#wooden divan

[woodensolefurniture]

[onlineseasheeshemfurniture]

Buy Modern diwan bed design Online at Low Prices In India | Jodhpuri Furniture

Transform your bedroom with our latest collection of Modern diwan bed design from Jodhpuri Furniture. Designed for comfort and style, our divan beds offer luxurious upholstery and sturdy craftsmanship, ensuring a restful night's sleep. Perfect for modern homes, these beds feature ample storage options and elegant designs that blend seamlessly with any decor.

Explore our range today and avail of low prices on the finest divan beds in India, exclusively at Jodhpuri Furniture!

[williamadam10]

Innovative Furniture Designs for Small Bedrooms

Limited sized bedrooms sometimes call for inventive and imaginative ways to maximise every square inch in the era of limited living spaces. Modern furniture makers and designers are rising to the occasion by creating inventive and distinctive furniture designs that not only stow up neatly in compact bedrooms but also enhance their visual appeal. This article examines several very original and practical furniture layouts that are ideal for little bedrooms.

Divan Bed: Conventional Space-Saving Option:

The built-in storage facilities of divan beds are one of its main benefits. Many divan beds include drawers or other storage areas built into the base, which is a convenient way to store extra blankets, clothing, or other personal belongings without taking up more room in the room. This helps make the most of the space that is available and is especially advantageous for bedrooms that have a little amount of floor space.

Verona Sofa Corner: Stylish and Durable: 

The Verona Fabric Sofa Set is more than simply a piece of furniture; it is a symbol of convenience, refinement, and versatility. You may add a touch of refinement to your living area and appreciate the luxury of unbeatable relaxation. The Verona sofa set transforms your house into the centre of activity—a place where memories are built, discussions flow, and comfort knows no bounds—thanks to its luxurious comfort, classic style, and durability.

High Gloss Wardrobe: Enhancing Style

A high gloss wardrobe offers graceful functionality for your home furniture while also enhancing its aesthetic appeal, making it a more enjoyable place to spend time each day. With a high gloss wardrobe, discover the ideal compromise between style and practicality. Here, modern design meets useful storage options.

Storage Capacity: Ottoman Storage Beds

A versatile and stylish option that turns your bedroom into a haven of comfort and order, an ottoman storage bed offers the ideal union of design and organisation. For a genuinely elegant sleeping environment, bring this ottoman bed which will help you enhance your space capacity as well.

Florence Sofa Set:

The florence Sofa Set is an opportunity to discover an ideal combination of comfort, design, and functionality rather than just an item of furniture. This couch set creates the perfect atmosphere for unforgettable moments in the centre of your house, whether you're relaxing after a hard day or entertaining guests for a special event. With the florence Sofa Set, you may enhance your living area and enjoy the art of luxurious relaxation.

Conclusion:

Innovative furniture ideas for small bedrooms are thrillingly becoming a reality as the world embraces the idea of living sensibly within constrained areas. These innovative interior designs, which range from vertical beds that create an oasis in the air to convertible walls that conceal a variety of functionality, not only overcome the problems associated with limited space but also give your bedroom a feeling of wonder and flair. With the help of these creative designs, embrace the revolution of small-space living and make your tiny bedroom a refuge of creativity and comfort.

[gtgbabie0]

-Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

{Aegon takes pleasure in his cups… and in between your thighs although it’s all the same to him}

!!-18//MDNI-!! I was listening to Amy Whinehouse whilst writing this, enjoy my lovelies💕

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺

The hour of the bat was well and truly upon Kings Landing, the crescent moon resting against the abyss of the night sky as it casts down a silvery hue that bleeds throughout the Red Keep. With the absence of the sun, you found peace, resting on the velvety divan with a book in hand.

You were lost within the chapters as Aegon paces the length of your bedchambers before collapsing next to you on the divan, leaning up against cushions with a heavy sigh.

“They all belittle me… they all take me for a fool.” He huffs, pointing over to the door of your chambers, still complaining about today’s council meeting with a deep frown. You had already said your piece yet it seems Aegon was not done venting to you.

He looks up to you, opening his mouth to complain about how you ‘need to pay attention to him and not the book’ however the words fall short, dissolving on the tip of his tongue as he stares at you completely star-stuck.

His lips curl into a lopsided grin, the sight of you and the slightly sheer fabric of your nightslip that veils your body, how the fireplace bathes you in a warm orangey light, you had a beauty that captivated him wholly.

“Fuck them… fuck, all of them.” He declares suddenly, although deep down he doesn’t mean the words, not really, you can tell by the way his amethyst eyes flicker with hesitation, glancing down at his fidgeting hands.

“Aegon—” you start, but your words are quickly cut off by him, his rough palm resting against your cheek.

His gaze meets your own, shuffling closer to you, his lips curling downwards in a nonchalant manner. “No, I don’t need any of them, just you.” His words are hushed, only meant for your ears.

With a sigh your eyes soften in an understanding, for you know his only desire is to be admired or at the very least just simply liked. You close your book, leaning over him to place it on the wooden table.

“And you have me, no matter what the future holds.” You reaffirm his words, watching him closely as he lets out a shaky sigh which he tries his best to conceal.

There was an instability in Aegon’s life, save for you, his only constant in a world of ever-changing conditions. Perhaps that is why he clings to you the way he does, arms wrapped tightly around your soft waist with his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“I am not as malleable as they think… I will win, I will burn down anyone who goes against me.” He whispers against the curve of your jaw, confidence weighing against his tone. His hand slips in between the gap of your nightslip to caress your bare waist down to your hip, the cool metal of his wedding band sends a chill down your spine.

He needed a distraction, the pressure from the heavy crown he never asked for was too much for him to endure alone. He needed to not feel like such a disappointment for even just a small moment.

He kisses the small spot behind your ear, an invitation, to which your head instinctively tilts to the side, enticing him to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck. His lips linger against your pulse point with a small grin, the sound of your pleasured sigh hitting his ears.

“Of course, I do not doubt you, you know that.” You whisper through a shaky voice, steeped in desire. Your body jolts, a soft gasp, at the feeling of his teeth nipping the sensitive skin on your throat before kissing the spot once then twice.

He hums in acknowledgement, pulling back to admire you. His palm still cupping your cheek with a certain hint of possessiveness, it shows in the way he thumbs at your bottom lip. “Hmm, you might be the only one who does, my pretty wife.” He whispers, all of his worries and troubles slowly ebbing away.

The atmosphere around the pair of you suddenly changes, the air becoming so thick that you’re sure it could snuff out the candles around you.

“Yours… all yours Aegon.” The words come out in one breath, tumbling past your parted lips as his fingertips graze along your lower abdomen, slipping through the coarse hair on your mound before dipping past your slick folds.

The rough pads of his finger slides along your slit to collect your wetness before finding your clit, rubbing slow circles against the sensitive bud, testing the waters, as you melt into the divan. Aegon chuckles against your shoulder, enjoying the way your thighs spread and your hips writhe with desperation for more.

He sinks down onto the floor, kneeling between your thighs, ready to pray at the altar of your body. He immediately pushes the silk fabric of your nightdress up past your thighs, letting it pool around your hips.

“I’ve been deprived of you for weeks…” he mutters, leaving marks against your hip-bones, sucking at the sensitive skin, before soothing them with a gentle kiss or two.

You watch his lilac eyes go dark with a carnal craving, the way his hands greedily feel up your thighs, squeezing the supple fat harshly, it all only elicits more gasps and moans from you.

He coos against the inside of your thigh, nudging one leg over his shoulder and propping the other up on the divan to spread out in front of him, the sight of your soaked cunt going straight to his hardening cock. “I’ll be gentle… so gentle.” He smirks, a lie, lips trailing over your inner thighs with all tongue and teeth as your hips buck upwards in anticipation.

He tuts, fingers digging into your hips to keep you still. All too suddenly he’s tugging you closer to him roughly, making you slouch against the cushions of the divan with a shocked gasp.

Your fingers bury within his white choppy hair, pulling him closer to your aching heat as his tongue trails along your cunt, flicking against your clit with a groan. He smirks into your soaked folds, the sound of your whiny moans, the way his name falls from your parted lips in a hunger only he could satisfy, it all makes his skin burn.

“Keep moaning… let me hear you.” He encourages, words muffled against your slickness, lips pressed to your clit, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your sensitive bud trying to elicit more sweet noises from your lips as he hums in delight.

A broken moan escapes you, your hips grinding upwards in tandem with his lips and tongue. “Oh, Aegon… more please.” You cry out, a woman possessed by pleasure.

It is the same possession that causes you to arch your back up from the divan to try and get closer to him. His fingers squeezing into your hips, a warning, his tongue lapping up your desire before teasing your entrance, practically drinking from you as if you were a chalice of Arbor Red.

Aegon flattens his tongue against your cunt, licking up to your clit once more with a muffled moan, sucking on it with delight. “Tastes so sweet…” The vibrations from his words only serve to add to the searing heat that begins to pool deep within your lower abdomen, leaving you a panting mess.

“Aegon, don’t stop… I’m so close.” your hands pull helplessly at his hair, drawing him impossibly closer. He chuckles at your wanton need, how you shamelessly grind yourself against his mouth without a care in the world.

He pushes his fingers inside of you with ease, humming in pleasure at the way your heat sucks in his digits. Aegon fucks you with them you at a tantalising pace whilst licking at your sensitive bud. You look down at him, your mouth agape, watching his head move against you so eagerly as you teeter along the line of release.

“Gods— Aegon!” You cry out his name with a broken moan, your slick walls clamping around his fingers as he continues to curl them deep inside you, still kissing greedily at your clit. He mumbles sweet, loving words of encouragement as he drinks up your orgasm. The wet sounds fill the silence of your bedchambers as you come down from your high with shaky breaths that come out in puffs.

He looks up at you with a cocky smirk, pride blooming through his chest, his lips and chin slick with your release. He pushes himself back onto the divan, leaning over you. “You are truly all I need, all I want.” He whispers feverishly, his fingers wrapping around your jaw to bring your lips to his own.

The taste of you against his lips is all you need to deepen the messy kiss, both of you melting into each other's warmth in a mixture of lust and love. He would take this as long as he could, until you were completely satiated. And even then, he would push for more. He was addicted to you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊

[redtsundere-writes]

Ear Cleaning | Sukuna Ryomen

king!sukuna ryomen x servant!readerSypnosis: The king wants his ears cleaned and he chooses the new servant to do it. Contents: king x servant, kinda fluffy i guess, a lil bit of humilliation, threat, hugs, one bed. Word count: 750 words. Author's note: I like this dynamic, I'll probably write it again in the future. Let me know what you think :)

Next →

AO3/WATTPAD VERSION

> Sukuna Ryomen had a lot of servers. They trembled if those scary red eyes of his laid on them. Everyone tried to avoid him at all costs to avoid performing tasks that involved being near him, especially cleaning his ears.

> Sukuna Ryomen hated having his sensitive ears touched but it was necessary if he wanted to have his five senses ready for every battle. He didn't want to clean his own ears because what kind of king cleans his own ears?

> Sukuna Ryomen began his search for a faithful servant to do such a task. As everyone was hiding from him, he ended up choosing you, the youngest and most inexperienced servant in the castle. He ordered you to follow him to his room and the other servants began to bless you in your way there in case they never saw you again.

> Sukuna Ryomen leaned back on his luxurious divan for you to start working. Like the evil motherfucker he is, he didn’t forget to threaten you first: "You'd better do your job well or I’ll kill you," he spat. You swallowed dryly because it was the first time you cleaned his ears and if you didn't do your job well, this would be your last.

> Sukuna Ryomen closed his eyes as you carefully cleaned the outside of his ear with a cotton swab. Your hands were gentle around his sensitive ears and the friction did not bother him because it was so minimal. Your fingers felt warm, which helped him relax. You wish you could be as relaxed as he was because were cold sweating and every move you made was calculated to not bother your majesty.

 > Sukuna Ryomen felt a shiver run down his back as you stuck a small wooden spatula into his ear to remove the excess earwax that prevented him from hearing well. "Tell me if it hurts, your majesty" you warned in a shaky voice. "Just do your job," he replied reluctantly.

> Sukuna Ryomen was falling asleep until you asked him if he could lie down on his opposite side so that you could continue the job in his other ear. He did so with a grunt of annoyance, as he was very comfortable on that side.

> Sukuna Ryomen let out a groan as soon as you stuck the spatula in too far. You paralyzed thinking he would kill you instantly. "More careful, can't you do something so simple?" he growled annoyed. You apologized immediately and continued on your task. As soon as your magic fingers touched his ear, his anger faded slowly.

> Sukuna Ryomen yawned as soon as you finished. It was getting late and you had to get back to the kitchen as soon as possible to help with dinner. Instead, he ordered you to stay and said, "Let the servants take care of it. Come here and massage my head."

> Sukuna Ryomen was lying on his gigantic bed with his head in your lap. Your fingers massaged his temples in circles softly. If you paid close attention, you could hear him purring lightly like a contented kitten even though he wasn't physically as cute as one. You started to feel less stressed since he seemed to be enjoying your attention.

> Sukuna Ryomen had fallen asleep, so you decided to sneak out of his room to join the other servants. As soon as you got off the bed, you heard that dreaded voice behind you. "Who said you could leave?" You stopped frozen in your place and turned to face him. "Come and lie with me." Your heart bounced on your chest as you heard that command, but you couldn't say “no” to the king. 

> Sukuna Ryomen pulled you into his strong arms like you were a full size teddy bear. The warmth of his body and yours merged, causing the temperature to rise between you. You had heard how badly he treated his concubines, so you were afraid he would do the same to you. All concern disappeared when he began to slowly caress your body carefully to not scratch you with his claws.

> Sukuna Ryomen didn't snore like you thought he would. He made a lighter, quieter sound, almost like a kitten with a stuffy nose. His arms wrapped around your waist and shoulders. His heavy breathing and comfortable chest encouraged you to fall asleep. "His majesty's orders" you thought so you wouldn't feel guilty about falling asleep while the other servants ran around the castle.

Next →

Order your own fanfic! (Starting price: $5 USD)

Masterlist.

[cliozaur]

Hauteville House. Part 1

I’ll start with the oriental motifs in the interior of Hauteville House. Hugo was one of the intellectual founders of orientalism: though he never travelled to the East, he held strong opinions about it and was never shy in sharing them. The entire house is a curious mixture of oriental and gothic elements. He had a particular love for low divans inspired by Muslim interiors—they’re everywhere. But the strongest sense of oriental influence is felt in the so-called Red and Blue Rooms, both designed as sitting rooms.

The Red Room evokes a theatre and was partly inspired by Hugo’s childhood in Spain, but it also features African figures and Asian ornaments. The Blue Room, on the other hand, is covered with damask and adorned with chinoiseries. Hugo and his son scoured shops on Guernsey and in England for various pieces of Chinese furniture. A beautiful set of blue and gold glass-bead embroideries, originally bought for his lover Juliette Drouet (who lived next door), adds a stunning touch to the room’s decor.

This mixture of oriental and gothic aesthetics is present throughout: a medieval mirror against Chinese wallpaper, and Chinese figures above the entrance of his eclectic Delft-style dining room.

A gift from Hugo’s close friend, Alexandre Dumas, a bronze scent burner.

My favourite orientally-inspired piece is the two wooden panels in Hugo’s private room. He personally carved a story of a knight and a dragon (reminiscent of St. George's legend) for his grandchildren. The dragon itself is very oriental—it was inspired by another piece of Chinese furniture on the ground floor of the house. He used to tell his grandchildren stories about the dragon, and then he carved and painted it. The panels feel strikingly modern, almost Art Nouveau. You can even see Hugo’s initials carved in the lower corner.

[hyu7eii]

THE WORLD DID NOT EXIST AT NIGHT ― H.HJ

SYNOPSIS. at night, the world was oblivious, the gaiety lulled to silence by the moon. here, you will find your lover again, away from the forces that pull you apart, the unkind eyes that do not understand. it will simply just be the two of you, and you would not care if the morning comes.

PAIRING. hwang hyunjin x fem!reader

GENRE. romeo&juliet-esque!au, forbidden love, historical!au, painter!hyunjin, angst

WARNINGS. toxic parenting, family abandonment (hyunjin), description of blood and wound (non-detailed and mentioned once), deep-rooted insecurity

WORDCOUNT. 3k words (not proofread at all lmao)

The night was cool–maybe even piercingly so, goosebumps crawling up the expanse of your arm and the back of your neck. The thin cotton of your nightgown does nothing to alleviate the cold; the frills at the end of your sleeve and neckline tickle your skin, perhaps making it worse. But even so, a strange excitement grows in your chest, flushing your skin despite the cold. Your clothed feet grow a little sore from the hard wooden floor, but you didn’t want your shoes disturbing the quiet of the night. No one was supposed to hear you, or know that you are here. 

You were supposed to be at home, asleep in your own quarters, but you wanted to see him. Needed might be more accurate with you walking all the way to his house at the dead of night. 

If you had the choice, you would choose to spend your lonely nights in his home, to live in the walls that even in the cold night, seemed comforting. You always thought that his home lived up to the definition, unlike your own. Perhaps it was Hyunjin’s paintings that made it so lively, lining the walls of his halls where as yours were empty, maybe a few trinkets that your father had bought, but nonetheless, lacking in personality. You dreaded your room; yes, you had your bed, your grandiose vanity, and all the things you could wish for, but it is in his office where he paints that you are, without effort, able to be lulled to sleep. You had fallen asleep once on his divan and woke up to him making a portrait of you. Since then, you have wished that he would paint you again.

With your shoes in hand, you navigate the halls, the lamp on your other hand useless. If you were to close your eyes, you would know your way around his home–the kitchen, his room, the patch of his favorite flowers in his garden. You would know it by his scent, a mix of the dried paint on his hands, the smell of freshly pressed parchment, his musk under a sunny day. But all of these things no longer are individual matters as they all become distinctly his. It's the cerulean blue of his walls that remind you of the sky he painted for your birthday, the daisies his mother planted in his garden that appear in motifs on his handkerchief, and it's the light pinks on his patterned china that remind you of his aggravating lips. Anyone else wouldn’t have given a second thought to these innocuous things, but perhaps it has become habit over time. It was too familiar, too natural to think of him.

You see light seep through under the door to his office, and you wonder if he has rested at all today. “Hyunjin?” You knocked on the door, and a yelp could be heard from behind. He whispers your name, and it’s almost like the quiet night was fooling you, playing with your mind and pretending to be him. It’s been two weeks, and you miss him badly. When he opens the door, you know you weren’t mistaken.

He takes a step towards you, his loose nightshirt following lazily with his movements. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” he mouths, but the way he reaches out his hand to you lets you know he wants you to stay. The sunken skin under his eyes tells you that the nights have not been kind, that it wasn’t just you alone that was growing restless from his absence. He had said that you and him, despite how desperately the both of you wanted each other, was not meant to happen. You wouldn’t have even met him if you didn’t go along with your father’s wish for a portrait. It was simply just a collision of timing, no sort of kismet or will from the universe made you two meet or even weaved your lives together. He was a fool; it was conscious decisions that has led to this, his own foolish and weak mind that gave in to his curiosity, moreso his longing. He had a love for beautiful things, things he found beautiful. He had painted a lot of scenes, places, people, and he’d like to say that all of them were beautiful, he painted them after all. And you who was simply a bystander, like a newly blooming flower between the cracks of stone, or the setting sun when the world falls asleep, or the stars that watch the universe play along its whims, made him want to draw you endlessly. 

He sees you tremble under your nightgown. “You’re cold.” 

“I’ve missed you.”

When he lets you in, you see the framework of his next painting on the canvas, paint tubes clattered on the table beside it. You place your shoes beside his door, and it looked like it belonged there. His jacket that was precariously draped on his chair suddenly finds purchase on your shoulders. “Please cover up, so you don’t freeze to death.” You almost laugh at his effort to be a complete stranger, avoiding your gaze timidly. You knew him too well; he has already imprinted himself in your life, and to reduce his presence to just someone you knew was impossible. You don’t think you could act like the memories you made with him did not amount to anything, that the home he made in your heart can be filled with the next person that comes. No matter what, without him, it will remain empty, abandoned. And it will always remind you that you would always want Hyunjin, and Hyunjin alone.

“It’s extremely late. Your father would worry greatly if he doesn’t find you home,” he clears his throat, hating having to mention your father. He knew your father would never approve of your relationship, that he would never see him as anything other than a silly painter whose family abandoned him for pursuing that of what he loved. His family used to tell him that it would only lead to failure, that he was too idealistic, that he dreamed too much. He didn’t listen, working hard to reject the very idea. But looking at his situation now, he can’t help but find some truth in it. He couldn’t have everything, not when it seemed that the world was against it, that whatever power above refused to let him dream of you. 

“Talk to me, Hyunjin.” You move closer to him, and you’re almost afraid that once you start to reach out, he will hide again. To your surprise, he doesn’t move an inch. “I walked all the way here.”

He gives you an incredulous look, praying that you were joking with him. “You didn’t take a carriage? When you nod, he speaks to you genuinely, holding your shoulders for some sense of groundedness. “It’s the middle of the cold dead night!” he tells you. “Never do this again, not for my sake.”

It’s like no time has passed, the way he touches you. It wasn’t that you felt metaphorical sparks coursing through your body every time he touched you, or in some distant plain, stars exploded whenever he did. It was just him, and that’s all you could ask for.

“I can’t take you home now, but I promise to have a carriage for you first thing in the morning,” he sighs, letting go of you. “I’ll prepare the guest room for you.”

Your father had sent a letter to the Kim Family. My stay at your residence at Westfield has been most hospitable and welcoming. How warm the people were and the sun that sets behind the treelines. I have met your son, Seungmin; he has done his best to accommodate me and I very much appreciate it. He is a charming fellow, a smile befitting of a man that was gonna change the world! I expected nothing less of your family. My daughter and I will be traveling for the summer, and it so happens that we would be passing your home during this journey. If it is not imposing, we would like to rest in your residence before we go back on our feet again. I am very sure my daughter and your son would get along great.

He sometimes wonders if he hadn’t been so headstrong, if he had listened to his family, if he had worked himself to death in lifeless and devoid cycles, would he be able to carelessly hold and want you without shame. You had said that if his parents were to look at his paintings now, they would never be able to recognize it was his. If they did, they would despise it. It will always be a reminder that they hold nothing over him, that whatever hope they had praying that he’d keep silent, that he’d relent and realize he was completely impractical was utterly futile. If they would look unknowingly at his painting, they’d just be seeing another painting. They wouldn’t see the individual strokes he made, the colors he picked so carefully, or the soul he enshrines in every piece of work. 

They don’t know you like I do.

If they were right, then it was simply too late. Too late for him and you. His hands that urged him to draw you, to rhapsodize you in every expression, in every color, were sinners. His eyes that gravitate towards you, the ones that can only stare at you hopelessly, witnessing and revering you, were of the same. If his family was right, the arbiter of the universe would look at him in shame; he has no place to desire, to dream, for he was not subjected to you, nor you to him. He had made the mistake of unguarding his heart to you, to let you touch and feel every beat that pumped his blood. And you who delicately held him will bleed with him, suffering from the consequences of letting you dream with him. 

You pull his jacket tighter around you. It was like the night didn't exist. The world didn’t to you. “Hyunjin, please talk to me,” you say, but you almost couldn’t hear your voice. “He didn’t touch me. Nothing happened between me and Seungmin, I swear–” 

He scoffs, full of bitterness and forlorn longing. “It is unimportant what you did or didn’t do. I simply can’t be with you.” 

You can’t help yourself; Your hands instinctively reach for his face, holding onto him in fear of him leaving you, disappearing with the world without you. Your fingers were cold, everything seemed so cold. His jacket smelled just like him, like silent candles burning in the night, like boundless reveries and stars.

It is slow when his fingers wrap around your hand on his cheek–hesitant. His fingers were cold too. You can hear the lullabies of the cicadas, the fireflies, the creatures home to the grass, and somehow, his eyes speak much louder. “You didn’t hurt me; you could do nothing wrong to me, so don’t think of this as resentment, or apathy.”

“Then why?” you whisper. You don’t think you can trust your voice, scared you would fail to plead, to beg for ground. You were falling, lost in all-consuming loneliness. You were alone. At night, you were terrified, of the thoughts that plagued you, sleepless nights where you had nothing but your mind to listen to. When you did sleep, you dreamed of his paints, his shoes. They were littered in your room, a canvas waiting to be finished right at the foot of your bed, but you couldn’t see what it was that he was painting. Sometimes those dreams don’t last very long; they would turn to scenes of you looking at his paintings with a wound to your chest. You would have no clothes on, blood dripping down languidly to your chest, squeezing and squeezing. The air would leave you and you would wake up once more.

You felt like a child again–nothing but uncertainty and fear in your mind. 

“Did my father say something to you? He’s a fool; he knows nothing.”

“Darling, don’t say that.” You feel his fingers grip tighter. He doesn't know how to tell you, how everything was his fault, how if he didn’t exist in your life you would’ve lived in complete peace. He loved beautiful things, but they were never destined to be his–not the sun that hid behind the sea at night, or the birdsongs he loved to hear in the morning, not you who so effortlessly pulled everything of which surrounds you. You were a force of your own, and you didn't need him. 

It was instinct for him to replicate beautiful things, so in his own way, he had something he could hold, something he could call his own. But what he had for you was too real, too palpable that he longed for your complete being. It wasn’t enough that he could just spectate, watching you occasionally slip in his sight. It was like when waves desperately reached for the shore, time and time again clawing at the sand, or when the birds soared till they could rest in the clouds. He needed to reach you, to touch you, to love every inch of being. Behind closed doors, he knew you and you knew him. You were familiarity, security, and the embodiment of dreams, but he was nothing. He could not be what you deserve in this lifetime, and this reality no longer can leave his mind. They said to not fly too close to the sun, but Hyunjin flew high with reckless abandon, with love and with hope. And he’ll fall into the endless sea, damning whatever punishment he would face. 

He didn’t want you to drown, not because of him. 

“Tell me, how was your visit with the Kims?” He can feel his chest slow painfully, his hand that was once  holding yours now limp on his side, every intake of breath almost difficult. He hates himself for this, his body rejecting him, but he does not know any better.

You want to cry and tell him that he’s hurting you, that beyond those words, you still love him. You let go of him, and you wish he would chase your touch again, like those goodbyes where the both of you had to will yourselves to leave each other’s sides. You want him to come back to you, to wake up and still have him beside you. You want him to paint you once again.

“Have I not told you I loved you?”

You fell in love with him the night you stayed in his office. And the times before that and after. It is irrelevant to you when it happened, if you realized it too late or too early. “If you wish so desperately for me to stay by Seungmin then tell me so. Berate me for coming here at all.”

“If you wish to not be with me, then I will return home. I will no longer bother you further if you wish for me to leave. You no longer have to worry about my presence. I will understand.”

Tell me you're relieved I'm here with you, that you missed me, that we would find salvation together. 

You can’t move your body, but the words flow uncontrollably from your mouth. “But if you do so, you have to resent me–loathe me, because I would not be able to bear it if I leave and you would be alone again. You have to tell me that I am your bane, that I am your unhappiness. I will hold no anger if this is the truth.”

He had once shown his collection of paintings to you, the ones he had made to quench the boredom of the day, ones he would keep personally in his heart–crows he would find nesting on the willow tree in his garden, the breakfast he ate that morning, the children that would play merrily in the fields. He had shown you paintings of you, and he had told you truthfully that it was difficult to paint you. He couldn’t replicate you; it was simply not the same. Your eyes were more expressive, your face kinder, completely different from the harsh lines of his strokes. He told you he couldn’t do you justice, and he didn’t believe you when you said you looked the most beautiful when he painted you. How couldn’t it be when the artist himself had nothing but adoration and affection to give his subjects. Hyunjin had nothing but love to give. When you look at his paintings, you see much more of him than the subjects themselves. He couldn’t hide himself even if he tried to; he couldn’t hide himself from you.

“I cannot lie to you. You know you are none of that to me.”

“Then do not torment yourself,” you breathe out. You grow even closer to him, your hands instinctively touching him–his chest, his shoulders, his neck. His breath is warm, and you can feel it on your nose. Your eyes look thoughtfully at him, his face and the moles that litter it, the scars you would love to learn, his eyes. “If you love me, then that is all I need.”

You were practically embracing him, leaning into his warmth that quelled the numbing cold of the night. Your chest almost bursts when he doesn’t reject your touch, letting you hold him delicately with the stars above as your witness. He doesn’t have to say anything, no words needed to tell you that his home is yours, and you will always return to it–to him. If your father wished Hyunjin would simply concede to distance himself from you, if his family wished nothing good upon him, if the universe is at its wits end separating you from him, you will damn them all. 

Tonight, you will love him shamelessly, and the world would not exist.

[woodensolefurniture]

[l0ngiland]

Bimarstan always offers a quiet atmosphere, one that soothes patients’ nerves and puts people in the hospital at ease. A subtle waft of incense invades Kaveh’s nostrils and for a while he forgets his worry in being there.

“He is just stressed, but I ask you to keep an eye on him from time to time” A nodding Alhaitham listens to all the indications the doctor gives him, for him to take the best care of the frowning blond sitting across the room. His ever shining eyes now suggesting a certain quandary as Alhaitham strides towards him; his steps decisive, yet heedful. The silver-haired man witnessed the architect overworking himself for three weeks straight, leading him to a painful burnout that had Alhaitham frowning with concern. Kaveh wouldn’t have put down the pencil he so loves to hold in his hand if it weren’t for Alhaitham’s reassuring arm around his body, as to chase the fatigue he was bearing away.

Their proximity as they walk home together brings the architect a warm feeling in his heart, comforted by Alhaitham’s security and presence. This is, as many others, one of those days where the two relishes in each other’s company: be it under the shining light of the sun or within the walls of a home they both belong to, neither of them withhold from acknowledging that spending time together brings them closer each passing day. They don’t talk about this, nor about how they both crave each other’s support; instead, they keep on dancing around unspoken confessions.

Their wooden door opens and Kaveh has already plunged himself onto the divan, slowly closing his weary eyes as he moves slightly, reveling in the softness of the riot of pillows now cocooning the blond man. Alhaitham follows after him, quietly, assuringly. He sits on the divan, hands reaching to position Kaveh’s head on his thigh, golden hues now sprawled all over him.

The gesture earns Kaveh a delighted giggle and with a hushed voice he asks “What are you doing?” Alhaitham, placing a hand on Kaveh’s golden mane, simply states “It was something my grandmother used to busy herself with when I was a child. Observing your countenance, and the conspicuous exhaustion you’re burdened with, you seem to need this special treatment, too.” The matter-of-factly nature of the sentence has Kaveh frowning for a tiny bit; the blond then positions himself, heart singing with joy at the prospect of a pampering session, a faint smile finding its way to his rosy lips.

Kaveh feels his hair swung by the movement of a hand, the architect lulls by Alhaitham’s ministrations as though it was the most natural thing in the world. For his part, Alhaitham has never done such actions with anyone before; he is learning, exploring his own gentleness with careful, tender strokes. Kaveh closes his eyes, absorbed in the endearment he never thought of experiencing; not in this house, not with Alhaitham.

A whisper leaves the architect’s mouth “Thank you.”

“For what, exactly?” Alhaitham’s movements do not cease, his palm slowly finding itself on Kaveh’s smooth cheek, adorned by faint tinges of pink.

“For being here, idiot. Busying yourself with whatever you're doing” Kaveh sighs “ I like it.”

“I’m always here” Alhaitham is a man who usually states facts, and this moment is no exception; he was always there for Kaveh. The Scribe would wake at night, roused by Kaveh’s hammering activities, to place a warm blanket on the blond’s back. He would make his presence known, after a wearing day filling up documents, standing by the wooden door with a bag of delicious fresh fruit in his hands, for Kaveh to savor. He would sharpen his beloved pencils, whenever their tip breaks. And he would accompany the blond man to the doctor, or to whatever place he wished to visit with him by his side.

Kaveh’s eyes remain closed, humming in delight as a grinning Alhaitham continues to caress his soft locks. Eventually, the architect slides into a deep slumber, with slender, nimble fingers lovingly twisted through his hair. 🌱🏛️

[forgottengodfrey]

Aria/Godfrey - “ have you come to laugh at me in my miserable state? ”

"Laugh?" Godfrey's eyes were flint gleaming in the darkness, as he stepped into the light.

Declaring the Staffords bastards had been a misstep for Roderick: that much was evident. One had only to look at the rites of old Astaira, at even the queen's own styles before the conquest, to know this was not the true source of her power. Eilionora's elaborated titles were not like Roderick's: they were simple, and they were clear. Where Roderick's boasted divine appointment as the basis of his rule, hers noted somethng entirely different:

Her Grace, Eilionora of Astaira, the Seventh of her Name, by the Grace of the Guardians and of the People, Queen of All Astaira

Her style did not sing of glories bestowed by gods, by House, or by conquest: only the grace bestowed by spirits and by the people, themselves. Her style did not reflect whether she had entitlement to the use of the name Stafford, or even any connection to that House and, though she'd been a queen who had enriched the people and brightened their futures, she did not append any other tribute to her titles save that she was chosen by them, from amongst them, as an Astairan, herself. She had ruled the largest land in all the world: and still she said nothing of it. The important things, clearly, had already been stated.

Perhaps this truly was the land Amira had been seeking all her life: a land where the commons could rule. Yet, she had only ever come as a conqueror, a queen herself, and the bitter irony of it twisted into a strange smile upon the lips of her brother.

Roderick badly misjudged what mattered to the Astairans but, for Godfrey, that was all to the good. For Godfrey, that was an opportunity.

Aria was seated on a small divan overlooking a window, but he could see in her eyes that she had lately been weeping. He was little surprised, given the events of last night's ball. Godfrey did not move to share her long seat but, instead, he took a small wooden one and pulled it close to her position, seating himself there.

"I know what it is to feel powerless, madam," he said, skirting the usage of titles, princess or lady: the subject was too fraught, yet the walls were always listening. Better simply to find another mode of adress. "I could never laugh at such a thing."

He paused, sighed. "There is something I would have you know of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor: to him, any cost is worthy in the name of doing what he believes he must. In that much, I think, you and he may agree if, perhaps, less so in...other matters."

He paused, grey eyes darting towards the winter-strewn scene outside, ice spreading thin-veined like spiderwebs across the glass pane. "You may find His Majesty far easier to...understand looking at it from such an angle. And you may find that both he and his children become easier to navigate when better understood. Like many of us, when he is being...understood, he is also more inclined to...generosity.

"Perhaps, then, a study of his beliefs may prove...beneficial. My Eminence, Aleksander Royce, would doubtless prove overjoyed to teach you, and His Majesty, himself, would take it as a step in the right direction, I have little doubt...Though discretion might serve you, as well, to keep the people content. It is hard to say what loyal Astairans might make of such studies, and I'm sure we've none of us any wish to see chaos in the streets."

Or whether she might start to lose their loyalties if it were thought that she strayed too far into the Varmont camp and that loss would not suit Godfrey over much.

He could not yet ask her to trust him, when he'd not given her a reason to do so. After this, if she saw what he intended by it: a roadmap to better guiding and shaping and directing the Varmonts, themselves, she might be open to trusting him more, and if she was open to trusting him, perhaps some alliance between her cause and his could then be arranged. But first this step. Everything in its time.

Godfrey stood then, pulling the chair back to its original position. "No matter what happens to us, madam," he said, as he came to stand once more by the door. "I find we are only powerless so long as we allow ourselves to be."

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: Ebb and Flow

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 14.6K

CW: Eren being an absolute boobs man / YN getting off to Eren's voice - not (dammit) but, well... read on

Never, in all his sixteen years of life, can Armin recall partaking of a private dinner as grand as this. They begin with flatbread and a stew thick with clams and cod and crabs. Then come fennel greens with radishes and crumbled cheese and olives, lamprey pie and trout, and swan served in her plumage stuffed with oysters and sun peppers. For the sweet, a heaping tray of lemon cakes is to be served.

All southron fare, Armin notes. A taste of home, Rod Reiss declared, smiling that magnanimous smile of his. A taste of home but for the swan. After all, the king must have his swan. Which is stuffed with southron victuals, to be sure, Armin grants as he bites into a sun pepper embedded in his forkful of fowl and promptly feels his mouth burning. He reaches for his glass of lemonsweet at once and sighs a secret sigh of relief as the cool sweet and tart drink douses the fires in his maw. He has never been able to tolerate heat within as well as he can the heat without. He is perhaps the only southerner made so, as his lord grandfather will often jest. Still he does not shrink from the flames. He is a true southerner in that regard; he need only have his proverbial buckets of water and he can eat his fill of spices and peppers like the true southron boy he is.

The room in which they dine is as grand as the feast set before them. Few have been fortunate enough to claim they had set foot in the king’s privy chambers - Armin cannot quite believe he can now count himself among that fortunate few. It was all he could do not to stare around like an ignorant dullard the moment he entered the very heart of the king’s private life earlier that night.

It is the richest privy chamber he has yet seen, with its high vaulted ceiling and gray marble floor, so shiny that he could see his own awed face looking back up at him from beneath his feet. Yet nothing caught his attention better than the large glass-fronted wooden display situated against the righthand wall of the room. The king’s private collection of scientific artifacts, Armin thought with a thrill of realization, eyes flitting rapidly, hungrily across the wooden shelves. He would have gladly spent the night musing on every one had the king not ushered them to their seats. They have set the long table at the heart of the chamber, moving aside the purple velvet divan and armchairs that normally occupy the space.

How very considerate - and very diplomatic - of the king to set such a table before them all, his southron subjects. And what a table it is. You would think he is feasting seventy instead of seven, with the sheer size of the portions of each course.

To be on the receiving end of the royal bounty is an uncanny thing. His grandfather, sitting to his right, feels so, too, Armin can tell. Beneath the courtesy and politesse, he can hear a note of apprehension in Granik’s voice. As well he might. Six years at court have taught Armin that such bounty is not without its costs. A generous king is a courting king, and there is little doubt that this king will have something from them. They have yet to know the price they’ll pay for this generosity. But the presence of Uncle Kaspar and his brood tells Armin much and more.

“Have a taste of the swan, Hagen, it’s most excellent. And I say that as someone not well-disposed to these tongue scorchers you southerners love so much. Server!” His Majesty barks toward the line of serving men standing dutifully behind his seat at the head of the table, ready to serve at his command. “Give his lordship a good thick slice off that roast.”

One of them obliges, a man with a common face in the purple livery and Founder’s head badge of the Royal House’s household staff. He sets about his commission and returns to his place behind his lord’s chair, expression blank and servile. Behind the line of servants, the tall glass windows flaunt the great capital of the crown lands, Belris. Against the black velvet sky, the many lights of the city’s many buildings take the place of the stars above. Lord Hagen smiles civilly down at the hunk of spiced bird on his plate and spears himself a piece, to the king’s approval.

“So, when will you leave our most vibrant court for the comforts of home?” His Majesty inquires as he starts on his third slice of lamprey pie. A plate chockful of swan and greens is lying beside the pie dish. Every few heartbeats, the king will grab a bite from one platter then the other, and back again. The man is never one to stint himself when it comes to food and drink.

Armin averts his gaze, careful not to stare too long at the ample royal frame. He takes a prim bite of his trout and listens on as his grandfather answers. “On the morrow, Majesty. So you must forgive us our surprise at this unexpected but very much welcome invitation. If we seem much harried, it will be because of our preparations.”

The king waves a swan leg about to dismiss his lord’s beg-pardons. “It’s of no consequence, my good man. I imposed upon your time and so it is I who must beg your pardon. But, see, I have thrown you an excellent leave-taking feast. That warrants your king your full forgiveness, surely?” There is a round of ingratiating laughter before Rod Reiss drains his goblet and clears his throat importantly.

“Now to business,” he says, crisp and brisk all at once. The general air of relaxed contentment about the table grows anxious and expectant at the drop of a hat.

Armin schools his features into a look of mild curiosity despite the eels in his stomach. Here it comes. For the umpteenth time that night, he wishes he is seated on the opposite side of the table if only to get his fill of the king’s curios. The gilt white marble of the fireplace and its lively flames can only offer so much distraction. Prince Urklyn and his Gudrun almost make up for that, though. Their cloying display of unabashed affection is enough to make him gag. Fourteen-year-old Cousin Gunther, seated to his left, is no better off; Armin can hear his snorts and huffs of disgust every time His Royal Highness and his sweetheart turn to each other with their sickeningly sweet simpers as they feed each other morsels from the other’s fork.

“As you know,” the king begins after a healthy bite of pie, “our Procurator, may the gods give him rest, has gone on to join his forefathers in the light of the Fields. A most untimely and tragic end for a good and devoted servant, brought about by evil hearts.”

An unseasonal chill immerses the luxuriant chamber, driving away the warmth of the hearthflames. It is enough to make even the happy couple stop their simpering. His Majesty sighs into the silence, his face grim, and waves his empty goblet around. Little Yakob Halkin totters forward, clad in his own purple tunic to match the serving men, and refills the king’s cup. The pitcher is half his height, heavy with wine and cumbersome for a little boy of six, yet not a drop is spilled.

Good lad, Armin finds himself reveling in the lordling’s success as he watches him toddle back to his place amongst the servants, at the end of the line of these much older and more capable men. The boy seems to shrink back against the tied-up swags of the long purple velvet curtain he is standing in front of, as if he can somehow make himself disappear into the folds of rich cloth.

Poor lad. Most of the Halkin clan will not be going home for this reprieve. All fear for their stripling and what the king may do in their absence. Children as young as him are a rare sight in court; the nobility prefer to keep their brood at home until their tenth yeardays. Even babes in arms born at court are soon whisked off for home, where they will grow and be raised in the ways of the highborn until they come back to court a full decade later. Yakob Halkin, at six, is a precocious little courtier. Too young to be a piece in the long game. Armin recalls the excitement and the anxiety he felt during his first few days at court six long years ago. There will be no excitement for the Halkin boy. That leaves only anxiety. Not a good sentiment for a child.

“And so we are left with an empty seat in the most illustrious Conclave, and that empty seat wants filling,” Rod Reiss announces after a long swig of wine.

Armin feels his heart beat faster, hardly daring to believe it. He shoves a forkful of swan in his mouth on reflex, unable to feel the burn of the peppers nor taste the heavy juices of the meat. Granik’s grip tightens on his table knife yet otherwise he betrays no emotion but for a discreet interest.

The king turns to Lord Hagen with an air of flourishing his favor. “It pleases me to name you the new lord treasurer and Procurator of the Royal Conclave.”

And just like that, the Arlert star rises even higher. Armin looks down at his half-emptied plate. The grease from the swan and his trout has mixed and is slowly starting to congeal. What little mouthful of pie he has lies to the side of the plate, brown, oily, and brown. Suddenly, he finds his appetite leaving him. He places his knife and fork down. His House’s fortune is being made and yet it holds no joy for him. For a moment, he feels like the most contrary boy in the world.

The joy will come, a voice inside him whispers. Shock is only natural for shocking news. It is enough to know that you rise high.

Lord Hagen finds his voice at last. “Y-Your Majesty, you honor me. I hardly think I am fit for such an office-”

“Why are you not fit when I deem you so?” The king pops an olive into his mouth, chews, swallows. “I will be judge of your fitness. I see what you have done in Krolva. You run an excellent household, they tell me.” He takes another deep draught from his goblet and continues, “I say you are more than capable. You must not presume to question my good judgment, my lord.”

“I would not dare, Your Majesty,” Lord Hagen assures hastily, hearing, as Armin heard, the edge to the royal tone as the king uttered his last sentence. It is a soft edge, and mild, but an edge it is still. “I simply meant- I am glad you deem me fit for such a station, Your Majesty, lowly man as I am. My gratefulness knows no bounds. You will not be remiss in your faith in your most humble servant.”

“Excellent.” His Majesty gestures, and a serving man sweeps at once through the lilac gossamer drapes of the entryway next to the king’s collection. The royal bedroom, Armin knows, a place even fewer have set foot in. Only those who serve Rod Reiss intimately can claim the honor, such as it is, of entering such a personal space.

The servant returns moments later with a small chest, mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which he carefully sets before Lord Hagen and opens. Nestled upon its purple velvet lining is a golden chain, the chain of the Procurator’s office with its horn of plenty medallion.

“An officer is not an officer without his badge of office,” His Majesty remarks as the manservant takes the chain from its case and waits patiently for the new Procurator to remove the chain he is wearing for the night, a sumptuous piece of gold and mother-of-pearl, with its mother-of-pearl pendant of the Arlert conch. The servant drapes the new chain neatly over Lord Hagen’s shoulders and withdraws silently to his place by the windows.

The sight of the horn of plenty upon Granik’s chest does what words cannot. The truth of his lord grandfather’s rise to power has just now hit Armin, and it hits hard. Granik is advisor to the king and in his confidence. His thoughts turn to you and Eren, issue both of Conclave lords, and suddenly he feels a thrill. Here comes the joy at last. You all three are now scions of the councilmen. In a single night, he has joined the ranks of the luminaries, whom he can finally count as equals.

His knife and fork are in his hands again as he sets to his dinner with renewed gusto. That brief lull makes everything taste better somehow. How he thought the fare was too greasy is beyond him.

“How do you like the fit, Lord Procurator?” the king inquires, eyeing the chain around his lord’s neck and looking pleased.

Lord Hagen takes the medallion and examines the sigil etched upon its golden surface. “It is… a good fit, Majesty.” He releases the disk and it falls back to its preceding place upon his chest, the gold tailor-made and seamless against the gold and yellow of his embroidered vest.

“That it is.” Rod Reiss turns his attention to Armin, to his surprise. “Mayhaps our young master Arlert here can aspire to a similar chain in time, further walk the path his lord grandfather walked. With a mentor such as this, I would expect nothing less. You can be sure I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Young Master, two eyes, even.”

Armin blinks (somewhat foolishly, he feels) and inclines his head deferentially toward his king. “I thank you for the kind words, Your Majesty. Should I ever become half as good a lord as my lord grandfather, it would be a great honor indeed,” he says, turning to beam at Granik, who returns it in kind.

“Ah, it is nice to see filial piety still good and alive in the youth of today,” the king remarks as he polishes off his pie, before turning to his son, who instantly straightens up in his seat and takes Gudrun’s hand in his own. Armin eyes their linked hands and waits with bated breath. “Speak of filial matters… I must confess I had a more personal reason for extending you this invitation, Hagen, as I think you already know. As such, I would like to discuss the matter of my son’s marriage.”

“My Lord Procurator,” the prince begins at once, a mite anxious and hasty, before soldiering on, “I would like to ask for the hand of your granddaughter in marriage. It should hearten you to know that her lord father, Lord Kaspar, has already consented.”

Uncle Kaspar sits beside his glowing daughter, doing his best not to glow himself. How long his uncle has known of his daughter’s affairs, Armin does not know, yet he does wonder. Longer than we know, it would seem. The constant deferrals and refusals of marriage offers for his only daughter suddenly became a great deal more understandable.

Armin stares long and hard at his uncle, pondering the barely contained glee on his plump face with its thick honeyed moustache, the very image of his brother Lothar before he lost all the weight. Kaspar Arlert is proving to be a more enterprising man than any of them gave him credit for. Lady Mariya had never been a robust woman and he had staked Gudrun’s hand and reputation on that. Armin can only marvel at how well he hid this affair from the hawkeyed court always hungry for scandal and secrets.

Uncle’s gamble has paid off massively. Not many can claim to have won takings as rich as royal marriage kin. Yet it is not truly his decision to make in the end. The stakes are still on. At the head of the table, the king sits with his steepled fingers pressed to his mouth, watching the proceedings with those shrewd blue eyes.

The dice seem to be loaded in Lord Kaspar’s favor.

His lord father can only listen on as his prospective grandson by marriage presents his suit. “You are the Head of my beloved’s House and so we must needs ask for your permission to wed, which I hope you will grant. I love your granddaughter dearly. I swear to the gods both old and new that I will take care of her and cherish her. ‘Til aught but death part her and me.” He smiles, loving and tender, at Gudrun, who twinkles at the words of the wedding rite.

Will you, really? Armin takes a sip of his lemonsweet to mask the derisive leer threatening to take his lips over. The Lady Mariya must be rolling in her grave right now. A woman betrayed and led on was not a woman cherished.

“What say you, my lord Procurator?” The king leans forward, expectant. Almost bullish, Armin thinks, noting the forceful cast that has taken over His Majesty’s face. “The boy makes a most compelling case. You will be glad to know they have my full blessing. And how not? You Arlerts come from good Paradisian stock, descendants of the Sea himself!” Rod Reiss laughs and takes a swig of his drink. “It is a fine match and not the first of its kind. My distant forebears deemed the blood of Nyrdos fit enough to wed, and so do I. Let the blood of gods flow anew through our lines once more.”

Armin glances once more at the happy and nervously waiting couple before him. The crystals of the great chandelier above throw rainbows over their matching cloth-of-gold raiment and their faces, so bright and alive with hope.

A matched pair. A golden, glittering pair.  

Perhaps he had judged the prince too harshly. Perhaps that look of earnest, guileless affection for his cousin is as genuine as it seems. Perhaps they truly had been lovers long before Lady Mariya, unable to wed owing to a vital and unbreakable precontract. Gods know it happens enough amongst the highborn circles. Armin has never seen Urklyn Reiss - this young man of twenty-three, a man grown - look as he does now, an anxious, eager, lovestruck boy on the verge of hearing that sweet ‘Yes’ from his beloved. Granik, the beloved in this circumstance, truly had little choice in the matter, in the end.

And so it is that House Arlert finds itself bound to the Royal House once more, after two hundred years of lull. Armin looks on at the rest of the table as they set about hammering out the terms of the marriage contract, bartering and haggling like fishwives at the market, and feels a dawning sense of immensity swallow him in its grasp.

A seat at the Conclave and the right to call themselves kin to the royal family… No one has won greater odds in a single night. We just rise higher and higher. A chill - of thrill, of dread, of something else - courses through Armin as the ground seems to fall away beneath him and vanish entirely. They are rising.

Too fast, too soon.

Any faster, any higher and they may lose sight of the earth quicker than they’d like. And gods help them if they fall.

Thousands of years ago, when this world was yet young, sand havens were godsends, places of relief from the burning heat and endless sands that held sway in much of southron Lovaya. Finding one was a matter of life and death, and this was especially true for the desert clans, those hardiest of peoples who laid claim to the hellscape as their own.

The present is a more forgiving time. The Southron Flowering had reduced the need for such havens yet godsends they remain to any traveler who braves the Deep Sands.

You adjust your grip on the bowls in your hands and make sure the fleece blanket draped over your arm is securely in place, before trudging through the camp toward your betrothed’s tent. Eren emerges from within almost at once, as though he had sensed your presence, and flashes you that sunny smile that you are so fond of.

“Dinner?” you say, proferring one of the bowls to him, and pressing on. “I thought we could eat by that glade over there,” you gesture with your chin over to the wood of palm trees that border the fringes of the lake you have camped beside for the night.

Shimmerwood, this sand haven is called, so named for the beautiful, glittering blue spheres that beset it of a night. These are no mere fireflies, as folk had once thought, but magic at its most wondrous. The spheres would emerge soon after sundown, making the blue of the lake waters come alive, a veritable crystal in all but composition. They besiege both air and water; it is always a joy to splash around the shoreline and watch the water sparkle like liquid of the bluest diamond as the little orbs fly about the surrounding palms, like the fantastical fae of yore before they vanished forevermore in the wake of the Sundering.

The progress this year had not taken you this further south, though the journey led you through Sontsovo, Shimmerwood’s highly contested Province. For as long as Vascalin had been a unified State, Sontsovo and its neighbor Rybikhna have been at loggerheads over the jurisdiction of the famed locale.

You had spotted the glade earlier that evening as your convoy set up camp. It was just visible from your viewpoint across the lake, a cozy little nook, and private. It would be nice to have some peace and quiet far removed from the hustle and bustle of the company, now larger with the addition of the desert clan you find yourselves sharing the haven with for the night.

Eren takes a bowl from you with a murmur of thanks then glances at the woods. His brow furrows. “It’s very… private. Will your guards be with us?”

You suppress the onrushing urge to grin at the way his eyes flick over you, nervous as a bride on her wedding day. You do not know who you like better: the sweet, flustered, blushing boy that he is now or the hot, sensual, teasing young man he can sometimes be at an unexpected flash. It is a wonder to you that both can live in one being at all. But that makes him all the more exciting.

“We don’t need guards where we’re going. Have no fear, Sir, your virtue is safe with me,” you chirp then carefully reach out to lace your fingers through his and tug him along. He goes willing and agreeable, but not before giving you a little scoff. You hear the amusement in it and smile.

You trek across the sands on sandaled feet, past several men and even more livestock. Camels, cattle, sheep, goats, horses, all of these you pass, the lifeblood of the nomad folk. Soon, the sights, the smells, and the sounds of the busy camp fade away as you lead your knight through a stand of date palms and into the blue.

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips the moment you emerge from the trees. You cannot recall releasing your betrothed’s hand. The blue spreads out before you, wide and sweeping, shot through with fresh green and bordered by tall palms, most heavy with sweet desert dates. A high cliff of towering sandstone surrounds half the lake. Four waterfalls flow down its rockface, dotted here and there with more palms. Everywhere and around you the azure motes fly, dazzling, ethereal, beautiful. The place ensnares your very essence and casts an enchantment upon you, one that you are reluctant to break. Shimmerwood, always and without fail, is a haven in the truest sense of the term.

You tighten your grip on your dinner and bend to unlace your sandals one-handed. You look up almost at once as you feel the bowl cupped in your hand lift away. Eren stares down at you holding both your bowls, a small smile on his face. “Wouldn’t want you wearing mutton stew now, don’t we?” he gibes lightly as he moves to place the dishes upon a long, flat stone overlooking the shimmering, luminescent lake waters.

“Thank you,” you murmur at length, now under an entirely different spell. Only Eren could have broken Shimmerwood’s hold on you.

It is putting up a good fight, though, a worthy contender to the last. Another sigh escapes you as you gaze out across the endless, sparkling blue and feel the soothing coolness of the water lapping around your bare calves. Not too cold nor too warm. The magic of the place serves as a most excellent regulator. You paddle your legs and grin at the glittering eddies you stir up beneath the depths. Tonight’s bath will be a pleasant one.

“Which clan is this one?” Eren asks, taking up his bowl from your stone seat and pressing yours on you.

“The Pejić.” A group of clansmen is settled on the lake's treeless bank opposite you. Outriders, you guess, observing their distance from the main body of their band. Your own outriders are oft stationed thus whenever camp is made. “It’s nice to see Saʂa Pejić doing well after all these years.”

The Saʂa had been deep in discussion with the Alik (as the clansmen like to call Father) in front of your cookfire when you had left your pavilion in search of dinner. No doubt they will speak late into the night apprising the other of vital civic matters - Father will come with his news of the wider realm and the court, and the Saʂa will answer with tales of the South and the state of the desertfolk.

“I’ve never been this… familiar with the sandmen before,” Eren remarks after a spoonful of stew. “They visited Lenberg once or twice during my wardship but I’ve never seen them in their natural element like this. We never crossed paths with any of them when I was escorted home for the autumn.” He takes another spoonful and observes, keen and interested.

Half a hundred clans roam the Deep Sands, from Vascalin to Krolva, as they have done since the olden days. The advent of the Southron Flowering did little to still their restless hearts. A handful had grown roots and settled, founding their own Houses and rising to further power, yet many and more held to their ancient ways, only ever stopping for a season at most in some corner of the South before moving on once more.

“They're good folk, and true.” You spoon up your stew. The meat is tender, the stew full-bodied, well-seasoned and -spiced. Kolya never misses. You eat some more, pleased. “It’s good to know that Lord Hagen is friendly with their sort. If only that was true for all of the South…” A frown creases your brow as a sudden consternation takes you over, making you lower your spoon.

Relations with the clansmen have always been ever-changeable, ever-shifting as the grains of sand will shift underfoot across the dry land they traverse. The desertfolk are not widely beloved; the Provinces of the hostile highborn are best left shunned for friendlier parts.

Even your forebears had not always been forthcoming with their itinerant subjects. Countless annals speak of countless wars waged between the Rhyzkovs and the clans. It is a fact, one of many, that shames you. Houses old in honor are also old in shame. They make much of the glory and the many attainments they have made over the millennia, yet there are just some things that do not bear lauding.

“The Paramount House is at peace with the sandmen, that counts for more than the love of some Lesser House with little clout,” Eren puts in. The profound way with which he uttered those words charms you and does an excellent job of bringing you out of the doldrums. He truly has a talent for it.

“A statewide peace would suit better… but you’re right. My great forebears’ goodwill has done much for them already.”

Somewhere within the campsite, someone has pulled out his finger drums. In a flash, the night comes alive with the music of the desert. The rhythm of a sand dance. For a moment, the yen to return to your pavilion and watch comes over you. The lake waters cling to your legs, however, watery stocks that bind you to its side. The better part of you wants to stay, stay and bask in the enchantment of this place, away from everything and everyone but your knight. Like Kaya and her paramour. Except we’re both ashore and well-dressed. The thought gives you much amusement. And just that merest bit of heat.

“We’ve had a century of goodwill between each other, the clans and most of the South. I’d love to continue that precedent and keep my predecessors’ peace.” You watch the desert outriders at their rest across the lake, their beautifully embroidered sandsilk tents as intricate as their sandsilk tunics, trading japes, whittling figures, making merry. “My people are my people, city- or sandfolk, mobile and immobile, it makes no matter. A good ruler must care for her people. At the least, I hope I can continue to bring them the peace and respect they are due.” Most of the outriders have drifted off to the heart of the camp, to mingle and revel with kin and guests alike. “Other roads might be closed to them, but they’ll always be welcome in Arsechkala.”

“You’ll make a great ruler someday.”

You give your attention back to your betrothed and still. There is a soft cast to his gaze, fond and tender, redolent of the way he stared at you as he pressed his kiss to the back of your hand a mere week ago. The pale blue light from the drifting, glowing motes gentles his expression even more. It makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I mean it. And I’ll be there to see it all.” He places his empty bowl beside him and laces his long fingers through yours. You stare, enthralled, as he places a long, slow kiss on the back of your hand, keeping his eyes resolutely, steadily, firmly on yours. Never once does he break, keeping you trapped in the blue of him, the blue and the green of those eyes, a sight more beautiful and enchanting than the lake before you.

“Ah-!”

You jump a little as he springs back in surprise, blinking rapidly at the cerulean orb that has chosen to settle (and vanish) on the tip of his nose. And just like that, his spell is broken. You tighten your grip on him, disappointed beyond belief. It is not easy keeping your ire to yourself then. You refrain from glaring outright at the pestilential motes buzzing around you. How you thought they were enchanting is beyond you. Bloody little buggers.

“Bloody little buggers,” Eren gripes, rubbing at his nose, and the sight is so endearingly comic that you giggle. The little pout he gives you makes you laugh even more, and so your disappointment ebbs away. There is no use dwelling on the regret of a lost kiss, especially not on the shadow of one. You have a whole lifetime ahead for that.

You set aside your own bowl and inch closer to him, reaching into the pocket of your cobalt vevda as you do so. “I brought sweets,” you say, holding out a couple of blood oranges you had wheedled from the cook. “Well, sweets and tarts,” you add thoughtfully, as the sharp, sweet scent of the fruits fills the space around you.

Eren takes one and proceeds to peel. “Ah, the good old blood orange. So much better than the plain old bloodless orange. It’s how an orange should be, sweet and tart and bloody.”

“You knights do love all things bloody.” You bite into a segment. The fruit is sweet and tart and full to bursting with blood-red juice, which you quickly catch in your dinner bowl before it can run down your chin and stain your skirt.

Eren frowns at you a little as he spits out a pip into his own bowl. “You make us sound barbaric.”

“But you knights do love going about hacking and hammering at things,” you beam at him but then break off abruptly with a little gasp and a whispered, “Oh, look.”

A spectral turtle has manifested high up on the side of one of the palm trees behind Eren. The sight is so fascinatingly incongruous that it drives all thought from your head.

“Interesting things, aren’t they?” Eren remarks, diverted. “I can’t say I’ve seen one on a tree before.” A cool night breeze sweeps through the haven, rustling and bending the surrounding trees slightly. Still, the ghostly turtle holds on, quite immovable.

You shiver slightly and grab the fleece blanket you have set aside for this very eventuality. The desert nights can be bitingly cold, even more so now that autumn is setting in. You throw the cover over Eren’s shoulders and wrap the other end around yourself snugly before he can so much as turn to see what you are about.

Heat suffuses you at once, to your astonishment. You know he runs hot but it takes only this night to hammer the fact home. You will be sweating beneath the fleece before long. Not that you mind. Not truly.

Eren stiffens against you as you press closer, the better to keep the quilt around you. You cannot believe how broad he had gotten over the past year. You wonder if he will grow any broader. The image is a highly attractive one. Truly.

“Y-you only brought… one?” Eren croaks, voice strained. His arm flexes beside yours.

“Mm-hmm. It was the only one they could spare.” Those halcyon nights in Reicona spent on the outer stairs of one of Highridge’s study towers comes back to you in a thrice. You brought a blanket each for yourselves then. But the lady and the squire were new trothed and still tentative with one another at the time. The lady and the knight now have grown a great deal more familiar.

The knight, stiff as a board still, shifts in his seat at the lady’s proximity. “M-mother used to say that in the dawn of time, the world was one huge ocean. There were no continents, no islands, no land. Just one unbroken world of blue.”

His voice is yet strained and higher than you are used to. You press closer, smiling. “That explains the turtle ghosts.”

“And the flying sea jellies. Nasty buggers.” His forearm is pressed lightly to your lower back beneath the blanket, you realize then. Your heart picks up pace just that bit more.

“How many times have you run afoul of those nasty buggers?”

He chuckles and all the strain in his being seems to melt into the night with the sound. “Just the once. Once is more than enough.” His voice returns at last to its customary pitch, low and soothing. Lower than it used to be, you are almost sure.

You laugh softly. “While that sounds like an exciting tale, I want to hear about your mother’s.” You hesitate for half a heartbeat then, with your heart in your throat, carefully lay your head on his strong shoulder. The scent of him further encompasses you, sweat and sand and sun and Eren, a surprisingly pleasant, heady blend that you can happily drown in.

Eren stiffens once more the moment your head touches his shoulder. His grip on his corner of the quilt tenses. “I-it’s a Paradisian legend, from the C-creed. I’m surprised Lady Theresia h-hasn’t told you…”

“She has. But I find that these tales change shape the more they change hands. Perhaps Lady Carla’s is different from Mother’s. And if it’s not, it’s still a good story. It’s been a while since I last heard it. It’ll be nice to hear it again after all this time.”

Slowly, you feel his hesitant hand slide across your lower back and come to rest on your hip, gingerly at first then firmer, surer as he holds you as close to himself as he can. “If it pleases my lady to hear the Godstale then I must oblige her.” His voice is warm, so pleasant to the ear, and his kiss, when it comes, presses light as a feather on the crown of your head.

You close your eyes a moment at that tender touch, basking in the presence of your betrothed, utterly at peace with the world. Never have you felt so safe with someone. He is… easy. So easy, so safe, so comforting.

He begins his tale and takes you into another blue, the blue of the gods and the dawn of days. Around you the orbs fly, the lake shimmers, and the night pulses with the desert’s heartbeat.

---

The water is cool, yet not unduly so, soothing and perfect for a good long soak.

A private bath is a rare and blessed thing to have on the road, and by the gods will you indulge in this luxury. You scoop up your last bowlful of river water and trickle it over your head to wash out the last of the herby lather from your hair. You watch the slow and silent current bear the foam away, swirling white scrollwork patterns upon the black waters of the ford.

Ages past, Grisha Rhyzkov, third of his name, had built the Hallowed Sphere as a bride gift for his Halkin bride. Yana Halkina was a northwoman and unused to the southron graces such as they were. Thereupon her new southron husband commissioned this sand haven, a retreat three hours’ ride away from the city, so the foreign queen could escape the hustle and bustle and bedlam of the city as it please her.

The Sphere was a wonder in its time, the best of the continent’s pleasure gardens. The place had gone to seed in the ensuing years after the War of the Ancients, however. Zoya Rhyzkova had diverted Vascalin’s funds to the war effort, in support of her Reiss liege. Unnecessary luxuries as extortionate as the Sphere were not worth precious Vascalene coin, she claimed, not during these times of unrest and upheaval. The war is long ended yet no Rhyzkov liege has seen fit to restore the place to its former glory. And so nature took it over. Only desert plants and the sands roam the once sumptuous halls - as they have for the better part of a century.

You wade through the waist-deep waters toward the cracked marble steps that lay half-submerged in the stream. Though it lay in ruins now, you can still yet see the glory the haven had once been. Gossamer drapes would have hung from these towering rounded pillars, you think, seeing, clear as day, the delicate hangings flutter all about you, light as air and sheer as ghosts. The very pillars would have been smooth and whole, the silent lilies painted on their stone columns bright, vivid, not washed out and dulled by time and the scouring sands. The silent lilies would not have been allowed to proliferate on the river as much as they have at present, and the patches of golden, prickly king’s thorn would not have been allowed to proliferate at all.

But there is beauty in ruin and destruction, you have always thought. Poignant, melancholy, desolate, yet beautiful all the same. It is fascinating to fill in the gaps from what is left behind, to wonder at what it could have been before time and fate reduced it to this shell of bygone times. The remnants could have been anything and everything once, in the flower of its existence. The mystery of the unknown, it’s that which makes it beautiful and evocative.

You place your wash bowl beside your soiled clothes, piled in a heap in the middle of the stairs, and carefully stow your bottles of wash within the wooden basin. You then sit upon one of the lower, submerged steps and tilt your head back upon the white marble step above you, serene and content. Overhead, the sky is black velvet strewn with diamond-bright stars.

So beautiful.

A soft rustling and a tiny plop from nearby make you look round. A lizard - a newt? - quickly swims away from your perch, vanishing into the clump of water weeds on the other side of the stream.

“Oi! Who goes there?”

You still, eyes widening up at the starry canopy at Pavel’s abrupt challenge.

“Oh, it’s just… me.”

You bite back a gasp and sit up, heart pounding.

“...Pavel? Ksaver?”

You lower yourself into the stream so only your head is visible above the waters. You turn to gaze up at the top of the stairs, horrified and aghast and excited beyond all measure at the sound of Eren’s footsteps coming closer, ever closer.

“Sir, we cannot allow-”

His voice comes hushed as he calls out for you.

“Y-yes?” Your voice sounds shrill, too shrill, to your own ears. You wince and clear your throat.

There is a pause.

“...are you bathing, by any chance?”

At any other time, you would have laughed at how small and strained his voice has become. Nothing could be less laughable now.

“Y-yes.”

“Alone?”

A hint of levity is starting to seep inside you now that the initial shock of his unexpected appearance begins to subside. Suddenly, it all seems comically absurd. “Yes, Eren. Do you hear Mother and the girls shouting greetings?”

“No, you’re right… stupid question, really.”

You giggle at his embarrassed tone. “Dare I ask what brings you hereabouts?” A thought occurs to you. “Are you here to make water?”

“...yes.”

“Ugh, gods.” You wrinkle your nose and make to gather your things.

He chuckles abruptly, bringing you up short. “I only jest. I wouldn't dare pollute my lady's bathwater with my foul essence," he says, dry as the desert sands.

There is a bawdy joke in there somewhere. You refrain from making it. You consider a moment, hand pressed to your neatly folded drying sheet, before proclaiming, “Pavel, Ksaver, leave us.”

The silence that falls is heavy and pregnant. “M-my lady?” Pavel stammers somewhere in his post atop the steps. “Your lord father has made it clear, you are not to-”

“It’s all right. I trust Eren with my person and my honor. I promise you, my maidenhead will come away intact by night’s end.”

Another pause comes to augment the night’s collection. You do not need to see slender Pavel and portly Ksaver to know that they are trading glances. “A-as you say, milady, but orders is orders,” Ksaver answers, firm and uncertain in equal measure.

“You don’t need to move too far away, then. Perhaps you can station yourselves at the end of the hall? You can still keep an eye on everything and keep to your duty.” And give us privacy to talk. The hallway upstairs is nice and lengthy; no words of yours should reach your guardians’ ears.

“As you will, milady,” Ksaver says at last after a whispered discussion with his compatriot. The scuff of their sandaled feet on stone resounds above, followed by a “Sir,” (this murmured to Eren), as your guards proceed to obey.

“Good blokes, and dutiful,” Eren remarks at length.

A remarkable statement, coming from one who doubted those dutiful blokes. He had been leery of those particular guards of yours once he learned of their specific duty: that of guarding you at bath. “Pavel will find you prettier than he does me, and Ksaver is a eunuch, who finds neither girls nor boys pretty,” you had told him when he raised the issue. He retracted those doubts forthwith. Which is just as well. They are good enough for your father, they should be good enough for any husband looking to safeguard his woman’s person.

“That they are.” You entertain the idea of moving farther away from the stairs just so you can get a glimpse of your betrothed. And give him a glimpse of you, another voice whispers, filled with wanton mischief. You desist. “So… what brings you here?”

A sigh, and the rustling of cloth. Eren has sat down somewhere near the steps. “If you really must know… I was chasing a newt.”

The answer is so unlooked for that you blink. “A newt?” An image of the little swimmer darting through the river waters flashes through your mind’s eye. “I’m sorry to inform you that your quarry has escaped into the watery beyond.”

“Dammit.” Another sigh. “Well, if you see one, would it be too much to ask for some assistance? If you could catch one for me, that’ll be great.”

“What would you want with a newt?” Something swims past and you tense, poised to strike, only to slump back in your seat. Only a fish.

“...reference.” This said after an unduly long silence.

“Reference.”

He must have heard the skepticism, for he adds, “Lydia wanted a newt. As a good brother by marriage, I should oblige her, yes?”

“With a wooden newt or a live one?”

That makes him snort out a little ‘Heh,’ which makes you beam. “Why aren’t you bathing with them? You’ve done so the whole journey.”

“Exactly. Private baths on the road are rare and blessed things. I wanted to have a nice long soak without Mother or Darya or Lydia harrying me along. I want to moon around in the water, you know?”

“Sweet and pretty Kaya, maid of the mere, heedless of the man she ensnared with her beauty ‘neath pure moonlight.”

Your mouth goes dry as the desert. And yet there is all this water. You lower yourself a little back into the stream at the sound of his voice. You had not wanted him here, had been dreading his presence ever since your betrothed stumbled in without notice.

Perhaps you should’ve kept your guards around, after all.

“And sweet and pretty Kaya screamed bloody murder having, at last, clapped eyes on the strange man come upon her at her bareness.”

He laughs, light and airy. “I don’t think that’s how the tale went.”

“It should. At least, if I were Kaya. That is how my tale will go.” Your shoulders relax a little at his tone, returned to its accustomed pitch.

“Where is that scream?”

And just like that, the tension is back.

“I think you’re more like Kaya than you let on, my lady. I would hardly call that sweet little peep you gave me earlier a scream,” he says, with his voice like silk.

“You’re not exactly strange to me.” You swallow and shift. The heat would have been unbearable were you not submerged. But now that you think on it, the water is not as cool as it had once been. “And you saw- see nothing. And will see nothing.” Tonight. You clutch at the tops of your thighs, kneading the skin.

The hum that escapes him is the most sinful thing you have yet heard. You shift again. “Ever? Will I see nothing ever?” Heat bursts up your face and you open your mouth to let fly a retort when he continues, “Such a sad tale we make. Great Forebear Anselm was a luckier man than I, to get a glimpse of his beloved’s exquisite bareness.”

You find your tongue once more. “I didn’t say you won't-”

“Oh, so I will get a glimpse?”

You gape at the quick riposte. And at the low, smooth laugh that follows. Sin. This is the sound of sin.

“I’ll hold you to that. My lady.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “I might yet coax a scream from you someday.”

Who is this man? You turn to stare up the steps, mouth ajar and brow furrowed. Your entire face is burning. Is this truly Eren? Now you are tempted, tempted to wade out and see if this polished silver-tongued orator is your betrothed and not some other man. He certainly sounds like Eren. At the worst, you could have a devilish skinchanger on your hands, out to take your virtue.

Part of you wants to curse him. Part of you wants to lead him on, to climb up these steps, dripping and naked as your yearday, and draw out that flushing, stuttering, fumble-tongued boy that you can tease so easily. See how he likes that. Nothing will turn the tide against him better than that. Nothing is more like to rid you of him, Eren at his most sensuous.

Eren at his most sensuous is a most dangerous man, and dangerous to your constitution. And with you so exposed and so vulnerable… You dig your nails into your thighs, frowning. All of your trained refinedness flew out of the window tonight. You can’t have that. It will not do. It will not do at all. “How deep into your cups did you get?”

“I emptied half my waterskin during dinner. And it wasn’t filled with wine, either,” he answers, forestalling your rebuttal. “I have a wineskin for that, love.”

You glance down at your sunken lap, cheeks burning at that endearment new-heard from his lips.

“I don’t need to be drunk to proclaim my interest. Is that such a strange thought?” Suddenly, he is solemn as the grave.

Yes, when you’re coming on as strong as this. “You wouldn’t be saying such things to my face as I am now. Your silver tongue will tangle worse than yarn.”

“I seem to recall a certain game of qaxan where I did say such things to your pretty face. The silver tongue that you take so much interest in did not have a problem getting under your skin.”

“Was I wet and naked then, Sir? I don’t recall that I was.” The waters of the Silent Ford are crystal-clear despite its ceaseless current, slow as it is. You can see your lap, and your hands pressed to the soft skin of your thighs. Naked, so very naked. With the water this clear, there is no hiding anything. “You’re brazen when you're not facing me. Say what you said earlier to my face as I am now. Without stuttering, without fumbling, without blushing. Tell me how much you’d love a glimpse of my bareness. Look into my eyes and tell me how much you love the sight of me when I come to you as I am now, with water running down my naked skin.” You dig your toes into the fine gray sand, watch the current snatch away the gray clouds you have dug up. The words pass through your lips, unbidden and not entirely unwanted, “Tell me how you mean to make me scream.”

You bite your lip, hard, as your eyes widen. Slowly, you place a trembling hand over your mouth, that loose and traitorous mouth that had exposed you so. How you dared to say that to him, you do not know. Whatever had possessed you to do so was a potent force and irresistible.

The silence that follows is even more pregnant than the preceding one, straining and fit to burst. And then… “Are you sure you want to hear all that, my lady?” If you thought you had known how deep his voice can go, you are sorely mistaken. Gooseflesh prickles your skin as his words sweep over you like a physical caress, intent and sensual as a lover’s. “How much I want more than a glimpse? How my hands will take the place of that water running down your skin? For you can be sure I won’t be keeping my hands to myself.”

You start a little as you feel something touch your legs. A couple of small, silvery fish are placing tentative kisses on your calves. It tickles, the way their tiny mouths press against your flesh. You wonder how Eren’s mouth will feel against your skin, if he will be tentative as these fish or bold, hard, firm as only Eren Jaeger can be.

Your fingers slowly crawl higher up your legs, the tips dipping between your thighs.

“We’re treading dangerous depths here, my lady.”

His voice has reached such low and dangerous depths. Your eyelids lower until you are staring at your lap with a half-lidded gaze. Your forefinger presses softly, carefully upon the top of your mound.

“Are you sure you want to know-” your lips part in a silent gasp- “the things I’ll do to make you scream?”

You snatch your hand away from between your legs, quick as a flash. The splash of your movement echoes into the night and wakes you from your trance.

“Oh, to see your face now…” he murmurs with his voice of spider silk. “I do love that face you make when I get a rise out of you.”

You want him to be silent. You want him to keep talking. You want… You want.

"There’s a fire in you, my lady, and I would draw it out."

You cannot understand how the boy of Shimmerwood is the very same man who torments you so tonight. The boy of Shimmerwood is easy and safe and comforting. The man of the Hallowed Sphere does not feel easy and safe and comforting.

A soft huff of bemused amusement escapes you as the fog of lust makes its gradual exit. Whatever that all was is a bawdy farce of the utmost absurdity. Perhaps this is why men love to fuck so much. Bottling lust in is enough to drive one up the wall. Would that I could take my pleasures as easily. Your sordid affair, such as it was, with Roman made your lord father sharp to such matters as regards to you, however. He will have no young man warming your bed before you are wed. Even your own betrothed will not have the privilege, practically married though you are in the eyes of gods and men. The constraints of honor and decency have reduced you to only teasing and pulling at each other with words to ease the strain.

You wrap your arms around yourself and stare at the crop of silent lilies blooming across you, their silver-gray petals eerily blurred around the edges and glowing with a strange ghostlight. Floral ghosts. “It would seem that we both love to get a rise out of the other,” you muse, a quiet observation meant more for yourself. “It makes for an interesting ebb and flow.”

“My lady should emerge and get dressed, else she’ll turn into a pretty prune.” Your body draws up tight on instinct as he speaks but relaxes once more at his tone. Eren at his most sensuous has seemingly vanished at last, leaving you with Eren. Just Eren. You turn to stare up at the steps once more and smile.

The first stroke of the soft linen of your drying sheet across your skin comes as a sharp shock. It feels almost… abrasive. It feels strangely good. Further gooseflesh rises across your body as you hurriedly wipe down, bewildered at how responsive you have become to touch. Wiping across your breasts is a torment, a most pleasurable torment. Your nipples, already hard from the chill night air, harden further at the light brush of the cloth, and you bite your lip at the pleasure that flares hot through your chest. The quickest of swipes makes do for your cunt. There is a place you do not want to linger on.

You looked down at your breasts in slight dismay as you gather your things on the steps. The thin cornsilk of your nightgown does little to hide their aroused state. Putting on your rose-satin bedrobe does nothing to help matters. The little buds poke persistently at the thicker fabric. You sigh and hold your belongings to your chest, determined not to let them betray you to your amorous betrothed. You’d suffered enough traitors from this body of yours.

Eren is sitting cross-legged on the cracked stone floor near the edge of the stairs, hunched over with his arms crossed over his lap. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, as it almost always does these days. Southron fashions truly do him justice. And he wears them with the ease and familiarity of a local. It is fashion for the men of the far South (the common sort mostly) to wear their vidnoye sans a tunic underneath, and in this Eren adheres to. His scarlet-trimmed dark blue vidnon jacket is lying half-opened over a bare chest. The way his mother’s key lies draped over the smooth, muscled skin is enticing. A large part of you wants to run your hands all over it and all over him. Learn every dip and ridge and line of his beautiful body.

How the gods came to bless you with a man so desirable is a marvel indeed. He stares up at you as you emerge. You can see the light of the nearby lanterns reflected in the dark pools of his eyes.

“Looks like I will be polluting your bathwaters,” he says without preamble in a tone one would use when talking about the good weather. The manner of his current stance is made much clearer to you then.

Immediately, helplessly, your eyes dart to his crossed arms, the only things keeping you from seeing the… evidence of his interest. “Oh.” Oh-so nice and eloquent, that, mutters a snide voice in your head. You cringe inwardly. This night has reduced you to something else entirely. Where is Rhyzkova when you need her?

He notices the object of your attention almost at once and glances down at his lap. The smile he flashes you is wry and crooked. “Since this is entirely your fault, I would ask you to take responsibility but…” Eren turns his head to look down the long lamplit hallway at your faithful guards, who are traipsing across the corridor, having seen their charge finally arise. His expression is almost petulant.

“A good ruler must always take responsibility but I’m afraid I’ll have to defer.” The looks you give each other then are heavy with mirth and something else, something a deal more loaded. You consider a moment then hand him your drying sheet all careful-like, making sure your breasts are still well-covered by your bath things. “Take care not to soil it too much.”

“I have better breeding than that, my lady. Ask any Jaeger laundress. Not a spot on my sheets anywhere, no matter the day’s… provocations.” His earlier roguish suggestiveness returns to color not only his voice but also his gaze. “And she is a most provocative lady indeed.”

“Are we now speaking of ladies? Here I thought we were speaking of days’ provocations. But she’s not so provocative as all that, surely?” You can get used to this… flirtation. It is a tentative acknowledgment of the carnal desires you had skirted around with before and, gods, is it freeing. The trained little lady would be affronted by such lewd cheek; the wanton tart with the stronger presence is thriving and wanting more. “I’m sure she’s done nothing to inflame so much passion. Or give rise to such risings.”

Eren laughs, your sheet draped across his lap, and would have answered had your guards not come up to you at last. “All finished now, milady?” Ksaver inquires.

“Oh, yes.” You try to force down the disappointment the arrival of your men gives you and are not quite successful. Would that they had walked slower. Another minute and you would have heard Eren’s most stimulating sally.

“I’ll leave you to your business, then. Perhaps you’ll finally catch that elusive newt while you’re at it,” you tell your betrothed, glancing down at his upturned face, before making to leave with the guards. You hesitate a moment then reach out to touch the crown of his head, running your fingers through the soft, dark strands of his hair, before moving on. “Have you a good night, Sir.”

Eren catches your hand, surprising you, and presses a kiss on your fingers. “Good night, my lady.” His dark eyes gleam up at you as you walk away, fingers tingling from the warmth of his breath.

You turn to look back at him before you disappear through the sand-blasted columns that border the place. He is staring back at you likewise; he raises a hand to wave farewell with that sweet smile you love so much. You return both smile and wave and walk off.

The smell of the sea is the first thing that strikes him.

Beside him on your Nightsilver, you look up and snuff at the air. A smile lights up your face, beautiful as sunrise. “The smell of home.”

Eager as he is, your excitement feeds his own, filling him with so much elatedness it is a wonder he is not floating his way to the city. But, more than anything, it is gratifying, cheering, enchanting to see you as you are now - just you, just a girl coming home after a long time away. It is lovely and charming and beguiling. And no hint of Rhyzkova in sight. The thought thrills him more than he can say.

“It’s been years since I’ve last smelled the sea… I didn’t realize how much I could miss it.” The past couple of progresses had not taken them to the far South and its glorious coastlines. Eren spurs Goldmoon into a faster trot; at once, you follow suit. You move ahead of the column, steadily outstripping the ponderous Rhyzkov wheelhouse.

And by gods is it ponderous. He has been doing his utmost best to get the both of you out of it as much as possible. His first foray into the confines of the vehicle was rather awkward. At least it was for him - he had never been in such close quarters with his future marriage kin before. But they proved pleasant enough and soon gave him ease. Pleasant as they are, though, being stuck inside the wheelhouse only makes him restless. It doesn’t even have proper windows; the ornamental lattice over them was wrought so closely together that he can barely see anything out of them.

But having better windows will only make the vehicle just that tad bit more tolerable. Traveling the country is so much better on horseback. Better yet, having you to himself vastly improves the experience. Besides, you look better, more in your element ahorse than cooped up in that great wheeled cage.

You stop just before the company of standard bearers. The crimson banners in their hands snap and flap in the wind, displaying the golden winged orb of their masters’ House high and proud.

“Years, huh… I can’t imagine staying away that long.” You glance around at the groups of commons, mostly farmers with their wayns packed with produce to sell at market or offer to the gods for the approaching Alyfeis. They move aside to let their overlords pass with respectful inclines of the head. You nod to a handful as you breeze through the paved winding road to the city walls.

“I envy you your proximity to the sea. Land-locked Shiganshina has its charms but it’s still that, land-locked.”

“Well…” You stare down at the reins in your hands, tucking your head in further beneath your lesos. The color of flame it is today. You look almost sweetly, endearingly shy. “You won’t be away from it for that long anymore. Soon.”

He has never grinned wider. Nor blushed harder.

The capital’s city gates are nowhere near as spectacular as those of Reicona’s. But then, no city has walls that will ever match those of home. He supposes the great sandstone pilasters flanking the entrance are impressive enough, with their sculpted winged orbs perched atop the columns, but the Pillars of the Falcon outstrip them in magnificence by leagues. A pang of something akin to wistfulness steals through Eren at the thought. It will be some time ‘til next he sees the Pillars of the Falcon.

He does not mourn for too long, though. The sights drive everything but awe out of his being, the moment they pass through the inner walls. There is just so much to take in.

The last he had been in Arsechkala was a couple of years ago when the court took its progress to the greater South. He had been only once before that, in another progress, his first time in the other southron capital, Lenberg’s sister city.

He recalls being struck by how different everything was between the two, Lenberg and Arsechkala, the new South and the old. It is not the South of his childhood, that fact is little in doubt. Has it changed much these past couple of years? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He takes it in with fresh eyes filled with wonder.

Everything he sees about the place seems new yet familiar all the same. Pillars and pillared buildings are much in abundance in every square and plaza. The packed dirt ground underfoot throws up little puffs of dust as their convoy marches along. Scores and scores of people go about their business, the Arsechkai in their lesostok and their vevdaya, the catchall term for the loose, shapeless garment of the South, cinched at the waist with belts of all styles and make. He has foregone one today in favor of a dark green tunic trimmed with gray (in the southron style, of course). He prefers wearing vevdaya mostly on formal occasions; floor-length ones are too cumbersome for exploring, and the shorter knee-length ones make him feel a child. The freedom one gets from a tunic and a pair of pants is still unequaled.

A steady stream of Rakiva assails him from all sides. The convoy slows for a time so they can skirt some road accident. A cart full of figs and a cart full of the pottery Arsechkala is famous for had somehow crashed together. Broken shards of glazed clay lay everywhere amidst scores of sweet figs. The two tradesmen manning each wayn are cursing each other as a small crowd of onlookers starts to gawk and gather. Eren can understand one word in every five yet he knows the curses the vendors spit at each other well enough. A handful of passersby furtively help themselves to the tumbled figs and hurry off before the fig seller can get wise to them.

They move on to the riverside market. Fishwives are everywhere crying the day’s catch as buyers of every ilk mill around, looking for the choicest purchase. Small and slender paddle boats ply the waters carrying goods of all sorts. Lenberg is a city of pools and waterways and rivers, the far-famed City of Fountains. The only waterway Arsechkala has is this river Goldtide, which empties itself into the Cobalt Sea by way of Sandpiper Bay.

For all the differences the two capitals have, though, much still stays the same where southron conventions are concerned. Of course, southron fashions remain alike either way of Lovaya, with the barest hint of disparity in certain design elements. The pervasive heat is also common to both, yet with the onset of autumn, it is not expected to put in much of an appearance in the next few weeks. Even the smells of the cities are redolent of each other. There are scents and spices not present in one or the other but the salty scent of the sea is prevalent as to overpower most everything.

It is the smell of his childhood, and it is fresh and bracing and heady. Enlivening.

No further incident holds up their progress through the city and before long they are coming up to Goldhaven’s massive sandstone walls. They had sent a bird earlier to inform the household of their coming and so they find the gates already open. The guards on either side of the entrance stand to attention and salute as the procession passes.

Eren stares around at the sprawling courtyard, as interested as he was the last time he had set foot on the place. It is not so much a courtyard as it is a small town. Highridge’s own yard is as large yet the little buildings make Goldhaven’s seem that much larger. To the right of the path leading up to the castle is the servants’ commune, he knows. The left is where the barracks are, home to the Rhyzkov garrison. This setup has always fascinated him; he has yet to see another castle made so.

Servants and soldiers alike are darting out of their cottages to welcome their masters home. A great rumbling boom resounds through the ward as the castle gates are pushed shut. Eren vaults down Goldmoon immediately and hastens over to you before you can dismount yourself.

You throw him an amused glance before sitting sidesaddle and extending your hands out to him. He ignores them entirely and reaches out for your waist. At once you stiffen in his hold. Your surprise delights him. The way you reflexively grasp his shoulders as he lifts you off your mare delights him even more.

He gently steadies you and holds you a while longer, gazing down at you affectionately, wanting to snatch this small moment before the bustle of activity sweeps you up once more. Your touch feels good, light as it is. And there is that exquisite expression again, that look that he loves, the look of soft, tender awe, as though you would see through the very heart of him, as if you are in awe of him, of all people.

But your family is coming up, and grooms are hurrying about, and servants are busy unloading, unpacking, unburdening… The moment breaks, and you step away from each other. You reach out to twine your fingers with his. Eren tightens his grip, happy as a jester.

“Went ahead, did you now? A pair of wanderers I have in my hands here,” Lord Alexander smiles, eyes twinkling down at your linked hands.

Eren is once more struck by how much of a big man his future father by marriage is. He can only imagine how hard a punch from the burly lord will be. Not that Eren will ever hurt you. Never. Never.

“I trust the journey has been well? Not too tired?” Alexander asks Eren, who shakes his head.

“No, my lord, I thank you for asking. I still have a few more leagues in me, in fact,” he quips, grinning as you laugh.

Lord Alexander chuckles. “Ah, the glories of youth. Would that I still have mine… In any case, it would be remiss of us as hosts to not see you well-rested. My child, if you could be so good as to escort your betrothed. Paul should be on hand to assist.”

“Of course, Father.” You smile at Eren and tug him along to climb the stone steps leading up to the castle proper (definitely not as long as Highridge’s, he thinks, glancing askance at you and smiling to himself). A gilded man and woman each flank the top of the stairway, both clutching a scepter in their left hand and a winged orb in their right.

Goldhaven’s halls are entirely unchanged since last he’d seen them, with its passages of warm red stone and marble, gray and white. The vaguely familiar steward, Paul Kolas - red of hair, green of eye, and thin of frame - directs you to the guest wing and henceforth to Eren’s allotted chambers for the duration of his stay.

“Only the best for our most esteemed guest,” you remark as Eren looks around, more than impressed. That this is the best of the guestrooms he does not doubt. A large iron brazier stands in the middle of the room, unlit and filled with coal (“Sea coal. Only the very best,” you inform him).

Great rounded pillars lead out to a balcony with the most stunning view of the sea. Eren finds himself heading straight outside, as though his legs have wings. “Your view is so much better than mine,” you say, a little wistfully as you sit on the green velvet daybed that lies beside a tall potted plant. A flock of pigeons is roosting on the banister, cooing and paying their intruders no heed. “But I suppose the city and the Greatshield’s silhouette could be pleasing to the eye in certain lights.”

“Gods, it’s beautiful.” Eren leans against the parapet, feeling the wind ruffling his hair, and takes in a deep whiff of the cool salt breeze. Never has he felt so alive.

“I’m glad the young master thinks it’s so.” Mister Paul enters the room, polishing his knuckles nervously. “I hope the green is to your taste,” he adds, and Eren glances around to see what he is about.

They certainly did not stint on the green, he thinks. In addition to the daybed, everything that can be tinted with the shade is tinted in it, from the long linen hangings of the pillars to the sheets and curtains of the bed, which stands in its place upon a slightly raised dais to his right.

“We hoped it would-” the steward begins, only to be cut off by his mistress.

“-give you a taste of home.” You stand from the daybed, your lesos now pulled back from your head to lay draped about your shoulders. “As I said, only the very best for our beloved guest.”

“And for the future lord consort,” Mister Paul puts in, clapping his hands together and beaming all over his thin, freckled face.

You and Eren carefully avoid glancing at each other.

“Well,” you clear your throat and move to stand beside the steward. “If you want to bathe, the bath is over here,” you gesture to a wooden door some ways away from the bed. “Come see me after you’re done,” you throw over your shoulder as you make to leave with Mister Paul. “Meet me outside the presence chamber.”

And so he is left to his cleansing. Which he is most grateful for. The sweat and stink of horse must be abolished. Sir Levi is a stickler for cleanliness and it has absolutely rubbed off on him. As it did all the knight’s squires, Eren had been told - the cleanest men in Lovaya are almost certain to have been under the greatest (and cleanest) living knight of the realm’s tutelage at one point, it is often jested. While Eren does not mind getting into the thick of things like any other respectable soldier, he does not feel entirely at ease in his own skin until he’s scrubbed himself down. Preferably with water, if it is close to hand; with sand if he has no other choice.

The cold water pouring down from the beak of the copper birdshead above him feels incredible after all that time spent beneath the heat. He finds a bar of soap - something flowery and herbal - on its dish atop the raised edge of the small pool he is washing in. The scar on his right arm is still quite tender, over a month old though it is, and he scrubs over it gingerly so as not to further inflame the flesh.

This certainly is his largest and most impressive scar to date. Anointed knight as he is now, he wonders if he’ll accrue more of its kind. Most like. Not that the prospect daunts him. He’d never shied away from pain as a squire. Being a knight won’t change that.

His fingers trace the red puckered flesh, standing stark and sharp against the smooth skin. Sir Erwin would’ve gotten likewise marked had his arm survived. The gods and their strange games. To have Sir Erwin Smith, the Lord Commander of the elite Royal Guard himself, lose an arm; to have him, Eren Jaeger, a mere squire, go through the same thing and come out whole and intact is an irony of the cruelest sort. Even their assaulted arms are the same, the sword arm, the lifeblood of the warrior. Eren cannot imagine going on without it. He would not have handled the loss half so well as Sir Erwin.

His fingers slip down his arm and thread through his wet hair. He scrubs, slowly at first and then more vigorously, working the lather through his scalp. No use dwelling on unpleasantness. He is back in the South, back by the sea, with the promise of a whole season spent with his lady. Who is waiting for him. Thoughts of your comely smiling face make him hasten his bath - quick but thorough, a voice that sounds a lot like Sir Levi echoes inside his head. Hasty he may be but Eren will leave no patch of skin unscrubbed.

He finishes his wash feeling a good deal more refreshed. And smelling strongly of floral herbs. The water drains in the bath’s small empty pool (thank the gods for piping) as he slips into a short-sleeved dark brown tunic, with its ornamental bone-white belt, and black pants. He slides on a new pair of sandals and trudges off, heading to his lady.

Two years away have chipped at his memory of the palace. To be sure, he had not needed to visit Goldhaven’s presence chamber before. Eren stops a couple of crimson-clad servants to ask them, in his best Rakiva, for directions to the hall, which they are happy enough to provide. They could’ve spoken slower, though. In the end, he understands enough to know where to go. That wasn’t too bad. He had as well practice his Old Tongue; fluency will not come if he doesn’t at least start.

Black and gold greet him as he steps into the presence room’s antechamber, which is open to the sea. The smell of salt is strong here, as it is in the rest of the palace. He will not be free of it even within the confines of this building. Not that he wants to be. The pillars these southerners love so much are much in abundance here, beautifully wrought in black basalt and expertly fluted. Eren slowly turns round in a circle, admiring the arched ceiling with its gilded meanders and circles and triangles. He is about to head over to the nearby balustrade and bask further in the sea air when the sound of footsteps approaches.

He looks down and gapes.

Skin. So much skin, is his first thought. Breasts, is his next. His mouth snaps shut, dry as bone. Were southron fashions always this revealing? he thinks, wracking his brains frantically for memories of the southron women of his youth, the southron women of two years ago, and the manner of their clothing. Only vague impressions come back to him. The Rybikhon do not dress like this, that much he is sure of.

“Ah, here you are. Well-refreshed, I hope?” you say, with your glittering smile and pretty, pretty face.

And such pretty, pretty breasts. He wants to punch himself. Eren opens his mouth to reply. Only a faint gurgle comes out.

“Eren? Are you all right? You look-”

Whatever else you said vanishes as his eyes greedily take in the glories of your body. You are not clad in the vevda, that much is certain. While they come with all manner of sleeves, sometimes dispensing with them altogether, vevdaya never have straps. Not like this dress. Not like this sheer and gauzy dress. And its deep vee of a neckline.

Has he ever seen such pretty breasts? He cannot recall as such. Your court gowns do not do them justice, by the gods. They will fill his hands perfectly, he can tell. Soft and shapely they look; he would love nothing more than to bury his face between them and feel the warm satin of your skin beneath his lips as he presses kisses everywhere and anywhere he can reach. The alabaster fabric is near translucent enough that, in a good light and with a good eye, he will be able to just make out your nipples. He wonders how responsive they truly are… He wants to take them into his mouth and suckle them to hard peaks, hear your encouraging moans of pleasure as you run your hands through his hair and press his face closer to your breasts…

Oh. Fuck.

Eren wrenches his mind away from those sodding dangerous thoughts as the budding tension rising between his legs makes itself very, very known to him. He casts about, panic-stricken, for another thought, for an image, anything to set his head straight. Think of Zeke fucking Elva, something shouts at him, and he snatches at it wildly. At once, his mind’s eye is full of his brother’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching as he pounds away at his lady wife.

His desire and his manhood wilt in a flash. Eren suppresses a sigh of relief and a shudder of disgust. Disgust is better than desire, though, in public. Desire can be indulged much, much later, in private. He wonders how many times he will have to indulge it, though, if this is but a taste of your preferred homegrown fashions. How is he expected to survive a whole season of this?

Zeke’s ass. Zeke’s ass. Zeke’s blond, hairy ass.

He wants to weep at what he has to resort to to keep his cock limp in your presence. No, no, he will get used to it. As he did when first he’d lusted for you. He is not some beast of a man, easily tempted by the baser pleasures. And he has never been, it should be an easy thing, and simple, to temper his carnal thoughts as he can do so effortlessly with womankind.

But then, you are not just any other woman.

He helps himself to another peek at the lush curves of your breasts. Gods, he truly is a beggar for your flesh.

The snapping of fingers beneath his nose makes him recoil.

“Eren!”

You frown at him, hands on your hips. “Glad to see you back on earth. Headworm get in your ear?” You cross your arms over your chest. He wishes you hadn’t. “What’s gotten you so up in the clouds?”

You.

Your eyes flicker down to your chest and back up at him. He quickly averts his gaze, his nose and cheeks burning. A chain of golden winged orbs cinches that cursed dress about your waist. His eyes trace every one as he tries to ignore the deafening silence in the hall.

“Oh.”

He does not like the sound of that Oh. Nor does he like the look of that smile on your face, when he dares to glance up at you once more.

Eren tenses as you slink forward and loop an arm around his. He swallows as the scent of apples and winter roses assails his senses. The plain gold band you are wearing on your upper limb presses against him. But for that, you feel so deliciously soft and warm. Zeke. Zeke. Zeke.

“Where shall we head to this fine day?” you say conversationally, steering him forward and away from the antechamber. “I thought to keep our excursions within the palace for the rest of this afternoon. Don’t want to tire either of us out too much, we just got here. And we still have your welcoming feast tonight to attend. Do you have any place in mind? I’ll play the gracious hostess and oblige you.” The sly and vulpine smile is back. “Father asked Lord Grisha for permission to stud Goldmoon, did the Magister tell you? Goldmoon is such a beautiful steed, we’d love to sire our own line from him. I would love to see him breed with a sand steed. Imagine how beautiful the foals of that union would be! The Saʂa is truly a generous man.” The Lord Pejić had given them the pick of his stable as his guest gift when their convoys parted ways at Shimmerwood; the Rhyzkovs, in turn, presented him with the choicest animals of their livestock to augment his herds.

“Perhaps we should nip down to the stables, hmm? Look over the new mares the Saʂa gave us and choose which one your stallion gets to mount,” you go on, then to his horror, press your breast against the arm you are clutching.

You are as soft as you look.

But with his cunt-struck delight comes a hint of annoyance. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

You giggle and pull away, to his horror and relief. “Perhaps a little.”

“Careful, my lady. Push too far and I’ll push back. You won’t like it if I do.”

“Oh, I like it well enough.” You gleam at him, all tacit challenge. “Not exactly the first time I’ve driven you up one too many walls, is it? You have the most delectable manner when I do.”

He stops abruptly in the middle of the nigh on empty hall you are walking through to slip his arm out of your hold and tangle your fingers together. Slowly, purposefully, he saunters forward. Slowly, helplessly, you amble backward until at last he has you cornered and pressed up against a pilaster.

Eren looks down at you, watches that lovely, delectable expression take your face over. Oh-so delectable. He leans forward, close but not too close. “You haven’t pushed me far enough yet, love. Carnal words are the least of what you’ll get when you do.” Your luscious lips part and all at once you are close enough for him to smell the mint in your breath, for you to trade air. Any further and he will be able to taste the coolness on your tongue.

Footsteps echo down the hall and he pulls back as though he has been scalded. Your hands remain entwined.

“M’lord. M’lady,” a washerwoman curtseys, as best she can with her load of clothes. She eyes your linked hands, yet says nothing but, “Have you a g’day.”

“You as well, goodwife,” you answer, cool as mint. You turn to Eren once the woman goes on to her duties. “And so, where shall it be, Sir? Do you have someplace in the castle in mind? Or would you be led by me?” The inviting look on your face remains.

A corner of his mouth curls up. “Please, lead on, my lady. You can lead me anywhere.” You beam, a more guileless smile and girlish, and tug him along.

He is liking this bolder, more open flirtation of yours. At the very least, there is no doubt now: you desire him as much as he does you. With any luck, you will be speaking freely of it in a more serious context.

And he likes this back and forth, the ebb and flow as you called it that night in the Sphere. He has always liked watching you squirm - gods know you've teased and made him squirm and look the fool countless times. Some part of him likes that, though, the teasing and the squirming. Less for his dignity but more for the way you are when you are at it - so passionate, so spirited, so animated.

Eren glances at the back of you, swept along by your current. Being home seems to agree with you. Lovely. Charming. Beguiling. This autumn will be his best one yet. And it can only get better from here.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

AOT'S BACK, BABY!!! Absolutely perfect to smash that writer's block that is the bane of every writer's existence. It's a bittersweet thing to see Eren my beloved on screen again. Sweet because ❤Eren❤ and bitter because... well, he's not exactly in the best of circumstances, is he? Compensating by giving him happiness in this AU (fornowtreasurethiswhileitlastsbahahahaha)

An absolute beggar for your flesh Eren is - boobs man, legs man, just a plain old YN man, actually, he's desperate, he'll take anything, even your ankles.

Nerdy worldbuilding info time! They tell time differently from us, obviously, but how does it work? There are only 12 hours in a day for Lovaya, each named for the twelve sacred beasts of the Creed. One hour for them is around two hours for us. I based this on the Chinese Zodiac time, which names the hours for the Chinese Zodiac, as the name suggests, and is also divided into two hours each. ASOIAF has a similar timing convention, though I'm not sure if GRRM actually based his times on the Chinese Zodiac. And trivia done!

Another long chapter... I have a feeling this arc would have them cause this is honestly my favorite arc of the story that I planned out (wartime arc aside, which I am so asjfdkjdshfksdjhfs excited to get into but! I have to lay everything down properly so, we'll get there, we'll get there...) Til the next update!

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @jakes-babygirl

[rainbowfey]

Day 25: Nook

@flufftober

With a final scrutinizing look, Kakashi took a step back and examined his work. Satisfaction arose in him when his gaze wandered over the beautiful wooden furniture and the cozy cushions that he had carefully positioned on the elegant divan below the window. But real his pride and joy were the gorgeous book shelves that lined the reading nook. They were made of light wood with a wonderful grain pattern and he had filled them with those of his books that he loved the most. Of course, the Icha Icha series had received a rather prominent spot, neatly positioned on eye level so that he could always keep them in his line of sight.

Kakashi nodded to himself and glanced at the bulky silhouette to his left. He checked once again whether he had covered every single bit of it with the tarp and when he was satisfied, he reluctantly left the reading nook. He gave it one last yearning look before he turned to leave. There was only one thing he wanted more than to sit down and start reading – and when he thought of the excitement that awaited him, he smiled in anticipation.

Kakashi carefully closed the door to the secluded room behind him, making sure that nobody would see his brand new reading nook before he was ready for it. He quickly put on his shoes and a jacket before he opened the door of his apartment. He flinched when a gust of wind hit him right in the face, making his hair stand on end. He hesitated a moment and scanned his hallway for a thicker sweater or jacket but he hadn’t yet gotten his winter clothing from the depths of his closet. So far, this autumn had been quite a ride between golden days with a warm breeze and the exact opposite. He couldn’t even count anymore how many thunderstorms and rain showers had interrupted the golden glow of this October. A skeptical look at the sky told him that even though it was rather cold today, he didn’t have to fear getting wet. As far as he could see, they sky was of a mild blue, only veiled by a couple of fluffy white clouds. If it weren’t for the faint howling of the wind, one might have even thought it was still summer, even though Halloween was approaching rapidly now.

He took a deep breath and threw himself into the wind, closing the door behind him. This time, he didn’t bother to take the stairs. With a lighthearted smile, he jumped onto the railing of the half-opened hallway of his apartment complex and from there onto a sprawling tree that stood close to his building. Anticipation made him feel giddy and he felt more like a kid than he ever had when he jumped from one branch to another, making his way across the village in record time.

Kakashi almost missed the hint of brown suddenly popping up in his field of view. He quickly came to a halt, slithering on a particularly slippery tree branch. Before he could lead chakra into his feet, he had already lost his footing and with a startled yelp, he dropped to the ground rather inelegantly, landing right in front of a brown haired man.

Yamato didn’t seem the least bit surprised. He raised his head and tilted it slightly, eyeing Kakashi with mild curiosity as if he was used to his friends suddenly appearing out of nowhere in front of him. The soft smile spreading on his face made Kakashi’s stomach tingle and he couldn’t help but return the smile.

“Ah, Yamato. Exactly the one I’ve been looking for,” he exclaimed while straightening up. He ran his fingers through his hair and noticed that Yamato hadn’t taken a step back. Instead, he was standing so close to him that Kakashi could imagine feeling his warm body next to him.

“Well, here I am,” Yamato said with a smile. “Though I’m not sure what you’ve been seeking me out for.”

Kakashi cleared his throat, wrestling his excitement down and trying to sound entirely calm. “There’s something I’d like to show you … if you have no other plans, of course.”

Yamato gave him a look that had his legs turn to jelly. “I’d always make time for you,” he said tenderly. “What do you want to show me?”

Kakashi’s heart skipped a beat at his words and for a moment, he almost forgot what he had wanted to say. But then, the image of his reading nook flashed before his eyes and his excitement returned even stronger than before. He could barely keep himself from skipping when he instinctively grabbed Yamato’s wrist and started leading him back towards his apartment complex. Yamato looked at him in surprise but he followed him immediately.

They spent the short walk in a comfortable silence. Every couple of seconds, Kakashi had to bite his tongue to keep quiet and not spoil the surprise. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Yamato kept glancing at him which didn’t help his resolve. He sighed in relief when his building finally came in sight and he quickly led Yamato up the stairs and towards his apartment, barely able to contain his excitement any longer. He unlocked the door and held it open. Yamato passed by him, brushing his chest with his arm and he gave Kakashi a quick glance that made his heart flutter. They both took off their shoes and jackets and Kakashi felt his skin starting to tingle when he saw Yamato curiously looking around his apartment.

“This way,” he said and this time, he hesitated a moment before gently taking Yamato’s hand. He held his breath for a moment, waiting for Yamato to pull back, but Yamato squeezed his hand softly, a tender expression on his face.

“I’m following you,” he said with a calm smile.

A warm feeling started to spread through Kakashi’s body and he nodded. Hand in hand, they walked towards his living room and Kakashi’s anticipation grew with every passing second until he felt like he was about to explode. When they finally reached the door, he felt almost out of breath. He turned to Yamato who returned his look curiously and reached for the door handle. Slowly, he opened the door and led Yamato into the room, intently watching his reaction.

When they stepped into the living room, Yamato’s eyes widened. He squeezed Kakashi’s hand, seemingly not even noticing it. Spellbound, he stepped towards the reading nook, his face full of admiration. “This is … beautiful,” he muttered, staring at the nook in awe.

Kakashi’s heart skipped a beat and he couldn’t suppress his smile any longer. He inconspicuously steered Yamato towards the left side of the nook where a part of it was still hidden under the tarp. Yamato stared at it curiously and gave Kakashi an asking glance. His heart started beating faster when he looked at Yamato. “Take a look,” he said encouragingly and pointed at the bulky silhouette.

Surprised, Yamato nodded and reluctantly let go of Kakashi’s hand to grab the tarp with both hands. At one go, he pulled the tarp off – and froze when the tarp glided away and revealed what had been hiding underneath. Kakashi started beaming when he saw Yamato’s awestruck face, mesmerized by the beautiful wooden desk that sat next to the divan. Almost like in a trance, Yamato carefully ran his fingers over the smooth wood. “What is this?” he whispered, his gaze fixed on the gorgeous array of pens and sheets of paper on the right half of the desk.  

Kakashi came up to him and tenderly leaned against him. “I love reading and I know that you love writing,” he said with a soft smile. “So I thought I’d build a space for us to do it together.”

He held his breath, nervously waiting for Yamato’s reaction. Yamato turned around slowly, his face full of emotion that made Kakashi’s whole body tingle. And suddenly, he jumped forward, tackling Kakashi with the biggest hug anyone could ever imagine – and before Kakashi could even catch a thought, he felt Yamato’s lips on his, pulling him into a tender kiss. “I love it!”

[overlyawestruckdane]

Choosing Cheap Beds

Buying cheap beds for your home require some knowledge of the various types of beds, the kind click here of mattress included, and some timely planning.

One of the first things that people look for when refurbishing or moving into a new home are cheap beds. This does not mean that budget is the only consideration when buying new or additional beds for the home. Design factors as well as certain health conditions of the user are also important determinants of what kind of cheap beds will be bought by customers. Nevertheless, the transaction almost always involves cheap beds. The foremost reason is that a household would likely need more quantities of it than any other home furniture. 

As families grow, the number of beds to accommodate each member needs to grow as well. Similarly, you cannot expect children’s bed to continue to serve the sleeping needs of growing teenagers. Thus, for majority of consumers, cheap beds are the most in demand within the category of home furniture and beds. Remember the following points when considering to buy cheap beds:

Type of Beds

There are as many kinds of beds as there are cultures in the world. In the commercial sense, however, there are several main types of bed that’s affordable enough to be considered silentnight miracoil 7. 

Wooden Beds – Bedsteads or bed frames made of wood are fairly common beds found in retail shops. The kind of wood used in constructing the bed is one factor that determines how much it would cost. There are single sized bedsteads made of pine that sell for a little under £100 (mattress not included). Don’t expect that beds made out of oak would be listed under cheap beds.

Metal Beds – For metal beds, the design and the metal craftsmanship adds significantly to the final price tag. Of course you should expect that bronse or gilded bedsteads are costlier. Also, those made from brass and wrought iron are definitely not silentnight beds. Nevertheless, most metal beds in the market are made of cheaper welded steel which may go for as low as £75 without the mattress.

Divan Beds – Divans are priced slightly higher than bedsteads. However, divan beds are very utilitarian furnishings. As such, the extra cost for the storage features and flexibility to be turned to a day couch is well worth it. In fact, there are divans that would fetch for only £135 with the mattress already included.

Choice of Mattress 

The kind of mattress you choose adds to the cost of your bed. Conventional cotton foam is the cheapest at under £90 for single size. If you need a firm back support, orthopaedic mattresses will cost around £130.

When to Buy

Most bed retailers go on sale around December or early January every once or two years. Chance upon these bargains at your local furniture market or bed factory outlet to get your best price for silentnight beds. Then do your shopping for silentnight miracoil 7 in the morning after you have had a good night’s sleep, not when you are already exhausted, so you can properly gauge whether the bed is comfortable enough for your needs.

[liminal-storage]

#27: Hall of Whispers

Prompt: Sole

Characters: Maximilian Finch, Crowe, “Mother.”

Content Warnings: Mentions of mutilation/self harm, abuse. 

Note: This is not ffxiv-focused writing, but again me taking the opportunity to write about Blades things. A tiny glimpse at the place that my character, Finch, calls home.

—------------

In the most destitute, wave-worn streets bordering the docks, the rooms of a house known as the Harpy’s Wing stand as a bastion against the freezing winds rolling from Duskvol’s cold waters. Though, anyone left alive from those days can tell you it is a much different sort of place than it was when it opened three decades prior. The ornate, hand-carved door welcoming patrons once shone with a fine mahogany-colored polish. Its plush, neatly upholstered divans are still lovely to look at and fine enough for entertaining patrons, but time and use has certainly shown its wear on the wood. The fabric seems a bit threadbare if you look at certain spots

On good days, of which there are few, a number of delicate stained glass chandeliers fashioned with hanging glass beads catch the light from the oil-lamps outside and scatter it into pieces along the walls. Through the years, thick layers of dust and the stain of cigar smoke have tinted the glass a dull orange, but once upon a time they glimmered with every shade of the rainbow like floating, ethereal jellyfish. 

Most of the Harpy’s Wing looked like that. Lavish and evocative of longing for a nicer city, a different time, but worn down by sea spray and cold and smoke, and Duskvol’s general sense of misery. 

Some nights the phonograph still plays, though someone lost all the other wax cylinders. Now, only one tune resonates throughout the halls, its notes grown dissonant and distorted like the rest of the place. Not that the hard working gentlemen or ladies who come to call on the birds of the house really seem bothered by it. They heed not the call of the phonograph but the call of hedonistic pleasures, taken to dusty backrooms with moth-eaten bedding. Coin flows, bodies sweat, and beds rock like the ebb and flow of the frigid tides. The hard working men and women of the docks find temporary entertainment and a short-lived balm for the soul, never knowing what lurks further within the walls. 

The upper floor remains off limits. 

Here, no light from outside penetrates the halls. The only furnishings to decorate most of the rooms are worn wooden benches, hard lumpy beds, and guttering oil lamps that, at any given moment, pose a danger of tipping over and engulfing the entire Wing in flames. There is one room at the end of the hall where the darkness seems to seep from the very depths of the night. Within the room, a woman with stark-white hair and an unnatural glowing youth sits upon an embroidered chair. Hands bound to the elaborate padded chair’s arms, Mother’s eyes have not espied anything but darkness since the establishment opened its doors for the first time. 

She sits blinded in the darkness, her eyes long since gouged out and covered with a veil dotted with silk roses over her empty sockets. She clawed them out herself, before her most beloved Crowe bound her hands to the chair. An esteemed offering to her goddess, to bear her sacred likeness. Her only company here is her Crowe, he who bears eyes across all of Duskvol. To watch over her children, she says. To witness their sins and tell of their tribulations. 

Her dear, beloved Finches. In the end, one shall fly above the rest.

Someday one of them will repeat the ritual of offering, carve out their eyes to take her place upon the worn throne within the Hall of Whispers. Another will become the new Mother’s Crowe and watch over the rest of the Wing. 

The young Maximilian shows promise, though the Crowe is not yet certain in which way. Will they open themselves to the goddess’ voice? Or will theirs be the voice that speaks for Mother? Though, their recent mishap proved disquieting to hear. Mother shall have to give them a firm reminder of the consequences for indiscretion. Maximilian’s back already bears scars of such lessons, but not nearly enough. To awaken the sovereign beneath the waves, the Finches must come to understand sacrifice. Mother speaks of penance from beneath her veil. 

“Twenty lashes and a week without food this time, I think. This time they shall be inflicted at your hand rather than their own. See to it once the little one returns, Crowe.” 

[bedroomking086]

Elevate your bedroom decor with the Cheshire bedframe! Its wooden frame and unique floor-standing headboard in a beautiful pink hue create a cozy and stylish ambiance. Handcrafted in the UK, this bedframe is a true masterpiece. 🛏️🌸

[acanthawrites]

WIP

Gale fusses, Auntie Ethel plots, Astarion sulks and Lae'zel is a bae

Gale was sitting rigidly at Ethel’s wooden table as if the teapot had taken him hostage. Next to him Lae’zel sat with her arms and legs crossed looking about the small wooden abode disapprovingly. Auntie Ethel held the door open as Ellana slowly limped into the warm wooden room supported by Astarion, Gale immediately jumped to his feet exclaiming as he saw them enter.

“We couldn’t find you!” he cried, rushing forward to help the elf support Ellana towards the low bed Auntie Ethel had indicated for the half Orc to be put on.

Ellana was making small protestations of which no one was taking the slightest notice of as she sat down on the divan wincing. Auntie Ethel cooed over her, handing her a steaming brew of something which she took in both hands a little guardedly.

“Tonic for your constitution, dearie.” Auntie Ethel said in a singsong voice, pointing a finger at her commandingly. “Drink up.”

“The fog came down unexpectedly quickly.” Lae’zel said frowning, “We were unable to see anything to navigate back to you, even for my eyes it was almost impenetrable.”

“Lucky for you I was here,” Auntie Ethel chuckled, “This place has its tricks about it, you can’t let your guard down even for a moment.”

“Yes…” Lae’zel said slowly regarding the old woman cautiously with her scintillating yellow eyes, “An interesting choice of location to situate one’s dwelling.”

Gale seemed not to hear her as he fussed over Ellana, readjusting the pillows behind her back in a way which Astarion found intensely annoying.

The old woman beckoned to Astarion as she shuffled over to a bench lined with herbs and strange concoctions.

“I take it your romantic rendezvous did not go as planned?” she said exposing her glistening white teeth in a manic sort of grin. “That wizard is mighty keen on her still.”

Astarion gave her one of his blunter looks, “What exactly was that potion supposed to do?” he responded frowning, “Apart from making her violently sick?”

Ethel laughed, “I’ll leave those sordid details up to your active and able imagination, pet. Perhaps being half Orc threw off some of the base ingredients.” She began to hum to herself as she drew a pestle and mortar towards herself and began to pound some ingredients together with some alarming vigour.