had a noble taken an interest in you. The only that interests them is the brightness of your teal eyes.

A mesmerizing glow of your hues has yanked his curiosities. His mother never mentioned him about you—not even once in a dubious talk.

Better late than never.

With his hand, fingers strapped, and his trimmed nails clutched the fabric of your corset, the laces loosener it in smooth motion, loosening around your frame, breasts ached as his hand—his cold hand—brushed and pinched your nipple while his other hand found his way your thigh, grasped as Aemond’s tongue flicked and his lips pressed a chaste kiss to your clit.

A moan escaped, your mouth shielded, you face drowned in flush, as Aemond’s heart leapt in satisfaction. Humming, he stood up and inserted his fingers into your cunt, thrusting the fingers in with doubled speed as your moans grew louder, but restrained the pleasure into your chest, holding it. The walls in the Red Keep are dire; servants and nobles and guards walked passed and patrolled through wall and doors. Even the highest nobles strolled by.

“Fuck,” is all he said, as if it was a prayer. “Your cunt might be as Holy as the Maiden herself.”

His lips sucked your swollen tit.

“My prince,” you cried softly. “Please. The guards, my brother and sister will see us.”

“I do not care of their pious thoughts.”

“I’m your aunt, my pri—”

“Don’t fight it, my sweet,” he said, giving a sensual flick on his warm tongue to your swollen flesh, “I might give you a reason to have bruise on you, ones that they’ll never find on your skin.” His hands grasped your waist, trailing with soft strokes. “You’re humiliated. Maybe there’s more than meets the eye.”

Based on his words, you never thought you found it attractive, considering the soft spoken voice, hoarse with arousal.

“Don’t fight it. If you fight against this, this subtle encounter between us, you’ll never forgive yourself,” he whispered, his wet lips brushed yours. “If you have been, you would shoved me away. Would you like that, princess? Shoving me away?”

His voice ragged dampened your cunt and clit twitched at his sound.

“Seems you enjoy it. You’re a good princess. But alas,” he pulled himself afar, the warmth on your body began to turn a chill.

“I shall see you at the feast. Enjoy your stay.” His neck went for a stiff bow, but his eye glued with plea for your consideration of his statement, whether you accept his offer or not, and departed your apartment—a once organized structure is now filled with clutter and oozing sex and the arousal groans you shared has imprinted in your head, you find yourself still with embarrassment.

In a way, a blessing in disguise when no one, not even Gwayne, saw or heard your affairs with a young dragon prince.

You have seen the arrival of Rhaenyra and Daemon and the children, you had a short introduction to all Black faction.

The dinner celebration for Viserys’s nameday celebration has been all but cumbersome. You felt a subtle hostility, but to due your presence, it has lessened but somewhat guarding up—all due to pettiness.

As you, making a progression with your father, it was all but cold distance even you and Otto were near. Not once he looked at you with adoration like he shared his adoration with Princess Helaena, showing her teal beetle. The Green children are all strained; Aegon had his fair share of capable stupidity to throw down a nasty comment of his cousins and nephews.

Daeron was disappointed with Aegon’s perversions, but Daeron veered at you with a kind smile and made a polite conversation with you. Once again, Otto did not acknowledged of your accomplishments. You felt sick in the stomach, and it’s not your bright gold and yellow dress you have finished making. Tears behind your eyes was arising, and your throat budged with hot and parched sting.

Aemond clenched his fist, for his anger was directed at his grandsire for not noticing you. That damnable old fool—if only Otto sees how your talents. When Viserys disregarded Aemond, even his siblings, he wanted nothing more than to see him dead. But alas, with your existence, it’s almost as if Viserys’s existence just naturally died out.

You pardoned yourself, and Alicent thereby dismissed you, you bowed and left to your chambers, spent the rest of the night weeping, thinking what have you done wrong.

As you exited, the tensed feeling withdrew, and Otto was happy again. And so, without a doubt, Aemond gave a good jab on Otto, which caused a disastrous supper for everyone. The music stopped. As for Aegon and Daemon, they found it amusing while Alicent ordered the guards to escort Aemond way back to his chambers.

For Aegon, this was a win for him. He’s not in trouble for once.

~~~

In dreams, you have never seen your mother, what she appears like or what she sounds like or how her personality was. The only thing that is closest to being a mother to you is the wetnurse or the servants or the Septa who provided you with assistance on your daily appearances and wisdom. Whenever a servant brushes your hair, you often think of what it feels like to have a mother brushing your manes with care and doting manner, a soft voice to soothe your aching heart, where doubts and fears would go away.

In times of sleep, you often thinking of ending your life, just to see your biological mother on the other side. Or perhaps more than just seeing your mother. There are times where you hated your life, and you want nothing more but to end it.

People have often told stories of your mother, though it felt it was a grave mistake. Some say she fled away to Free Cities, some said she ended her life from the highest tower of Oldtown and fell down to the sea. There are rumors where Otto took you because you’re adopted, or perhaps he had a secret, illicit affairs.

The cold feeling rushed in you as your eyes pricked with tears. With somebody telling you stories of your late mother, it brought no peace. Only the enigma of your shadowed doubts and an endurance of chaotic insanity, to question whether your life is real, if you’re real in this world with purpose.

The servants have been kind to you more than the nobles, the more everyone pointed out your flaws and the insignificance of your existence, you lead to believe that you’ll never be loved.

And cried once more. Each night, your tears flooded in pillows and blanket, as you embraced the closest object, pretended that it’s your late mother. An endless of an anguish thought has been a hazard.

Only the echoes of the walls could hear you and the pillows has stained, under your hug squeezed the material as hard, wishing for the pain to go away.

In his awake, he’s a perfect prince, but in his dreams, he’s a beast.

A beast kept within a shell of a noble man.

He has dreamt of your teal eyes basking in his dark dreamland, your voice, how it was yearning so much more. A dark dreamland filled with scornful memories of his nephews and Aegon, and the pink dread. He had kill all of them in his dreams, even the fat pig.

With a scolding from his mother, he couldn’t care less. He wanted your presence to be acknowledged by your father, but how can Otto be so cynically dimwitted and more offensively calculating against you?

When the servants spoke over how you’re not related to Alicent, chances are why Otto was pretending that your presence is nothing more than a useless and meaningless substance of meaning to exist.

Others said that they haven’t seen you gone out from your apartments—and that was recent.

Aemond visited you, presented you with a gift, but the word from you not leaving the apartments has concerned. Thus his mind came up an idea.

You have several servants entering the room with stack of your favorite meals and drink—including lemon cakes and Dornish wine.

One knows someone’s best interest. Whoever did it, your heart is elated. As soon as Aemond came in, you hadn’t known whether he knew something that you don’t. Somehow, his intimidating presence softens your heart, prickled in relief.

For some reason, when Alicent paid you a visit, although shortened, she was concerned of your health, you hadn’t formed a proper conversation; Alicent hasted when the Council has called for her summon, but gave her regards.

Aemond accompanied you for a while in your apartments, and chat whatever discussion came up. Each minute and each hour, the two of you became close, became so close that you or him hadn’t open your hearts, despite what he did to you days ago. With your cunt coiled at his face, his voice and neck, his waist, you find yourself crossing your legs, aroused and squirming beside him. You wondered and imagined of Aemond’s tongue guiding and gliding your soaked cunt. At this moment, you wanted tackle him and suffocate him with your legs wrapped around him, taking in of your nectar.

“I’m glad you are doing well, princess,” Aemond said to you. “For I have been concerned of your well-being. A delicate flower such as you does not deserve the cruelty of my grandsire or anyone in the matter of your visit.”

“He’s always been difficult,” you explained. “No matter how much I’ve improved with my skill, he’ll never sees as his or my sister’s equal.”

“In ways my mother and grandsire are more intolerable. Though I respect my mother, I find myself with bore with my grandsire has to say. If anything, I’m glad your presence has casted a light into the dread.”

In Aemond’s case, however, found you as exquisite as gentle as the blooming flower. His one took a longer glimpse at you and notice the difference—how your eyes glinted in glee while your cheeks adorned with youthful flush and enamored smile. Oh so pure and harmless. He hasn’t seen his mother and his siblings. As for Otto, he hasn’t spoke to him since supper at Viserys’s nameday after sending a jab across the face—out of character for a self-assured prince.

Oh, to ruin you.

“Thank you for the meal, Prince Aemond. You don’t know how much I’m relieved to say this,” you said as you finished the embroidery on your unfinished dress you sewn.

Aemond found your gowns just as otherworldly as you.

Consequences won’t matter; Viserys nor anyone else in the room care for his presence. Perhaps it is a blessing, perhaps it is for the best for you to be settled here in King’s Landing, as long you’re in content, nothing else matters, but if harm does come, he shall smite the immoral act. Aemond is no perfect, but with you, he’d be at his best behavior.

“Then I shall relieve you,” he proclaimed.

You find yourself halted at his declaration and glimpsed at his resolved expression.

Something has stirred in your heart that you wanted more than the civil interactions, wanted more than having someone to converse with you.

Tossing and turning onto your bed was all but a doozy. Dizzy from pivoting and switching positions, you had enough. Dreams had come again. This time it’s Aemond calling out to you, feasting on your wet folds and pumping his lithe and graceful rugged fingers in you. Ever since the day before Viserys’s nameday, with Aemond’s thirst, your legs ached.

For a Hightower, it’s a sin to self-pleasure one’s body—a selfish immoral act.

Somehow you found it odd. If a man does self-pleasure, no court would turn the eye, but a woman does self-pleasure with hasting fingers and naughtiness is considered dire.

Faith of the Seven had their own laws, but you knew that men and women had their fair share of illest secrets. Lucky for you, Alicent and everyone in the Red Keep does not know your impure thoughts. The room became hot, then cold, then all at once, the breath in your lips became ragged and desperate. You wanted someone to hold you, treasure you, seduce with sweet nothings and sweet promises with adore.

For your years of not having a partner, you have begun to fear of not having pleasure. In the heating moment, you thought of what’s like losing your maidenhood to someone with a big cock.

You wanted a cock.

His cock.

Oh, a dragon prince. If Aemond hears your thoughts, you’d run away and never to return Westeros and give yourself a new name and fashion.

Damn the consequences and the punishments from the Lord Hand and the Queen themselves! Damn the Faith of the Seven and their laws!

With your fingers circling your clit, no climax arrived. Thus, you casted your blankets aside with a huff, setting out to see him.

Trudging through the dark halls, the guards were nowhere to be found, assuming the guards went elsewhere. As you made your way to the doors, you approached and entered the chambers where you have found Aemond on his bedside.

Your breath held back, taking in at the sight of Aemond. With his porcelain skin and his long silver-blond hair, it gleamed under moonlight, appearing paler compared to daylight. His eye had an old scar, and his eyepatch was placed elsewhere.

Watching his body rising and falling within breath, you approached him and kissed his back, planted your light kisses, feeling the smooth surface of his skin.

Aemond awoke and turned, found you kissing his back.

“My lady,” he whispered, one eye widened, as you stare at his sapphire. It was beautiful like him.

You placed your finger on his lips.

“Have you come to made a decision?” he asked.

Your lashes fluttered under his gaze. “What do you think, my prince?”

Then your lips collided with his. Aemond was taken aback of your sudden act. Eventually, his consciousness fell; with his lips shared an illicit chaste kiss, his hands uncloaked you, and roamed on your womanly body, caressing you, until you began to undo his trousers, his cock hardened.

“This won’t take long,” you promised, slowly pinning him down onto the pillows, unstrapped yourself naked and sat in between his legs. You didn’t expect for his cock to harden.

Your eyes darted to his, awaiting. And thus, you yanked his trousers downward, unveiling his hardened cock. You eyes widened at the sheer size. Your maidenhood hasn’t been taken yet. Your future prospects of marriage hasn’t arrived, but it feels as the more you wait, the more your chances of marriage dimmed. With your body descended, the maidenhood had met his engorged tip.

Aemond lay still, watching you. His sapphire eye gleamed at its victory.

Your voice moaned aloud; your maidenhood slammed down, his engorged cock tightened on your damped walls. Gradually, the pace on your hips sped. You have never felt anything as good. Prayers in the sept are insatiably helpful compare to the prince’s cock.

You have never felt so alive.

Aemond knew you’re a virgin; your hips bounced all thanks to the guidance of his hands.

He pleasured a woman in the brothel in the Street of Silk at the age of three-and-ten. As a young boy, he regretted making a decision by making himself a fool to go along with Aegon and his shenanigans. He was expecting Viserys to guide him gently into the world, but the Driftmark incident has left Aemond concluded that Viserys, his father, did not spare a single kindness or thought and only spared it Rhaenyra and her sons.

All hope was lost until he saw you—a radiant maiden.

You reached your high, as Aemond clutched your hips, spurring down the hot semen bursting the inner walls—a divine conclusion.

Gasping for air, your legs stood achingly, leaving white traces of his semen dripping down on his balls and thighs. When Aemond tried to assisted you, but instead his face met your open legs and slammed your went against his chiseled face and nose.

Fuck my maidenhood, you thought, desperate, as your hips gyrated, feeling his warm tongue and the sharp line of his nose encouraged your arousing sense to further the climax, as your right hand found its way at the back of Aemond’s hair.

Aemond find himself humming against the warmth of your cunt, mingling with his semen. It was a divination, nothing like the brothel. If only his virginity had taken by you instead of a woman who hasn’t live up to her beauty and standards of gentile and grace. Streets of Flea Bottom aren’t to be trusted. His lips kissed your inner thighs, gliding his tongue, and pumped it in between your walls.

Groaning, almost feral-like, your hips paced, your tits bouncing as your walls grew hot again.

“Relieve me,” you said to the prince, hoarse. A soft squeak caught into his ears.

I shall relieve you, my sweet. Just as I promised, he thought.

Your hips gyrated harder, until the spurring had come close; hot liquid squirted on his face as Aemond’s tongue lapped on your cunt faster than last. Your head threw back with his languid strokes on his warm tongue.

Gods it was a miracle.

He has taken your maidenhead.

“Good boy,” you cooed, your breath rasped, your hand still placed on the back of his long silver-blond hair, gyrating your tired hips against his face.

Both you and Aemond found yourselves in elation.

“Good boy.”

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[muneca-lemon-steppa]

Mooooo ! I love you so much bby 💕 my I request one with Alfie with the touch starved prompts “you never have to earn my affection-not now, not ever” and “I’m never more at peace than when I’m in yours arms”? Thank you lovely❤️❤️

My baby girl!!!!!!! Ugh thank you so much for sending this in. Did my heart ache writing this? Yes. Did my stomach hurt? Also yes. Am I sorry for it? NO. WE DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR EMO HOURS IN THIS HOUSE. Hehehe Anyway I love ya so much I hope you enjoyyyyyy.

100 Follower Celebration: Your Love is Enough

Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

There were many perks that came with being Alfie's woman. While there was certainly a good deal of danger lurking around, there was an undeniable air of safety you had due to all the eyes watching. You got access to all the hot goings on around the city. You lived comfortably. And above all, you got to love Alfie Solomons fully and purely and unabashed. There was only one downside really... the talk.

It was no secret that you were significantly younger than Alfie. It was something you and Alfie never shied away from and didn't feel a need to. Regardless of any age difference, you and Alfie understood each other on a cosmic level, a way no one else could. You loved him with your whole heart and soul and Alfie would burn down the world if you asked him to. You were one. And anyone who truly knew you and Alfie knew that this was true love. That this was the type of love and devotion that epics were written about and empires crumbled over. But there were always going to be people who didn't know. Always going to be people who didn't understand.

You were perusing fabric patterns in the shop down the street one early afternoon, looking for the final pattern to add to a quilt you were making for Ollie's soon to be born first child. You delicately touched the cotton blends along an aisle, imagining how it would look along the squares you had already picked, taking mental note as to what was available.

"I just cannot imagine what he sees in her. I mean... she is a child isn't she?"

Your ears perked up to the tone. It was Mrs. Vorsed from down the corner, the one you waved to every morning without even a smile in return. Another voice responded, "You know how men are. They just want a little toy to play house with until they find a wife."

Who on earth could they be talking about?

"Mr. Solomons needs a real woman in his home. My Portia knows what it means to be a lady of the house, and knows her place. I mean that girl he is shacked up with... I can hear her shouts and laughter from down the street! What does she know about keeping a home, much less keeping a man?"

A snicker erupts, "Well I'm sure she won't last long. He'll tire of her eventually when he realizes what he truly needs. Then Portia can swoop right in!"

The cackles fade away with the sharp chops of heavy footed steps. Despite your efforts, the knot in your throat never went down. You lungs refused to take in breath as the words spun in your mind. How could they say those things so confidently? They didn't even know you. They never even stepped foot into the house, how could they know how you keep it? Alfie never said more than a good morning to Mrs. Vorsed. How could they know anything about you or Alfie? Yet their words kept spinning and spooling around in your mind. What if... what if they were right?? What if people saw something that you couldn't see? What if you had deluded yourself into thinking that Alfie was truly happy and in love with you? What if he was unhappy but didn't want to tell you out of duty. It all became too much in your chest, and you left the store without your fabric, but the weight of the world on your chest.

That evening Alfie could not wait to get home to you. Every evening Alfie nearly buzzed at the prospect of coming home to see your face again, and wrap himself around you, getting as close as possible. You made his day better. You made his life brighter and joyful and meaningful. It made all the business and badness worth it. Stepping through the threshold with a press to the mezuzah, Alfie calls out, "Sweet girl! I'm home! You in the kitchen darling?"

He hears you call back and smiles wide, stomach growling hungry for supper and you. Taking off his coat and hat he ambles into the kitchen, watching you stir something magical in the massive soup pot. "My dove ,my angel, my joy, what are you doing? Making food for the Royal Navy are we?"

You turn to him, and he can clearly see that something is wrong. Your lips are quivering and poorly attempting to portray a smile, and your eyes are glassy and red rimmed. He feels a stab in his chest, "Now wait a minute treacle... what's got you crying?"

You wiped your cheek and turned away, "I'm not crying."

With a scoff he grabs your chin gently, turning you to face him, "I thought we didn't lie to each other my sweet. Especially since you're the worst liar since the Garden of Eden. Why are you crying? Come on now confess."

You shrugged as Alfie's hands moved up and down your arms, "It's nothing. Stupid really I shouldn't be crying."

"Nah nah. It ain't stupid if it's got my sweet girl crying like that. Out with it."

The tears kept falling, though you tried to keep an even tone, "I just... I heard some women talking. Mrs. Vorsed and another lady."

Alfie rolled his eyes, "Always a bad sign. C'mon what else."

You sniffled, "And... well... they said that... I wasn't good enough for you. That I didn't know how to be a good woman to you. And that you would be better off with someone else. That you would soon grow tired of me. That I'm not deserving of you, and Portia Vorsed would be a better match for you."

The tears started coming harder, and you couldn't help the shaking of your body. Alfie's stomach dropped, and rage replaced it. Alfie shook your shoulders a bit in his passion, "What the fuck is wrong with them? Treacle, Mrs. Vorsed is the worst gossip in Camden, and doesn't know anything about anything. She hasn't got anything better to do but talk absolute shit. Portia, right? She is the silliest woman in town, she can't even do basic arithmetic because she's too busy being an idiot. I mean fuck me treacle I can barely say good morning to Mrs. Vorsed without getting proper fucking agitated!"

Alfie kissed your forehead and brought you to his chest, "YOU are the one for me. I don't give a shit what Mrs. Vorsed or what any other decrepit woman or idiot man thinks. You are my life. You are my stars and my moon and my sun alright? You don't have to be 'good enough' for me. Fuck you just are. You never have to earn my love. You've always had it. Even before I knew you my old and brittle heart was yours. You got that?"

You nodded, the tears pooling in his shirt. Alfie pulled you away from him to look into your eyes. "And treacle I don't even think Mrs. Vorsed can see more than a meter in front of her so she probably has no clue who she is talking about."

You laughed despite the tears and Alfie grinned. All he wanted to do every day was to make you smile. He was convinced that was what he was put on this earth to do. You put your hand to his face, feeling him lean into the warmth of your palm. "I just want to love you and care for you like you do me. I just worry that I don't do enough sometimes."

He grabbed your hand, kissing your fingertips, "Ah my sweet. I'm never more at peace than when I'm in your arms. I'm never more at home than when you're next to me. The whole business could go to shit and I'd still be the richest man in the world because I have the greatest treasure in you. And I mean that my love. You believe your old man right?"

You nod. The lump in your throat finally dissapated and the weight melted away. There was truly no love like Alfie's and yours. People could talk all they want. People could make any assumptions they wanted. That didn't change what was true. And what was true was that you and Alfie belonged to each other and would for all of eternity.

[eupheme]

Warm With You | Day 9: First Snow of the Season

sdv!harvey x f!reader

Rated E | 3.4k

Tags: fluff, established relationship, first time together, soft!dom!harvey??, fingering, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, PiV

inspired by “nice boys don't kiss like that”/ “oh yes, they fucking do” from bridget jones’s diary

You didn’t know your boyfriend - the sweet Doctor that he is - could have such a dirty mouth.

You steal kisses under the thick quilt, pulled up over your heads to keep out the chill. Legs slotted together, hips pressed snug as your fingers wander - tracing across his white undershirt, to where his thick hair curls at the base of his neck.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but you think you might be grateful for the snow that has been falling down in thick, puffy flakes all afternoon.

Not seeing how it had picked up during dinner, too starry-eyed and tender-hearted to notice anything other than each other. The dishes neatly stacked and drying as you watched a movie together on your couch - your fingers laced with his.

Only seeing the way the snow piled against your door as he was getting ready to leave for the night - the icy chill of the air cutting through your cozy cabin of a home.

“You could stay.” You had offered, hopeful. “Will you? Stay?”

It would be a new step. The next big one - he hasn’t slept over before.

A lot of your dates have been in public, a lunch grabbed during a break at the clinic. Meeting at the Stardrop Saloon for dinner. Both of you busy - the farm in full bloom during the fall. His work picking up as he doled out flu shots as the season turned - taking care of sniffling colds.

“Yes. I’d like that.” Harvey had smiled, “Very much.”

With the public dates came another sort of slow dance - the ache of desire you had for him stamped down by the surrounding of your friends. The eyes that seemed to drift your way out of interest, excitement.

Stolen kisses, a moment where he had you backed against the door of your cabin as he breathlessly kissed you farewell. You had wanted him to come inside that night - it had been on the tip of your tongue - but he truly had an early morning the next day.

You weren’t sure if he’d even want to sleep in your bed, though you’d hoped he would.

Everything about him gentlemanly - from the way he asked you out, to the flowers he brought you. Polite and kind and taking his time with each step, making sure you were right there with him.

But right now - tonight - there’s a shift. You’re unsure whether it’s the fact that you’re alone, or the slow tease of denial over the past few weeks, or whether it’s the distinct lack of clothes - but there’s a tension, a need, that you can almost feel.

It’s there in the way your fingers tug at his hair, the way he pulls you just a little more flush against him. The soft hum when his tongue brushes against your lip, until you lets him in.

The needy little whine in your throat, when the slow, deep kisses are both not enough and too much, when you want more.

He makes his own sound at that - a deep groan, while you guide his hand beneath your shirt. The heat of his palm as he cups you, his other arm curling around you to tug you closer. The barest brush of a thumb across a taut nipple, your hips shifting against him in response, encouraging.

Feeling where he’s straining against his patterned boxers, your own fingers trailing over the cotton fabric as his sound turns sharp.

You pull back, lips kiss-swollen, fingers going still.

His eyes crack open as you apologize, “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop?”

A low laugh at that, barely a huff of breath. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, his nose brushing against yours, “Don’t stop, sweetheart. Please.”

His hips shifting into your hand, as your fingers unfurl so you can cup him - feel the heavy weight of his cock as you stroke him over the fabric.

A groan rattling in his throat at your hand, his own catching the tight bud of your nipple between thumb and forefinger, giving the lightest tug.

You own moan echos his, working at the front of the boxers - tugging them down to pull him free.

Harvey’s nose bumps into yours when your hand wraps around him fully, fingers lightly squeezing, his mouth open as he exhales. Half-lidded eyes needy under the fan of thick eyelashes, and your lips finds his again as your hand strokes over his swollen, flushed cock.

There’s the drag of skin on skin as you tug on him, one, twice, three times before you’re making a little sound - breaking the kiss to push yourself up.

Eyes bouncing back and forth between his as you ask, “Can I taste you? I want it to feel good, I-”

He makes a low sound, one you take to be his permission - a cold gust of air sneaking into the space as you sit up. Pulling your shirt off, leaving it tangled in the sheets as you move between the thighs that spread open for you.

Admiring him, for a moment. Because you can, because he’s yours. The trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton, neatly trimmed at the base of his cock. A drop shining at the tip, but not enough to prevent the chafe of your hand.

Your tongue peeks out to drag over his cock as it bobs against his stomach. His voice coming after, a rasp to it that you haven’t heard before, “Just get me wet, and come back up here. I want to touch you.”

His words are unexpected - making you clench, breath hot against his skin as you take him into your mouth. Sucking, slicking him up like he asked, tasting the salt of his skin, reveling in the way he makes your lips stretch around him.

Taking as much as you can into your throat, if only to hear his moan, the way his thighs flex under your hands. His hands, fingers gentle as they touch at your face, your eyes watching the way he pants when you hollow your cheeks, your fist following as your head bobs.

“Up here.” He repeats, the slightest edge that has you listening, smiling as you swallow the spit that pools in your mouth. Settling next to him on your side again, your fist still stroking as his lips crush against yours.

Fingers toying at the hem of your shorts, his mouth dropping to your chin, your neck, as you arch against him. Then, sliding beneath, reaching until his fingers part you, finding where you’re slick and aching for him.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He grits out, his hips jerking into your fist as he pets at you again.

He’s ruining you already, the words spilling from his lips ones you wouldn’t have expected. You don’t think he’s even trying to do it, not intentionally. They seem to flow from him when he sees how his voice affects you. It makes you want to hear more - already thinking about how he’ll sound when he’s buried in you. When he’s close.

His palm cups you, the heel pressing against your clit, before his middle finger just nudges against your entrance. A low gasp as he sinks inside, as if your pleasure was his - a slow pump of his finger, and then another.

Your teeth catch on his lip, the softest scrape, the tightening of your fist. His nose nuzzling against yours, the suck of air through his clenched teeth.

“So warm and wet,” Harvey breathes - watching you, your head tilting back as a second finger slips in, pressing them deep before carefully crooking and stroking.

The gasp you make is sharp, a pleased hum as his mouth moves to your neck. Doing it again, finding a rhythm as his thumb moves to rub against the swollen bud.

“Harvey.” You croak, breathless - the slick pump of his fingers followed by the scratch of his mustache as he presses an open-mouth kiss against your throat.

You didn’t know it could be like this - everything winding tight, a building pressure that has you gasping, hips flexing as you ride his fingers. His name on your lips again, a plea this time.

“What do you need, baby?” He asks against your skin, moving down to where your fingers had teased at your chest. Blinking up at you, a lazy smile beneath the flush of his cheeks, when you find you can’t answer.

Not even stroking him anymore - too distracted, too close - to do anything more than hold him.

“You want to come?” He croons, rubbing the tip of his finger against a spongey spot that steals your breath.

You nod, managing a gasping, croaking “please”, before you see the peek of his tongue, the hot swipe of it against your breast.

The groan that bursts from you then - wanton and needy as he flicks his tongue over your again, his thumb circling your clit with each of your gasping breaths.

Your hips bucking into his hand as his lips close around and suck, the softest brush of his teeth. The muscles in your thighs strung tight, a short, harsh breath punctuating each of your words.

“Fuck, Harvey. Right there, oh, I’m so close-”

His answer, the low, coaxing smoothness of his voice, “That’s it honey. Come for me, let me feel you.”

Gasping then, as he hums against your skin, the bursting pulse of pleasure between your thighs as you clench around his fingers. They slow, pressing deep - his head tilting up so he can watch the blissed-out droop of your eyes, the way your lips part.

Blushing and pleased, his teeth flashing white as his chin presses into your sternum.

Leaving you limp on the bed, moving back up until his lips press into your jaw, your cheek. Fingers drifting over your shoulder, stroking as soothing as you come back down.

Until your head is tilting to meet him, soft kisses that turn hungry - as you shift a knee over his stomach. Carefully easing until you’re straddling him, thighs spread wide over his hips. Arched over him, fingers splayed and balancing yourself on his chest - pressing into his warm skin, the dust of hair.

Your hips shift, until you can feel the hard press of him against your center - his hands flexing where they rest against your bent knees.

One coming up to brush a curl of hair back from his forehead. His own hips canting upward, his cock trapped between your pussy and where it curves up towards his stomach.

The words, heavy on your tongue, “Yoba, I want you.”

And how he smiles at that, sweet and slow as his chin tips up, so he can see you better.

“You want to ride me, sweetheart? Like you rode my fingers?”

Your exhale is sharp as you nod, and he makes a slow, pleased sound. A thudding heartbeat between your thighs, your mind a hazy, needy swirl as your grind down. Each pass making his cock a little more slick, the flushed head bumping against your clit.

“I don’t want to make a mess in your bed.” He groans, though he’s moving with you, meeting the rut of your hips, “Do you have condoms?”

And oh, you want him to make a mess of you - but you understand what he’s asking. Appreciating his care even when he’s aching for you, and you’re nodding, gesturing towards the bedside table.

His arm stretched as he reaches for it, a finger hooking around the wooden knob, giving it a tug. Fishing around for the small cardboard box, dropping in on the bed next to him as grabs his glasses where they are resting next to the lamp.

Brows furrowing as he slides them on, the tip of a fingernail slipping under the edge of the box. Ripping the edge of the foil after, fishing it out before his other hand grips the base of his cock - carefully rolling the condom on.

Holding himself steady for you, afterwards - as you gaze down at him. A flutter of excitement in your chest as you lift up, a palm pressed against his chest for balance.

Lining yourself up, feeling the tip drag against you until he’s nudging against your entrance, and then you’re sinking down onto him for the first time.

A rough moan is pushed from your lungs as you take him, slow and steady, feeling him stretch and fill you. Something you’d imagined frequently - but never dreaming he’d feel as good as he does right now.

His own low curse, your name strung out as he’s buried in you - until your hips are snug against his, and you’re wrapped warm and tight around him.

Your head dipping, fingers curling against his chest as you take a long moment, peeking up to where he’s watching, lips parted. Hands that move to rest on your thighs, where his fingers bite into your own flesh.

Bracing yourself, as you lift up - feeling the drag of him within you as your eyes slide shut. Another, and then another, your heels pressing into his thighs as you find your rhythm.

The pant of your breath matching his, his hips jerking up to meet each bounce, nudging him just that much deeper with each thrust.

“Just look at you,” He’s groaning, broad hands sliding from your thighs to your hips. Grabbing on, arms flexing as he helps you ride him, “Yoba, you’re beautiful.”

It makes you whine, makes you want to kiss him. So you do, leaning down over him, your breasts pressing against his chest as his chin lifts. Meeting you, moaning into your mouth as the sharp slap of your hips turns into a grind.

Changing the way he feels in you, the thrusts shallower. A nudging against your clit that leaves you breathless, your nose bumping eagerly against his as you sigh against him.

Fingers cupping the back of his neck, the other hand bracing against his shoulder. Drawing back to look at him, where he’s watching you as you take what you need.

“Is this okay?” You ask, suddenly a little self-conscious under his gaze. Still disbelieving that he’s beneath you, inside you - feeling better than you’ve ever imagined.

His smile soft and stretching across his face, “So perfect, sweetheart. You’re doing so well for me, aren’t you?”

It makes you clench, where he can feel it. A hand leaving your hip, sliding between his lips and sucking, as your lips press into the stubble on his jaw. Slipping them between you, to rub the wet tips against the bud of your clit.

You jolt - leaning back to give him more room. Touching you like he did before, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates - his eyes lifting to yours again.

“Aren’t you?” He coaxes again, the slightest edge to his voice. Not a command, it’s far too soft - but it’s firm, drawing your attention.

“Yes.” You moan, ignoring the dull ache in your muscles in favor of the slick swirl of his fingers. Chasing something you can almost taste - a pressure building and building where he’s buried in you.

He watches you, shoulders curling against the generous pile of your pillows, eyes traveling from your face, down to the bounce of your breasts. Lingering, before dropping - focusing on his fingers. Where he can see you, the way you wrap around him, the flex of your muscles as you arch into his touch.

A low, rough hum when your fingers tighten where they rest on your thighs. Your gasping breath, the small, “Yoba, Harvey. Just like that.”

He stays steady, giving you just the tiniest bit more pressure. It’s bliss, and you can feel that pressure again, the tight swirl in your belly.

“Oh, you felt so good around my fingers, sweetheart.”

The praise makes you whine, his voice soft and coaxing, “Want to make you come again. On my cock this time, so I can stop imagining it at work, and start remembering, instead.”

Your eyes flicker to his, his own gaze-heavy lidded, wanting. His hip flexing up to meet you, a hand braced on your waist and helping keep the pace.

And he sees it, the question in your eyes, the flash of teeth beneath his mustache as he smiles, “I’ve wanted this for ages. Wanted you. Just didn’t want to rush.”

It’s his wanting that tips you over the edge. His voice, the press of his fingers, as your thighs flex, tighten. Pushing him deep into you as you come, the tight clench of your cunt around his cock - your hands brace on his chest as you arch over him.

His name, pretty on your lips and drawn out over long syllables that sounds like a hymn with the way you sing it.

The soft swoop of his hands over your hips, thighs - soothing and comforting. Until your heart slows from where it was pounding in your chest, making itself known.

Now that you’re no longer moving, the chill settles in, and you shiver. Harvey feels the tremble of your fingers against his chest, and he’s catching them, before pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Come here.” He pats the space next to him, gently coaxing you off him.

You miss him as soon as he leaves you, an emptiness and an ache in your thighs from the exertion. But the bed is warm where he’s been laying, and as soon as you’re settled, he’s swapping places, rolling on top. Fitting between your spread thighs.

He’s kissing you this time when he fits himself inside you. The hiss of his breath as he sinks in, a soft, drawn out “fuck” that you hope you never get used to hearing. Something just for you.

Your fingers grasping his shoulders when he pushes deep, a pleasurable force to his thrust that has you gasping.

The clumsy brush of his cheek to yours, his glasses against your face as you smile. Reaching to remove them for them - tuck them away safely.

A low, grateful sound in his throat as he find his rhythm. The flex of his hips as he rocks into you, his weight warm and welcome.

Your lips against his throat, memorizing the sounds of his gasps, a low moan when you clench around him. A thigh, hooking around his hip, keeping him pressed deep as his breaths grow shorter.

“Want to make you feel good, too.” You tell him, the tilt of his chin he watches from where he hold himself just above you.

The smile when you see how he cheeks flush, how his hips stutter at your words.

“Oh, you do.” He groans, eyes half-lidded as he sinks into your heat, “You feel so fucking good, honey.”

His mouth warm against your when he leans down, swallowing his sounds as you start to move with him. The snap of his hips against yours, the muffled slap of skin on skin.

Coaxing him to shift, until his arms are wrapping around you, embracing you. Your hands on his jaw, his neck as you kiss him again, drawing back to tell him just how much you want him. How you’ve thought about him, about this.

His thrusts have gone shallow, and then - he’s there.

You watch with glassy eyes as he comes, the pretty pinch between his eyebrows, his parted lips, his long, broken moan. The way he’s gazing at you as he thrusts deep one more time, holding himself there as the last pulsing flexes of his cock wane.

The bristly brush of his mustache as his lips press to your cheek, the low, content sigh in his chest. Easing carefully from you a few moments later, removing and tying off the condom.

His legs swing off the side of the bed, as he gets ready to throw it away in the bathroom - to clean up. Leaving you with a, “I’ll be right back. Okay?”

The gentle confirmation is sweet. You think he’d stay, even without the storm. It’s a nice thought, and you’re content to stay in your cozy bed beneath the blankets, basking in the afterglow.

It’s only better when he rejoins you, curling himself against your back, lips pressing against your neck. How easily the two of you seem to fit together, the tickle against your skin as he sighs, and finally - relaxes.

Your fingers find his, wrapping around them. Bringing them up to your lips, cradling them carefully as you kiss them. Actions laced with unspoken words of affection, as you revel in the moment. In just being with him, right now.

The warmth in your bed seeps into your heart, as his arms tighten around you. Secretly happy for the storm, even if it means you’ll have more work in the morning.

Because at the moment… there’s no place in the world that you’d rather be.

(tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto)

[popatochisssp]

The Court AU has me DEAD!!! If you’d be willing, what sort of outfits would they wear? I’d love to draw them!

Anon, I had so many tabs open looking up medieval-type fashion and armor, we're talking like 30+, felt super awesome finishing this and closing them all 😌

Anyway--

Sans (Undertale): What’s black and blue and white all over? Why, him of course! His jester’s motley features a black-and-white diamond pattern, offset by bright, rich, royal blue—a mark of his service to the king. He doesn’t wear one of those silly hats, though…because he wears a silly hood instead! Less chance of falling off, you see. When not in costume he tends toward simple tunics, of decent material and often still in blue.

Papyrus (Undertale): Almost never out of full plate armor, even in downtime, he has to dress for the job he wants and that means being a shining metal bastion of knightly glory at all times! …Though he does often remove his helmet and hold it by his sword at his hip, or fasten it to his steed’s side. He’s a very handsome skeleton, it would be cruel to deny the people the chance to see their hero’s face!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Soft blues and yellows, as a squire only lightly armored—greaves and pauldrons, a mail shirt beneath his tunic if he’s expected to go into battle—but he considers even that much armoring to be overkill for what he’s doing. Still, his Captain insists, and it makes his brother feel better, so he takes care protecting himself. He has some nicer finery to wear about court, as a nobleman, but tends simpler for anything that might be dirtied or torn in training.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Rich green and earthy browns, his clothing tends to be without ostentation—no embroidery, no gold buckles or buttons, or anything especially elaborate. He may be noble but he’s a scholar and a recluse and prefers not to stand out much. Still, the fabrics of which his clothing is made are always fine, as coarse or stiff materials quite put him off. Mostly cottes—long belted tunics—with the occasional robe over, if it's cold.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Blacks and browns, sturdy plain clothes which can stand up to considerable wear and tear. Often wears a short diamond-quilted gambeson and some leather armor (vambraces and greaves), but always has a sword belted to his hip and a cloak made of dire-wolf’s fur draped over his shoulders. If ever he should need to acknowledge his denounced family name, he does have some finer clothing stored away somewhere—in red—and a shiny gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate armor, dark metal heavily scratched and scorched, dents meticulously hammered back out. He also wears a tattered red cape about his shoulders that billows quite majestically behind him when he rides or runs into battle. He will occasionally dress down in laced tunics and breeches, still in red and black, fine but not too fine as to raise suspicion about his heritage. Should all that ever come out, he does have a suit of pristine night-black armor he’s been dying to inherit and a silken cape to pin about it with a golden clasp of the family’s crest.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Mostly black but flaunts his privilege and royal ties with purple accents wherever possible. Brigandine armor with a fine gold-plated gorget and pauldrons and a few other ornamental trappings—he is the Empress’ personal guard and must in some capacity be as elegant. Very fine doublets and tunics for his (rare) downtime, often with gold threading, but not fond of most jewelries.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Dark colors and crisp whites, noble yet eccentric, he has a lot of fine doublets and other such court-wear but tends not to actually…wear them. He can mostly be found in loose-fitting cottes, baggy sleeves often penned up by leather armlets to keep them out of his paints. He has a fur-hooded cloak for travel or cold weather, but he rarely leaves his rooms, much less the castle, so he doesn’t don it often.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Dark browns and off-white cream, simple rough-hewn clothing showing signs of wear and occasionally odd stains. He works in the stables, with animals, and being around animals so much makes it difficult to keep clean. He has a somewhat decent dark blue cloak that he’ll wear into town for errands, or in polite company—it has a hood to conceal the great jagged hole in his head that tends to make the squeamish or timid flinch away from him.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Still hasn’t quite shaken the habit to be armored, even when it isn’t necessary, but he’s cut down from full plate to chain mail only, much lighter and easier to move around in—which is vital when hurrying to the training field for an accident, or running to meet a wounded knight at the gates. He wears a simple tabard over his mail, blue with red edging (the Queen’s colors), and keeps a pouch of bandages and other aid supplies belted to his waist instead of a sword.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): The livery of the king’s court, gray and gold, but dyed into fabrics suitable for common folk. He still wears gray when not performing at court, tunics so thickly woven they could pass as a gambeson and often paired with hooded cloaks, but he keeps his golds set aside until needed to keep them in good condition. He takes equal care of his shiny brass sackbut (it’s a horn, with a very funny name but an instrument nonetheless) so it always plays well.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Off-white and tan linens, loose and breathable for hot work in the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and pinned at the elbows to keep them from getting in the way. Always an apron about his waist, occasionally with food stains after a long day’s work but these he quickly tends to as soon as he’s able. He has nothing in the way of real finery but tries very hard to make sure what he has is clean and presentable.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Fine brocaded doublets of rich red and shining gold thread, as a duke and brother to a king, he does have to dress the part a bit. He wears more jewelry, especially rings, but nearly always still has his dire-wolf fur cloak over his shoulders. When called for executions, he dresses down quite a bit, in simple black cloth with only a leather pauldron over one shoulder to help brace the weight of his axe before he swings.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Half plate armor essentially at all times, even formal or polite occasions—he’s the owner of a stolen throne and all too aware that it could be stolen from him the same way he got it. His breastplate is scaled and his pauldrons are elaborately spiked, but it’s all black. The only pop of color on him is his crown, the same worn by Asgore and Undyne, gold and sharp, with rubies inlaid.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Chain mail over a finely-made kaftan and beneath a traveling cloak, the latter two with signs of wear from a long journey. His head is notably absent of a crown—left behind in the kingdom he fled—but a new one awaits him soon, of flashing silver and blue stone, depicting the phases of the moon. When fully established in his new kingdom, he may begin dressing as a proper king again, draping himself in the blue and silver finery of the land that sheltered him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Browns, greens, and blacks, he wears light leather armor—really just a breastplate and vambraces—and a thick woolen cloak about his shoulders. He has no need of greaves for his shins, legs lost to an accident in the wilderness, but supplanted by magical prosthetics, living blackened wood provided by his land when he called upon it for aid. …Not that he’s fully accepted that it’s his land, keeping his crown of twisting copper and emerald tucked away in a saddlebag instead of on his brow. Maybe someday…

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Rich purple and verdant green, amidst a sea of black—he favors very fine fabrics with open lacing at the chest. Still not especially fond of jewelry, but wears considerably more decorative leather braces on forearms, shins, and even the occasional full-chest corset. (He has some chronic pain and the extra pressure and support in certain spots helps.) He wears considerably more plain clothes for knight-training purposes and when traveling wears a black cloak with a cowl that comes down over the hole in his face at a point, as the beak of a raven.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate splint mail armor for his patrols along the wall, but favors rusty oranges, brown and black for the tunics and boots and breeches he wears out of it. Often carries a lantern, and always has tinder in a pouch on his hip. Beside his pouch is a war-horn in case an alert would need to be called, loud enough to make everyone come running if it’s ever sounded.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A cavalierly styled courtier, at first having made do with graciously lent clothing and now being able to buy his own in a whole variety of rich colors—yellow, blue, magenta, and on. His aim is to look at home in court, which means he must dress as other courtiers do, so he has doublets and fine tunics and many, many fashionable capelets with embroidery and stylish pins, as well as a few equally chic plumed hats. The other courtiers look to him now for the latest fashion trends and he couldn’t be happier.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): A bit more subdued in style than his brother…though only a bit. He favors black frocks, almost as a cleric would wear, but beneath them, elegant doublets in greens and yellows as vibrant as anything his twin wears, with fine silver filigree work in his buckles and pins and clasps. He’s the pinnacle of restrained class and taste and it’s no wonder at all that the king should respect him so highly if his care in thought is as his care in appearance.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Deep, dark black from head to toe, most prominently a long hooded cloak with two eye-lights glowing in the darkness. He always wears gloves and never lets his hood down, as he’s not especially fond of his metal bones and doesn’t really wish to be seen. It’s difficult to see in the daytime, but at night he’s trailed by faint wisps of ghostly light in all colors of the rainbow, such a strange sight that many a drunkard who’s seen him has poured out their bottle presuming they’d had quite a bit too much.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): Full plate armor, of course, but as he’s now some sort of spectral entity, it (and he!) glows and is slightly see-through. Being ghostly has washed out his colors quite thoroughly which is unfortunate—mostly all white with hints of silvery blue—but on the up-side he seems able to change his appearance some by will alone, donning or discarding his helmet at will, manifesting a majestic cape for himself out of the ether, and so on. It seems a fair enough trade to him!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): A man at court now, he’s donned an eye-patch and abandoned the trappings of prospective knighthood, fully embraced courtier fashion…if a bit ‘eccentrically.’ He favors bright yellows and spring greens, flowing garments of fine cloth layered beneath and over leather vambraces, gorget, and tasset. All these are elaborately, intricately designed and certainly make the similarly intricate gold jewelry (with multicolored gems) that he wears at wrist and neck stand out, but it’s hardly in fashion… Still, the mystic’s thinking is often inscrutable.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Unlike his brother, very fashionable and eye-catching, in rich amaranths and brilliant turquoises, with even the occasional lavender. He has many fine embroidered doublets, threaded liberally with gold, and wears many pieces of gold jewelry as well—necklaces, bracelets, pins, and brooches. When showing the birds of the crown at court or bidding them on a royal hunt, he wears the livery of the crown-proper—royal purple and gold—and always has a thick leather falconer’s glove on his left hand.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): What’s black and white and red all over? Well, newspapers haven’t been invented yet, so it’s him, of course! He’s no jester so he hasn’t a motley to wear to work, but he is a performer and does dress in the livery of the king, which is red and black. The material is a bit finer than he’s used to, but being that he’s no longer wearing rags and rotting in a hole, he’s quite pleased with it and doesn’t mind the bright colors that help him attract the eyes of many comely nobles at court. Off-duty, he sticks to loose, somewhat open tunics—red still very much preferred.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Laced linen shirts, not especially loosely fitting due to his largeness in the chest and shoulders but he hasn’t burst any seams in awhile so the measurements must be somewhat correct. He’s fond of white and a true connoisseur of red, all shades from dark to very light. He keeps an array of small carpentry tools—hammers, chisels, things for measuring—in a roll on his hip, a dedicated apprentice to the core.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): All black, pourpoint armor beneath fine silk doublets but almost disappointingly plain otherwise—no embroidery, no ornament, or stitched pattern, or brocade. Over this he wears a cloak, equally fine and with at least some ostentation, a bit of silver stitched decoration that matches the intimidatingly clawed silver gauntlet he wears upon his left hand—a symbol of his wealth, if not his status. These flashy items are for matters of court only, as he has a much more nondescript hooded cloak and less identifiable sharp implement which he uses for matters of stealth and misdeeds when it is important that he not be recognized.

Hunter (Swapfell Frution Papyrus): A prince in princely attire…mostly. He happily flaunts the color purple but proudly wears it with the black of his old family name, and drapes himself in silk tunics, fine (mostly decorative) pauldrons, capes and capelets. He tends to show off a bit more of his chest than seems appropriate for a man of his station, and seems to wear his elegant silver jewelry in ways such that the eye is drawn there, and…other places, but few question the whims of royalty. His pewter crown is heavy and inelegant and he’s talked much with his brother about how angry people would be if he had it melted and recast into something more stylish.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Plain, rough tunics, in black and dark brown. He wears a heavy fur-lined gabardine as it gets quite cold in the dungeons, though it’s uncertain where he managed to get such a nice garment. He keeps a knife on his belt, large and jagged-toothed, and though he hasn’t had need to use it yet, the threat of it tends to keep most prisoners from attempting to bring him harm.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He’s traded in his full plate armor for a comfortably fit leather jerkin, accompanied by matching gauntlets to protect his hands and torso (inasmuch as they need protection, without flesh) from the thorns he trims back every day. He mostly wears black and white and brown, all things closely fit to his body, less they snag overmuch and need to be replaced too often. His clothing is simple but well-suited to his work, and he wears it nicely.

[intermittentstitcher]

List of Online Embroidery/ Sewing / Needlework Resources

Hello my name is Cleo and this is my masterpost full of resources and information that will help you in your stitching journey.

Taglist Form

Invite link to my community Fibre Artists on Tumblr

My Tags

Intermittent Stitcher Recommends

I don’t go here but I wanted to pass it on

Intermittent Stitcher Thoughts

Intermittent Stitcher Opinions

Intermittent Stitcher Poll

I love myself a beautiful gradient

Intermittent Stitcher PSA

Intermittent Stitcher FO’S

Intermittent Stitcher Tips

Cats of Craftblr

My Perchance Generators

Random Things to Stitch

Needle Type generator

Random Textile Craft and Technique generator

Random Thread Colour Generator - DMC .

Random Thread Colour Generator - DMC Colour Variations

Embroidery Website randomiser

Embroidery Hoop Size randomiser - in inches

Embroidery pattern Design Prompts

Random Embroidery stitch Generator

Aida Fabric Count generator

Embroidery Styles

Embroidery Project Generator

Other resources that I have made

My Goodreads book recs

Needle Organisation System

Embroidery Organisation Bingo Card

My Embroidery Pinterest board

Songs to Stitch To - my Spotify playlist for when I’m crafting

Orchestral Crafting Music - for when you really want to focus on your projects.

Crafting Acronyms - a list of acronyms used in the crafting community.

Videos to embroider to - videos that I like to put on in the background whilst I’m stitching.

Other Resources that I have found

Threadcolors.com - colour matching for DMC threads

Thread - Bare Stitching - tools and calculators

Flossmaxx - colour conversion for major floss brands

Needle N’ Thread - blog with useful tricks and tips.

Royal School of Needlework Stitchbank - has a wide variety of modern and historical stitches.

Sarah’s hand Embroidery Tutorials - a visual dictionary of embroidery stitches

StitchLifeStudio - an Etsy store that sells custom frames for embroidery hoops

Colour Scheme - good for helping you to select fabric/ thread colour palettes for your projects.

Color Designer - a website that has a wide variety of tools that can help you develop colour palettes for your projects.

List of colours ( alphabetical)

List of colours by shade

List of Crayola crayon colors

The symbolism of flowers

Sew What Podcast - A podcast where the host Isabella Rosner talks about historical embroidery and interviews a wide range of guests

Sarah Homfray Embroidery - YouTube channel

Antique Pattern Library

Bernadette Banner - Historical recreation YouTube channel

Sewstine - a historical recreation YouTuber that specialises in machine embroidery

Danielle Clough - A South African embroidery artist who produces beautiful pieces with bright colours. I have linked her Instagram.

Quilter’s Paradise - free online quilting calculators

ImageColorPicker - allows you to pick colours from photos

Loose Ends Project - This allows crafters to sign up to finish the craft projects of those who have passed away or have become disabled.

DMC - A well known embroidery supply brand. They produce high quality stranded cotton as well as a litany of kits and free patterns.

The DMC Youtube channel- has lots of tutorials and information.

Sylko thread colour inventory list - for those who have inherited their grandmother’s thread stash

Omni calculator - allows you to convert various lengths

Thread colour palette generator - allows you to generate colour palettes to use in your projects

Stitchpoint - allows you to write phrases in 7 different cross stitch fonts

FlossCross - a free online cross stitch pattern maker

Hours Tracker - the app I use to keep track of the hours I spend stitching

r/Embroidery - the embroidery subreddit is a really good source of information, encouragement and inspiration

r/CrossStitch - the cross stitch subreddit is a really good source of information, encouragement and inspiration

Code Crafters Quilt Generator - allows you to generate a random quilt design

Freebloss - a Amazon store that produces kits for many crafts including embroidery and they are affordable and high quality

prettycolors - a Tumblr blog that posts random colours along with the hex code and this can be a helpful resource for fibrecrafters when they are trying to pick a colour for their project(s).

colour-palettes - a blog that posts user submitted colour palettes and I think that this blog can also be used as inspiration for fibrecrafters when selecting colours to use in their project(s).

Swatches - this app allows you to swatch colours from photos as well as being able to swatch colours in real time.

John James Needle Guide - a guide to different types of needle and their uses.

Cable Patterns - allows you to make your own cable patterns for knitting

RSN collection and archive- photographs of objects in the Royal School of needle work collection. The first 100 objects have just been digitised and put online.

Hand exercises for knitters- these can also be used by other crafters in general

Things that I suggest you buy

I have not received anything in exchange for recommending these products

A colour wheel - this will enable you to choose the best colours for your projects

Multicoloured cases - this box filled with multicoloured cases will help you to organise your threads ant to easily take them on the go.

Plastic embroidery hoops- I find that plastic hoops are able to maintain tension and keep your projects drum tight.

Embroidery Floss Organisers- these help you to keep all of the various colours that you are using in your projects in one convenient place.

Pellon Stick-N-Washaway Embroidery Stabilizer - allows you to trace or print out your design and stick it onto your fabric, stitch over it and then wash it off once you’re done.

[copperbadge]

I've talked before about how for me some emotions don't really have an "off switch", particularly anger and sadness. Turns out that's probably an ADHD thing, because emotional regulation is an executive function, and working on that is what convinced me to take another swing at therapy. I told my therapist in our first session that when I get upset I tend to just sit and stew; I know all the tips'n'tricks for altering one's mood, but some don't work and others would require me to get off the sofa, which feels herculean when you are sitting on the sofa and stewing.

She advised I set an alarm for a time I'm going to get up and go do something, which does help, but I knew that if I couldn't come up with stuff to do once I was up I'd just say "ah fuck it". So I made a list to consult when I'm not feeling like doing anything. Most of it still doesn't appeal much, but I've found that if the thing I'm doing is somehow fixing something, I'm more likely to find it satisfying or at least achievable.

I have a bunch of scraps of cross stitch fabric left over from trimming finished products, and I've been stitching them together, a sort of textile kintsugi. It requires just enough focus to distract, but no counting or pattern consulting, and I can put on a podcast while I do it, plus I can do it from the sofa. I think also I might be better at doing actual cross stitch with the pieces, because my brain will still count that as mending the fabric. I'm not really sure how well it's working because it seems like I do the thing for half an hour and then go back to sulking, but it's a start. And Dearborn approves because she get to spend the whole time in my lap, watching the embroidery floss carefully and waiting to pounce.

[ID: A photograph of Dearborn the Tortie, lying on the second best quilt; lying on top of her are two narrow strips of black cross-stitch aida fabric, which have been stitched together at one overlapping edge with yellow thread.]

[mudandmire]

Contact

Azris Week - Day Three: Contact

~~~ So how about...fluff. @azrisweek day three is here! And we continue on the excitement with this prompt which I waffled on not gonna lie. But ultimately this is what I ended up with; a lil treat from the canon lore (universe/place??), which I don't often do so this is wack. Thank you to everyone posting this week and also those reading and liking - you all make my day and literally my heart feels light when I see you little guys in my phone <3. Alright, enough, enjoy!! :D ~~~

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” — The Iliad.

Far Too Honest

Eris learns quickly in his and Azriels growing partnership; the Shadowsinger has no patience for his vast, vapid verbiage.

That is to say: Azriel cuts through his bullshit with the skill and delicate precision he wields with his daggers.

Eris sit's at his desk with it's guttering candlelight. Silver streams through the patterned canopy and slips across the deep mahogany floors. The shadows stretch long, their edges wavering at the corner of Eris’s eyes. It could, of course, be strain from how long he’s been staring at this written proposition from the representative of Agriculture in his fathers council. The words are small, skittering in the dim candlelight, but that doesn’t explain the disquiet sense of knowing that crests along the nape of his neck and down the slope of his spine.

He straightens in his chair, the proposition all but forgotten as his breathing goes shallow: waiting, listening carefully for the softest whisper of sound behind him. The shadows in the corner of his room, the places he’d never think darkness could fit to accommodate, deepen like ink spilled in a pool, and then—

“It’s late, Shadowsinger.” Eris croons, slumping back in his seat, the very picture of nonchalance.

Azriel melts out of the very fabric of the wall Eris had been staring at—darkness tangible and material pours over his shoulders, shrouding the shine of his cobalt syphons. It seeps down the contours of his armored body before falling to the rug and dissipating. There’s wisps of shadow that still cling to him when he steps away from the wall, but Eris had only ever found him after he’d mysteriously appeared; never has he seen the process. A strange, tangled birth from the creeping darkness of his room.

“You’re not asleep.” Azriel says, his voice low. It’s not a question, Eris thinks most likely he already knew he wouldn’t be asleep.

“Would you prefer it if I was? Would certainly make this torturous confrontation less so.” He waves a careless hand to the tossed and creased emerald sheets and quilt of his bed.

Azriel tilts his head, enough that Eris can catch it in the weak light of his chamber. Quiet falls, yet Azriel doesn’t hasten to break it, instead studying Eris with those bright, hazel eyes. Listening into an invisible, untouchable voice—probably telling him about the dark, half-moon bruises under his eyes, the sluggish bleeding of his picked at cuticles.

“I think you would prefer if I wasn’t here at all.” His arms cross over his chest, a single dark brow arched even as his mouth creases in a frown.

“Now what would make you think I don’t absolutely adore your company, Shadowsinger? You’re a complete delight at all hours.”

Azriel takes a couple steps closer, his features carved into harsh lines. “Would you like me to come back in the morning?”

Eris falters, just for a heartbeat, before a scoff slips from his lips and his hands fold together under the safety of his desk. Free to rub and pick to his hearts content. “I didn’t think my comfort mattered to you so much, I'm touched.”

“It doesn’t,” he turns briefly toward the bed and the mess Eris had left behind with all his tossing and turning. “But I don’t want to deal with you when your tired and talking around the conversation even more than when you’re well rested.”

“‘Well-rested,’” he hums, “not sure I’m familiar.”

Azriel sighs deeply, walking closer to the desk with a pensive look in his eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Relax, Shadowsinger.” Eris huffs, his knee bouncing under the desk, an itch in his calves and thighs he can’t seem to get rid of no matter how he twists his legs. It’s what dragged him out of bed in the first place—like the constant jump of his mind from problem to problem to problem accidently side-tracked down his body and stored in the bones of his legs. “I am at my best at all times of day.”

“Not night, then.” He replies shortly.

“Oh, so the bat can be clever? Not just boringly blunt.” Eris sneers.

Azriel narrows his eyes down at him. “I’m still waiting for an answer, Lordling.”

"You’re no fun.”

Azriel remains unmoved, his lips pressed together so tight the color leaches from them entirely.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to repeat the question.” He gives Azriel a bland smile, mocking as he looks up at the lit features of his face. He’s closer than he realized, shifting nearer while Eris remained distracted by his own mind games—the pick of his nails at the raw skin around his fingers, the agitated bounce of his knee.

It’s a complete surprise when Azriel—in a movement so swift Eris blinks and misses it—reaches over and tugs his chair out from the desk. The legs screech against the floor, and Eris feels his hackles raise, mouth fallen open in shock as he’s physically tugged up and out of his seat by his wrists.

“Are you mad—” he hisses, anger and no small amount of caution flaring in his golden eyes as they flicker around the room, landing on his double doors with a stiffness drawing up his spine.

Azriel ignores his squirming, locking his fingers around his wrists where he can feel the rabbiting of his pulse against the thin skin. “I want you to look me in the eyes and answer the question, Eris.”

He goes still, a light flaring in his gaze at the sound of his name. His tongue, pink and wet flicks out to his lips. “You’ll get me caught, arrogant bastard.”

“I’ll let you get back to your habits if you answer my question.” With a quirk of his lips, his eyes fall briefly to Eris’s fingers where his hands are still locked in Azriel's grip. It’s not punishing, and if Eris pulled hard enough he could dislodge himself free—yet he keeps his hands there, swallows against his dry throat, and avoids Azriel’s piercing gaze.

Heat steals across the bridge of his nose, burns against the tips of his ears. “I told you; you have to repeat the question, Shadowsinger.”

“Hm.” Azriel hums softly, head tilting again. The fingers around his wrist pulse, just once, so softly Eris would take it for his own heartbeat. Understanding floods him. Eris knows what he’s listening to. His heart lurches, pressing hard against his ribcage and Eris wonders if he would see the imprint of it on the fabric of his tunic if he looked down. “I know, for a fact, you don’t.”

Eris opens his mouth, a defense mechanism at this point, melting from the inside out from a combination of Azriel’s grip and his bright, hazel eyes that have starred in too many dreams to be considered a blip.

Azriel’s fingers press down, and Eris’s mouth snaps shut as his head lowers, drawing closer to him. Enough that a single breath separates their mouths—and Eris shouldn’t be focusing on it, but it’s all he can see, his head a white water rush of his racing pulse—

“Eris.” Azriel says, his low voice sharp. “If this partnership is going to work—a partnership you made a deal for—I will not tolerate this kind of complex, verbal avoidance. It’s bullshit. Tell me what you think, you’ve never hesitated before.”

“I…” He swallows hard, a tendon feathering in his jaw. Simple, useless words like bile fill his mouth and he works against it. “I don’t—”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” Azriel asks again. He doesn’t need to, and it breaks the seal against Eris’s lips.

“No,” he almost shouts, surprising himself and flinching back at the echo of his own voice—louder than it’s been in a while. “I don’t want to—I’m fine to conduct business, now.” He’s embarrassingly breathless, molten in the Shadowsinger’s hold.

At the though, he squirms against it slightly, Azriel tightening his grip in warning. “You don’t want to what?”

“Why do you act like you care?” Eris's mouth twists, bearing a dismissive scowl. There's a wild gleam in his eyes as his nostrils flare and for the first time the scent of cedar and the faintest hint of something smokey, like fyre whiskey, greets him.

Azriel breathes in deep, head rearing back slightly as if realizing how close they had grown in the undiluted heat of their conversation. “I don’t work with beings who say one thing, but mean another. Bad for business.” He grumbles, gaze cast to this side.

Blinking, Eris grits his teeth against the wave of despair that rises with a vengeful force in his chest. “Of course, wouldn’t want my serpents tongue meddling with your saintly High Lord’s schemes.”

“I said that wrong—”

“I’m really, quite sure you didn’t.”

“Eris,” The air shudders out of his lungs, a full body thing, and suddenly Eris watches as his features grow closer when he rests the bridge of his forehead against his. “For some, unexplainable reason, I want you to tell me things. True things.”

His mouth shuts with a click, swallowing the knot in his throat as he closes his eyes. Eris near melts into the line of his frame, feeling their noses brush against each other. There’s a part of him, try as he might to drown and subdue it, that longs for this. The breadth of Azriel's shoulders and the sweet sincereity of his mouth. He's already taken up by so many, and so much, but if Azriel asked—if he let him—Eris would carve a small spot in his chest that he could settle on like a bird on it's perch.

The longing of it, how soft he melts in the continuing heat of Azriel's presence, makes his mouth unguarded, his tongue dangerous. His heart is most especially vulnerable to the small, infinitesimal spark of hope lighting in his chest.

He wets his lips. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight; I couldn’t sleep.” The secret is dragged from the depths of him with the same finesse as lobbing a stone into a still lake. It falls in-between the space of his and Azriel’s bodies—but Azriel doesn’t miss it.

“Nightmare?”

“It—ever since Koschei.” Is all he manages to say until his throat clicks and he chokes off.

There’s the slightest increase in pressure when Azriel presses his forehead closer.

“I have them, too. Koschei.”

“Oh.” Eris breathes, relaxing more into Azriel’s hold.

“Somehow, always of you.” He confesses.

Eris can feel the words, they’re so close. The room has completely melted away—every sound and scent. The dripping wax of the candles, the worn leather of his chair. Even the faint smell of damp, churned earth, falls away. Eris is entirely held on an axis point by the vehemence in Azriel’s shadowed eyes.

The chest against his heaves, sudden and sharp. “We should…” Azriel trails off, his voice soft, gaze settling on his eyes, ears, nose, and then falling so lightly it’s barely a moment to his lips.

Eris only has a second to mark the heavy thump of Azriels pulse through his fingers before he’s rearing back. “This isn’t—” his eyes are wild, “we can’t.”

It takes a moment for feeling to rush back into Eris’s body—for sound and sight to come crawling back like admonished hounds. His hands are still aloft, held by invisible clutches because Azriel had removed his touch like it burned him straight to bone.

He clears his throat, casting his gaze down to the brown and maroon patterned carpet and wondering if his legs were shaking or if that was his vision.

“Uh—” his tongue stumbles and it sets his cheeks aflame. “Yes, right, of course that was…silly of me, forget it.” The plea is quiet, supposed to be left more to himself than to Azriel but it seems the sight of him, the very feeling of his nearness, makes his filter faulty.

“No, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have…” Azriel gestures uselessly to Eris’s own hands, then sighs deeply and cards his fingers through the raven strands of his hair.

Quiet falls among them. A silence much like the ones that haunt the Forest House; every empty, echoing hallway, the spaces between the books in the library, the very haloed edge of light the torches cast. All of it is pulsing, threatened and vulnerable.

Eris has never felt so stripped. Down to bone, raw as his bruised eyes and picked cuticles. He tugs at the embroidered hem of his waistcoat, restricting him as if it grew belts and strapped itself around and around and around—

“I don't regret it. I’m not saying I shouldn’t have asked for the truth, I wanted that. I shouldn’t have held you hostage, though. I’m sorry.” Azriel’s got his own hands clasped behind his back as if in penance.

He’s looking at Eris through the sooty spread of his lashes and Eris needs him out. He needs him far, far away so he can upturn his floorboards with his broken fingernails and bury himself away to rot.

The rabbiting thump of his pulse and the tremor running through his hands suggests that he still hasn’t recovered from his proximity.

He tries anyway. “It’s fine.” He whispers, shifting on his feet that have grown spines and thorns and dig into the muscle of his calves with vengeance. He hides the dull prick of pain in the clench of his jaw.

“You can tell me if it’s not—if I crossed a line.” His voice is so soft, quilted and woven as if to draw Eris into it’s bed of comfort and strangle him there.

He should tell him he crossed a line, crossed every line. Should twist his forked tongue and bare his teeth and shove him out the arched window. It would be the wise choice, the most sensible option to keep Eris from let himself wade into even deeper waters.

Yet, Eris can still feel the heat of Azriel's hands around his wrists like a band—the soothing warmth of another body, another soul, pressed to his. The most delicate, tender spot where his heart pounds loud and obnoxious: every lie a jolt, every truth a river. It is his secret, everything that gives him away, Azriel has held with a gentility Eris didn’t know was possible.

Mother strike him down, but he wants it again. The vulnerability. The most pleasant prick of needles in his skin, a fire built log by log in his belly—he wants the touch. Even if it burns.

Eris is the one to step closer. “Everything you did, I wanted you to do.” His heart is racing, sweat collecting on his palms. He has one horrible, stomach churning thought of ‘that was far too honest’ before a gentle touch, hesitant and questioning, brushes against the jut of bone on his wrist.

His head snaps up, Azriel is already looking at him. “Good,” he says, “I wanted to—I want to.” The words are near breathless, a pinch forming in between his dark brows.

His pointer finger and thumb circle his wrist, head tilted in a silent question.

All Eris feels is the rain-soaked rush of relief that floods him. The itch, insufferable and unreachable in his legs disappears. His chest loosens, and for the first time that night exhaustion sweeps over him in a blanketed haze of slow blinking and slumped shoulders.

“Maybe we can continue this delightful—” he cuts himself off with a yawn, startling him almost as much as Azriel.

“Tomorrow—right, yes, I completely forgot how late it was.” The words fall one on top of the other he’s talking so fast, still low, as if afraid to break the careful quiet around them.

Eris stops his spiraling, though it’s hard to tell from the outside, Azriel had gone completely rigid. A sudden swarm of lengthening shadows and stretches of darkness folding over his shoulders and arms. He holds Azriel’s wrist, thumbing over the ridges and caps of his scars.

“I meant, maybe you could stay?” It’s not as scary voicing it as he thought it would be, not after everything tonight. Or, perhaps the Mother has granted him a rare gift and is letting his fatigue untie his reserves.

Azriel’s hazel eyes widen, absorbing the dark of his Illyrian leathers, the sepia tinge to his room. Sooty lashes flutter, and Eris watches with rapt attention.

“You’d be okay with that?” He glances over his shoulder at the spread of Eris’s tousled bed; the emerald quilt and strewn, goose feather pillows.

Eris swallows thickly. Not in fear, not this time, but in pure, undiluted want. “I’ve never slept with anyone,” he whispers, “not like this.”

Azriel doesn’t say anything else, his gaze scans the room and its dim light. He turns with Eris’s wrist still in his hand, and walks toward the bed. It’s not weird—it should be weird, but all Eris can think of as he unbuttons his waistcoat and the restrictive, lavish layers of his ensemble is how comfortable he feels in the dark with him.

“You need trousers.” Eris says, already digging through his armoire for a folded pair of worn trousers he thinks might fit Azriel.

Azriel glances over at Eris with a quirked brow, he’s got one hand on the buttons on the front of his abdomen, undoing them with a practiced ease that comes from a lifetime of repetition. He shrugs the top off behind his back, where it slips in the space between his wings and falls to the floor. Eris watches with slightly parted lips as those great, membranous wings shudder like a hound shaking off its coat. They move in mesmerizing, miniscule ways; how Eris’s fingers would fidget and twitch, his knee bounce—he finds Azriel’s wings mimic those same involuntary patterns of being.

He shakes his head, handing Azriel the pair of trousers. “These should fit.”

“Thanks,” Azriel says, working them up his legs and then grunting when the hem of the legs come up to his calves. “Should?” He asks with a wry smirk.

“Shut up, those are old.” Eris fluffs out the quilt, resettling the pillows against the headboard and straightening the sheets.

Azriel is quiet as he helps fold the quilt over so he can slip into bed. “I’m sure.” He mocks gently, and gets a heavy goose down pillow to the face for it.

His face falls in affront, and no small amount of shock as he freezes half-way onto the mattress. “What—” his voice pitches up, and Eris claps a hand over his mouth where he’s sitting up against the headboard.

“Just get in, Azriel.” A huff comes from behind his palm, breath warming his skin, and he can feel how his lips pull down in a frown.

There’s only the quiet shuffle of fabric and skin. The growing, shifting darkness that cools when Eris blows out the candle when Azriel settles enough. Eris remains on his back, a stiffness solidifying against his spine the longer he lays in the dark with another body, another heartbeat and set of lungs right next to him.

The mattress bounces as Azriel moves again, a sigh falling from his mouth.

“Give me your hand.” He says.

Eris startles, eyes wide in the dark where he can feel his pulse in his sockets. “Why?”

“Give me your hand, Eris.”

Begrudgingly, Eris turns to his side, awkwardly holding his arm out into the dusk. The room only lit by the the silver strands of moonlight through the canopy outside his window.

Azriel’s touch is gentle, searching, he finds the tops of his fingers and starts a path down—it leaves Eris entirely breathless. Working against the burn in his chest and the clinging scent of cedar to breathe in deep.

Eris already knows what Azriel wants, but his heart still lurches up to his throat when his scarred hand circles his wrist.

“Tell me a truth, Eris.” It’s the second time he’s said his name in as many minutes. Eris needs him to say his name always, forever.

He inhales, filling his lungs till there’s a pinch and the releases it, letting his muscles and all the tension built in his bones melt into the mattress. The down pillow moulds to his head, and it feels like he’s sinking somewhere darkness won’t even reach.

He can’t tell if his eyes are closed or if the moon disappeared, but he says anyway to the shroud of shadows—to Azriel.

“Don’t be gone when I wake up.”

Sleep calls to him, a lullaby he hasn’t heard in full for so long. He barely feels Azriel’s fingers tighten around his wrist. He is, however, sent off to rest with the deep, ocean tide pull of his voice from the other side of the bed.

“I’ll be here.”

All there is in this endless sea of pillows and the soft cotton of his quilt is the heat of Azriel's knee that brushes against his, the clasp of his scarred fingers around his wrist. The rest, if there’s more, is null.

~~///~~///~~///~~

hey. hey look listen h ey maybe I just wanted my boys to be soft and say to hell with logic. is that so bad? no. I possess a physical inability to write anything lighthearted without the emotional weight - it haunts me. ALSO I have beef with Illyrian clothing and leathers bc what do you MEAN the buttons are down the back on the sides??? I'm sorry??? Behind big ass wings???? Why not have a wrap sort of style and then buttons or ties in the front panels, like on the sides of the abdomen. I digress, I hope you liked it I've got...things brewing for day four and it's. hm. we'll see ;]

[3ofpents]

Fresno Nightcrawler Houndstooth // Fabric Design for @shapeshiftersvt and The Cryptid Collection

Remember way back a few weeks ago when I posted the Squonk poster and I said that once I'd designed the fabric to go along with it I'd start posting the fabric designs here? Well guess what! It's time!

For those who don't remember or who didn't know, I am the co-owner, site manager, and graphic designer for @shapeshiftersvt. 2024 marks our 10th anniversary and we wanted to do something big and special and new to mark the occasion and my partner, co-owner, head tailor, fashion designer, and founder, Eli, pitched a fashion line themed around cryptids. We call it The Cryptid Collection and it features six of our and the internet's favorite cryptids: The Fresno Nightcrawler, Mothman, the Jackalope, the Jersey Devil, Champ, and the Squonk.

My parts of the collection were designing the posters, and creating fabric designs for our very own, truly Shapeshifters designed chest binders and sports bras. But since we utilized Spoonflower to have those fabrics printed, they're also available through the Spoonflower marketplace for anyone to buy for their own sewing projects.

And now that all of the fabric designs are done and uploaded and proofed and listed, I, as promised, am posting them here to talk a bit more in-depth about them, the thoughts and inspirations behind them, and the design process.

Starting with the Fresno Nightcrawler.

Part of the reason I'm starting with the Fresno Nightcrawler is because this was the very first design that I finished. When we were planning out the fabrics, it was the most solid design concept I had that wasn't just adapting the poster design to fabric (mostly because ... I hadn't done the poster yet). It was the first one I really came up with, the one I was most excited about, and the one that pretty much stayed the same from concept to execution.

I love houndstooth. Which is weird to say when I don't think I've ever owned a single garment or accessory in with a houndstooth pattern? But I do, I love it. I love the teeny tiny classic version of the pattern; I love a blown-up graphic version of the pattern; I love plays and variations on it. So when I was trying to brainstorm what kind of fabric pattern I could make inspired by a creature with such a simple shape whose only colors were white and black, the idea came pretty quickly: A houndstooth. Or a Nightcrawlertooth, if you will. It was a trick, though, and a real learning experience, especially with this being my first design.

Getting a pattern to repeat smoothly is a skill unto itself. Basically you have what's called a tile, and the tile contains the part of the pattern that you want to repeat. Then, when your pattern is created, the original tile just gets essentially copy-pasted over and over so 1) you don't have to draw the whole yard of fabric, and 2)all of the repeated parts of the design are identical. But by doing it this way, you have seams you need to take into consideration. If you think of putting the pattern together, it's sort of like making a basic quilt: You start with one square (or rectangle), then attach four more squares to each side, and then just keep doing that. Each one of those seams (top, bottom, left, right) is a place where the pattern might not match up, which means when it's applied to a yard of fabric, it's not going to look like a smooth, seamless pattern.

Of course there's ways to avoid this altogether. If you're doing a simple stripe, using the line tool in your drawing software will keep your stripe a consistent thickness, and holding SHIFT while you draw it will keep the line straight. Or, even easier, you can create a pattern where the part that repeats doesn't straddle a seam; like a polkadot pattern, where the dot(s) can be centered on the tile and seams only cut through a solid background.

The trouble with a houndstooth, though, is that not only does the tile need to repeat, it's made up of repeating figures that interlock. I can't just center the white Nightcrawler on the tile and call it a day, because then the black Nightcrawler straddles the seam. On top of that, they needed to be shaped in such a way that the negative space between the white Nightcrawlers left a shape that was also recognizable as a Nightcrawler and similar enough to the white one that the pattern is mostly seamless.

I fully admit that I was not able to do this on my own. Enter: Eli. Eli is, among other things, a math nerd who enjoys an excuse to break out the graph paper. They found a tutorial online and got to graphing and shaping and, in just a couple of hours, had gotten the shapes down. I took that tile, illustrated it, cleaned up the seams (shoutout to Eli for also finding an easier way to do this than just manually copy-pasting), and voila! A Fresno Nightcrawler houndstooth.

Now, you might look at that image up there and say, "Well that's all well and good, Pents, but they're kind of blobby and the lines are wobbly and it's all a little uneven." To which I say ... yeah, that's true. It's also kind of intentional. Like, I'm not gonna sit here and claim I got the basic pattern done and wasn't exhausted. But also I could've left it and come back to it the next day to clean up the lines and shapes a bit more, make everything really smooth and even. But, like. Look at this guy.

He's just a weird kinda blobby little dude. So I left the pattern kinda weird and blobby.

Even if I'd cleaned it, it's such a blobby little shape that's so at odds with the classic houndstooth that's all straight lines and sharp angles. So I made a deliberate choice to not polish it up. To kind of lean into the kodama vibes:

I am really so so proud of and pleased with this design. It came out almost exactly how I pictured it; it was really the most true design collaboration between Eli and I; and I'm just so pleased, after a lifetime of being a houndstooth lover, to now also have designed a houndstooth.

If you'd like a custom-sized, handmade, made-to-order binder or sports bra in this houndstooth like the one in the photos, you can find those listings (as well as the poster listing) here, on the Shapeshifters website. There are three pattern size options, the classic teeny tiny version; a somewhat bigger medium size; and a super graphic large size. Our binders are the most comfortable and effective on the market thanks to our finely graded internal sizing system. Because we're a small operation that makes every garment to order, both our binders and sports bras are highly customizable, and can be made to ALL measurements with flat pricing across sizes.

If you'd like to purchase the fabric yourself for your own sewing projects, you can order it through our Spoonflower shop, where we have it listed in the same three pattern sizes.

[littlesparklight]

I've been doing another attempted dive in figuring out clothing for the Mycenaean era, so for me and anyone else who's interesting in trying to use that when drawing Greek myth art: some notes on the colour used for clothing!

-Obviously qualifications are needed; these are all taken from fresco paintings, which means the context displayed on them might not be exactly "every day" ones, and it's all elite people, too (but that isn't to say regular-ass people might not have access to some dyed fabric).

That said.

Just for two quick examples (though missing the tiered/flounced skirt that was usual for women). "Detailed" will mean either patterns on the fabric itself or the heavy borders at arms or down the sides/front of the dress/tunic.

For women, you see blue and pink (like above lol), detailed either in white or black. (Blue+pink is also a combination you often see in later centuries, Classical Greece and forward for women). Red and blue, either with one or the other as detailing for the other, or in combination (alternate tiers on the tiered/flounced skirts, red jacket/tunic with blue sections on a tiered skirt etc) is usual too. Yellow/orange/saffron, detailed in red or black, is another really usual colour too. (White+blue is another one, and I don't want to make some definitive statement or anything but with the situations they seem to be occurring in it might be religious. The red+blue is also very usual in those circumstances; we see both of these colour combinations on a fresco portraying women painted around a shrine.)

For men, you again have the yellow/orange/saffron, detailed in black or silver/white (I don't think I've seen red). Talking of red - men do not seem to be wearing it? At the absolute most (and they were Minoan frescos, not mainland Mycenaean ones) red seemed to be only used as detailing, together with white. Men also wear blue, however! Detailed, again, in black or white usually. White (presumably undyed/plain white wool or linen), is another usual colour, detailed in black. Very often you see this in conjunction with battle scenes, so quilted linen as part of armour might be being displayed.

For Hittites, if you'd want to try to lean into that for the Trojans, there's not much colour to go on on surviving artefacts, but from one of the books I've read about Hittite society, this was what the author mentioned in terms of colour for clothing: red, blue, green, purple (with black, red, blue, white and yellow as detailing?) Obviously, the purple is only for royalty/very rich elites. (Green seems to be missing entirely from Mycenaen/Minoan clothing.)

Talking of purple, it's very absent in Mycenaean art, but presumably it would have had some presence in the fabrics of at least royalty - both imported and potentially local, because around Kythera/Lakedaimon's shores there's proof of processing of the snail that gave purple.