#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

[leahstuff]

Apparently today is unfinished Fabric Talk quilts day!

Hey, wanna see the quilt top I actually finished? I mean, I still have to piece the back, then … a lot more, but this is the furthest I’ve gotten with a full size quilt!

[intertexts]

i sgould get really into quiltin.g.

[midnightcarp]

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

[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.

[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.

[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

[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.”

Taglist: @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @halsteadstyles @lothiriel9 @liannafae @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @kimsubin05 @mylosz0 @blackgaladriel @valeskafics @liannafae @theboleyngirlx @syraxnyra @lothiriel9

[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.

[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.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 21 - What We Might Have Been

Summary: As tensions within the camp simmer and new challenges surface, the gang finds themselves slipping further into uncertainty. Amid the chaos, Kate and Arthur navigate the weight of their individual struggles, leaning on their bond to weather the storm and hold onto what matters most.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: Big chapter folks. Nearly 12k words. There's a lot of dialogue in this one, and I sorta got carried away. But there are some characters who needed to speak and who am I to stop them!

TW: Some angst. Brief mention of DV. Micah being a POS.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The sharp cry of an egret pierced the humid morning air, reluctantly pulling Kate from the depths of her slumber. Her mind was still tangled in the remnants of a dream, the line between reality and memory blurred. For a moment, she believed she was back in that blissful night with Arthur, so vivid and warm it felt as though it had just happened. But it hadn’t—it had been a fortnight, though her heart refused to let it drift too far away.

The details of that evening swept over her like a soft breeze: the lush, downy quilt cradling her as she sank into feather-stuffed pillows; the steaming bath that easily fit two, its lavender-scented vapor curling like whispers into the room. She could still see the wallpaper, a delicate pattern of tiny pink roses, cocooning them in a world of their own, safe and unbothered. It had been a sanctuary, a rare moment of peace in a life otherwise fueled by chaos.

But that sanctuary was far away now, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim, decrepit room around her, the reality of Shady Belle settled in. The tattered walls, the scent of mildew, and the low hum of crickets reminded her where she truly was. She groaned and pulled the threadbare blanket over her face, wishing she could disappear back into the comfort of her dream.

Through the worn, holey fabric of the blanket, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Arthur’s shadow flitted across the room as he moved silently, stepping in from the balcony where the faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingered. His presence filled the space, grounding her in a way that made her heart ache and settle all at once.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he murmured low and familiar, as rough as the calloused hands she knew so well. The cool press of his lips against her forehead was a contradiction to the sticky humidity in the air, and she found herself smiling despite everything.

Kate stretched and let out a long yawn. “Morning,” she mumbled, still thick with sleep. She blinked away the grogginess as she caught sight of Arthur fastening his gun belt, his movements slower than usual. 

“Did you sleep alright?” she asked, noticing the weariness etched into his face.

Arthur glanced over at her, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Yeah, I guess. Just got a lot on my mind,” he admitted.

Kate swung her legs over the side of the bed and started pulling on her boots. “Dutch got you running more jobs already?” she asked as she tried to gauge his mood.

He nodded, reaching for her belt and handing it to her from where it hung on the chair. “Wants me to go talk to some fella named Rains Fall,” he explained. “Apparently, he showed up at the mayor’s party. Dutch heard Cornwall’s name tossed around and thinks it’s worth diggin’ into.”

Kate paused, the memory of Rains Fall flashing in her mind. She remembered his calm yet commanding presence, the quiet dignity in his voice, and the deep sorrow in his eyes. It had been hard to forget. 

“Rains Fall,” she murmured, buckling her belt. “If he’s reaching out, it must be serious.”

Arthur shrugged, his expression guarded. “Serious enough for Dutch to get interested. But Cornwall’s in the mix, so you know how that goes.”

Kate’s stomach turned at the memory of Leviticus Cornwall. The man’s wealth and influence were dangerous, and whenever the gang crossed paths with him, it never ended well. She bit her lip, debating whether to bring up her other concern. 

“That reminds me,” she ventured, “did Dutch mention anything to you about the Trolley Association?”

Arthur gave her a sideways glance as he adjusted his holster. “Yeah, somethin’ about it. Says there’s two big scores down in Saint Denis—the Trolley company and the bank. Not sure which one we’re hittin’ first.”

Kate’s heart sank. She understood the gang needed money, but Dutch’s plans always came with too high a cost. She tightened her jaw, forcing herself to tread carefully. 

“Arthur, I don’t like this,” she said softly. Carrying a note of caution, as though testing his reaction. “Saint Denis ain't some little backwater town, we’re up against an empire here.” 

Arthur sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion evident. “I know, darlin’. I don’t like it much either, but we’re in a tough spot. Just a little more money, and we’ll be outta here. You and me, wherever you wanna go.”

Kate frowned. She’d heard this promise too many times before, a line borrowed straight from Dutch’s playbook. “I need to speak with Dutch about the Trolley,” she said firmly. The memory of Angelo Bronte’s cryptic words at the garden party still gnawed at her. It felt important—urgent even—and Dutch needed to hear it, no matter how he took it.

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “You’re not gonna change his mind, sweetheart,” he said gently, tone laced with reluctant understanding. “Just tell me what you wanna say, and I’ll pass it along.”

Kate hesitated. She could trust Arthur to relay the message, but that wasn’t the point. She needed Dutch to hear it directly from her, to look her in the eye and acknowledge her words. They brought her along to gather intel, and that’s exactly what she had done.

“I’ll tell you,” she said after a beat, “but I’m still going to try. If there’s even a chance he’ll listen, it’s worth it.”

Arthur studied her for a moment, his expression a mix of admiration and concern. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said with a faint smile. “Just… be careful, Kate. Dutch doesn’t like bein’ challenged.”

Kate met his gaze, “I’m not challenging him, Arthur. I’m trying to save him from himself.”

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The air on the second-floor balcony was thick with cigar smoke, curling lazily in the humid morning breeze and trailing up into the sky like ghostly tendrils. Dutch and Micah leaned on the rickety railing, their postures casual but their expressions sharp. From their vantage point, they had a commanding view of the camp below, the makeshift village bustling with life as gang members went about their business. Dutch stood like a monarch surveying his kingdom—or a dragon perched atop its hoard.

Kate hesitated in the doorway as Arthur held it open for her, his hand lingering briefly at her back as though offering silent encouragement. Her eyes flicked to Dutch, whose gaze was already on her, a faint smile playing at his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Micah, as usual, wore his smirk like armor, leaning slightly closer to Dutch as if staking his claim to the man’s favor.

“Arthur, Kate,” Dutch greeted smoothly, gesturing with the glowing end of his cigar. “What brings you two lovebirds up here so early? Come to enjoy the view?”

Kate stepped forward, resisting the urge to glance at Arthur. She could feel his silent presence behind her like a steady anchor. “I overheard something at the mayor’s party,” she began firmly. “Something I think you need to know.”

Dutch’s brows lifted, feigned curiosity masking the calculation in his eyes. “Oh? Do tell,” he drawled, taking another drag from his cigar.

Kate swallowed, steadying herself. “Angelo Bronte mentioned the Trolley Association,” she said, measuring her words. “He said it was a trap. He wasn’t speaking to me—he didn’t think I’d understand. But he said it in Italian, and I caught enough of it to know it’s bad news.”

Micah let out a low chuckle, his grin widening. “A trap, huh? And you just happened to understand the lingo, did you? Convenient.”

Kate shot him a sharp look. “My mother was Italian, Micah. I know enough to get by. Bronte wasn’t trying to hide it—he didn’t think anyone would care. He was talking to one of his men, warning him to stay clear of the deal.”

Dutch’s expression remained inscrutable as he took another puff of his cigar, exhaling slowly. “And what exactly did you hear, Kate? Let’s not be vague.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, but she pressed on. “He said the association was a setup, that there is no money. Anyone trying to hit it would be walking into an ambush. He mentioned the Pinkertons by name—said the whole thing was bait to draw out rodents like us.”

“Rodents,” Micah scoffed, leaning back against the railing. “Sounds like a scare tactic to me. Bronte’s just tryin’ to keep us from touchin’ his city’s treasures.”

Arthur, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, calm yet unyielding. “Micah, if it’s true, we’re walkin’ straight into a noose. Bronte’s got no reason to warn his own men unless there’s somethin’ to it.”

Dutch tapped the ash from his cigar, his gaze fixed on Kate. “You’re sure about this?”

Kate nodded, holding his gaze. “I’m sure. Bronte’s exact words were ‘They‘ll owe me a bounty.’ I don’t like the man, but who else could he be talking about? And I doubt he’s lying to his own people.”

Dutch was quiet for a long moment, the usual gleam in his eyes dimming just slightly as he weighed her words. “Well,” he said finally, “if it is a trap, that’s good to know. But sometimes, Kate, traps are where the most treasure lies.” He added with a wink.

Arthur sighed and Kate felt her heart sink. “Dutch, please. If we don’t take this seriously, we could lose everything.”

His smile returned, though it felt colder now. “You let me worry about the big picture, darlin’. That’s why I’m here.” He turned to Arthur, his voice shifting to the commanding tone Kate knew too well. “Arthur, you take care of Rains Fall. John and I’ll look into Bronte and the Trolly. Make sure we’re not missin’ an opportunity.”

Kate noted the way Micah shifted uncomfortably at the lack of mention of his involvement. His unease brought her a moment of vindication. Arthur gave a stiff nod, but Kate could see the tension in his jaw. He didn’t agree, not fully, but he wouldn’t challenge Dutch here.

Micah’s grin returned as he looked between them. “Looks like the boss has it handled. Ain’t that right?”

Kate clenched her fists, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “I’ve told you what I know. Do what you want with it, but if this goes south, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Dutch turned his attention back to the bustling camp below, his voice cutting through the morning air with sharp finality. “You’re dismissed,” he barked, waving them off with a casual flick of his hand. The tone carried his usual arrogant authority, though Kate and Arthur were already making their way down the creaking stairs, the conversation clearly over in their eyes.

Dutch’s posture stiffened as he turned to Micah, his demeanor shifting from the polished charisma of a leader to the prickly defensiveness of a cornered alley cat. “That includes you,” he snapped, his voice low and edged with warning.

Micah scowled, his mouth twitching as if biting back a retort. With a huff, he pushed himself off the railing, muttering under his breath as he stormed toward the door. “I’ll be havin’ a word with Kate soon enough,” he grumbled, the words dripping with irritation and something more sinister.

Dutch didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his jaw tightened. The tension in the air lingered long after Micah’s footsteps faded, leaving the balcony eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the camp below.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate settled in with the girls near the edge of the property, the late morning sun casting long, golden beams over their little corner of the camp. Mary-Beth and Tilly were huddled over a shared wash bin, their hands working diligently through the soapy water as they chatted. Karen, standing nearby, wrung out damp shirts before draping them over the sagging clothesline. 

Abigail perched on an overturned milk crate, her needle flashing in the sunlight as she sewed a hole in John’s shirt. A few feet away, Jack was skipping rocks across a shallow muddy stream, his gray mutt Cain loyally trotting beside him.

Sadie had left only moments before, tipping her hat in farewell as she and Pearson headed to the market. The small circle of women now felt more intimate, their chatter uninterrupted by the rest of the camp. Kate took her seat beside Abigail, leaning her head playfully against her shoulder.

“Why do men always have to be so difficult?” Kate sighed dramatically, though her tone held a teasing edge.

Abigail barked a laugh, not missing a beat. “They’re born that way, sweetie. Only know how to think with that ugly thing danglin’ between their legs.”

Kate snorted, shaking her head. “Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered under her breath, drawing more giggles from the group.

Abigail’s sharp eyes caught movement through the trees, and she nudged Kate with her elbow. “Speaking of the devil,” she teased, nodding toward the treeline. Arthur was saddling Belle, his familiar figure framed by dappled sunlight as he prepared to ride out for the day. “We haven’t had a chance to talk since you got back. We’re dying to hear the details!” Abigail’s voice held a mischievous lilt, her grin barely restrained.

The mere mention of Kate’s night with Arthur sent a ripple of excitement through the group. Mary-Beth and Tilly immediately turned their wide, eager eyes on Kate, while Karen, who had been pretending to ignore the chatter, stepped closer, her interest betrayed by the sly smirk on her face.

Kate groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not,” Mary-Beth said, practically bouncing with anticipation. “We need every detail. Was it romantic? Did he make you feel like a princess? Oh! Was he yearning for you, like Romeo yearning for his Jul–”

“Let her speak!” Tilly cut in, her voice brimming with laughter as she waved Mary-Beth into silence. “You’re scaring the poor girl.”

Kate peeked through her fingers, already blushing at their enthusiasm. These women were more than friends—they were her family, and she couldn’t deny how much they genuinely cared about Arthur, too. Their curiosity wasn’t just nosy; it was fueled by a shared hope to see Arthur happy again, and by extension, to see their family hold on to some measure of joy amid their chaotic lives.

“Alright, alright,” Kate relented with a small smile, sitting up straighter. “What do you want to know?”

“How was it?” Mary-Beth asked in a rushed whisper, as though trying to keep the moment sacred. “Did he sweep you off your feet? Was there candlelight? Poetry?”

Karen snorted. “Arthur Morgan? Poetry? Now I’ve gotta hear this.”

Kate laughed, her cheeks warming. “It was... perfect, in its own way. We stayed at this little inn outside of town. We shared a fancy wine—Italian red fit for royalty, no less.”

“Italian red?” Tilly repeated, grinning. “That man knows how to impress.”

Kate nodded. “He even drew us a bath after we—” she looked down bashfully remembering the moment, “it was so relaxing, he really put so much thought into it. It was like, for one night, the world didn’t exist. Just us.”

Mary-Beth clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes shining. “Oh, that’s so romantic. I knew Arthur had it in him!”

Karen chuckled, shaking her head. “Never thought I’d hear Arthur Morgan and romantic in the same sentence. I’ll give him credit, though—he’s full of surprises.”

Kate hesitated, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “He was... vulnerable, too. I think it scared him a little, being that open. It had been so long for the both of us, we were frightened by the intimacy of it in our own ways. But I could tell he wanted me to know how much it meant to him.”

Abigail gave Kate a warm, approving look. “Good for you, Kate. It’s about time Arthur had someone to knock some sense into that thick head of his.”

Mary-Beth leaned closer, her grin downright mischievous now. “So when are we gonna see some little Morgans running around, huh? Oh, I bet they would be so cute!”

The laughter around the circle faltered as Tilly, with a quick flick of her wrist, gently swatted the back of Mary-Beth’s head. “Quit getting ahead of yourself. This ain’t no place to raise a child right now,” she chided. Her words hung in the air, drawing a fleeting glance toward Abigail. Tilly quickly softened, not meaning to offend, but Abigail only nodded solemnly, her needle pausing mid-stitch.

Kate felt her chest tighten. There was that word again—children. 

Her fingers fidgeted, wringing the fabric of her shirt as if trying to ground herself. Arthur’s words from the night before echoed in her mind. He’d been so understanding, so patient. But a stubborn ache still nestled deep within her, whispering that she wasn’t enough. That she could never give him the family he might yearn for, the one he deserved.

Her thoughts drifted to another time, another life. She could still see Lorena’s tiny face, pink and wrinkled, the way her cries had filled the cold night air the moment she was born. The overwhelming joy of holding her for the first time, her fragile body fitting perfectly in Kate’s arms. She could remember the fear when Lorena wouldn’t latch to her breast, followed by the sheer relief when she finally began to suckle. And her husband—his face softened with awe as he cradled their daughter, his hand so large against her tiny frame. It had been a fleeting dream, one snatched away far too soon.

Kate swallowed hard, the memories burning her throat. These women had become her sisters, her confidants in a world where trust was rare. She owed them the truth—not just for their sake, but for her own. Speaking the words aloud felt like carving them into stone, grounding herself in a reality she couldn’t afford to dream away.

“Girls,” Kate said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. But it was enough to draw their attention, their chatter silencing as they turned to her. Abigail tilted her head curiously, Mary-Beth’s eager grin fading into something more thoughtful. Even Karen looked up from the clothesline, sensing the shift in the air.

Kate took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “When this is all said and done—if Arthur and I make it out of this mess alive—you know in my heart, I would love his child more fiercely than anything I’ve ever known.”

The rings Hosea had given her at the garden party suddenly felt like molten iron resting against her chest. She had worn them ever since that night, strung on a simple chain and tucked safely beneath her shirt. They were a constant reminder of his faith in her and Arthur—a faith that now felt like a bittersweet burden. Hosea had never spoken of building a family with Arthur, only of survival. His words echoed in her mind, urging them to keep moving, to never look back, and to carve out a life beyond this.

To live out her days with Arthur—that was the dream. The only dream that mattered. And yet, as much as she clung to it, the weight of those rings made her question if it was a promise she could truly keep 

Her voice wavered, but she pushed on, her gaze fixed on her trembling hands. “But I can’t have a baby. My scars run so deep, and I haven’t bled in years. The doctor said it’s just not possible.” She added with an air of defeat.

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Mary-Beth’s mouth opened slightly, her usual stream of romantic notions and optimistic chatter nowhere to be found. Tilly’s dark eyes softened with understanding, while Karen’s jaw tightened. Abigail placed her mending aside, leaning closer to rest a hand on Kate’s knee.

“Oh, honey,” Abigail murmured, voice low and warm. “I am so sorry.”

Kate managed a tight smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “It’s alright. It’s just… something I’ve had to come to terms with lately. The thought of having children again never even crossed my mind until I met Arthur.”

“Does he know?” Tilly asked quietly, like it was a secret they were trying to keep amongst themselves. 

“Arthur knows,” Kate confirmed, “and he’s been… well, he’s been strong about it. But I guess it still stings, y’know? I just don’t want him to think less of me be–”

“He would never think that Kate,” Karen interrupted, intense and almost angry. “Don’t you ever sell yourself short because of what you went through. You are a survivor, Arthur knows it too.”  

“You didn’t deserve that pain,” Tilly said firmly, her voice resolute. “None of it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Mary-Beth agreed, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “But you’ve got us now, and Arthur too. We’ll always be your family. And if anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

Kate nodded, “seems it’s all a girl can really ask for these days. Happiness.” Her throat was too tight to speak further. 

Abigail gave her knee a reassuring squeeze before sitting back, resuming her sewing. But the energy in the circle had shifted—less playful, perhaps, but more intimate. These women, her sisters in arms, had embraced her truth without judgment, offering her the quiet strength and support she hadn’t realized she needed.

Jack’s cheerful laughter broke the moment as he chased Cain along the water’s edge. The sight brought a small, genuine smile to Kate’s lips. Children weren’t in her future—but she wasn’t without family. And for now, in this fleeting moment of peace, that was enough.

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The afternoon sun blazed down on the camp, its relentless heat turning the air thick and sticky. Cicadas shrieked from the swampland, their hum almost deafening as it blended with the soft rustle of the bayou breeze. Kate wiped the sweat from her brow and cupped her hands around her mouth, calling out again, her voice tinged with worry.

“Lorena!” she shouted, cutting through the oppressive haze. Her mare was nowhere in sight. Kate’s stomach twisted with unease—Lorena always came when called. Even from a distance, she had an uncanny knack for recognizing Kate’s voice. But now? Silence.

Miss Grimshaw had sent Kate out to gather firewood, complaining that the damp logs wouldn’t burn worth a damn. Kate had been happy to oblige, eager for an excuse to stretch her legs and ride out of camp for a bit. But now her mind buzzed with worst-case scenarios. Did she wander too far? Or… did something happen to her? Images of lurking gators and toothy predators crept into her thoughts, making her heart pound faster.

She jogged back into camp, weaving between wagons and tents, her boots kicking up dry dust. “Kieran!” she called, sharp with urgency. She spotted him near the edge of camp, hunched over a rotting fence as he worked on a battered leather saddle. The young man flinched at her shout, straightening so abruptly that his hat nearly tumbled off his head.

Kate quickened her pace, closing the distance. “Kieran,” she repeated, softer this time, though her nerves still frayed her tone. “Have you seen Lorena?”

Kieran turned to face her fully, and Kate’s breath hitched. Beneath the brim of his straw hat, his right eye was swollen and discolored, a deep purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone. She winced, anger bubbling at the sight. The others were too harsh on him, always using him as their punching bag.

Kieran stepped back instinctively, holding up his hands in defense, his good eye darting nervously. “I—I swear, Kate, I was meanin’ to tell ya,” he stammered, words spilling out in a panicked rush. “But you were with Miss Mary-Beth, and I didn’t wanna interrupt—”

“Easy, Kieran,” Kate said, lifting her hands to calm him. “Just tell me what’s going on. Where’s Lorena?”

Kieran hesitated, glancing down at his boots like a guilty child caught in a lie. “Micah took her,” he mumbled, the words almost too quiet to hear. He flinched at the cold look that flashed across Kate’s face and quickly added, “B-but I tried to stop him! I swear I did! Told him, ‘You’ll have to get through me if you want her!’ And, well… he did.” He gestured to his bruised face, grimacing.

Kate’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “He said he was takin’ her to exercise by the lake, just past the manor,” Kieran continued in a rush, voice trembling. “I didn’t wanna bother you or the girls. They, uh… they don’t really like me much. But I should’ve told ya sooner, I know I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

Kate exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the storm of anger brewing inside her. Micah. Of course, it was him. This wasn’t about exercising Lorena—it was a ploy, a pathetic attempt to get under her skin. She’d seen him pull stunts like this before, but involving her horse? That was a step too far.

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to snap at Kieran. The poor man had already taken a beating for trying to protect her mare. “You did what you could,” Kate said, her voice steady, though her jaw remained tight. “Thanks for telling me.”

Kieran’s shoulders sagged with relief, but guilt still clouded his expression. “Take Branwen with ya,” he offered, nodding toward his gelding tied nearby. “He’s fast and steady. He’ll get you there safe.”

“Thank you,” Kate placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll handle this, Kieran. And don’t let these idiots make you feel like you’re less than you are. You’re better than all of ‘em. Remember that.”

Kieran’s face flushed, and he gave a shy nod. “Be careful, Kate.”

“I will.” She turned on her heel, her boots crunching against the dirt as she strode toward Branwen. Her mind was already racing with how she’d confront Micah—and what it would take to bring Lorena back safe and sound. Whatever game he was playing, it ended here.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The sun was dipping low, casting jagged shadows across the bayou as Kate rode Branwen toward the lake Micah had mentioned. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her resolve was steely. The thought of Lorena—her steadfast, loyal mare—being used as a pawn in one of Micah’s twisted games only fueled her determination. 

She thought of the last time he had decided to cross her, the cool press of her jawbone knife against his throat as she led him away from the others for private conversation. Clearly her threat didn’t do much good, or perhaps Micah was more stupid than he looked. Maybe this time I’ll take a pound of his flesh as penance, Kate thought with a vengeful sneer.

As she approached the clearing by the water, she spotted them. Lorena stood grazing peacefully near the water’s edge, her glossy midnight coat shimmering in the golden light. Upon her arrival the young mare looked up and tossed her head, expressing her unease at the situation.

Relief washed over Kate for a brief moment—at least her mare was unharmed. But then her eyes found Micah. He was perched lazily on a fallen log, his hat tilted back and a smug grin plastered across his face, as if he’d been waiting for her.

Kate dismounted Branwen swiftly, her boots crunching against the damp ground as she approached. Micah’s grin widened, his sharp eyes tracking her every move. She fought down the urge to wipe his smile off with her fist.

“Ah, look who finally came runnin’,” he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. “I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to miss your precious pony.” He sat up on the log to face her fully.

Kate stopped a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Cut the shit, Micah. What the hell are you playing at? You’ve got my attention so get on with it before I shoot you for stealin’ my horse.” Lorena came closer and nuzzled her snout against Kate’s back, standing protectively behind her.

Micah chuckled lowly, shaking his head as he stood. “Steal? Oh, come on now, darlin’. I was just takin’ her out for some air, stretchin’ her legs. You really oughta be thankin’ me for my kindness.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, and her simmering anger finally reached its boiling point. She slapped him hard across the mouth. Lorena’s ears flattened as the sound echoed over the lake. 

“Don’t insult me! I know damn well you didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart. If you went through all this trouble to get my attention then you’re wasting your time.” She turned to her mare, prepared to jump in the saddle and take off without a moment's hesitation.

Micah only chuckled and rubbed at the pink mark across his cheek. He stepped closer, his grin fading slightly, replaced by something more calculating. “Fine. You wanna get straight to it then? Here it is—I’m happy for you and Arthur.” The words dripped with insincerity, his smirk returning as he added, “Real happy. Warms my heart seein’ the two of you lovebirds all cozy.” He wrapped his arms around his body and shimmied, mocking her affections.

Kate rolled her eyes in annoyance, her voice icy. “Fuck.You.” She spat. “You don’t give a rat's ass about my life, or Arthur’s.”

“How perceptive,” his laugh was sharp and bitter. “You’re right. I don’t give a shit. But you two are livin’ in a damn dream world, and dreams don’t last long out here sweetheart.”

Kate’s heart pounded harder, though she kept her expression steady. “What are you gettin’ at, Micah?” Pulling a brush from her saddle bag she idly cleaned Lorena’s coat to maintain an air of indifference. There was an undeniable threat hidden behind his words that put her on edge.

Micah leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “I’m sayin’ you and your cowboy should saddle up and ride out while you still can. Things are shiftin’, Kate. Dutch is losing sense, and this little family of his? It’s startin’ to crack. You stick around, you ought to get caught in the crossfire.”

It was clear as day—Dutch was leading them into darkness. Kate could see it, and so could Arthur, but his loyalty bound him like chains. That unwavering faith, instilled in him since he was just a boy, refused to break. Arthur still clung to the hope that Dutch, his fearless leader, would guide them through every trial, that he’d brave the fires of hell itself for their sake. But Kate knew better, and the others were beginning to catch on. If it were up to her, she would have taken Arthur and the Marstons and left the moment the raid was done. The image of Jack’s terrified face and Abigail’s heart-wrenching sobs would haunt her forever. No family should have to endure such horror—especially not their child.

After Sean’s death and Jack’s kidnapping, it felt like the next tragedy was just a card flip away. And Kate had no faith in the hand Micah was dealing—he knew something the rest of them didn’t, and she was certain he was betting it all on a game rigged in his favor.

Unflinching, Kate squared her shoulders. “Funny how you care so much all of a sudden. You’ve been gunnin’ to get rid of Arthur since the day you joined. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Micah’s grin faltered, his eyes darkening. “Arthur thinks he’s untouchable, thinks Dutch will always have his back. But you’ve seen it, haven’t you? The favoritism shiftin’. Arthur ain’t who he used to be, maybe it’s time a good fellow like me takes the reins.”

Kate took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “You’re right, I have seen it. But you? You’ll always be on the bottom of the totem pole, no matter how hard you try to claw your way to the top. Arthur doesn’t trust you, and neither does anyone else.” She wanted to believe that was true, but she couldn’t deny that nearly every trap they’ve fallen into, Micah and Dutch had some part in it.

Micah’s jaw clenched, the easy arrogance slipping for just a moment. Then he laughed again, though it was hollow. “Maybe. But at least I know how to adapt, Kate. Can you say the same for Arthur? For you? We’ve all seen the way he looks at ya, like he’s caught between love and loyalty. Maybe all he really needs is a little push.”

Kate felt a pang of unease at his words, but she refused to let him see it. “We’re stronger than you think. And if you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working.”

Micah tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself. Y’know, Kate, you and I woulda made a hell of a team. It’s a damn shame you gave up on all that Red River nonsense.”

The name hit her like a gunshot, her breath hitching as her body stiffened. Red River. It wasn’t just a place or a memory; it was a wound she had worked tirelessly to sew shut, only to feel it tearing open again. How did Micah know? His words coiled around her like a noose, tightening with every second of silence. Her mind was scrambling for answers, for any clue as to how he could have dredged up a chapter of her life she had buried so deep it felt like another lifetime.

Red River had been a crucible, a place where violence wasn’t merely a means to survive but the only currency that mattered. It was a legacy. River, her old mentor, confidant, and the closest thing to an ally she’d ever known in those days, had worn the title like a crown. To him, it was a badge of honor that commanded respect and dread in equal measure.

The name wasn’t just earned; it was carved into the memory of every place they left behind. Kate could still see the black ink of the newspapers they passed on those rare occasions they ventured through town after another excruciating bloodbath. The headlines always whispered the same chilling phrase: Beware—The Red River Flows.

She could never forget the weight of that notoriety, the way strangers’ faces twisted in fear at the mere mention of them. It was intoxicating at the time, but the high never lasted. It was always followed by the sickening crash, the realization of just how deep they had sunk into the abyss. The rivers they left behind weren’t just crimson; they were poisoned with regret, a tide she had fought desperately to escape.

Kate had left it all behind, swearing never to look back. Yet here it was, rising from the depths like a vengeful spirit. Her secrets had been flooding back to her lately—first her barren womb, now the dark and brutal truths she had fought so hard to escape. It was as if the world itself was conspiring to remind her of what she’d been, of what she was still capable of becoming.

Micah’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, a mocking lilt dripping with arrogance. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya when this all comes crashin’ down.”

Kate turned her back on him, running a hand down Lorena’s neck, grateful to feel the warmth of her trusted companion grounding her to the present. “Stay out of my way, Micah,” she said without looking at him. “And stay the hell away from my horse.”

As Kate swung into Lorena’s saddle, her gaze flicked back to Micah. He stood there, smirking, but beneath the amusement lurked something colder, more calculating. She didn’t trust him—she never had—but his words clung to her like a spur, prickling and persistent.

As she rode toward camp, the wind tugging at her hair, her mind churned with unanswered questions. Whatever Micah was scheming, whatever cards he held close to his chest, one thing was certain: she’d do whatever it took to protect her family. They wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The storm rolled in with a vengeance, its low growl reverberating through the bayou as clouds smothered the fading light. Rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching everything in its path. Arthur Morgan squinted through the downpour as he guided Belle up the muddy path toward the crumbling manor they’d been calling home. Water sluiced off the brim of his hat and soaked through his coat, but he didn’t care much. He’d been through worse storms, though something about tonight gnawed at him—a nagging burden he couldn’t shake.

Belle snorted as Arthur dismounted, shaking her wet mane before trotting off to find her companion. The young cowboy turned toward the manor, ready to do the same. His boots sinking slightly into the mud with each step, his mind already ahead of him. The glow of candlelight flickered weakly in the upstairs window of their shared room, and he found his thoughts drifting to Kate. A pang of guilt struck him; their night in Saint Denis already felt so far away.

Since returning to their lives he’d barely had time to hold her, let alone talk like they used to. She deserved better than a man whose hands were stained and pockets full of excuses. His body was aching to be wrapped around his woman and let the world melt away. Wanting to throw caution to the wind and make love to her on their shared cot without a care who would hear. 

A sudden streak of color in the storm’s gloom caught his eye. Bright red, a startling splash against the gray monotony of rain and mud. He stopped, narrowing his eyes. It was Molly O’Shea, standing alone at the end of the dock, her dress clinging to her in the rain, her fiery red hair whipping about. Like a burning ember taking off in the wind. 

Arthur frowned. It wasn’t just odd to see her out here—it was unsettling. Molly rarely ventured far from Dutch’s shadow, and her fragile mood had been fracturing more and more with each passing day. The echoes of laughter and conversation drifted faintly from the manor, but Molly had chosen the isolation of the storm.

With a sigh of resignation, Arthur tugged his coat tighter and shouldered the burden of responsibility. Headed for the dock, his boots splashing through puddles as the rain needled his face. "Miss. O’Shea!" his voice was nearly swallowed by a crash of thunder. "What in hell’re you doin’ out here? Get inside before you catch your death!"

“Miss. O’Shea!” He shouted again after she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her arms folded tight across her chest. It wasn’t until Arthur reached her and grabbed her wrist that she reacted, jerking back like a startled animal.

"Let me go!" she cried, voice raw and trembling. "Leave me be, Arthur!"

Arthur tightened his grip, his patience thinning with the storm battering at his resolve. "For God’s sake, woman, what are you tryin’ to prove? You think standin’ out here in the rain is gonna fix anything?"

Her face turned up to his, and he saw it—anger and heartbreak etched in equal measure, tears mixing with the rain on her flushed cheeks. "You don’t understand!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "None of you do!”

“I’m just a goddamn shadow in this place. And now I’ve been tossed aside, burned to ash like his used cigar." She explained in a rush. 

Arthur’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath his weariness. He knew exactly where this was headed— she and Dutch had another fight, only adding more turmoil to their situation. “That ain’t true, and you know it,” he said, rough with exhaustion. “Dutch is just under a lot of pressure. Now quit actin’ foolish and—”

“I am no idiot, Arthur Morgan!” Molly’s fists struck his chest, weak but relentless, her anger spilling over like a dam that had finally burst. “I know I deserve better than this!”

Arthur flinched at her words, not from the force of her blows but from the rawness of her pain. He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of peace. “C’mon, Molly. You know what I meant,” he said softly, already regretting the edge in his earlier tone.

Molly’s eyes blazed as her fists continued to strike, her voice rising over the pounding rain. “He only cares about his plans and himself, and I’m tired of it! I’m done!” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hands, her words cracking under the weight of her sobs. “I gave him everything!”

Arthur stood firm, letting her vent her fury. He had seen this kind of desperation before, a fire that burned brightest right before it consumed everything. Deep down, he had hoped Kate’s idea to invite Molly to the garden party would give her a reprieve, a chance to bond with the others. But Molly had stayed on the fringes, choosing isolation. Now, Arthur was beginning to see why. She wasn’t just lonely—she was cast adrift in a sea of her own pain.

“You don’t understand,” Molly whispered, her voice breaking as her fists fell limply against his soaked coat. Her strength was spent, and her grief clung to her like the rain. “You don’t understand what it’s like to love someone who promised you everything, only to turn around and look at you like you’re nothing.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, his frustration melting into something softer. He reached out, pulling her trembling form against his chest, her forehead resting on his collarbone. “Look,” he began, his voice low and careful, “I know things ain’t exactly been easy lately but—”

“I see things clearly now,” she cut him off, her voice steadier but colder.

Arthur froze as her next words fell like a thunderclap. “And I will not let him cage me or my child.”

His breath caught, his chest tightening as if he’d taken a bullet. “What?” The single word slipped out, stunned and disbelieving.

Molly’s trembling hand wiped at her wet face, her defiance now tempered by visible fear. Arthur’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders, steady but not confining. “Does he know this?” he asked, his voice hushed but firm.

Her eyes darted away, her teeth clenching as she hissed, “He can never know.”

Arthur’s mind raced, struggling to piece together what this meant. He wanted to reassure her, to say it would all be fine, but he couldn’t lie—not about this. “Molly... Dutch needs to know,” he said slowly, forcing the words out. “You can’t keep somethin’ like this from him.”

“No!” Molly’s fingers grabbed fistfuls of his coat, her wide eyes brimming with panic. “Arthur, you have no idea what he’ll do! You don’t know!”

Arthur shook his head, the disbelief plain on his face. “You really think he’d hurt you?” he asked, though deep down, the fear in her eyes unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Molly looked away, her silence answering louder than words. The realization hit him like a gut punch, anger, guilt and betrayal swirling together in his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered, unable to muster anything more profound.

He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of the situation settling heavily on his shoulders. Glancing briefly at the flickering light spilling from the manor, he wished Kate were there. She’d know what to say, how to make this mess feel less impossible. “I-I’ll talk some sense into Dutch,” he stammered. “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“Please, you cannot tell him!” Molly’s voice rose, the wind carrying her desperation.

Arthur hesitated, his mind like a spinning weathervane. Torn between loyalty, duty, and the undeniable fear in her eyes. “This ain’t right, Molly. You’re askin’ me to—”

“No one can know about this, Arthur,” she interrupted, her voice cracking as the storm rolled closer, the thunder growling like a warning. “Not yet.”

The silence stretched between them, the rain hammering down as Arthur wrestled with his decision. Finally, he gave her a small, reluctant nod. “Alright. I won’t say nothin’.”

Relief flickered briefly in her expression, but it was quickly overshadowed by the lingering dread. She turned, her shoulders hunched as she trudged toward the house, the storm raging around her.

Arthur stayed behind, letting the rain soak him as he stared into the night. He could feel the storm brewing—not just in the skies above, but in the fractures threatening to shatter the fragile foundation of their gang. Whatever was coming, he knew he’d be standing in the middle of it, trying to hold the pieces together.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The storm outside howled, rattling the windows of the old manor and sending tendrils of wind slipping through the cracks. The flickering orange glow of the candles cast shadows that danced across the room's peeling wallpaper, painting the space in warmth and decay. Kate sat on the edge of their creaky cot, a book resting in her hands, though her eyes weren’t on the pages. She’d been listening for the familiar sound of Arthur’s heavy boots on the stairs, waiting for him to come back from another long day.

When he finally appeared in the doorway, she set the book aside, her lips curving into a soft smile. "You look like hell," she mused, taking in the sight of him. His broad figure was soaked to the bone, the rain glistening on his jacket as he moved into the room, shoulders slumped and eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Arthur didn’t respond. He let his sodden hat drop to the floor with a wet plop, followed by the heavy thud of his soaked jacket and the clinking weight of his gun belt. His boots were kicked off haphazardly, landing somewhere near the door, forgotten as he trudged toward her like a man finally succumbing to the unbearable weight of the world.

Without a word, Arthur sank to his knees before her, as if he was praying at the altar. Bowing his head into her lap like a man at confession. His large hands wrapped around her waist, seeking her solace. 

Kate’s breath hitched, her heart softening at the sight. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet concern. She leaned over him, her hair cascading around them like a curtain, sheltering him from everything beyond. “What happened?”

His wet hair and scruffy face pressed into the fabric of her skirt, damp and chilled, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, her hands moved instinctively, threading through his hair, her fingers trailing gentle strokes over his scalp. Each touch seemed to carry a quiet promise of comfort, warmth, and love. She could feel the tension coiled within him, the weight of it pressing down on his broad shoulders.

Arthur wanted to say everything and nothing all at once. The words clawed at his throat, desperate for release. He wanted to take the burdens off his chest and hang them out to dry in her sunlight. To lay in this moment with her forever, in this perfect silence. All else was futile, he couldn’t find the words to express that he felt like he was the only one taking the defense against a rain of arrows.

He didn’t answer right away. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as he pressed his face into the curve of her thighs, breathing deeply. Her scent—clean and warm, with a faint trace of the earth—steadied him, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

The confession lingered on the edge of his tongue, a restless weight he longed to release. He ached to tell her what he knew, if only to shoulder it with someone else. Arthur resolved to let Molly reveal the truth in her own time; it was the only kindness he could offer. 

Kate already carried so much, and he couldn’t bear the thought of adding more to her troubles. More often than not, he was the heaviest of them. So Arthur swallowed the hollow ache in his chest, forcing it down into the depths where it couldn’t touch her.

Her fingers continued their gentle work, combing through his hair and massaging the tense muscles at the base of his neck. "You okay, my love?" she asked quietly, her voice a tender balm to his frayed nerves.

A deep, weary sigh rumbled from his chest as he turned his head, resting his cheek against her like she was the only pillow he’d ever need. "Please tell me you had a better day than I did," he muttered, his voice muffled and low.

Kate smiled faintly, though her heart ached for him. She shifted slightly, her free hand coming to rest on his broad shoulder, her thumb tracing slow, comforting circles. "That bad, huh?"

Arthur let out a small, weary laugh, though it carried no real humor. “You could say that,” he mumbled, avoiding her concerned gaze. Eager to steer the conversation anywhere but the storm raging in his mind, he added, “How was your day?”

Kate raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. She knew that deflection when she saw it but decided to play along for now. “Well,” she started with a wry smile, “can’t say it was all sunshine and roses. Had a little run-in with Micah earlier.”

The mention of Micah’s name wiped the softness from Arthur’s face. His body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as tension rippled through him. That bastard had been giving Kate and the other women a hard time since the day he showed up, and it grated on him that Dutch wouldn’t let him put an end to it the way he wanted to—with a bullet. 

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and rough. “Shit, I’m sorry, darlin’. What’d he do this time?”

Kate waved a hand dismissively, though her jaw tightened at the memory. “Micah was just being Micah. Took Lorena to get under my skin.” Her tone was calm, but the spark of annoyance in her eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t want to get into it, though. Not right now.” She paused, her voice softening. “Tell me about Rains Fall.”

Arthur pulled back slightly, his brows knitting. She had a way of redirecting him, turning his focus away from her troubles without making him feel dismissed. He could sense a hint of something beneath her words—an eagerness she was trying to mask—but he didn’t press. Instead, he stood and began peeling off his damp clothes, speaking as he moved. 

“I didn’t see any broken bones or missin’ fingers, so I take it your girl’s okay?” The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly, his tone teasing.

Kate laughed, a genuine, soft sound that filled the small room and eased the weight pressing on his chest. Her laughter was answer enough. Arthur always admired her strength—not just the physical kind, though she could hold her own—but the mental and emotional resilience she carried. She didn’t back down, not even against someone like Micah, and though he admired it, it worried him too.

As he tugged a dry shirt over his head, Arthur grabbed a cigarette from the table and nodded toward the porch door, signaling his intention without a word. Kate’s eyes flicked to the cigarette, her lips tightening ever so slightly. She wasn’t a fan of his smoking, but she understood it. He only reached for them when his nerves were frayed, and she could tell that today had been one of those days.

She followed him outside, the porch roof offering them a small shelter from the rain. The storm still swirling around them but bringing with it a strange kind of peace in its chaos. Arthur lit the cigarette with ease, taking a slow drag as he leaned against the railing. Kate stood beside him, her arms wrapped around his for warmth, though she didn’t seem to mind the rain-slicked air when it blew against them.

Closing her eyes for a moment as a few drops peppered her face in wet kisses. Kate breathed in the smell of the storm mingled with the scent of Arthur. It was electric and powerful, yet comforting. 

“So,” she pressed gently, “how did it go? With Rains Fall?” 

Arthur exhaled a long stream of smoke, his eyes fixed on the horizon. For a moment, he didn’t answer, the words catching in his throat. But then he glanced at her, the warmth in her gaze enough to coax him into opening up about his day.

“It went about as well as it could, I guess,” he said finally. “He’s... wise. Gentle. But he’s carryin’ a lot on his plate. His people are bein’ crushed, and chased from their own land. He’s really struggling trying to hold ’em together. And running out of options.” He shook his head slightly. 

Kate hummed softly in acknowledgment, her gaze distant as she stared out at the rain. “I’m afraid it’s been that way for a long time, Arthur. They’re a dying herd, with nowhere left to go.” Her voice was tinged with sadness, her thoughts drifting to her own experiences with the Native tribes. Despite the immense losses they had suffered, she remembered their warmth, their resilience. They had welcomed her once, even when the world had turned its back on them.

Arthur leaned against the porch railing, silent for a moment, lost in thought. The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, a faint orange glow against the stormy gray. “Kinda reminded me of...” His voice trailed off, the words sticking in his throat as his mind shifted to the gang. To Dutch. To the fragile threads holding them all together, fraying more with each passing day.

Kate turned to him, her hand finding his. She squeezed gently, her touch bringing him back. “Remind you of what?” she asked, her voice soft, coaxing.

Arthur shook his head and gave her a small, tired smile. “Sorry. S’not important,” he murmured, taking another slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling the smoke into the rain-laden air. He hesitated, then continued. “Anyway, Cornwall’s behind it all. And he’s got his claws in deep. He’s after their land—wants to start another oil rig on their reservation but they’re refusin’ to leave.”

Kate’s brow furrowed, her fingers still resting on his arm. “What does that mean for them?” She inquired, fearing she already knew the answer. 

Arthur’s expression darkened. “Cornwall’s got the U.S military involved and he denied a peace treaty. His people have nowhere else to go. They can hardly leave the reservation without gettin’ killed.” 

“Jesus,” Kate murmured as thunder cracked across the night sky.

“He wants me to talk sense into his boy, Eagle Flies. The kid’s stirrin’ up talk of a war. He’s ready to fight, Kate” He paused, running a hand over his face. “Rains Fall, though... he doesn't want all this bloodshed. And I don’t see what Dutch has to gain from gettin’ involved in this.”

Kate’s lips pressed into a thin line, concern flickering in her eyes as she studied Arthur’s troubled face. “What do you make of it?” she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the storm.

Arthur sighed deeply, the weight of the question pressing heavily on his chest. “I think Dutch wants to use Rains Fall and his son to take the heat off us,” he admitted, his voice rough with frustration. “But he can’t let Cornwall go. He’s convinced there’s money in this—some backdoor plan to get us out by stirrin’ up even more trouble.”

Kate reached up, her fingers brushing away a damp strand of hair clinging to his forehead. Her touch was gentle yet grounding, as though tethering him to the here and now. “You’re in a tough spot,” she said quietly, sympathy threading her words.

Arthur huffed a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. “I don’t like it, Kate. There ain’t nothin’ I can do to really help those people, and I don’t want to be the one to make things worse.” His gaze drifted away, out into the storm, the rolling thunder echoing the unrest roiling within him.

Kate placed a steady hand over his heart, her palm cool against his rain-damp shirt. Arthur’s fingers instinctively wrapped around hers, anchoring him. “And you don’t have to be,” she said firmly, her tone carrying a quiet conviction. “You’re not all bad, Arthur. I see the good in you every day.” Her hand slid upward to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his scruffy skin. “Maybe it’s time to start choosing it.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch before pressing a tender kiss to her palm. “You’re too sweet for me, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude and weariness.

Flicking the glowing ember of his cigarette off the porch, Arthur turned to face the manor. He pulled Kate flush against him, her back resting against his broad chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Together, they swayed gently to the rhythm of the storm, the low rumble of thunder a steady backdrop. Arthur leaned down, brushing soft, lingering kisses against her temple, his lips speaking volumes where words could not. “Your turn,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “Tell me about your day.”

Kate sighed, leaning into his embrace as her thoughts churned. She could feel the weight of his exhaustion in the way he held her, in the subtle tremble of his voice. There was more he wasn’t saying—an invisible burden he was shouldering alone. She debated whether to share her own troubles, but her instincts told her he needed something else. Something deeper.

Turning in his arms, she looked up into his stormy blue eyes, searching their depths. “Are you sure words are what you need right now?” she asked softly, dipping into something more intimate.

Without waiting for a response, she snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him, her lips capturing his with a hunger that had been building in her chest. Arthur responded with a low moan, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping past her lips in a fervent, wordless exchange.

The storm outside seemed to mirror their passion, the wind howling through the open porch door as a few of the candles flickered out. Their breaths mingled in the dark each touch and gasp speaking the truths neither of them could say aloud.

A faint creak cut through the noise of the storm, the unmistakable groan of wood shifting under a hesitant step. Arthur and Kate both froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. There, at the edge of the dimly lit porch, stood Jack, his small frame draped in a worn blanket. His wide eyes darted between them, curiosity and confusion painted across his young face.

Arthur cleared his throat, instinctively stepping in front of Kate as if shielding her from the boy’s innocent gaze. “Jack?” he asked gently, softening his tone. “What’re you doin’ out here? You should be sleepin’.”

Jack shifted nervously, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “The storm’s too loud,” he mumbled, glancing back at the open window of his room. “And Mama won’t let Cain sleep with me.”

Kate stepped forward, brushing her fingers lightly over Arthur’s arm before kneeling in front of Jack. Her warm smile cut through the tension like sunlight through clouds. “Well, you’re in luck,” she said softly. “We’ve got the perfect spot to wait out the storm. Want to hang with us for a bit?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. Kate scooped him into her embrace, and Arthur noticed how much bigger the boy looked in her arms from the last time she held him. He was growing fast, and the thought tugged at something deep inside Arthur. 

“Does Cain help you sleep through the storm?” Kate asked as she cradled Jack close, her voice gentle.

Jack nodded again, his small head resting heavily against her shoulder. “But Mama says he has fleas,” he added, his tone tinged with disappointment.

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Well, maybe your mama’s got a point. Those fleas might eat you alive in your sleep.”

Jack’s head shot up, his tiredness momentarily forgotten. “Cain does not have fleas!” he exclaimed, indignation lighting his face.

Kate bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she stroked his back. This storm had everyone on edge tonight. “Alright, alright,” she said soothingly. “Cain’s the cleanest dog in camp, I’m certain of it.” She winked playfully at Arthur. 

Arthur smirked, but his tone turned more serious. “C’mon, Jack. What’s this really about? I know you ain’t just upset over the puppy. You really shouldn’t be up this late.”

Jack hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in Kate’s arms before finally blurting out, “Nobody plays with me anymore.” His voice was small, as though he feared he’d be scolded. “I just want a friend.”

Arthur sighed, his heart twisting at the boy’s honesty. He placed a hand on Jack’s messy hair, ruffling it lightly. “You got friends, Jack. You got Hosea, Lenny, and even the girls. Hell, I’m your friend too.”

Jack scrunched his nose, unimpressed. “You’re too old, Uncle Arthur. I want to play with other kids.”

Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ouch. Guess I’m past my prime, huh?” He ruffled Jack’s hair gently, trying to lighten the mood despite the heaviness settling in his chest. “Alright, listen. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to your mama. Maybe see about putting you in a school. How’s that sound?”

Jack’s eyes lit up with a flicker of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “You think she’ll say yes?”

Arthur forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see, kid. No harm in tryin’.”

As Jack leaned into Kate’s arms, already lulled by her presence, Arthur felt his heart lurch. He knew those words were hollow, a fragile attempt to bring the boy comfort. School wasn’t in the cards, not for someone living this life. Jack’s classroom was these four walls, his teachers were the outlaws who kept the camp afloat. Arthur knew it wasn’t fair—knew it because it was exactly how he’d been raised.

He swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him. Jack deserved better than this, deserved a chance to run with other kids, to laugh without the weight of an uncertain future hanging over him. But the life they’d chosen, the life Dutch swore would set them free, was a cage in its own way. Molly’s words suddenly came back to him like a flood. 

I will not let him cage me or my child.

Jack gave a sleepy nod, his earlier frustration fading as exhaustion took hold again. Kate pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Let’s get you back to bed, little one,” she said, turning towards the door with him still in her arms.

Arthur followed Kate and Jack inside, the storm outside muffling into a distant rumble. The flickering lanterns cast warm, restless shadows on the walls as Kate carried the drowsy boy down the hall. By the time they reached his room, Jack’s head was already heavy on her shoulder.

Arthur leaned against the doorway, watching as she settled the boy into bed with a mother’s touch. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he said, “You’re good with him.”

Kate glanced back at him, her smile warm but faint. “He just needs someone to listen,” she whispered, brushing Jack’s hair back before pulling the blanket snugly around him.

As Kate began singing a lullaby, Arthur waited outside, his arms crossed, gaze dropping to the floor. Her voice rose gently, weaving through the gaps in the old wooden walls:

"Darlin', I'd wait for you,Even if you didn't ask me to.Tie a lasso around the moon,And bring it on down to you."

The soft melody wrapped around Arthur like a memory he hadn’t known he missed. It held a kind of peace he wasn’t sure he deserved, yet couldn’t help but crave.

The creak of boots on the stairs broke the moment. Arthur straightened, his eyes meeting John’s as the younger man stepped into the lamplight. John’s gaze flickered briefly to the bedroom door before landing on Arthur.

“Storm keeping you up?” John asked, keeping his voice low.

Arthur shrugged, his jaw tightening. “Somethin’ like that.”

Kate’s voice drifted through the cracks again, the soft rise and fall of her melody filling the quiet tension between them:

"I'd bottle the feelin' you give me,And shelve that stuff for years to come.'Cause, baby, when your arms are around me,I'd swear that I'm holding the sun."

John adjusted his hat, stepping closer. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Arthur huffed a tired laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

But John wasn’t here to make small talk. “You find anything worthwhile from Rains Fall today?” he asked, his tone sharpening.

Arthur sighed, glancing at the warped floorboards. “Cornwall��s got it all locked down. We shouldn’t be meddlin’ in this, John. I don’t know what Dutch is thinkin’ anymore.”

John scoffed, his expression hardened. “He’s thinkin’ about his own damn survival, as always. If it’s any consolation, Kate’s intel on the trolley company checked out—there’s no money there. Absolutely nothing. Dutch is fumin’.”

“Good,” Arthur muttered. “One less suicide mission.” He straightened, his voice gaining an edge. “Maybe now Dutch’ll take her more seriously.”

John’s brow arched, his tone suddenly more pointed. “That really what you want, Arthur?”

Arthur frowned, his confusion evident. “What’re you gettin’ at?”

Pushing off the wall, John stepped closer, “it’s all a game to him.” Lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Dutch uses people like pawns. You were once his prized pony, and now you’re the retired work horse. He’s gonna use her, same as the rest of us. Her skills, her intel—he’ll put her on the front lines. And she won’t back down, not if she thinks it’ll help get us out of this mess.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened, a wave of unease crashing over him. Before he could respond, Kate’s lullaby came to an end:

"When dividin' up the universe,You could have mine."

The door creaked softly as Kate stepped out, her eyes warm but tired. She smiled at the two men, sensing the tension but choosing not to pry. “G’night,” she murmured, disappearing into the room she shared with Arthur.

John tipped his hat, his gaze heavy with meaning. “You sure you want her out there?”

The question lingered like smoke in the dim hallway. Arthur didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The thought of Kate in harm’s way made his stomach twist, a visceral fear that would tear him apart at the seams.

With a final nod, John headed to his own room, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. For a long moment, Arthur stood in the silence, the weight of his brother’s words pressing down on him. Finally, he turned and slipped into his room.

In the darkness, Kate’s soft presence called to him like a lifeline. She was already lying down, her head resting on the pillow, but she shifted as he climbed in beside her. Without a word, Arthur wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her close. His face buried in her neck, and he exhaled deeply, the storm outside no match for the one inside him.

“Will ya sing that lullaby for me?” His voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t catch it over the wind.

Kate smiled softly, her hands roaming his back in slow, soothing circles. “Of course, my sweetness.”

Her voice rose again, carrying him into a moment of peace he didn’t deserve, but one he’d hold onto for as long as she’d let him.

AN: Alright, I know this chapter was a lot to take in—definitely dropped a few big reveals! I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming or gave anyone whiplash. I'm starting to transition the story into "phase 2," so things will be picking up pace from here. That means we’ll be skipping over some of the game missions to keep things moving and eventually work toward wrapping up the fic. The scope of this game is massive, and I’ve been going back and forth on which details and missions to include, all while trying to put my own spin on the story. That said, I hope this chapter has set the stage for some exciting new plot developments that you’ll enjoy!

I made a playlist too if anyone is interested! Spotify Playlist

As always, thank ya kindly for reading :)

[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

Personal Project Poll

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.

[makereadgrow]

It all started with a reddit post.

No it didn’t. It started when I was 5 and my mom handed me fabric and thread and buttons to keep me busy while she sewed. It started with the Christmas and Easter dresses my grandmother turned out every year without fail. It started with holding tapestries my other grandmother wove. It started with listening to my great-grandmother talk about the quilts city women paid her to finish for them and the rugs she wove on her floor. 

I’ve always said that I had textiles in the blood, as a genetic legacy. While only one of the women who came before me called herself an artist (my maternal grandmother) they all chose textiles as their medium. 

I made my first quilt in middle school, I think. My grandmother spent decades as purely a garment seamstress, working in a suit store and altering prom dresses on the side, sewing for herself and her loved one. She loved clothes and her huge basement was packed with everything she had made herself. She found herself seeking a new challenge. She’d avoided quilting (possibly because her mother was a quilter and they had a complex relationship) but she decided to give it a go. Her first quilt was a pinwheel, pieced by machine and then hand quilted while she recovered from a knee surgery. She let me quilt a block. I decided I’d make a quilt too, pinwheels the same as her. I didn’t have a book, or a pattern, or the internet and she wasn’t there when I started. I cut my triangles mostly by eye, with scissors, on the living room floor. They were big, maybe 10 inches. I sewed them up and wonky is the kindest word I could give them now, but I felt like a genius. I didn’t know you were supposed to quilt it before binding so I bound it, and pinned the layers together. I even quilted some of the squares. And then I slept with it, pinned together for roughly a decade. It was never fully quilted. It wasn’t long enough to cover both my shoulders and feet, but it was the perfect weight for a summer quilt. I wish I knew what had happened to it. 

My second quilt was a whole cloth quilt. I was in grad school. I had the internet, but I didn’t use it. I wanted something the same weight as the first quilt, but long enough to cover my feet. I bound it with satin blanket binding, and quilted a cross, one row up the length through the middle, and one row across the width. I did not read the directions on the batting about how far apart the quilting lines should be. It is now my son’s favorite blanket. It hasn’t fallen apart. 

I did a lot more learning (but not enough) and a lot of growing before I tried quilting again. By this time I was a parent and I had learned the value of measuring and rotary cutting. Again I’d make a pinwheel quilt. I learned how to make half square triangles four at a time. My grandmother passed either shortly before or after I started it and I think of her when I work on it. It took me a long time to make the blocks, it took me even longer to put them together. I thread basted it on the floor. I knew enough not to bind before quilting, but I hadn’t yet learned to start in the center of quilt. I worked around the edges and learned even more. I learned that if I quilt too much my hands hurt, I learned that my spouse will sleep under a quilt left on the couch even if it isn’t finished or bound. I eventually learned I should have started in the middle. I started it in 2019, its 2024 and I’m still slowly quilting the blocks. I bound it eventually because the edges were showing a lot of wear (because my spouse has been sleeping under it). Someday it will be done, but it makes me laugh to know that it is serving its purpose regardless, and has been for years. 

Another chapter in my quilting story. It was roughly 4am and I was sick. Hopped up on every medication known to humankind and scrolling through my phone. I stumbled across a video of someone stitching fabric wrapped around hexagons together by hand. Half a dozen videos later I was sitting at a computer printing out templates onto cardstock paper and digging through the remains of pandemic mask making fabric. I made a coaster, and then I made a pillow. Before I even made it past the fog of flu I started a hexagon quilt. I didn’t plan, but I kept a somewhat cohesive color story. 900+ hexagons later I had a finished quilt top, it took me about a year, and eventually I chose a backing and used my sewing machine to quilt it together, starting from the center working out, binding at the end. And that is the moment that I finally felt like a quilter. 

Its been a while since that night scrolling. I’ve made more quilts, large and small. Not a lot, but enough. I spend a lot of my down time thinking about quilts. When I’m quilting I think about those who came before me, I think about my grandmother’s hands. I think about how intrinsic quilting is to the place I grew up, all the hands that came before my grandmother, and her mother, and the lineage going back through the largely unrecorded history of poor women in rural Appalachia.  

Getting back to reddit. The other day I was scrolling through and was struck by this quilt posted on reddit by u/karenosmile. 

Classic and yet it is also intrinsically modern.Chaotic and random, but also a repeated pattern of the same simple block. It brought to mind quilts I’d seen while looking through museum collections online (which is a delightful activity for slow afternoons). I went back through my links and the collections again, looking at other examples of quilts that feature that classic ageless block - the half square triangle, also known as the HST. I wanted to know what made that quilt on reddit feel so modern.

The oldest quilt I found in my brief review that felt like it had the same feel as the reddit quilt was this quilt from the 1840s. It is orderly, but combining different sizes of half square triangles. I would not see this as old fashioned if I saw this quilt posted online tomorrow. 

The next quilt has been printed out and taped to my wall for months. It was made in 1898 by one Lura, for another Lura. Another lineage. This quilt only has one size of HST and they are orderly arranged to create strong diagonal lines of color across the quilt. 

Coming to the 20th century we have another quilt* that uses half square triangles of different sizes, however this one uses blocks of HSTs arranged and combined with large white triangles to form yet another larger HST. 

Ultimately I think the thing that sets the original reddit quilt apart is the scattered variety of block sizes and the seemingly random placement of the blocks. The varying size abandons the strict repetition of the museum pieces while maintaining the simple geometry of the block itself. 

*Link may not work as it is from Jstor