#Alabaster with traces of gilding

[arinewman7]

Saint Margaret of Antioch

Alabaster, with traces of gilding, ca. 1475

[emmiesoverthemoon]

clay stains

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: hyunjin enjoys it when you let him take the lead. in more situations that just a pottery class.

tags: tension, teasing, flirting. oral (f receiving). enjoy

The studio had fallen quiet, save for the low hum of the pottery wheel and the soft scuff of your shoes across the worn concrete floor. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows—molten gold cascading in long, lazy beams that stirred the floating dust into glitter. The scent of damp earth and spinning clay filled the air, grounding and ancient, as though time itself had thickened around you.

And he was already there.

Hyunjin.

Bent over the wheel with his sleeves pushed up and his fingers coaxing grace from chaos. A smudge of pale gray streaked across his forearm, another just beneath his jaw, another on his forehead, threatning to mix with the short hairs of his buzzcut. The white of his shirt clung in places where sweat had kissed the fabric, tracing the planes of his chest, the crest of his bicep, the dip of his spine. He looked almost unreal—like something sculpted from alabaster and warmth.

You paused in the doorway, suspended. Caught between the instinct to retreat and the ache to step into his orbit. To belong in that still, golden moment that smelled like summer storms and felt like something slow and blooming.

Then he looked up.

The grin that unfurled across his lips was dangerous. Too knowing. Too soft.

"There you are," he said, his voice a low thrum in the quiet, as if he’d been waiting for you all morning and had enjoyed every second of the wait.

You tilted your head, arching a brow. "Thought this was a group class."

"It was." He stood, wiping his hands on a towel, then letting it fall aside without ceremony. "Then I asked if I could have you to myself."

Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, and he noticed. Of course he did. He crossed the space between you with that same deliberate ease he wore on stage—like time bent itself to his rhythm. Sunlight gilded the angles of his jaw, caught on the sheen of sweat along his collarbone.

He stopped just shy of touch. Close enough that the air felt charged.

"You ready?" he asked, coaxing, velvet-toned.

You nodded—too fast.

The wheel spun, quiet and steady as you settled before it. Hyunjin stepped behind you, his presence unmistakable, magnetic. Then his hands brushed up your arms, fingertips dragging softly against your skin before curling around your wrists. He guided them forward, slow, reverent, until your palms hovered above the clay.

His touch lingered.

"Hands here," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around yours. His breath warmed the shell of your ear, his voice sinking into your bones. You leaned back, unthinking, into the space he offered, into the heat of his body aligning with yours.

His chest brushed your back. His hips aligned behind you. And when he guided your hands to cup the spinning clay, his fingers slid between yours, pressing in—not just to instruct, but to feel.

Your breath hitched.

"Good," he whispered. "Steady now… let the clay move through you."

It sounded like a ritual, like prayer.

The clay spun, slick and warm beneath your touch, and he molded it with you—pressing down, coaxing upward, shaping something new from your combined intent. His voice murmured praise, soft and slow, threading into your veins like smoke.

"You’re tense," he said, brushing his lips just above your temple. "Relax. Trust me."

And so you did.

He let go. Only for a breath.

Then his hands shifted lower, framing your hips, anchoring you. "There," he murmured. "Don’t move."

His touch ghosted across your skin every time he adjusted your fingers, each graze more deliberate than the last. The heat built between you—quiet, relentless—as if the wheel itself pulsed with want.

“I thought this was a pottery lesson,” you murmured, though your voice barely qualified as sound. It trembled at the edges, fragile beneath the weight of his nearness.

Hyunjin chose not to answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and gleaming with something far too wicked to be innocent.

“It is,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk. “I’m a very… hands-on teacher.”

The air between you thickened. Heavy. Charged.

You turned slowly, gaze catching his—too long, too deep. The moment stretched, trembling like a string pulled taut. One breath and it might have snapped.

“You’re a natural,” he whispered, the words low and smooth, his breath fanning across your cheek. He was close enough that if you tilted your head just a fraction, your lips might have brushed.

You remained still.

“Or maybe,” he added, voice slipping lower, the syllables velvet-soft and dangerous, “you’re just letting me take control.”

A sound left your throat—half laugh, half gasp—but it came out thin, breathless. “Is that… a problem?”

He hummed, the sound slow and deliberate, vibrating through the warmth of his chest against your back. “Not at all,” he murmured near your ear. “I like when you let me take the lead.”

You were unsure if he meant with the pottery anymore.

And when you glanced over your shoulder to meet his eyes—those endless, dark pools gleaming just above your skin—you knew he didn’t mean it in that context either.

His gaze dropped. First to your mouth, lingering there with bold, deliberate slowness. Then, just as slowly, his eyes lifted again, his smile returning—but softer now. Less teasing. More intent.

His hand slid around your waist. The touch was unfirm, but it was not fleeting either. His thumb rested against your side, unmoving. As if he was anchoring himself. As if you were the thing grounding him.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, quieter. His thumb reached up to brush the spot, tender and slow. But it made no move to pull away. It hovered—just a breath too long. “Want me to get it off for you?”

The air crackled around you, silent and electric.

You nodded. A small gesture. And you hated how breathless it made you feel.

But instead of wiping it away, he dipped his thumb back into the bowl of wet clay—and with a mischievous glint in his eye, tapped it gently against the tip of your nose.

You gasped, blinking. “Hyunjin!”

He was already laughing, the sound bright and boyish, the kind of laugh that pulled heat to your chest even as you narrowed your eyes.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he grinned, utterly pleased with himself.

You moved to flick a smudge of clay at him in retaliation, fingers swiping through the bowl, but he caught your wrist mid-motion—fast and fluid. And suddenly, without meaning to, your hand was splayed against his chest.

The laughter stilled.

Your palm pressed over the soft fabric of his shirt, right where his heartbeat pulsed strong and steady. He didn’t let go. And neither did you.

For one suspended breath, you just stood like that—your hand on his heart, his fingers curled gently around your wrist, eyes locked like the world had narrowed to just this.

And then, low and wrecked and barely a whisper, he said, “You’re making it really hard to behave.”

Your breath hitched. Soundless. Helpless.

He stepped back, but only by a pace, only just enough to let the air return between you, though the heat remained. That maddening smirk curved across his lips again as he caught your fingers and tugged lightly.

“Come on,” he said, voice smoother now but no less rich. “Let’s clean up. I’ve got… other ideas.”

You followed, your skin flushed, your heart thundering wild and erratic, the clay still warm beneath your nails. And you already knew—every nerve in your body knew—that this night was nowhere near its end.

The car was quiet. Too quiet.

Outside, the sun had dissolved into dusk, painting the city in soft amber hues and the blue hush of approaching night. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the streetlights had begun to flicker to life—warm halos blurred against the glass, like the world had been dipped in honey and left to glow. Inside, the silence settled thick between you, intimate and brimming with unspoken weight.

The hum of the engine purred low beneath you, each gentle vibration a tether to the moment. You sat still in the passenger seat, hands clasped too tightly in your lap, knuckles pale from the strain. And yet it wasn’t tension you felt—it was anticipation. The phantom heat of Hyunjin’s hands still lingered on your skin like a ghost, a memory, something molten and stubborn that refused to fade.

He drove one-handed, fingers draped with casual elegance over the wheel, while the other hovered on the gearshift—too close. Painfully close. So close that each bump in the road felt like a provocation, like the universe itself conspired to close the distance between skin and skin. Every shift of the car was a question. Every silence, a dare.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, eyes flicking toward him in a stolen glance.

He didn’t speak. Just glanced back, slow and knowing, the corner of his lips curving in a way that made your pulse stutter. Like he knew. Of course he knew. Like he was content to let you simmer, to let the echo of his touch drive you quietly mad while he sat cool as dusk beside you.

“Didn’t expect you to be so good with your hands,” you said at last, voice pitched low—an attempt at nonchalance that failed miserably beneath the softness that had crept in.

Hyunjin’s laugh was a low, velvet thing in his throat. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

Your gaze dropped to the blur of passing lights outside, but your mouth curved in spite of yourself. “I didn’t not like it.”

He shifted gears, and the back of his hand grazed your thigh—an accident, maybe. Or maybe not. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze on the road while the corner of his mouth twitched upward in subtle satisfaction.

The silence returned, thicker now. Tighter. It thrummed like a string stretched to its limit, vibrating between you both.

He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his fingertips. Then, like the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “You looked cute concentrating like that.”

You turned your head, slow and measured, unsure whether you wanted to challenge or indulge him. “Cute?”

“Mmh.” His smile deepened. “All serious and focused. Tongue caught between your teeth. Your eyes kept darting between the clay and me—like you couldn’t decide if I was about to help you or kiss your neck.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You were watching me?” you asked, the words falling quiet, fragile.

He glanced at you again—this time longer. This time slower. That lingering look that undressed without touching, that made you feel warm and bare under your clothes.

“You were hard not to watch,” he said.

The world tilted slightly.

You shifted in your seat, knees grazing his, the contact small but seismic. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

“So…” you murmured, the word curling at the edges with the faintest smile, “was this your plan all along?”

“To seduce you with clay?” he asked, laughing softly. The sound was warm, indulgent, wicked. “Maybe.”

You looked at him through lowered lashes. “And what now?”

He eased the car to a slower glide as the light ahead turned gold. The moment stretched—long enough for his gaze to slide back to you, for his hand to slip, finally, fully, onto your thigh. His touch was slow. Deliberate. The weight of it was nothing short of electric.

“Now,” he murmured, voice like silk unraveling, “I take you home.”

A beat of silence followed—sharp, suspended.

Then, softer: “But not before making you admit you wanted my hands on you the whole time.”

Your breath tangled in your chest, heart knocking against your ribs.

And as the light turned green, he drove on—one hand steering you through the city, the other anchored to your thigh like a promise.

By the time you crossed the threshold of his home, you were already unraveling—every thought threadbare, every breath half-formed.

Flecks of clay still clung to your arms like phantom fingerprints, a soft reminder of where he had touched you. Your shoes lay forgotten by the door. You turned instinctively, not even sure what you were reaching for—an answer, a reprieve, maybe him—and found him already there, close and silent, his presence like a tide cresting toward you.

The door whispered shut behind you, sealing you in. The sound echoed louder in your chest than it did in the room.

He didn't kiss you.

Not yet.

He only watched you—his gaze slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of you with the kind of reverence that felt heavier than hands. He saw more than your shape. He saw the shiver running along your spine, the rise and fall of your breath, the heat you had been carrying all night like a secret you could no longer keep.

Hyunjin stepped closer, and it felt less like movement and more like gravity tilting toward your skin. His fingers found your hair, brushing it back from your face with an aching tenderness that made your pulse stutter. Then down—his hands ghosted over your arms, featherlight, until they reached your wrists.

He curled his fingers around them gently and tugged, coaxing you backward until your spine kissed the wood of the door. It was a barely-there pressure, a coaxing rather than a command, and yet it held you still.

“You were such a mess earlier,” he murmured, his voice a velvet coil wrapping slow around your ribs. “Didn’t know what to do with your hands. Just let me touch you… guide you…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth—hungry, soft, certain. “You like letting me guide you, don’t you?”

You nodded. Just a flicker of movement. You were unsure if you were breathing.

A smile bloomed; slow and dangerous across his lips.

“Good,” he whispered. “Then don’t move.”

Then he sank to his knees at your feet.

Your breath caught like a gasp left half-born. He settled before you with the reverence of a man kneeling before something holy. The crown of his head brushed your thighs, and his hands found the backs of them, tracing slow, possessive lines as though committing the shape of you to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, the words devout, almost in awe. His thumbs stroked lazy circles into your skin. “Standing here all quiet… all sweet… like you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

You could barely make a sound. Your lips parted, but nothing came.

He looked up at you, eyes burning with something quiet and consuming. “You gonna let me take my time?” he asked, his voice like honey trickling over heat. “Or are you already aching for me?”

The tremor in your legs gave you away. That made him smile.

“Hmm. I thought so.”

And then—slow as moonlight melting over dark water—he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a single, awed kiss, soft and devastating. Then another. Higher. His hands slid beneath your skirt with the patience of a man who knew he had earned every second, and his thumbs hooked around the waistband of your underwear.

“You wore these to pottery class?” he teased, lips brushing skin just above where your thigh met your hip. His breath made your knees buckle. “Sweetheart… you wanted to be touched.”

You whimpered.

“Still pretending you don’t? I see how it is.”

He pulled your panties down slowly, watching the fabric stretch, watching the wetness already glistening there like a secret too loud to ignore. He groaned softly, the sound raw and low, like he was restraining himself by the thinnest thread. Holding your gaze, he let the underwear fall to the floor, but his attention never wavered—not from you.

Then he leaned forward—and kissed you, right where you needed him most.

A slow, delicate stroke of his tongue between your folds that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands flew to the door behind you, clawing for something solid, something real, as your moan broke open against the hush of the room.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice muffled against your skin. “Already this wet, and I haven’t even started? Baby.”

You tried to breathe. Tried to answer. But your hips jerked forward, and he caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, tongue sliding against you again—firmer now, slower. “You stand there and take it. You asked for this the second you leaned into me like that at the wheel.”

A strangled sound escaped you, high and desperate, and he grinned against your heat.

“You remember that?” he whispered, his lips ghosting along your inner thigh. “How you were squirming while I held your hands… made you press down slow and hard?” His mouth found your clit and sucked—gently, terribly, perfectly.

“You were panting like I was already inside you.”

You cried out, hips jerking forward again, your body entirely out of your own control.

He pressed you to the door harder, his tongue flicking with new purpose, his fingers now sliding between your folds, pressing slow and sure where you needed him most.

“I’m not gonna stop,” he said, voice ragged and reverent, “until your legs give out.”

His mouth worked you with aching precision, tongue circling, lips sealing around you like he was learning you by taste.

“I want you to remember this every time you see a ball of clay,” he murmured, and then sucked again, relentless, skilled, perfect.

You shattered with his name on your lips—your back arching, your hands clawing at the door frame as your climax crashed over you in waves, messy and sudden and breath-stealing.

You didn't fall—only because he held you up. Even as your legs trembled. Even as your voice failed.

His mouth gentled, his tongue drawing softer circles now, slower kisses against your overstimulated skin as he brought you back to earth. Then one last kiss—low, tender, possessive—before he stood.

He rose like the tide returning, slow and inevitable. His eyes burned. His hands cradled your waist.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and then he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips.

“I’m not done.”

im gonna get the pottery video tattooed on my inner eyelids so i can see it when i close my eyes

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[dd122004dd]

Broken & Betrothed

So, this is in response to a post I had made asking if ya'll would read a past life Ardeth Bay fic, well, it's finally here, part 1 of it. Hope ya'll enjoy it and so sorry for the wait. Summary: She is the sister of Nefertari and in love with her private guard but its forbidden and so they have to hide their relationship but her father, the pharaoh has betrothed her to another, so with a heavy heart she has to tell her lover that her father has betrothed her to someone else

Warnings: Angst, Heart break, Part 2 (THE HORROR!!!)

Part 2

The young Medjai strode across the alabaster stone floors. His footsteps were precise and silent. A pair of daggers attached to his hip glistened in the moonlight as he traced his way through the palace. Hidden by the shadows he moved swiftly, a destination in his mind as he entered her chamber.

She stood at her balcony, her hair shimmering in the dark as she gazed at the night sky.

‘The moon is a gift from Khonsu’, she told him once, ‘it guides travelers across Kek’s darkness.’ Silently he had motioned her to continue as he kissed her shoulder gently, ‘I wish I was a traveler; I wish I could see all the beautiful places I hear about. I want to see where the luxurious clothes I wear come from, I want to know how their strings are woven together, to see color bleed into their very strands. I want to know where the jewels I’m adorned with come from, where the spices on my tongue are grown, but most of all I want to see your hometown, the place where you grew up, the place you recall with such fondness in your eyes.’ That night he held her as she told him of her dreams, knowing that her duty, her royal blood bound her to her gilded cage.

Gazing at her his heart ached as she hummed a soft tune, it was a familiar tune, one he’d heard multiple times when the priestesses of Hathor worshipped her. Lost in her voice, he continued gazing at her, his limbs softly swaying with her voice, the jangle of his daggers accompanying her voice to form a symphony unheard of before.

Slowly the song dwindled into a comforting silence, the pair basking in it as if afraid to break this moment of comfort. “Will you simply stand there, Ardeth?” she finally asked, breaking the silence. “What would you command of me, Princess? I am but your servant.”

“Princess? You haven’t called me that in a long time.” She said sadly as she turned to look at him.

“I’m afraid it is time I start addressing you by your title, Princess. I have been remiss in my duties and have allowed myself to become too familiar with the one I was destined to serve.” He said formally, trying to distance himself, trying to hold himself back from comforting his lover.

“You’ve heard.” She stated simply, realizing why he was so distant that night.

“You are betrothed,” he stated monotonously as the very words he mumbled ripped his heart apart yet he held out hope that she’d reject his allegation, that she’d take him in her arms and strip away his doubts.

“Yes,” she shakily said as tears welled in her eyes. Stepping forward she reached out to him, silently begging for comfort. Despite his own bleeding heart, he enveloped her within his arms as she shook from the force of her sobs. He hugged her closer as though he wanted to merge her into himself, as though if he held her close enough, she wouldn’t be ripped apart from him, as though his arms could protect her from the hands of the Pharoah, from her father, from her fate.

Tears dripped down his face as the pair sank to the floor, clutching onto each other as if, if they’d let go for even a moment the strong currents of the Nile would part them. In that moment he cursed the gods, wondering why they’d let such pain befall an innocent such as her, wondering why they’d make him pay for his countless sins by putting her through so much pain. For many nights they had laid together, falling deeper into each other till their very souls melded into one, till even the blood within their veins was shared, their bodies and minds now one. They had prayed to Hathor, the goddess of love, to never separate them, yet the coy goddess refused their prayers. Rather, she made them love each other only to have it ripped apart before their very eyes.

Perhaps the most painful thing about this was that both of them were alive, for what was more torturous than seeing your beloved in the arms of another when all they crave is your arms around them?

“I-I don’t want t-to marry-y him, A-Ardeth,” she said, hiccupping. “I can’t.”

“It is your duty and your Pharaoh’s decree,” he said, hating the words coming from his mouth with a burning passion.

“You’d rather me marry someone else? Someone who’s not you?” She asked, feeling hurt at his complacency as she rose to her feet, anger and hurt radiating from her body. Staring at him through reddened eyes she cradled herself in an attempt to comfort herself.

Feeling her rip herself apart from him, the dam holding back his emotions burst as he desperately crawled towards her and wrapped his arms around her hips. Burying his face against her soft stomach he wept bitterly. He pulled her closer as she wrapped her arm around his head, slowly soothing him as she brushed her fingers through his onyx locks.

He looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes as desperation filled his gaze, “I’d rather you lived in the arms of another man than be buried alive within my embrace.”

“I’d rather enter the afterlife bound to you than separated from you.”

“Do you not see you are my very reason to breathe?” he asked desperately.

“Do you not see, without you, I cannot live? You are my reason to live. To survive. To fight,” she stated with conviction.

“I cannot and will not sacrifice your safety, My Princess. In this life or the after-life.” He stated, rising to his feet as his eyes tried to convey his emotions.

“So, you’d rather see me in the arms of another man? Some pompous King from a distant land?”

“I’d rather see you alive and unhappy than dead,” he stated with finality as he walked away from the love of his life. His chest felt void with every step he took away from her, refusing to look back for if he did, he knew his resolve would crumble and he’d try to run away with her, consequences be damned. Yet, deep down even he knew that she did not deserve a life of hardship and that was the only life he could promise her.

“Don’t you see? I’d rather spend my afterlife in your arms than be bound to a marriage I detest, in this life and the next.” She whispered to an empty room, her knees tucked under her chin as she wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to shield herself from the growing emptiness in her chest.

~

Weddings were an exciting affair. They were supposed to be a happy affair, commencing with a feast at the bride’s home before she departed with the wedding gifts to live with her husband as his wife. It was a period of excitement where families came together to celebrate, it was supposed to be a time of happiness yet she couldn’t seem to muster a spark of joy within her soul.

In public she played the role of the perfect princess, the beautiful blushing bride yet with every smile, with every chuckle, with every compliment she got she felt like crying, like ripping her jewels off and baring her soul for everyone to see. She desired to bare her heart to the world, to show everyone who’s name was truly carved into her heart, yet she could not. He left her, refused to fight for her, for them.

He had been avoiding her. He had traded shifts with another guard till one day she awoke to a new personal guard. On inquiring about the change, the new guard, Naten, told her that Ardeth had requested the change. Whenever she saw him lurking in the corridors he simply walked away, pretending she didn’t exist. Perhaps that’s what hurt more than being apart from him. His refusal to acknowledge her.

During the day she was a blushing bride, but at night she grieved the living lover she lost. Her mournful cries merged with the wails of widows along the streets of the city. Unheard and unseen she shed her tears till finally one day someone saw. It was her sister, Nefertiri, who found her nestled on her windowsill with her knees tucked against her chest. She gazed at the moon once again, but this time she sung a mournful tune. Trails of kohl long-dried on her face as she sniffled.

“Sister?”

“Nefertiri?” she asked, startled by her appearance.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Don’t take me for a fool. Tell me. What has caused you so much pain?”

“Nothing, Nefertiri. Just leave it alone.”

“I cannot, you are my sister and it’s my duty to protect you,” she said, staring into her sister’s eyes with sincerity. She snorted at that word again, duty, the very thing that doomed her.

Looking into Nefertiri’s eyes, tears welled in her own as she cuddled into her sister’s nostalgic embrace, a reminiscent of when she used to comfort her when they were children. Her sister gently hushed her, slowly rocking her back and forth as she cried.

Hours passed by as the night slowly dwindled into day and Ra’s boat, Mandjet, came forth from the underworld. It was then she finally confessed, unburdening herself of the burden she carried. She poured her heart out to her sister about the lover she was tragically torn apart from.

Her sister could only look at her in sympathy, knowing that their father’s word was law and that she would not be able to help her. All she could do was offer her comfort. For the first time the powerful princess, Nefertiri, Lily of the Nile and wielder of the spear of Shapneh was helpless, she couldn’t do anything to interfere in her sister’s fate so she simply offered her comfort.

~

A new face had appeared in court, a beautiful woman by the name Anck-Su-Namun, the daughter of a noble at court. She was as graceful as she was deadly, trained in combat she was a skilled woman, impressing the court with her prowess. Quickly she caught the eye of the Pharaoh. Her alluring appearance and saccharine words appealed to the older widower. She consumed his thoughts till she became his most favored concubine. Soon, she was to be the Queen, bound to bear a male heir to the throne. Men lusted after her and Pharaoh’s harem envied her, yet all the wealth of Egypt was not enough for her, she desired more, something different, someone different.

Anck-Su-Namun was Princess Nefertiri’s combat instructor before she caught the Pharaoh’s eye so as a part of her wedding celebrations, a martial display between Anck-Su-Namun and Nefertiri was organized by the Pharaoh.

It was that very night that Pharaoh had been slain by his favorite lover and his trusted High Priest. The Medjai rushed to save him but they were too late. The Pharaoh bled out on the stone floors.

Nefertiri bore witness to the event, her eyes burning with rage at the death of her father. Leading the Medjai in pursuit of the priest who sought to perform a perversion against the very gods themselves, raising someone from the dead and ripping them away from the judgement of Anubis, she finally caught the priest, ordering the Homdai, the most terrifying of curses, a cursed death, a half-life, an eternity of torment.

The entirety of Egypt was in mourning, with the Pharaoh gone, who would lead them? In this moment of turmoil, Nefertiri rose to the challenge, becoming the Pharaoh herself. Like any new ruler she had to establish herself as capable, yet she did it with an unfaltering grace soon becoming beloved by her people.

Her first act as Pharaoh was breaking her sister’s betrothal. Her betrothed was not pleased and demanded compensation for the betrothal which was granted to the man in the form of a different bride, a far more willing cousin of the Pharoah who had yet to be wed.

With the betrothal ended she could breathe a sigh of relief, now she remained untethered, yet the man of her desires still refused to look at her.

Perhaps he was consumed with shame or guilt or even self-loathing. Perhaps his pride kept him from her. Perhaps he believed himself unworthy. Whatever the reason was, his avoidance was getting infuriating, so with a sense of new-found determination she decided to find him, or like her sister said, “Grab him by his ear and make him listen.”

Part 2

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (V)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: maglor buys a horse and a hunting trip leads to a moment of bliss.

warnings: one instance of animal death in this chapter.

word count: 4.9k

author's note: I was gonna try to postpone posting this but I literally love it too much to not share it with you guys. I thought ch 4 was my favorite but this chapter has definitely replaced it. Little warning for later in the chapter, there is a animal death, written some what explicitly. Other than that I hope you enjoy!!

read full thing on ao3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3+4 |

A week later, Olwyn sends him into town to buy a horse.

(Over potato soup and the remains of a buttered loaf, she lays out small coins upon the wooden table— silver in careful stacks, gold placed in a separate pile. “My brother won’t be back soon enough to use his,” she mutters, rolling the coins beneath her fingers. Three tidy piles of silver, then five gold pieces, each one plinking against the wood. Maglor’s chest tightens as he watches; he has lived on foot for so long, and the thought of taking from her meager coffers stings like a bruise.

He tries to speak, but the words catch. Olwyn presses the coins into his hand instead. Ten silver, five gold. “Tell Euden I sent you. He might be more inclined to bargain.”

So he goes.)

The livery stands at the far edge of town, crouched on the outskirts where the fields stretch thin. Euden— the horse master— is a gnarled older man with shrewd eyes that take Maglor’s measure in an instant, like a craftsman weighing metal for the forge. Maglor explains he needs a horse, and Euden laughs low in his throat, as though he’s heard this a thousand times before.

“Of course you do,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

Maglor pauses. Realizes, in truth, he doesn’t quite know. Over the centuries, he has ridden every manner of steed: the gilded, fiery stallions reared in his family’s stables, surefooted mountain nags that carried him over crags and ravines, and everything in between.

“Reliable,” he says at last.

Euden nods, seems to approve of the word. He calls for his son— a sandy-haired youth with knobbly knees— and the boy brings out three horses in turn.

The first is a fine dark bay stallion, bright-eyed and dancing on a taut lead. The son struggles to keep the fiery creature from sidling, from flaring its nostrils and flicking its tail in restless energy. Maglor watches, unimpressed, reading youth and untested mettle in the stallion’s every move. They send that one away.

The second is a dun mare, round in the belly, her eyes serene and knowing. Maglor’s hope sparks— until he catches the subtle hitch in her step, a slight limp that tugs at him with gentle sympathy.

“No,” he says quietly, and Euden inclines his head, untroubled.

At last, the third is called: a shaggy black gelding who plods forward with hooves thudding against the frozen earth like distant war-drums. Winter clings to his coat in tufts, a ragged shroud that cannot conceal the sheer breadth of his chest, nor the weighty bulk of his head. Maglor notes the draft blood in this one.

“Berion,” Euden names him. “Once a warhorse.”

The son beckons Maglor closer, and Maglor rests a hand on the gelding’s nose— velvet-soft and questing for treats. He traces the alabaster blaze that streaks down between the gelding’s eyes, feels the deep-worn years in that warm, weary gaze. A patience forged by battles unnumbered. A spirit that has endured.

Maglor finds a kindred soul.

"Your price?" Maglor asks.

Keen eyes appraise him. "Four gold."

"Olwyn sent me."

Laughter, rough-hewn. Crooked smile. "Two, then."

"Three. Plus tack."

A nod— coins exchanged— and before long, Berion stands bridled, blanketed, saddled.

-

Read the rest on ao3

[caedmonofwhitby]

ENGLISH School (York?) 15th century

The Resurrection of Christ c.1450

Alabaster, with traces of polychrome and gilt Christ holds the banner of the Resurrection and steps out of his open tomb to the guards' surprise.

The crowded composition and costume details are very similar to many other versions in alabaster.

So-called 'Nottingham Alabasters' like this one were produced in workshops in the Midlands and Northern England between 1350 and 1550, before the Protestant Reformation.

Alabaster was transported through Hull's medieval port. Works of this type were originally gilded and painted, and were often incorporated into altarpieces.

Large-scale alabaster can still be found in situ in churches in Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire.

The Ferens' Resurrection in Hull seems to have been later installed in a 19th-century altarpiece for the chapel of the Château at Breuil-Benoît in Normandy, France.

Ferens Art Gallery, Hull

[florencemtrash]

The Wisp Between Worlds

CHAPTER FOUR: THE FOX AND THE HIGH LORD

Acotar fanfic/rewrite. Inner Circle x OC. Eventual Azriel x OC.

Summary: Have you ever wondered what you would do (and do differently) if you found yourself trapped in the fantasy world of your dreams? For Nora, this fantasy of hers is about to play out when she finds herself portaled away to the Moral Lands south of Prythian. But all is not as it seems. Feyre Archeron is missing and the deadline to break Amarantha’s curse draws near. Who will save Prythian now?

Warnings: None for this chapter 

Masterlist

*Let me know if you would like to join the taglist*

________________

Nora had to endure horseback riding for another hour, sweat dripping down her back and clinging to her clothes, before she finally felt them slow down. The mask slipped off her face like water, dropping to the grass and immediately springing up into a rosebush. 

Nora gasped at the minor display of magic.

The ground was swollen with the blossoms of spring - marigolds, peonies, hydrangeas, lilies, and roses drifting along in a floral sea. Marble fountains of horned and hoofed creatures carrying instruments were carefully laid out in the garden, carved with such a careful hand that when she dismounted and crawled onto the fountain ledge she could make out their eyelashes. 

Nora dared to touch the wrist of a forest nymph who spilled crystal clear water from her jar. She was smoother than freshly waxed glass.

Tamlin’s estate was sprawled out comfortably amidst the vibrant rolling hills, as fat and happy as the bumblebees that drowsily floated from flower to flower. Blood red roses and emerald green vines dripped down the manor’s alabaster walls and turret roofs, pooling beneath the balconies and windows so that anyone who let the wind in would be greeted with their intoxicating scent.

Tamlin made his way towards the manor without a word. 

Nora hurried after him with awkward strides as her knees and thighs re-acquainted themselves with standing on solid ground. She was in desperate need of a bath and rest.

The faint click of Tamlin’s claws on the checkered floors echoed throughout the empty hall. Nora could hardly breathe, worried that the mere sound of her existence would disrupt the wonderment flooding her mind. The black and white marble tiles were polished so thoroughly she caught her reflection looking back at her, dirty and disheveled, and foxgloves hung in bundles from the gilded buttresses, swaying in the breeze like church bells. 

A manor of this size must have had at least one hundred servants to keep it in order, but when Nora strained her ears she was only rewarded with the lonely, echoing silence.

Left at the portrait with the golden bear, right at the next junction with the 6-foot tall elk horn, past the green stained glass windows, then- 

She traced their steps until they reached a set of oakwood doors as tall as the ceiling and thicker than the length of her hand. 

The doors swung open of their own accord, exposing a grand dining room with velvet curtains and a solitary table cut from a tree trunk. 

A fae male sat at the table, russet brown and golden mechanical eyes staring out from behind a fox mask. His hair was as vibrant and warm as a winter fire, offset by his handsome emerald suit jacket and honey-colored skin. The only imperfection he possessed - if it could even be called that - was the scar that dragged through his ruined eye and landed at the corner of his lip like a lightning strike.

Must be Lucien. 

He shot up from the table, golden eye flashing, “Tam, where the hell have you been?”

Tamlin ignored him and made his way around the table. With a flash of light and a groan he collapsed into his rose-engraved chair. Where there had once walked a beast now sat a very beautiful, and very exhausted fae. 

Nora tilted her head to look at him, carefully observing the gold mask that remained frozen in place as he dragged a hand down his face. 

“Tamlin.” Lucien said. He hadn’t noticed the human girl waiting by the dining room threshold, but he was alerted to her presence when Tamlin raised a single finger towards her.

Lucien’s gold eye whirred, the artificial pupil constricting as he turned around and looked at Nora.

“She’s the one that killed Andras?” Surprise and disdain flooded his voice. She was so… human - a poor credit to her species and thin as a reed. He crossed the floor in three strides and glared down at her. She found only disbelief and mild hatred in his face.

He sniffed the air around her and frowned. “She reeks.”

Color flooded into her cheeks, blood turning hot, “It’s almost like I’ve been traveling the last day and a half. Without a meal, might I add.” 

She scowled at Tamlin as he slunk into his seat further and rubbed his temples. Her hunger had flared up with a vengeance on the last leg of their journey and she felt it twist and tug within her. Just because she was used to an empty stomach didn’t mean it felt any more pleasant.

“Go bathe. You can eat after.” Tamiln said with a lazy wave of his hand like she was some dog to be dismissed.

Nora’s scowl deepened. She was hungry now, although she had to admit a bath also sounded heavenly. 

Before she could shoot back a reply a fae slipped into the room from a hidden hallway, bowing deeply to Tamlin before deigning to give Nora a curt nod. This fae was even shorter than her and a female from the looks of her wide hips and soft features, although the gnarled mask of woven branches made it difficult to make out her face. 

She walked to another set of open double doors and clicked her heels together, waiting expectantly for Nora to follow. 

When Nora glanced at Tamlin, it seemed that he’d already forgotten she existed, eyes roaming over the silverware.

You’re a real charmer. Asshole.

Still she followed the female out of the dining room without a fight. She’d save her energy for another day.

“Best to kill her now and be done with it.” She heard Lucien hiss beneath his breath as the doors shut behind them.

The female was ruthless when it came to bathing. Before the bathroom door was even fully shut, she was pulling away at Nora’s clothes with rough, strong hands as callous as tree bark. 

“Wait! No!” Nora grabbed at Dinah’s coat when it was pulled from her shoulders.

“It’s stiff with dust and sweat, child.” The female clicked her tongue, catching sight of the makeshift bandage on Nora’s arm, “And a good deal of blood,” Her voice held the same texture as her hands. “Best to get rid of it.” 

“No.” Nora said. The fae cast a narrow eye at the girl, ancient and impatient, “Please,” She tried again, softening her tone, “It’s the only thing I have from home.”

The girl in front of her could only be eighteen, nineteen at most - young for a human and absolutely fetal for a fae. 

She sighed, “I’ll wash it and return it tonight.” She said from between tight lips. 

The girl deflated with relief, holding onto the ruined fabric for one final moment before she let it pass from her hands.

“...Thank you….” She murmured beneath her breath, grasping for a name.

“Alis.” 

“...Thank you, Alis.” 

The human had more manners that she would have anticipated.

Nora’s face turned bright red when Alis stripped her of her clothes, but the female only clicked her tongue again like one might reprimand a child. 

With the promise that Dinah’s coat would be cared for, Nora let herself sink into the bathtub up to her neck, groaning as the hot water soaked into her skin and eased her aching legs. 

Alis scrubbed away at her skin with honey-scented soap until it turned red and prickled upon touching the air, as though that would remove her human deficiency. But Nora welcomed the faint pain and the sharp nails that scratched without mercy at her scalp and tore away months of hard living. No matter how long she remained in the bath, no matter how clean she became, the water remained clear.

Alis had no shame in nakedness when she pulled the girl from the bath and began rubbing her down in lavender oils and brushed rosewater through her hair. The girl continued to look down at her feet sheepishly, covering parts of herself as Alis went about her business. She had one duty and one duty only - to make the girl appealing enough for the High Lord to court and seduce. Maybe then they’d all be freed from this mess. 

She finished by wrapping up Nora’s arm in fresh linens the same shade as her skin so the wound would be nearly imperceptible beneath the sheer sleeves of her dress.

Nora was delivered back to Tamlin and Lucien like a trussed up turkey - her neat braids complete with green ribbons to match Tamlin’s eyes. She’d been forced into a similarly toned sage-green gown that swished around on the ground behind her.

She twisted her hands together, suppressing the rising disgust in her stomach. These were not clothes she would have picked for herself. These were not clothes that had been made for her - they’d been made for a fae. 

The gossamer sleeves hung past her hands, clearly intended for a creature with longer, more slender limbs. The neckline of the dress similarly dropped too low, exposing much of her chest and leaving her vulnerable and cold.

She wanted Dinah’s coat back. She wanted to sink into the material and slink off into memories of home. Home with Dinah and Jaskiel. Home with her parents. Perhaps Alis’s bath had been a curse - her hard won outer layer seemed to have fizzled away with the lavender bubbles.

The two males froze in their seats, whatever conversation they’d been indulging in forgotten as they took in the sight of her. 

Lucien knocked his elbow into Tamlin’s side, subtly coughing into a closed fist. Tamlin took the hint and stood up, opening his arm towards the empty seat next to him and across from Lucien. 

Nora didn’t want to move. She wanted to disappear into her room and dive into the satin bed sheets that had been calling her name ever since Alis showed her her quarters. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to run. But her eyes narrowed in on the feast laid out before them.

The table was laden with enough food for a holiday party: whole roasted quails smothered in butter with garlic and thyme, fresh baked bread that steamed from the decorative slits cut into the crust, candied oranges piled on a platter next to a moist chocolate walnut cake. 

Nora’s stomach clenched painfully and her hunger won out. 

She awkwardly slid into her seat, dragging layers of tulle behind her. 

When Tamlin leaned across the table and began piling sausages, creamed spinach, bread, and more onto her plate, Nora had to suppress the urge to cringe away.

The bewilderment on her face seemed to please him as he settled back into his seat and began serving himself. Lucien was left to his own devices.

The first bite of honey-roasted walnuts and potatoes hit her tongue, exploding with a taste so bright and powerful she wondered if she had died and gone to heaven. She’d never tasted food so pure and delicious.

Tamlin stared curiously, watching as she slowly lost all sense of propriety and began stuffing her face, but if he was judging her table manners he didn’t show it. 

Lucien coughed, eyes flashing between the pair and Tamlin caught the message, dropping his wine glass onto the table with enough force to grab her attention. 

Her silverware froze above the piece of chicken on her plate, stopping their planned assault. 

Tamlin clenched his jaw, “Your hair…” 

She could see the place where his brain should be trying to formulate a compliment.

“Is clean. And you smell… nice.” He growled out with difficulty.

It wasn’t a lie. Alis had sprayed her down with enough perfume that a blind man would mistake her for a rosebush.

Nora stifled a laugh and Lucien rolled his eyes, bowing his head so that his forehead rested on graceful fingertips.

If Tamlin actually believed she would fall for his half-brained compliment he was proven wrong. Silence settled over them, thick and uncomfortable. 

She didn’t want to speak to them. She didn’t even know how’d she respond. They expected her to be afraid - hell, she was afraid - but she also felt some minor thread of confidence. For the time being she was safe, and she had to make use of that time as best she could to try and prepare for what was coming. Courting a romantic relationship with Tamlin was secondary. For now the best thing she could do was learn everything there was to learn about Prythian and the Human Lands - things that couldn’t be gained by asking too many questions or staying too long at the dinner table.

They must have a library somewhere.

“I would have expected more questions from you.” Lucien commented lazily, pulling Nora abruptly from her thoughts. The wine swished around in his cup, getting dangerously close to spilling over the sides as he narrowed his eyes at the girl, “You’re the first human in decades to step foot in Prythian, and you’re dining with one of the most powerful Hi-”

Tamlin growled in warning, shooting Lucien a glare strong enough to slice through the end of his sentence. 

Lucien cleared his throat, unfazed by the rude interruption, “You’re dining with two powerful High Fae. Surely your little human brain is curious.” 

Nora tapped her foot impatiently beneath the table, mouth twisting to the side in thought. Every parcel of her being was exploding with questions, curiosity threatening to pour out of her skin, but she didn’t want to interrogate them. She didn’t want to play her hand too early if she slipped up and said something she wasn’t supposed to know.

Her silence was mistaken for a resounding no. Lucien sighed as though disappointed but unsurprised, “How typical of humans to think so small.” 

She bristled, her pride wounded and smarting. 

“Excuse my friend,” Tamlin jumped at the opportunity to come to her aid. “He’s not in the best mood right now.” 

“I suppose you know the reason why.” Lucien’s face soured. 

Andras. 

The name hung above their heads.

She had killed his friend. She knew this, but it was too early to apologize for it, as much as she wanted to. So she once again settled for the safe option of staying silent, letting the guilt pool in her stomach and steal away her appetite.

“What exactly am I doing here? What do you want from me?” Nora asked carefully. It was a safe question - an obvious question, “Shall I sweep the floors? Wash the laundry? Be a punching bag for your thinly veiled insults?” She aimed the last question at Lucien and he had the kindness to at least look ashamed of his comment. 

“You are not a prisoner here.” Tamlin said gruffly. Nora raised her eyebrow. “What I mean is, you are here to fulfill the Treaty’s exchange - a life for a life. Apart from that you have no duties. Walk the grounds, explore the manor, or leave my court entirely. I do not care.” 

You most certainly do care. I know you care. 

“But the moment you step foot outside Prythian the deal is off. There will be no protection for you or your family.” 

“Your court?”

Tamlin froze, teeth clamping down on his tongue until he tasted blood. Lucien simply wanted to crumple to the floor in exasperation. It hadn’t even been a full day and Tamlin had already let slip his identity. He saw her mind stir, eyes fidgeting around the room as she put the pieces together. If he wasn’t mistaken, he even saw laughter behind her eyes.

“That’s what you said, isn’t it? You’re not just some high fae, you’re a High Lord.” 

“Yes.” He gritted out. His knuckles had turned white.

She thought for a long while before hesitantly asking, “So I truly may do as I wish here? You won’t kill me?”

“Yes, and no.”

Tamlin sensed the hesitation in her body before her scent slowly shifted to hope and curiosity. She’d have the run of the manor and for the first time since coming to this world she’d have access to books and music and good food.

Images of Dinah and Jaskiel flashed through her mind: Jaskiel limping to his chair after a long day of scribbling out sums in exchange for pennies, Dinah coming home with raw hands after hours of lime washing a local lord’s floors. Older images that she had buried in her heart also rose to the surface: Mom and Dad setting up the table for three before realizing she wouldn’t be coming home, Mom and Dad taking the long drive around town so they wouldn’t have to pass by the boardwalk. 

This manor was but a beautiful prison, and Nora had so far been treated like a doll to be dressed up and seduced by an incompetent Tamlin. She was painfully aware of it… and yet… it was a better life than the one she’d left behind. At least here she would not starve. At least here she would no longer have to worry about when the money would run out. 

If she asked for books or jewelry or dresses or anything else her heart desired Tamlin would jump at the chance to make her fall in love with him. 

It made her feel guilty.

“And my family?” The weight of her words, the sincerity of them, tempered Lucien’s distaste for the girl who’d murdered his friend.

“I promised you before they’d be taken care of.” Tamlin said.

“But what does that mean?” Nora splayed her hands on the table, hating that her previous excitement over material things had outshone her longing for her home, “What does it mean that you’re taking care of them?” 

Lucien leaned back in his chair, watching her quietly. She wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d expected her to blaze through the manor like a hateful and seething flame. Instead she was more like a firefly in a jar - constantly buzzing and flickering with thoughts and emotions that she tried to trap within herself. He didn’t know how to make sense of her.

Tamlin sighed, hands gently folding in front of him. Something like sympathy peered out from behind the mask.

“Dinah and Jaskiel think your family - your real family - found you and sent for you to be brought back to the Continent. I crafted a final memory of them seeing you off on a carriage with your very wealthy aunt.” 

Nora stilled, tears beginning to gather in her eyes as Tamlin continued. 

“I’ll be sending money to them every month on behalf of your “real” family as thanks for protecting and caring for you. It will be more than enough for them to live comfortably without having to work.” 

“Did you… did you really?” She whispered softly.

“I swear on my life and my court.” Tamlin assured her.

She laughed without humor, brushing away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks. Perhaps now the villagers would really believe that she was a foreign-born royal. 

“That’s a very good lie you came up with.” Nora muttered with disdain. The chair screeched along the floor when she stood up abruptly, and no one stopped her as she disappeared out the door.

“Well I think that went well.” Lucien said with a grimace. He downed the wine to its last bitter dregs.

Tamlin’s low growl followed Nora as she half-stumbled her way back to her room.

When she finished untangling herself from the wretched dress and sank beneath the covers, she finally allowed herself to cry. 

Tamlin had crafted such a perfect and necessary lie. Dinah and Jaskiel would be able to rest easy believing she was with her true family, but Nora would have to live with the truth. 

She was now utterly alone.

>>>

The chirping birds, obnoxious and hormonal, woke Nora up just in time to see the sun crest over the hills. The moment her heels hit the marble floor Alis snuck in, a pile of dresses stretched out in her hands.

“Good morning.” Alis said, her voice curt as she spread the dresses on the bed, “Which would you like to wear today?”

“I get to choose my dress?” Nora blinked the sleep out of her puffy eyes. 

“Yes, child. You get to choose your dress.” 

Nora said little as Alis fussed with her hair, tying it back in a simple braid before ushering her to the bathroom to deal with her tear-stained face. 

The dress Nora selected was simple - an ankle length riding gown paired with a deep blue vest and short boots. Alis tried not to display her displeasure as Nora dressed herself haphazardly. After a long, dreamless night she was ready to escape her room and find some secret corner of the manor to hide in - preferably in the library. 

Thoughts and plans for the day raced through her head as she followed Alis’s quick footsteps to the dining room, memorizing the path once more.

The frown was clear on her face when she saw Tamlin and Lucien crowding the breakfast table. Alis nudged her forward, unsticking her feet from the floor with a sharp jab to the center of her back. 

“How did you sleep?” Tamlin asked as she settled down and stabbed at a sausage. The faster she ate, the faster she could leave.

“Terribly.” 

“How unfortunate.” Lucien said, decked out in a riding uniform of his own. The deep green jacket was overlaid with gold-plated steel, as functional as it was beautiful. A pearl-handle knife the color of bleached bone was sheathed comfortably across his chest, a matching sword resting against the table as he ate.

Tamlin was similarly armed, but his weapons looked more decorative. After all, how much good were weapons when he could transform into a near unkillable beast at any moment. When the light hit his skin at certain angles, Nora could almost see the skin of the creature beneath, unyielding and impenetrable. 

He caught her staring at the glimmering badges pinned to his coat.

“Lucien and I have business to attend to today,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “You may do as you wish. If you require anything you may ask the servants.” 

Nora frowned at the word - servant, how archaic - and looked around the empty hall. They lurked about somewhere, moving through the estate unseen to her eyes. Were they watching her now? Were they waiting for a moment to report her odd behavior to Tamlin? 

That was the first thing she’d have to fix. There would be no way for her to sneak around undetected if she couldn’t even see who she should be hiding from. Thoughts of the Suriel flashed through her mind, her fingertips rubbing together as she flipped through the pages of a phantom book and imagined what information she might be able to sink her fingers into. 

“I assure you, you are safe here. My people won’t harm you in any way.” Nora snapped her head up, grateful that he’d mistaken her scheming for worry. 

“You promise?” a hint of surprise and hope slipped into her voice.

“I promise.” Tamlin said, nodding his head fervently. He ignored the dampness of his palms and pushed down the revulsion he felt at being reduced to this. He was one of the most powerful creatures in all of Prythian, perhaps in the entire world, and he needed to resort to courting a human to protect his people. The thought made him feel weak, lesser. He hadn’t wanted to send his men out to their deaths in the woods. With every friend he buried he could feel a bit of himself chipping away and landing beside their graces. 

He was desperate, and he would resort to this measure in his desperation.

“And I may go anywhere? Do anything?” 

Tamlin’s lips curled back in a feline grin, catching the light that sparked to life in her eyes. “Within reason.” 

Lucien snorted, “How much damage do you intend on doing, human?”

As much as possible.

“None.”

He snorted again, half-amused at her blatant lie.

“Where’s the library?” Nora stood up abruptly when she finished eating, not waiting to be dismissed from the breakfast table.

“The library?”

“Do you not have one?” She asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

Tamlin’s anger flared up like a gasoline fire. Lucien shot him a warning glance, standing up lightly and tilting his head towards the left before his High Lord could say or do anything he might regret.

“We have the most beautiful library you will have ever seen. Tamlin can show you the way, can’t you Tamlin?” 

“I can find it myself.” Nora snapped. She didn’t want company, only to disappear for the day, “Just give me the directions.”

“It’s a very large manor. We wouldn’t want you getting lost.” Something told her Lucien wanted nothing more than for her to ride off into the woods and never come back.

“I’ll ask whoever is around if that happens.” She said quickly, itching to find her escape. 

Mercifully, Tamlin didn’t press her to accept his company. 

He’d barely finished giving her the directions before she was flying out the side door, skirts shifting in the spring breeze like a ghostly afterimage. 

There was work to be done and plans to be made.

________________

Taglist: @myheartfollower @impossibelle @chybay22 @lahoete

Author's note: I struggled writing this chapter so I apologize if it's slow, but I'm just going to post it anyway so I can continue on to chapters I have more fleshed out plans for. Who knows, maybe I'll actually write down an outline for this fic instead of holding it all in my brain 😅. I hope you all have a lovely weekend.

[hanssloane]

The Resurrection of Christ c.1450

ENGLISH School (York?) 15th century

Alabaster, with traces of polychrome and gilt

Christ holds the banner of the Resurrection and steps out of his open tomb to the guards' surprise.

The crowded composition and costume details are very similar to many other versions in alabaster.

So-called 'Nottingham Alabasters' like this one were produced in workshops in the Midlands and Northern England between 1350 and 1550, before the Protestant Reformation. Alabaster was transported through Hull's medieval port. Works of this type were originally gilded and painted, and were often incorporated into altarpieces.

Large-scale alabaster can still be found in situ in churches in Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire.

The Ferens' Resurrection seems to have been later installed in a 19th-century altarpiece for the chapel of the Château at Breuil-Benoît in Normandy, France.

FERENS ART GALLERY, Hull

[gobboguy]

Chapter 45: Twig's Dark Addiction

The halfling village bustled with its usual daily rhythms—children playing, merchants haggling, and the occasional gossip exchanged under the shade of leafy trees. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the small stone houses and earthen paths that crisscrossed the village. Life moved slowly here, but there was always a strange undercurrent of tension, a lingering sense of unease tied to the presence of Siha’s tent, which loomed over the village like an unspoken threat.

From within the luxurious confines of her tent, the muffled sound of soft lovemaking could be heard. A thick, heavy incense clouded the air, and outside the entrance, Hotep, the half-man, half-dog creature, stretched his large, muscled frame and yawned lazily. He lounged before the tent flap, his alert gaze scanning for intruders but finding none. He gave a low growl of satisfaction, his tail twitching slightly as he settled back into his post.

Inside, Twig lay on the silk-covered bed, turning over with a sigh of both frustration and resignation. He hadn’t wanted this—hadn’t wanted to give in—but Siha had a way about her that eroded his will. Her seductive whispers, her touch, her commanding presence… they had worn him down until resistance seemed impossible.

Beside him, Siha reclined in the sheets, her nude form covered only lightly by the luxurious silk blankets that clung to her curves. Her skin gleamed in the soft candlelight, smooth and flawless, like polished alabaster. Her dark hair spilled over her bare shoulders, and with a satisfied smirk, she took a slow puff from her cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a languid swirl. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, gleamed with amusement.

“Well now, Twig,” she purred, her voice dripping with haughty satisfaction. “It seems even the great heir to Farfield has his limits. I must admit, I do enjoy breaking such strong wills.”

Twig flushed, his face burning with embarrassment as he fumbled for words. "I… I didn’t want this," he stammered, averting his eyes from her. But even as he said the words, he found his gaze drifting back to her form, captivated by the sight of her sprawled out so casually, so confidently.

"You didn’t want it?" Siha let out a low, amused laugh, tapping ash from her cigarette into a gilded tray beside the bed. "Oh, darling, don’t be so hard on yourself. Few can resist me when I set my mind to it. I always get what I want in the end."

Twig shifted uncomfortably under the silk sheets, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't deny it—there was something intoxicating about her, something that made him ache just thinking about leaving. And yet, guilt gnawed at him. He had a mission, a purpose beyond this tent, beyond her grasp.

"I could show you the world outside of here," he mumbled, trying to hold onto some fragment of resolve. "The real world… beyond this place."

Siha let out a rich, mocking laugh, her golden eyes flashing with amusement as she flicked the cigarette aside. "Oh, you poor, naive thing," she said, leaning in closer, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered. "You’re not going anywhere."

Twig blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "What… what do you mean?"

With a sly, wicked grin, Siha pulled back slightly and traced a finger down his chest. "I suppose you should know the truth, now that you’re mine," she purred. "You see, Twig, I secrete a special pheromone—a delightful little concoction that binds men to me. It’s quite addictive. You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? That ache when you think of leaving me? That pull you can't explain?"

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. Twig’s eyes widened, and his heart sank as he realized she was right. He *did* feel it—an overwhelming need to stay by her side, an irrational longing that was already beginning to consume him. "No… that can’t be," he whispered, horror creeping into his voice. "What… what have I done?"

Siha let out a low, sultry laugh, clearly enjoying his torment. "What have you done?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow as she caressed his cheek. "Why, nothing more than what every other man has done before you—fallen under my spell."

Twig’s chest tightened as the weight of his predicament crashed down on him. His thoughts spun wildly, trying to find a way out, but even now, he felt his resolve crumbling beneath her gaze. What *had* he done? What had he let himself become?

Siha, watching his despair with amusement, leaned back against the pillows, her smile growing wider. "Don’t worry, darling. You’ll come to enjoy it. They always do."

[indouloureux]

There is something about mechanice!eddie coming home all greased up and dirty bending you over your coffee table and just having his way with you

how dare you </3

18+ mdni. cw: piv, unprotected sex, manhandling, mommy (/mama) kink, daddy kink. maybe u guys r married. fem!reader

you know better than to wear tight jeans and a pair of panties on a friday night.

somehow, eddie's busier on fridays. therefore he comes home slightly irritated, and he'll bend you over wherever he first sees you — over the washing machine when you were taking out the laundry, on the couch when you were drinking tea, in the bathroom bent over the sink just right after you brushed your teeth, or even at the front porch where you'd been patiently waiting for him; he'd fuck you on that couch, but only when he's certain that everyone in the park was asleep.

when his van parks outside the trailer, there's that loud but faint slam of his cardoor. you're leaning against the tiled countertop with a cigarette in your hand, skirt hanging loosely around your hips, feeling the ends tickle the swell of your ass as you anticipate the figure of eddie come through that door.

it opens, the lanky figure of your beloved coming through the entrance with grimy hands and grease painting his alabaster arms. his head hangs in a loose bun behind his head, and albeit his long sigh tells you he's tired, he's got a bright smile on his face when his eyes settle on you.

"my wife!" he beams, opening his arms. "my spouse, the light of my life, the glue to my walls, the candle to my flame. my rock, my life, my love, my angel, my—"

"hi, baby," you take his face in your hands, his settling over your waist, and eddie wrinkles his nose at you as he leans down for a kiss so innocent his chastity's about to get absolutely ruined in a few seconds. "you smell,"

"i know," he pouts. "and i'm tired," eddie leans closer, his nose kissing yours with the ghost of his kiss lingering on your twitching lips that grazes his mouth, "and i'm hungry—"

eddie's hand roams down to the dip of your spine, running back and forth until he slips it down cheekily above your skirt, thumb hooking on the waistband, palm pressing against the covered fat flesh of your ass that he lightly squeezes with just the tip of his fingers. you giggle, finger tracing the grease across his jawline.

what once was honey beneath the sun turns almost stygian with his pupils blown in starvation, eyes glossing, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. your eyebrows wiggle teasingly, rubbing the gilded band of your ring on his skin that makes him shiver the slightest.

"—and i'm very horny," he murmurs, low voice to a growl. you gasp, faux violation, running your hands down to his chest and fixing his collar as you say,

"you're always horny," he snorts and you roll your eyes. "but luckily for you, dinner's served, daddy,"

eddie's mouth parts and as you expected, he's roughly pushing your front against the countertop, bending you over with a hand on your shoulder and the other flipping your skirt over. he audibly groans at the sight of your bare, dripping pussy; the slick that shines in the soft skin of your thighs, the blushing folds and the engorged clit of your pretty little sex makes his cock jump.

"christ," he tuts, unbuckling his jeans with one hand. you lean down, forearms on the counter, head tilting to get a better view of him unzipping his pants and pulling them down along with his underwear, tucking them just below his ass. "mind if i just fuck you now, honey? can't— fuck, can't handle it any longer,"

"'s alright," you lick your lips. "that's why i didn't wear any panties,"

"shit, mama," with a hand down your spine, he's tugging on his thick cock, slapping the shaft between your folds. you gasp, jolting with your abdomen hitting the sides of the countertop. "you're gonna be the death of me,"

he pushes himself in easily, burying himself to hilt with no predicament whatsoever. your moans entwine, your walls being stretched open, cunt snug on his dick that he's gripping on your waist for dear life.

your shirt turns grey with the grime from his skin, the musk of grease and gasoline strong but if you lean closer, there's that boyish smell of his aftershave and your shampoo that he loves so much (says he uses it so it's like you're with him while he's at work).

eddie keeps hitting that spot, hand keeping you pressed against the counter, moans that ricochet with his in the small trailer. he cups his hand beneath your chin, pulling you up. "missed this fucking pussy," he pants. "you were prepared, weren't you, baby? kept your panties off for daddy so he'd bend you anytime he wanted? still as slutty as the first time i met you, honey."

your tight grip on his hair's a vice to his scalp but he loves it, your back on his chest, cock bent as he pistons it inside you. you mewl, his hand coming down to rub your clit in quick circles as your juices rub over his thighs.

he circles his other hand around your neck, gripping you close. your limbs weaken, submitting to him and just lets him have his way with you. eddie doesn't stop his thrusts, not even when the wind begins to leave his lungs; your gummy walls clench on his dick, his balls slapping against your ass, clit throbbing with his cruel rubs.

"fuck, eddie," you tilt your head, open mouth beside his, swallowing his breaths as your eyes slam shut. eddie's half-lidded gaze pierces through your closed eyes, giving you a lazy kiss on your bottom lip. "god– didn't think being away from you for almost seven hours would make me miss you this much."

"just miss?" he taunts, pulling out until the thick head stays inside before he slams himself in with a loud squelch. "not horny? didn't miss my cock, mama?"

"babe– ah, ngh, you know i do," you're breathing heavily, chest heaving the same pace eddie makes; fast and unforgiving. "you know i do. missed your cock– missed your mouth. missed- i missed y-you..."

he knows you're nearing the edge, with the way your words falter and answer him instead with prolonged moans and high-pitched whimpers that renders your mind a puddle that he continues stepping on. your climax blows itself to a bubble, simply waiting to be popped.

"missed you more," eddie kisses your cheekbone. "gonna cum, okay? gonna- gonna fill this pretty princess pussy with my cum, get you all swollen just for daddy, 'kay?"

he places you down on the counter again, tits pressed against your chest, cheek against the cold tile. eddie fucks you faster, your hair in a tie around his hand, his tangled curls fallen down his shoulders as his hair tie hangs by the ends from his incessant thrusting.

you gush on his cock not a minute later, the wet sound heightening its volume when he pushes his spent in deep inside your walls, mixing with yours. eddie keeps himself inside you, flattening down your poor skirt, feeling his cum drip down your thighs and he spreads your ass cheeks apart.

"'m not done with you yet, baby," he leans down, chest crushing you as he kisses your temple. "i've gotta put my tongue to good use. need to fill your cute little holes, yeah?"

[inquisimer]

❛ i can’t do this without you. ❜ for surana and anders PLEASE (and thank you if you decide to indulge me) PS happy friday :D

I think you're the one indulging ME, letting me write my angst Circle friends🥺🥰 wc: 1326

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

The sixth time they brought Anders back to the tower, she didn’t see him for a year.

They all knew about the cells in the basement, dank and dark and fitted with manacles that they kept clamped around your extremities all hours of the day. But she’d always thought it was a warning, a legend, told to apprentices without any real evidence, just to keep them in line.

Until Anders came back, looking more like a bundle of toothpicks than a person. There were bruises around his wrists and ankles and his cheeks were so sunken, she could see every bone in his face. When he first reappeared, Neria froze, unblinking and disbelieving. She lifted a hand to brush at his mottled face, but he caught her arm and yanked it back to her side.

“Not here,” he hissed. “The back closet, upstairs, half a bell past supper.”

So that was where she went.

The closet was filled with robes, ceremonial, she surmised, from the various gilded accoutrements and the plastic casing that protected them from mothballs and general wear. There was hardly room to breathe, but she slipped between the hangers with some confusion, until a hand wrapped around her ankle and yanked her to the floor.

There was next to no lighting in this space, but it didn’t matter. The image of bruises blossoming across Anders’ jaw was seared in her memory, whether she was seeing it in real time or not. She wasn’t as successful in taming her outraged, anguished expression either, based on how Anders pursed his lips and avoided her gaze.

“It’s hardly unexpected,” he muttered. “Six times? I’m luck I haven’t gone under the brand yet. Greagoir’s influence, I suppose, or Sol.”

“Or both.” Neria cupped one hand against his jaw, giving him a moment to refuse. When he didn’t, she summoned the healing magic; hardly her specialty, but she knew enough to ease this particular ache. The blood vessels calmed and his skin returned to its usual alabaster shade. Anders sighed, catching her hand before it could fall and tracing the lines of her palm almost absentmindedly.

“I’m going to try again.”

She wished she could say she was surprised. But those who didn’t learn from history were doomed to repeat it, and Anders was nothing if not an ostrich with his head buried in the sand. She flipped their hands so she was tracing his palm instead, and sighed.

“Of course you are. Don’t you ever worry about what will happen when you’re caught? Cause you know they will. Unless you can destroy your phylactery before you go.”

“Seems like that would only draw attention. And I’m sure they’ve got mine in some super special vault at this point.” Anders scoffed. “There has to be a way to get far enough that their tracking spell won’t register.”

“You’d have to go to the Marches, at least. Or Tevinter.”

“Tough trek to make alone,” said Anders, and if it had been anyone else she might have missed the catch in his voice. But she knew what Anders sounded like when he was causal, and this was faked, at best.

What was he playing at?

“Might be easier with a plan. Or an extra set of eyes.”

Oh. That’s what he was getting at.

“That is a spectacularly awful idea. Possibly the worst you’ve ever had. And that’s saying something.”

“Please Ria. I…don’t think I can do this without some help. Without you.”

His voice was scraped raw, desperate with the years spent caged and the brief glimpses of freedom he’d stolen. The stories he’d told her of life outside the Circle tugged at her heartstrings; but she’d spent so much time balancing his extremism with Solona’s loyalism. This would be like choosing sides, like choosing one friend over the other, something she’d managed to avoid all these years. And…

“This tower is all I know,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes. “It is one thing to listen to your stories, to read about places and adventures in books. Living them out is something else entirely—Maker’s sake, I’ve never even been off this island, Anders.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it, thinking on what she’d said. However dim and tainted with bitterness, Anders had memories of a life before the Circle. He remembered his parents and the small cottage they’d shared, the children he used to entertain in the village square, walking barefoot through the rolling farmland that surrounded it, and so many other sensations that Neria couldn’t even imagine.

She knew nothing more than the cold stone and drafty corridors of Kinloch Hold. And if you believed the Templars, she never should.

Anders grabbed both of her wrists, sliding his hands down to intertwine with her fingers. His were bony and raw from his time in chains, and they dwarfed hers as they always had. He squeezed, firm and steady.

“There’s people out there who will help us. Not everyone agrees with the Chantry and the Templars, no matter what they say. Enough of the network knows me now—we could get halfway to Amaranthine before the search party hits the mainland.”

He brushed his thumbs lightly over her knuckles. “Think about it, Ria. Freedom, real freedom with no walls or guards intruding on your privacy. Freedom to choose where to go and what to do whenever you want. Freedom to…wear pants, and eat properly seasoned food.”

A snicker slipped past Neria’s pressed lips, but she couldn’t deny the temptation to sit cross-legged outside the confines of their bedroom.

Anders released her hands and moved his back up her arms, clasping her shoulders with pressure enough that she finally looked at him again. His eyes glowed with anticipation and yearning and unrestrained pleading, even sunken as they were, and an undeniable note of sincerity lined his voice when he spoke.

“You won’t be alone,” he promised.

Her heart stuttered, for he’d touched on the fear she couldn’t voice. She’d never been alone, not in all of her memories, because no mage was ever alone in the Circle. But all the space and freedom that made the outside world enticing, also meant the space and freedom to fail. And out there didn’t have a safety net of Templars or senior enchanters when things went awry. Plus, she might not be alone, but—

“What about Solona?”

“You can’t tell her,” he said immediately, straightening up and pressing a finger to Neria’s lips when she started to protest. “You know she’d go straight to Irving, and he’d go straight to Greagoir. What would be the point, anyway? It’s not like she’d go with us.”

“I know, it’s just….” Just that Solona was the closest thing she had to family. Could she walk away without notice from the person she’d shared nearly every memory with for over a decade?

“Please Neria.” His voice cracked and shattered like a window under an escaped force blast. “You deserve so much more than this stone prison and I have to go—I’ll break if I stay here. And there is no one else I trust enough to go with me. Please.”

Neria bit her lip and looked down again.

There is no one else I trust.

Solona might be her dearest friend, but Anders held a piece of her heart as well—and his escapades had made him a pariah among most of their peers. Solona would be angry and disappointed if Neria left her….but Anders would be dead, or worse.

Cold, steely resolve tightened around the fear in her throat, drawing it down until the anticipation and excitement hiding underneath rose to the forefront. It must have shown on her face, for Anders’ uncertainty vanished and a triumphant grin stretched his lips. He lifted her wholly onto his lap and buried his head in her shoulder, so her chin rested against the greasy strings of his hair.

“Where do we start?”

[confused-as-all-hell]

i'm sorry to announce that this fic will be the last of my grishaverse works, unless i decide otherwise. writing these were like greeting old friends, like lounging on the grass beside nina and dancing with jesper, like making breakfast with matthias and drawing with wylan, and laughing with inej and studying with kaz. i know they aren't real, but i'll miss them all the same.

oh also there's this discord sever, and if you see this, lmk to join tagging those brighter than the fucking sun, and as incredible to deal with: @thebonecarver @crazywritingbookworm @welcome-to-gaytown @saltyfortunes @smol-satan @quintessential-octessence @nightshade3465 @murderbabies @dreaminginvelaris @black-like-my-soul @ratabrasileira @rune-and-rising @22herondale @iambecomeyourvillain @story-scribbler @ahecktonoffandomsinoneblog @kazoo-the-demjin @nevada-the-bookwyvern @ungodlyravenpuff @jurdan-my-beloved @sankta-chaosqueen @twelve-kinds-of-trouble @blackasmysoul @clarys-heosphoros @willothewhisper @rorysglimore @adams-left-hand @clockworknights @theglassphantom @clubofthestarlesssaint @investmentofmyheart @returnofthegray

and most of all, to @wafflesandschemingfaces, who witnessed the very first of these. i have a world to thank you for, ava.

Kaz Brekker hadn’t always loved her.

Once upon a time, he had simply been a brilliant boy from the lush countryside, his lockpick hands smudged in ink, dark lashes low over eyes like chips of onyx.

Once upon a time, he had spent his evenings laying in the grass, a novel held aloft before him, his limbs sprawled out in every direction, careless and elegant as the lines of a poem.

Once upon a time, he had been a child running through his father’s fields, ice cream on his hands and laughter on his lips, and the sun itself had dawned every morning in the hope of seeing that reckless grin once more.

Once upon a time, magic meant clever fingers and slim playing cards and sleight of hand; yet the very first time he heard her laughter, sweet as summer wine and twice as intoxicating, he thought this was one trick he could not master.

How many times had he dreamed of that laugh?

It bloomed like wild geraniums between his ribs, twining between ivory bone, infusing his lungs, weaving a veil between his heart between the world, and fucking gods above, he dreamed.

It was his redemption.

It was his ruination.

When he sprawled across his bed, his hair black as the wing of a crow, his history textbook propped against the headboard, he caught her voice in his head, tracing the words upon the page as if she lay beside him.

When he was kneeling alone in the shower, water streaming down the hard planes of his body, his alabaster skin gilded honey gold, all he could do was dream.

When he glimpsed her in the courtyards beyond their campus, her dark hair slick with snow, her coat unbuttoned and hanging loose, he heard the summertime lilt of her name, echoing across the fields like a forgotten fairytale.

Inej Ghafa.

A soft name, the sound graceful as a flower blossoming upon his tongue. It was sweet and strong and rich as a cup of dark coffee at first light, heady as bloodred wine and just as destructive.

A beautiful name.

Her name.

And perhaps even more beautiful for the fact.

They were friends from seventeen, simply two high school kids trying to make history, armed with nothing more than blessed knives and godless schemes.

Kaz was the trickster, the boy with slim hands and dark eyes and a cruel mouth, cards hidden up his sleeve, lockpicks concealed within his coat. He was the dark king in the children’s books, chained in the Underworld, imprisoned in shackles of gilt and gold. His death would be called poetic justice.

Inej was the dancer, all loose limbs and careless grace and coal black lashes, a wraith of the night, a sylph of the moon. She was built slender and compact, a blade hidden within a flower, a heady poison infused within evening wine. She would never die, because history had fallen in love with her, and he couldn’t possibly blame it.

When Inej moved, when she began to dance, he could see the stars in her.

The curve of her throat, the deliberate arch of her mouth, the arrow line of her leg slanting through the air.

The breathless rise and fall of her chest, the gleam of sweat on her brow, the bashful bow of her head.

The way she leaned against his shoulder hours later, the quiet hum of her laughter, the press of her face to his throat, as if she trusted him irrevocably.

The fragile, sleeping, breathless kiss she pressed to his mouth.

They had been seventeen then.

Strangers, exchanging bare glances and curious stares.

Classmates, paired up for yet another assignment, against their will.

Friends, sprawled together in the meadow, drowsy and sun-drenched.

Something more, something dangerous.

The fairytales of his childhood might have called it love.

They claimed it was A handful of starlight, a heady drop of wine upon your tongue, a sliver of faerie fruit, intoxicating and rich and sweet.

You arch your throat. You crumple to your knees. You draw blood from your wrist and swear fealty. Love is a poison, and cure, and how many heroes have taken the wrong vial, only to fall?

As a child, he had never known.

But he began the descent at seventeen, and when he was twenty-four and studying with her in the university library, he finally understood what it meant to truly fall.

Kaz had been sprawled out atop a table in the library, his hands tucked beneath his head, and Inej had slumped over in her seat, and he made a tired comment on Sophocles, and then, impossibly, she began to laugh.

The shadows beneath her eyes were so dark, as if she had accidentally smeared ink over her cheek, and her lips were bitten and bloody, and her hair a tangled halo, and she was laughing.

The sound was soft and ragged, and it was regal as autumn and carefree as spring; he could have lain on that table for hours, listening to her, fucking grateful for even those stolen seconds of joy.

She rose from her seat, and with that unerring dancer's grace, rolled onto the table. Her arm was pressed to his, his fingers tucking beneath hers, her head was thrown back against the wood, and his angled towards her. He could feel the hummingbird thrum of her blood.

"We should be working," Inej said at last, but she didn't move. She only propped her chin up on a palm, looking down at him mischievously.

Kaz couldn't help but stare at the curve of her jaw, the blazing glint in her eyes, the knowing tilt to her mouth that meant trouble.

There and then, her lips curved in a lush crescent moon, her eyes bright as stars, the sprawl of her body elegant as history, she looked like a saint.

She was a saint, gorgeous and ethereal and lovely, and he was the devil, proud and arrogant and grinning, and when she smiled, he would have overthrown both heaven and hell for her.

The desire to hear her laughter, the achingly soft lilt of amusement, the niche of her joy, was earthshaking, worldbreaking, breathtaking.

It was cities crumbling and worlds shattering and empires falling.

It was hands reaching and fingers grabbing and palms extending.

It was, my hands, my heart, my blade are yours.

It was the clock chiming three in the morning, and Kaz and Inej bickering as they tried, with the abused mind of a university student, to recall how one made waffles.

It was Inej filching countless shirts and jackets from his closet, and they hung to her knees and belled from her wrists, and she looked smaller than ever, and the mischievous gleam in her eyes nearly sent him to his knees.

It was Kaz teaching her patiently to pick locks, kneeling with her in his sitting room, and when she looked up at him with a grin he would have died for, he thought, I do not deserve you, but I will spend the rest of my life in the hope one day, I might.

He was a boy wishing for a miracle.

She was a dream stolen from the heavens.

Sometimes, gazing at her, he thought she might just be the sky itself. Her weightless silks belled out as soft clouds might, and the elegant curve of her spine domed the earth, and her hands were slim unfettered butterflies, and when she laughed, he saw the sun in her.

If he could die with her laughter echoing in his ears, he would die a happy man.

And Kaz watched as she danced with strangers in their favourite nightclub, as she sidled close against their bodies, as she rested her head against their shoulders and kissed their lips so gently, so sweetly, as if every press of her mouth might shatter the boy with his hands in her hair.

He caught her eye, somehow; across the pulsing lights and drowning music and heady alcohol and glossy floor and crowded bodies and the impossible distance between them, he caught her eye.

Inej grinned at him, the wild, happy grin he had come to know so well. Her dark hair was coiled loose, and the kohl around her eyes was smudged, and the hem of her dress had rucked up around her thighs, and he had never seen anything so fucking bright.

The corner of her mouth lifted, soft and secret, but then a young man with tousled red hair held out his hand, and she was up against his body, her head thrown back in drunken laughter.

She whirled past her partners, leaving them with only a whisper or a slow, deliberate kiss. They grabbed for her attention, for the grace of her gaze, their eyes burning with hunger.

Kaz fucking wanted to be the brazen, arrogant boy who strode to her side and wove his fingers through her hair, but the evening was sliding past and he was out of time.

The club was sinking amid the ocean’s waves.

The ceiling spun, hazy and graceless and wild; the floor turned to softest sand. Kaz felt as though he was drowning in this blur of intoxication, and drowning in his irrevocably fury, and the depths of his pride, and he was drowning in her.

Time was trickling through his fingers like water.

Memories were ghosting through his mind like smoke.

They were seventeen, laying on the floor together until three in the morning, studiously ignoring the looming task of their schoolwork, chattering on about politics and poetry and heroes and history.

They were nineteen, sprawled out on the beach with their friends, and she was limber and aglow in the dying sunlight, and he was all tousled dark hair and alabaster skin and girls were whispering about him behind their hands, and he was staring at Inej.

They were twenty-one, studying in a quiet meadow, and her head was pillowed gently in his lap; he was reading aloud from one of their textbooks, and she was carefully copying down notes in her orderly hand, and she smiled up at him, so full of light that he ached.

They were twenty-four, and he was striding towards her in their favourite club, through the writhing bodies and grasping hands and wine-red smiles, and when he touched the hummingbird pulse at her wrist, she felt like anything but a memory.

The strobe lights were flashing red and green and pink and blue and orange, and his head was spinning, and music was pooling in the hollow of his spine and the dip of his mouth and the arch of his cheekbone, and his fingers were brushing across her palm, and Saints, Saints, Saints.

Kaz called on the heroes of the past as though they might save him.

They had burned, as he would burn.

Inej turned to him, eyes bright.

She was neither goddess nor saint in that dark club; she was only herself, and yet he had never seen a sight so magical. Her hair was a spill of black ink. Her mouth was the blossoming bud of a rose.

Her smile was a crescent sliver of the sun.

She was the Wandering Maiden, the Queen of the Underworld, Lady Persephone herself; the girl so beloved by the sun, the girl chained forevermore in the dark.

Did that cast him into the role of Lord Hades, the demon in the woods, the king chained in gold, the man so ruined by his own self? Was he no better than the forgotten god?

A thousand millennia ago, the girl had crushed the pomegranate to her mouth, and the god had taken her for his own, down into the cold Underworld, where she would never again feel the sun on her skin.

Hades had stolen springtime from the world, stolen all that was good and bright and kind, stolen her.

Persephone was not a goddess, in the dark; she was a frightened girl, calling for her mother, cradling her broken heart.

Did the legends truly change?

History was history, undaunted and undimmed, forever burning bright upon the same candle.

Stories echoed down the years, a cry of summons, a furious answering.

Kaz and Inej could only be Hades and Persephone, ancient power in the shape of men, gods walking the earth once more. They were fated to learn the lessons their counterparts had not: love was no saving grace.

It was not good and kind and brave. It did not heal the wounds of history. It would not mend lives and soothe the world's wrath. Love was a gilded trap. Desire was a death sure as poison.

He knew this.

He knew this.

He knew this.

But there was Inej, with her midsummer grin and slender hands, and the scent of crushed flowers clung to her, and his pulse was beating furiously at his throat, and when he lowered his mouth to her own, he had never felt more alive.

The world spun and blurred.

The earth rocked beneath his boots.

The sea itself swelled to drown out sound.

The sun curved into him.

The moon leaned over her.

In that single moment, they were infinite.

Infinite.

Never-ending.

Ever-expanding.

Infinite.

"You and I," he whispered against her mouth, "you and I, we could play at being gods."

She smiled, the barest curve of her lips. "I know."

Infinite.

The world sprawled out at their feet.

The years whiled past.

The sun rose to kiss the sky.

The moon dove down beneath the sea.

Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa made history.

And the sudden truth of it struck him, sometimes. It sent sweet fire through his veins, his mind, the chamber that held his heart, and he wondered if he'd truly escaped burning after all.

They became a legend, a tale whispered around the blazing fire, a myth murmured in the dark.

The girl, they said. The girl, and the boy, the two of them.

Once upon a time, they were seventeen and furious and proud.

They shattered glass.

They broke their own hearts.

He was too dark, too cruel.

She was too bright, too merciful.

Once upon a time, they were nineteen and brash and bold.

They fell in love with the whole wide world.

They thought their hands could mend history.

She wanted to be hailed a hero.

He wanted to be remembered a king.

Once upon a time, they were twenty-four and exquisite and godless.

They found salvation in one another's hands.

They sought redemption in the glow of the sun, the sigh of the sea.

She was named the Lady of Light.

He was crowned the Lord of Dark.

Once upon a time, it didn't matter.

Once upon a time, the Fates released the string.

Once upon a time, they lived without guidance of the stars, wild and free.

Foolish, some had called them. Reckless.

Infinite, they said. Infinite.

[aic-armor]

The Betrayal of Christ, 1401, Art Institute of Chicago: Arms, Armor, Medieval, and Renaissance

George F. Harding Collection Size: 48.3 × 30.5 cm (19 × 12 in.) Medium: Alabaster with traces of polychromy and gilding

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/117245/

[cma-medieval-art]

The Archangel Gabriel from an Annunciation Group, c. 1350, Cleveland Museum of Art: Medieval Art

Orginally part of an altar arrangement, this statuette was separated during the late 19th century from its accompanying figure of the Virgin (now in the Louvre in Paris). The refined treatment and courtly elegance of the figures suggests they were made in a workshop close to the French capital, probably for the Benedictine Abbey of Moutier-la-Celle or the Abbey of Notre-Dame-du-Pré, whose church was specifically dedicated to the Annunciation. The angel holds a banderole with the words AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA (Hail Mary full of Grace), the words with which Gabriel greeted Mary. Size: Overall: 56.5 x 26 x 10.5 cm (22 1/4 x 10 1/4 x 4 1/8 in.) Medium: alabaster with traces of paint and gilding

https://clevelandart.org/art/1954.387

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 38: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A worn mercenary banner consisting of one rusty old spearhead atop a long wooden shaft. Five feet down from the head there rests a cross-piece four feet long tied to the shaft. From that hangs flag itself; A field of scarlet with nine hanged men in black and six yellow daggers in the upper left and lower right quadrants, respectively, while the upper right quadrant features a shattered skull and the lower left boasts a bird of prey astride a severed head. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize it as the Standard of the Black Company a free mercenary company who can trace their history back hundreds of years through their well-documented archives.

A corrupted magic charm made of the skull a human who died in terror and with regrets. The bone is wrapped with dried kelp and algae, and the skull’s forehead and dome is inscribed with strange sigils made from flower pigments. The entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A scroll covered with depictions of constellations.

A shattered mask, once belonging to an ecclesiastic of the occult. Though broken this mask still retains a trace of its original purpose. It hums with faint whispers when worn. They demand an offering.

A one gallon cask of Brewer's Pudding, an alcoholic “drink” so thick that the bartender needs to cut it like a loaf of bread to serve it. Bartenders typically put it in a bowl with lager poured over top, which slowly changes the "drink's" consistency similar to that of pudding. More squalid taverns sometimes serve it between slices of bread as a sandwich.

A gnarled pipe smells strongly of cinnamon and fish, disturbing your digestion. Its bowl has constellations etched around it.

A small, ragged figure crafted from human bone and hair, posed as though shading its eyes to see a long distance.

A charm bracelet of silver chain with five shield-shaped charms. The shields have various religious icons for luck. It's covered in dried blood on it, suggesting the previous owner wasn't that lucky.

A shifting monochromatic geometric, glass prism.

An ironwood skeleton key inlaid with spiraling lines of silvery mithril, and etched with flowing Sylvan script that reads “May this world know some measure of my skill as I depart to the next.”

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A worn mercenary banner consisting of one rusty old spearhead atop a long wooden shaft. Five feet down from the head there rests a cross-piece four feet long tied to the shaft. From that hangs flag itself; A field of scarlet with nine hanged men in black and six yellow daggers in the upper left and lower right quadrants, respectively, while the upper right quadrant features a shattered skull and the lower left boasts a bird of prey astride a severed head. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize it as the Standard of the Black Company a free mercenary company who can trace their history back hundreds of years through their well-documented archives.

A corrupted magic charm made of the skull a human who died in terror and with regrets. The bone is wrapped with dried kelp and algae, and the skull’s forehead and dome is inscribed with strange sigils made from flower pigments. The entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A scroll covered with depictions of constellations.

A shattered mask, once belonging to an ecclesiastic of the occult. Though broken this mask still retains a trace of its original purpose. It hums with faint whispers when worn. They demand an offering.

A one gallon cask of Brewer's Pudding, an alcoholic “drink” so thick that the bartender needs to cut it like a loaf of bread to serve it. Bartenders typically put it in a bowl with lager poured over top, which slowly changes the "drink's" consistency similar to that of pudding. More squalid taverns sometimes serve it between slices of bread as a sandwich.

A gnarled pipe smells strongly of cinnamon and fish, disturbing your digestion. Its bowl has constellations etched around it.

A small, ragged figure crafted from human bone and hair, posed as though shading its eyes to see a long distance.

A charm bracelet of silver chain with five shield-shaped charms. The shields have various religious icons for luck. It's covered in dried blood on it, suggesting the previous owner wasn't that lucky.

A shifting monochromatic geometric, glass prism.

An ironwood skeleton key inlaid with spiraling lines of silvery mithril, and etched with flowing Sylvan script that reads “May this world know some measure of my skill as I depart to the next.”

A smoking pipe made with a stem of gnarled wood and a deep bowl made of yellowed bone. The bowl has mystical lettering and runes carved into it.

A porcelain teapot inscribed with ancient symbols. A blue snake-like dragon coils around the pot, its body forming the handle and its mouth forming the spout.

A psaltery made from the darkest ebony wood. Its back is slightly curved with an indentation in the base so that it sits nicely on the player's lap. Inlayed in its face is a twisted branch covered in beautiful cherry blossoms. As the instrument is played the blossoms seem to fall away to reveal that the branch is not a branch at all but the bony hand of a skeleton.

An ornate lacquered box containing a set of spoons, thirteen in number. Each is topped with a tiny figure that represents one of the Immortal Heroes of an eastern cult that is thought to be extinct. In that cult, the spoons are considered a valuable prize that proves the courage and skill of its members. The set would be decently valuable to a collector or otherwise interested buyer.

An alabaster vase that has bas-relief figures of goddesses in skimpy clothing in provocative poses. Knowledgeable PC’s can identify the goddesses are in fact the handmaidens of the Martyr Prophet and even to depict them clothed is a right arrogated to the Prophet’s priesthood. The vase itself would be counted a blasphemy by the Prophet’s followers.

An oil lamp no larger than two cupped hands that’s both delicate and fearful. Unlike more common lamps of brass or even common earthenware, the lamp is forged of hair-thin and glittering black iron, cool to the touch. It bears a single looped handle, and is covered in finely rendered etchings of arabesques and stylized wings.  

A number of sealed oval tins containing fillets of true monkfish in brine. The fish’s bland pale flesh travels very well and is an imperishable as a saint’s, hence its name. The fillets are filling an nourishing and there are enough tins to equate to 2d4+1 days’ worth of trail rations.

A large, cracked, spiral horn of some great beast, bound in silver and caked in blood. When blown, hot winds and swirling sands erupt from the mouth. All who hear the horn’s call are urged to fight with the unrelenting fury of desert storm.

A cerulean-blue semi-solid stone that is nearly translucent, and shines with an internal blue light.

An onyx hair pin topped with a golden sphere accented by ivory flowers. It's covered in dust and the sphere is a bit oxidized, but with some proper cleaning it might be a suitable gift for the daughter of a noble.

A black-green beeswax candle decorated with carvings of birds. The wick seems to be made out of gold threads. It faintly smells of ash and seawater.

A constantly-shifting jigsaw puzzle made of of muscle and viscera.

A dull green glass bottle, filled with transparent oil that rolls about like the sea's tides. Its label, written in Undercommon, reads "Immortality." It is sealed with a deep black cork, and if opened reeks of skunk spray.

A small stone that ticks evenly like a finely wound clock. Everyone who hears the stone becomes convinced that the stone must remain locked away or something very bad will happen.

A commemorative porcelain plate of the last royal wedding.

A jigsaw puzzle consisting of occult symbols that when fully completed opens a portal to that which the user desires most in the world. There are three pieces missing.

A black robe covered in tattered and worn crow feathers, almost giving the illusion of wings when the arms are raised.

A flexible skin tight, black-silk mask that covers the bearer’s face with just a slit exposing the eyes and perforations at the nose and mouth.

A wide iron-studded dog collar.

A sealed one gallon cask filled with a smoky, spicy spirit akin to weaker tequila. This aperitif is made from a flowering cactus found deep in the deserts heart. When drunk, it causes memories to flow more freely to the drinker's minds forefront, often sparking intense feelings of nostalgia or regret. If overindulged, it could even dislodged repressed memories, forgotten dreams, and other things forgotten (deliberately or otherwise).

A gilded wineglass fashioned from a human skull and set with lapis lazuli.

A set of seven humanoid shaped obsidian pendants.

A dark green egg-shaped stone has been worn away on one side to reveal a rough, vivid purple interior. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as a geode.

A metal mask resembling a deformed man with a protruding tongue, often worn by wrong-doers before they are paraded through the streets as punishment.

The "alchemical" recipe and blueprint for a "Big Mama", a strange series of nested barrels filled with gunpowder and nails and designed to detonate from a fuse.

A bloodstained scrap of parchment with a list of several names, including a couple of the PC’s. All but one of the non-PC names are crossed out.

A small silver bracelet fashioned in the style of a serpent with two small cyan-colored stones for eyes.

A beautiful, multicolored glass sculpture that seems to take different shapes depending on the angle it is viewed from. From one angle, a mother and child, from another a proud warrior, all in vibrant color and exquisite detail. There are eight distinct scenes visible, one from each cardinal direction.

A delicate tea set made of beautifully shaped glass. Each cup has been blown to look like a pair of child-sized hands clasped together, and the tea pot itself has the appearance of a cloaked human female kneeling in offering. Her hands reaching outwards act as the spout for the pot, and her pulled back hood acts as the lid. No liquid ever flows out of the teapot unless one of the cups in the set is directly beneath the spout.

A medium sized hourglass fashioned from dark walnut and brass. Inside, the sands shine in a variety of iridescent colors. There is a slight tinkling sound as they fall, almost like the sound of a music box, carried on the wind.

An exquisite scrimshaw design of dueling dragons made from a harpy claw.

A scepter made with scorched wood, that has an orb of solid, coagulated blood on it's edge.

A floating spherical chess board that when opened, reveals intricately crafted pieces inside it. The pieces magically adhere to the sphere as it floats, and allows you to play without the chessmen falling off.

A small, golden chime, tied with a red ribbon around the handle, that rings softly of its own accord with a bittersweet melody. It makes those who hear it think of sunlight on a coastline that they've never seen, holding the hand of someone they’ve never known.

A battered tin kettle, slightly warm to the touch. Any liquid placed into the kettle will become something almost, but not quite, exactly nothing like tea.

A pair of goggles that allow the bearer to see from the point of view of a random reef fish in some far off sea.

A black and purple scale of some enormous horror of the far realm.

A thick piece of leather on which was branded a prayer of contrition. It says that it is not enough to ask for absolution, penitence must be forced upon the impure. Some sins can only be forgiven with consecrated flame.

A stoppered, green glass bottle wrapped in grimy stained leather and cord. It is filled with an inferior moonshine containing alcohol distilled in the worst possible conditions. The liquor tastes worse than it looks, but provides a small degree of resistance to the horrors of daily life

A rather intricately filigreed belt buckle featuring a stylistic rendering of a heroic figure standing in defiance of a formless darkness looming above it.

A wine bottle sealed with wax containing a rolled vellum scroll.

A burlap pouch containing a handful of wooden tokens marked with a skull and crossbones on one side and "One Grog" on the other.

A jade carving of a flying fish, inexpertly done and with poor detailing.

An invitation to a charity ball rewarded for substantial devotion and contribution to community and individual well being.

A royal decree ordering all land-holding families to send one armed soldier to an official army muster. Any family that fails to respond is in danger of having their ancestral land titles revoked.

A leather plague doctor's mask with silver frames and buckles.

A copper-plated tin badge of a winged heart.

A wooden flute made of red wood with etchings of leaves around part of its base

An oddly shaped curved wand with elven writing carved within. When held at nighttime it helps its owner sleep peacefully to the sounds of nature.

A large wooden chest with many unique pelts, wrapped one inside the other. In the center a small jade figurine of a humanoid with a fish-like face. It is extremely cold to the touch.

A fancy gold coin with two crowns on both faces. It is literally embedded in a small cube of clearest crystal.

A bright red square tablet of unknown material about three inches to a side with a metal plate that slides to open a tiny window through the tablet that reveals a sheet of black material within. It is lighter than stone, metal, or wood and bears no markings other than a rectangle of gummy residue on one side and a small circular metal coin on the reverse.

A rose quartz paperweight shaped like a crushing fist.

A toy horse carved from bone.

A letter with the following written inside "We only need 300 more gold until we can bring her back and live peacefully once again as a family."

An ivory spoon with teardrop handle.

A miniature portrait of a young chestnut-haired beauty set in a silver frame. She appears to be set against the skyline of a metropolitan city on a sea, as though the portrait was painted from a tall building or hillside.

A tin box decorated with an embossing of a ship in a bottle, containing precision woodworking and knot tying tools with telescoping handles.

A fist sized ball of melted copper coins.

A bronze statuette of a chariot, with horses and charioteer.

A child’s painting framed beautifully. The art itself is fairly lacking but the frame is worth a decent amount, even more to someone who appreciates the juxtaposition of incredibly classy and messy.

A silken caul hair net decorated with small semiprecious stones.

An ebon walking stick with a monogrammed silver handle.

A bone pipe carved with intricate crimson sigils; its smoke appears as writhing shades of the damned.

A scrap of dirty parchment bearing a list of names, some of them crossed off. Investigation reveals all of the names on the list are dead people, mostly buried in the Gilded Graveyard. Those who have been crossed off have recently have their graves’ plundered, their bodies stolen. Further investigation still reveals that these were all jurors in the trial of Isabella Rasping, a necromancer convicted of using a zombies as murder weapons during the infamous “Meatpuppet Murders” two centuries ago. She was executed for the crime by her own creations. Isabella has returned as a revenant with unfinished business; she maintains her innocence and believes she can now prove it, and so is gathering the previous jurors for a kind of “retrial."

A ceramic dining plate edged with copper.

A bandolier from which hang a half dozen small securely stoppered flasks. Each is filled with a noxious substance, preserved at the height of its foulness: Human diarrhea, spoiled milk, vomit, cat urine, skunk stink glands and rotting fish. The flasks are flimsy and designed to break apart when they hit something solid and each stopper has a small eye-hook screwed into the cork. They can be thrown, shot from a sling or flask launcher (A modified light crossbow) or a length of twine has be tied to the eye-hook, creating a tripwire trap.

A brass bust of a famed scholar and medic.

An anklet of braided gold and silver worked with small carnelians.

A set of bagpipes made from the skin of a displacer beast, with the drones and chanter carved from its bones.

An antiquated torture device designed for mutilating hands and fingers.

A leather eyepatch with a turquoise stone surrounded by white agate resembling a crude eye.

A stuffed cockatrice clutching a sculpted marble hand in one talon.

An egg, roughly the size of a goose egg but navy blue with mottled flecks of gold leaf, mounted on a round wooden base with a tiny placard that reads "Imaskari Sun Hawk". When touched, the golden flecks on the egg gently glow that grows brighter and softer in time with the heartbeat of the one touching it and there is the sensation of rustling movement from within.

A fragment of a painting torn from a larger canvas depicting an unfamiliar princess.

A family portrait of an infamous noble house whose eyes seem to follow onlookers.

A pale gourd with ornate glyphs painted in black around the cork at its apex and twine braided about it. Try as one might, nobody has ever been able to open the stopper. A thin metallic clinking can be heard when the gourd is shaken.

A delicate pink flower, carefully preserved with magic and will not wilt or break yet preserves its natural beauty.

An old withered hand, no more than skin drawn taut across bones, and tarnished rings hanging loosely from the fingers. The bearer can rattle the rings on the hand which causes the smell of lilies to fills the air around him.

A small metal top seems like an everyday child’s toy except for the skull engraved into a button in the middle.

A sturdy wooden travel case containing a popular board game known as Roundels. It has similar elements to chess but is played on a circular board with a stylized keep. The game is abstract and is supposed to loosely simulate a siege. There is an attacking player and a defending player and each side has some unique pieces in addition to their common pieces. The etiquette of playing Roundels requires players to participate in two games, one as the attacker and the other as defender.

A horse femur that is as light as a feather.

An old yellowed skull that in spite of its lack of eyeballs, seems to be constantly eyeing the bearer.

A length of ivory shaped like a bone, covered in small onyx spiders that look all too real. The arcane rod can be used as an magical focus and is a grisly sight to behold.

A burlap bag large enough to hold a coconut. It is smooth to the touch and found in the color purple with a golden strap.

An arcane wand that is rough to hold and twists like a wild vine.

A translucent green stone the size of a fat grape. The item is sea glass, a fragment of a bottle that washed around the world and back, until it had no sharp edges.

A satyr statuette which increases the libido of everyone within line of sight of it.

A bewitched letter which appears to be addressed to whoever is currently holding it, describing their features and personality in adoring terms.

A small crystal which, when peered through, appears to show alternate universes. Actually a fragment of a much larger crystal, part of a complex device deep in the Old City.

[sinsatmidnight]

A Gift from a Princess

Pairing - Lee Naeun x Male Reader

Words - 3370

Sins - Smut, oral, bath sex

So slightly late for Naeun’s birthday (May 5th), but I had a rush of inspiration and it was her birthday so I tried to hurry this out! It’s quite different from my usual stuff as I experimented with some things (particularly dialogue), but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

It is the waning hours of the day and the sun is about to set on the Alabaster Palace. There is a knock on the heavyset door of white wood to your chambers.

You pause in packing your belongings for the long journey ahead of you. “Yes, what is it?”

A young maiden’s voice emanates from behind the door. It sounds like Chaekyung, the handmaiden to the princess. She’s a few years older than the princess and serves as friend, caretaker, and servant. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the princess is requesting your presence at her chambers. She would like to see you post-haste.”

The Princess? You wonder why she wants to see you. “I’ll be there shortly, thank you, Chaekyung.”

“I’ll be taking my leave then, my lord.”

“Yes, please do.”

The handmaiden’s footsteps echo off the polished white marble floor, fading away from your door. You stow away your travelling pack, sheath the sword you were planning to sharpen and adjust your sword belt before making your way through the palace you live and work in, to the princess.

The palace is grand and large, with white accent with gold being the predominant theme, hence the name of the Alabaster Palace. You walk for a good while through long and tall hallways, greeting some of the white-armoured guards as you pass them. The Princess lives in the Royal Wing, far removed from where your quarters are. As a knight to the king, your quarters are better than most others, but you do not compare to the Royal Family.

Princess Lee Naeun is both breathtakingly beautiful and beloved to her people and her father. Kind and sweet, her reputation precedes her everywhere. She has plenty of suitors, but none have come close to winning her heart. They certainly weren’t helped by her father being so protective of her. Noblemen of all stripes from many kingdoms near and far have tried to court her and win her hand in marriage. All have been rebuffed by Naeun’s father, or by the Princess herself.

Arriving at her chambers, you knock firmly on the gilded white door of wood three times. “My lady, it is I. You called for me?”

Her familiar voice comes from behind the door. “Please enter and lock the door behind you. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

You push the door open and enter, before gently closing it shut and locking it with the bolt behind you. In the large, high-ceilinged chamber of white and gold before you, Princess Lee Naeun sits upon her giant red four-poster bed of silky sheets and velvety cushions.

The Princess is a ravishing vision of beauty with her large doe eyes, smooth fair skin, long dark tresses, and thick lips of deep red pursed together. A small tiara of white gold, diamonds, opals, and pearls adorns the crown of her head. A silken choker with a gold clasp and pearls hanging from it sits around her sculpted neck. She is dressed in a resplendent large strapless gown of midnight black with silver threading inlaid and small opals adorning it.

That gown is also cut exceptionally low, revealing more of her chest than you’ve ever seen before. You’ve never seen the Princess wear this particular dress before in all your time guarding her person. As you stand before Princess Naeun, you try to keep your eyes stuck to her gorgeous face, and not on the exposed flesh of her chest. Despite her obvious beauty, it was hard to avoid not looking down without seeming overly stiff.

“My lady, you asked for me?” Your throat seems to be dry, but you get the words out.

Princess Naeun stands up from the bed and takes the couple of steps needed to close the distance to you. “Father says that you are to journey west across the Silvercap Peaks to the city of Snowgleam.”

“Yes, my lady. His Majesty has an urgent message to be sent to Snowgleam.”

“I’ve heard tales of travellers disappearing in the snow, ever to be seen again. The cliffs are treacherous, that journey is perilous.” Princess Naeun suddenly draws you into a tight hug, her chest pressed up against yours and her face inches away from yours.

“Which is why swords like mine are needed to protect the message.” You say carefully, unused to this sudden intimacy with the Princess. “My lady, I beg your pardon, but why did you request for my presence? I am but a humble knight and bodyguard.”

“I am just worried about you, that is all.” She whispers, her grey eyes boring into yours with their intense gaze.

“I will be gone but two weeks. A week to the city, and a week back. I’m flattered for the concern, Princess, but I will be fine and back before you know it.”

Princess Naeun releases you from the hug, taking a step back. “I would like to offer you a gift for your safe return. Something to motivate you to come back safe and alive.”

You say nothing, not completely sure of what the Princess might be referring to. Her behaviour tonight has been anything but usual and you cannot predict what she intends for you.

The Princess lifts one delicate finger to her lips and her tongue flicks out momentarily, wetting the tip of it. You follow with your eyes as Naeun traces a path from her lips, over her chin, her neck…down her chest and ending up in her cleavage, between her breasts. Her finger stays there.

“Do you like what you see?” Her voice is low and sultry.  

You swallow. There is no way to answer her that would fit proper decorum. As such you decide to answer with what you truly feel. You can already feel yourself getting hard in your pants. And how could you not have been attracted to such a beautiful woman? You merely had the sense not to act upon that attraction. Not before this.

“Yes.” Your reply is but a whispered breath, but it is loud enough in the otherwise-silent chambers for the Princess to hear. A smile of what almost looks like relief curves across her pretty face. “Good.”

Princess Naeun leans in and her red lips softly press against your own. With her lips against yours, she whispers. “Because I’m your gift.” You feel her hand caress the growing bugle in your pants. “Lay with me in my chambers tonight. Come back safe from your journey…and lay with me for many more nights thereafter.”

This is definitely plenty of motivation for you to come back safe from your journey.

Her other hand takes one of yours and places it squarely on her chest. “Touch me.” She breathes. You squeeze gently. Her large and fair breasts are soft, firm, supple and make a nice handful. They feel perfect to your touch.

“This is a most generous gift, Princess.” You finally manage to get some words out of your dry mouth. “You have rejected so many who have wanted you, and yet you give yourself so freely to me.”

“Will you not accept my gift?”

“When it is given so freely, I must humbly accept it. I do so with great honour and pleasure. Thank you for bestowing such a magnificent gift upon me. Thank you…for choosing me, Princess.”

“Please, call me Naeun when we are alone in my chambers. Your words are still that of a loyal knight…I wish for the words of a secret lover.” Naeun’s hands undo the clasps on your sword belt, which falls to the ground with a clang.

“And you shall have them, Naeun.” You whisper as your fingers slip into the top of the gown, seeking out her nipples and rubbing them. You feel them swiftly grow hard under your touch and Naeun groans softly. “Please, say my name again.”

“Naeun.” You breathe as you bury your face in her neck, nibbling, licking, and kissing, all drawing more sighs of pleasure from her. You inhale, she smells fantastic. “Again. Please.” She whimpers breathlessly.

“Naeun.” You say in a low growl as you stare at her face, your lust reflected in her. She shivers and moans as she stares at your desire for her, both of her hands sneaking inside your pants to rub and stroke your cock. And then you kiss her.

Passionately, your tongue plunders her mouth as she whines lustfully into your kiss. You keep a hand on the back of her head while the other continues to fondle her chest. You stop after a while to let both of yourselves breathe.

“Let me give you my gift.” Naeun says breathlessly as she lowers herself to her knees on the polished marble floor and her hands pull your silken pants down to your ankles. Your erection springs out in front of her and she immediately licks up your pre-cum into her mouth even as one hand wraps around your length and starts to stroke.

You run your hands through her dark hair, knocking her tiara off her head, and it clatters to the ground. Your hands rest there, although you are conscious not to put any pressure on Naeun’s head. She is, after all, both inexperienced at this and able to have you killed with a word.

“How do you know to do all this?” You ask quietly as you watch the erotic sight of Naeun jerking you off even as her head bobs along your cock. In this position, you can see down Naeun’s cleavage as she sucks and strokes you, and you make a mental note to strip her off and put your cock between her breasts later.

Naeun pulls her mouth off your cock for a few moments to answer. “Chaekyung gave me a few tips, but I’m practicing them for the first time on you.”

That makes sense. The busty and attractive handmaiden is older and more experienced with men, not to mention popular with the men in the palace. More importantly, she is the closest person to Naeun in the palace, bar her father. If there was anyone for Naeun to ask about sex, it would be Chaekyung.

And while Naeun may be inexperienced, she’s very eager. You groan as Naeun tries to deepthroat you and ends up gagging on your cock. The contractions of her throat muscles around your erection feel great and tight, but Naeun clearly can’t keep it up for long. She tries to deepthroat your length a couple more times before she has to pull off and cough after gagging again and again.

“I need your help, hold my head, move your hips, use my mouth.” Naeun can’t help but smile as you raise an eyebrow at her words. “You heard me. Use me. Use my mouth. I can’t force your length down my throat…but you can.”

Oh, if only her father could hear her now. Chaekyung must have been telling her some wild stuff. You nod and then slowly start to fuck Naeun’s face. You don’t put much speed in it, relishing in the warmth and wetness of her mouth instead. You go deep into her throat, but don’t stay long, slowly getting her used to your size.

Naeun’s hands hold onto your thighs for support as she tries to deepthroat you again, and this time you keep a bit of pressure on the back of her head, listening to her gag and choke on your cock and watching tears form in her eyes. But the moment she actively pushes against your thighs, you immediately release her head.

“Was that good?” Naeun asks even as she pants, her large eyes scanning your face for approval.

You brush her hair lovingly. “It was excellent. I’m so close to my release now.” Naeun’s face’s brightens up at this, she looks excited at the idea of seeing you climax. Both of her hands immediately start to stroke your slick, throbbing cock. “I want to see it, please, cover me with your cream.”

Naeun’s warm hands feel heavenly around your cock, and she pumps you with great speed and gusto, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. What sets you over the edge is watching Naeun’s face as she stares at you lustfully, licking her lips and watching her breasts jiggle and bounce a bit as she animatedly jerks you off and envisioning your sperm splattered all over them.

“Naeun, I’m going to-“

And you erupt, spraying cum all over the beautiful princess who continues to pump you for more. Some of it sprays on her neck, mingling with the pearls on her choker, you do your best to get most of your cum on her chest, where most of it ends up slowly sliding down her cleavage. And you get a bit on her face, her cheeks, her lips, and chin. You feel one final spurt coming and shove your cock past Naeun’s partially open lips and feed her the rest.

Naeun happily sucks on your cock and licks it clean for a while before finally pulling off you. She sticks a finger between her breasts and scoops out a little bit of your cum and licks it off.

You don’t know if it’s the sight of Naeun with your cum coating her face, neck and chest or something else, but your cock isn’t doing a particularly good job of coming down and softening. Instead, it’s still hard, throbbing, and ready for more.

“Let’s clean up…and get the rest of your cream out of you.” Naeun gets to her feet, and beckons for you to follow her. You step out of your pants and shoes and follow her past a set of side doors into her large bath area, where a heated pool of water sits. The setting sun’s rays pour into the room through open windows set into the wall, reflecting off the water. There is a golden basin set upon a stool that Naeun uses to wash her face and mouth while you wait at the side. You’ve never seen this place before.

Only one person attends to Naeun in her private chambers as well as during her baths. That person being Chaekyung. A lot of people are jealous of Chaekyung, but you’ve overheard some of the guards saying they were jealous of the princess. There was the occasional rumour that the two were lovers. You wouldn’t be surprised at this point if that were true.

Naeun then turns to you, her face clean, although her neck and chest are still adorned with white goo. She unclasps her choker, letting it fall to the marble ground. She reaches behind her gown, undoes a clasp, and it falls off her body to reveal her fully nude underneath.

Naeun’s flawless skin glimmers with a thin layer of sweat, from her long legs up to her slim stomach and heaving chest. She looks over at you as she waits to step into the pool. “Divest yourself of your clothing and join me.”

It was fortunate that she called you when you were dressed simply while off-duty. If you were in your armour, it would have taken ten minutes to remove. You pull your silken tunic off and toss it aside.

Naeun takes hold of your hand and guides it to her core, and you feel how sopping wet she is down there. “Every time you say my name, it gets me so wet. Chaekyung’s the only other person to make me feel like this.” So Chaekyung does bathe and sleep with her.

You slip a finger inside her. “So…does Chaekyung do this to you?” Naeun gasps and nods, her hands grabbing hold of your arm, as though almost wanting to stop you. You slide a second finger in and she closes her eyes while trembling. “Please…don’t stop.”

At that, you pull your fingers out and wink at Naeun before stepping into the water. She whines but follows and steps into the water after you.

The water is warm and the pool is shallow; while standing, the water reaches to just above your stomach. This place is meant for the princess to bathe in while attended to by handmaidens. You’re quite possibly the first man to step inside after the construction of the chamber.

Naeun shyly hands you a bar of soap. “Chaekyung is normally the one who cleans me up.”

“I’ll be happy to do it on her behalf today.” You rub your hands on the soap and get a lather going before running your hands all over Naeun’s neck and chest, getting it clean and slick while also enjoying the feeling of her large, warm, breasts under your fingers. You squeeze her boobs as you soap her up and then you move your hands down to her stomach, feeling her toned abdomen up.

And then you slide your hands over her body further down, between her legs. Your fingers tease her, rubbing circles around her clit. Naeun mewls and French kisses you, moaning into that kiss when you soap up the inside of her pussy with a finger.

Naeun grabs the bar of soap. “Let me clean your body now. I’ve cleaned Chaekyung’s before, but I’ve never done this for a man.”

“You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” She does more than fine, the electrifying touch of her slick hands on your chest and nipples has them hard like your cock swiftly and when her hands go past your stomach and reach your groin, you know that she could have you cumming like a fountain with just her hands if she wanted to.

Instead, Naeun strokes you up a few times to get you slick…and then kisses you. “Impale me on your shaft. Fill me. Take me.” She whispers against your lips.

You don’t need a second invitation. You wrap an arm around Naeun’s waist, brace her against the side of the pool and push yourself into her. You do it slowly and deliberately, because she’s probably only had fingers and tongues inside her before. She gets adjusted to your size quickly though.

“You’re so thick…so warm…” Naeun’s gaze is heavy-lidded and glazed over in pleasure.

You start to move around inside her and build up speed. She is tight, hot, and wet inside and you groan in pleasure. Naeun pulls you into a deep kiss as you fuck her, one hand curled up in your hair and the other holding onto your shoulder for support and you pound into her. You feel her legs wrap around your waist, locking you to her.

With one arm around her waist, you send the other to rub Naeun’s clit. Her wonderful breasts bounce with every stroke of your cock inside of her and you feel your second orgasm building up. He golden rays of the setting sun bouncing off the water give her a gorgeous glow.

Naeun seems to sense it too as you increase your pace and fuck her almost desperately at this point. “Inside me.” She pants between kisses. But she hits her climax first and her pussy muscles clench your shaft ever so tightly as she cries out in pleasure. And even though you are in a pool of heated water, you feel her hot pussy juices flow down and around your cock.

You slam into her a couple more times, fucking Naeun as she orgasms and then blow your load inside her. You keep your cock inside her as you rest your head against hers, the two of you sharing soft kisses as you both recover.

Naeun speaks first. “After we dry off, we lay together in my bed tonight, naked.” You nod your approval at that course of action. “But first, let’s just stay together like this for a while.” Naeun’s legs unwrap themselves from your waist and the two of you switch places so that you rest against the side of the pool and she rests her head on your chest…with your cock still inside her with your mixed cum, of course.

You have a long night ahead, and a long journey ahead after that. But you’re already looking forward to more long nights with Princess Naeun in the future. What a gift she’s given you.

[bm-ancient-art]

Part of a Bowl Inscribed for Amunhotep III and His Chief Queen, Tiye, ca. 1390-1352 B.C.E., Brooklyn Museum: Egyptian, Classical, Ancient Near Eastern Art

Fragment from the rim of an alabaster bowl; in relief, portions of a Hathor head flanked by seated cat. Traces of gilding. Condition: Preserved portion in good condition. Size: 3 7/8 x 2 9/16 in. (9.9 x 6.5 cm) Medium: Egyptian alabaster (calcite), traces of gilding

https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/3130