#lusty bread

[themonsterundermystairs]

i am a bit confused by the second book in the lusty argonian maid series. because the solution to „bread is too big“ is „let it rise“. crassius curio, wtf? i get it‘s supposed to be a metaphor, but come on

[astralnymphh]

Okay I have this little thought of fucking ellie in lotus position and I literally can’t get it out of my head

Sorry if this is weird I just feel like you could do it justice if you’re comfortable😭

omgg lotus position. that's like.. perfect for ellie cause she loves you straddling her and boobs.. and grabbing handfuls of ass meat. I'll do a little blurb on this but honestly might incorporate this position in a future fic. this feels a bit lazy but i swear im just saving my brain as i start saccharine saturations 2. MDNI ౨ৎ

lotus position with ellie ౨ৎ

let me paint the perspective on this blank canvas. the girl before you, ruby–eared as the budding roses of spring and swamping her sights in you, intoxication, a budding lust to be. the absolute hormone spurts you get whenever ellie drags you atop her lap is utterly intoxicating, utterly. you, sitting vis–à–vis. both of you undertaking the nude. her knees, bent to a perfect splay that opens a little seat just for you, a fleshy, cushiony, linen bedsheet crater. fair skin awash in tawny light, courtesy of the floor lamp abutting to the bed. a light that also reflects a shimmer string off the solid base of her strap, diagonally rested between those manspread legs. chartreuse green encapsulated in a bedroom–eye droopy–lid gaze surrounded by reeds of her deep amber esque lashes curving so softly from her puffy waterlines. an expression that says 'come sit on my lap pretty girl.' while she loiters one of those lusty hands to pose and dab her thigh gently– rippling the tight skin barely and croaking a smoky whisper, "c'mon baby, m' all ready for you now." as her lip corners tug a toothy smirk, folding the bottom lip under to bite. it coils back out, so pliantly, she lures you in tender.

ellie would fuck you so good in lotus. maddenly so, spires of her knobby digits grapple and hook on your ass, soothing softness leaven as milk bread. hairs on her arms, bitsy and tickle inducing, lie plumb from your thighs to your hips and are clasped in the soft layer of elasticity. she kneads your butt like malleable dough and spreads you wide on her pumping cock, lubricous laces lashing from your stuffed slit. the pressure exuded in her fingertips line your ass so perfectly to her roll of hip, she can fuck up into your cunt just right. in this angle, she deepens within you, and you take her unconditionally. plop, plop, palp, the slickening of cum glazes your underside thoroughly and crafts a wet slap whenever her dense hips rut into your cushy pussy lips. in your blurred numbness she finds a mania in seeing you all dog–panting and white–eyed, craning close and curling those sun–baked lips flush on your breast, "fuck that pussy back on me, mhmm, good girl.." brushing skin with her muffled coax. you bounce your bottom in sync with hers, creating a on beat rhythm, but in return her cock bottoms out deeper inside to the point of bulging a knob in your belly. on an ellie's perspective note, she fucking loves suckling upon your tender, risen nipples during sex, so this position basically emboldened her to put those eager lips to use. her gob caves an 'o' shape over your nipple and excitedly flicks her textured tongue over the nub, ever the more inflaming your pussy with euphoria. you card knuckles in her tuft of auburn hair, yanking a grip of locks to which ellie gives your nipple a teensy bite, getting you to yelp. ugh, can't you just visualize that view? a thin gap between your humping bodies, skin clumping and swelling, her perky boobs jiggling with the movements produced, peak of her russet pubes browsing over the harness base– slap! a red sting of fury nips you in the buttcheek, literally. ellie can't get enough of your rump, popping off your breast a moment and slanting her body aside to catch a glimpse of it, freak, indulging another slap. anyways, holding your hips captive to where she needs them, she pipes all the delectable cream she can out of you, grazing that bumpy vein shaft along your ribbed walls with a passion to spite 'unpassions', she coagulates a burning knot inside you, haste without chaste. girl will commit ungodly things to prove how helpless to climax you are on her thickset dick, popping her mouth off your tit to provoke in words of hypocrisy, "feels so good, huh? going dumb on my cock? yeahh? haha, god, can't even see your eyes, fuck." i claim hypocrisy, because we all know damn well with our combined minds that this girl gets dumb on your pussy, folding up her lips to contain the slobber threatening to make her look pussydrunk.

and she is most definetely pussydrunk, moreso in this position, climbing up to a high real fast. chromatically, her moan rises, "uhhhhhhh, yeahahhaaa.. ohh fuck."

how she looks cumming in this position? electrifying. her fawn freckled cheeks overcast in a flush of coral pink, gaping her lips wide and scrunching skin in all the right areas. the chafing pleasure tweaking her clit makes for a good fucking orgasm. her lids embracing the reflex of scantly shutting and gazing up at you, the green in her eyes somehow more vibrant and her pupils blown to a new moon. she just whines a grunty, "hahhh– mhhh, mhhh, yeessss." in a warble while twitching her last final blows against your beaten cervix, cockhead mashing that gummy donut. scarred as your shoulderblades take the toll ten clawing nails can bestow, her fingers whiten away the pigment with the strength issued into your flesh. her own pussy convulses and gathers up a bit of milky cum to streamline in strings along her perineum, dripping like dew onto the bed. you're ways from comparable, though, spraying your clear orgasm all over her. she'll praise you through her tale of moans, groaning, "uhhh yeah, get that cock all filthy– filthy, filthy, filthhh– fuuckkkk.." strands of her hair stick in an untidy manner beyond her hairline, shadowing that gloss of sweat narrowly. then, she dwindles down to a smile, a smile to bury. burying kisses in your sternum, she peppers up and up with a sudden awash of elation walking hand–in–hand with exhaustion. shaky nubs of her fingertips press and drag sweaty over the blushed marks given in her high, almost writing an apology to the poor scratches. looser skin of your back bulges and ribs between her waxy digits, cooling with a pasty ache. the weeping of pores after sex was no joke, no lie. and ellie intended to lick every puny dollop of it from your body. "l'mme clean you up.." she mumbles droney as a meadow bee barming your ears with a measly melody, voice muted in your neck. you reply, fumbly out of breath, "oh, a bath? i could really use a–" the chambré stamp of her tongue unfurls blunt to your neck, nudging up a spit trail along the skin. by clean you up, she just means lick you like a dog. i personally live for ellie doing that. you bumble, "ellie?" and she just garbles back, lips obviously occupied, "let me, mhh, clean you up.." and slipping a gritty chuckle in the depths of her throat, shrugging her shoulders a bit.

don't even get me started on ellie licking you up and down after sex.

[anarchywoofwoof]

so today i learned that there’s a piece of graffiti written on the wall of a brothel in Pompeii that reads, “Weep, you girls. My penis has given you up. Now it penetrates men’s behinds. Goodbye, wondrous femininity!”

this lead me down a rabbit hole of Pompeii graffiti, in which i found the following:

From Herculaneum (a bar/inn joined to the maritime baths): "Two friends were here. While they were, they had bad service in every way from a guy named Epaphroditus. They threw him out and spent 105 and half sestertii most agreeably on whores."

From just outside the Vesuvius gate: "Defecator, may everything turn out okay so that you can leave this place."

From the peristyle of the Tavern of Verecundus: "Restitutus says: 'Restituta, take off your tunic, please, and show us your hairy privates.'"

From Herculaneum (a bar/inn joined to the maritime baths): "Apelles the chamberlain with Dexter, a slave of Caesar, ate here most agreeably and had a screw at the same time."

From the basilica: "O walls, you have held up so much tedious graffiti that I am amazed that you have not already collapsed in ruin."

that lead me down a rabbit hole of obscene ancient Roman graffiti such as the following:

Floronius, privileged soldier of the 7th legion, was here. The women did not know of his presence. Only six women came to know, too few for such a stallion.

Chie, I hope your hemorrhoids rub together so much that they hurt worse than when they ever have before!

Theophilus, don’t perform oral sex on girls against the city wall like a dog

Apollinaris, the doctor of the emperor Titus, defecated well here

Restituta, take off your tunic, please, and show us your hairy privates

I was fucking with the bartender

Secundus likes to screw boys

Phileros is a eunuch!

Cruel Lalagus, why do you not love me?

I made bread on April 19th

Gaius Sabinus says a fond hello to Statius. Traveler, you eat bread in Pompeii but you go to Nuceria to drink. At Nuceria, the drinking is better

Anyone who wants to defecate in this place is advised to move along. If you act contrary to this warning, you will have to pay a penalty. Children must pay [number missing] silver coins. Slaves will be beaten on their behinds.

Epaphra doesn’t play football well

You can ride your maid whenever you want. It’s your right

Pyrrhus to his colleague Chius: I grieve because I hear you have died; and so farewell

O walls, you have held up so much tedious graffiti that I am amazed that you have not already collapsed in ruin

My lusty son, with how many women have you had sexual relations?

If anyone sits here, let him read this first of all: if anyone wants a screw, he should look for Attice; she costs 4 sestertii.

Samius to Cornelius: go hang yourself!

If anyone does not believe in Venus, they should gaze at my girl friend

To the one defecating here. Beware of the curse. If you look down on this curse, may you have an angry Jupiter for an enemy

We have wet the bed, host. I confess we have done wrong. If you want to know why, there was no chamber pot

What a lot of tricks you use to deceive, innkeeper. You sell water but drink unmixed wine

The finance officer of the emperor Nero says the food here is poison

Gaius was here – the oldest graffiti, dated 78 BCE; found in Pompeii.

Vote for Isidorus for aedile, he licks cunts the best

i fucking love human beings.

[thegreatzombieartisan]

Rings of Power + Tolkien Fusion Meta

Elvish Love, Sex, and the Single Maia

“Elves only love and marry once.”

Yeah, the Laws and Customs of the Eldar (Elves) aren’t this clear-cut. Foremost, Elves reflect Tolkien’s devout Catholic ideal including his strongly held belief in the dangers of unbridled sexuality. Also, Tolkienverse runs on morality and mysticism, not science.

Update: After performing direct research and analysis on Tolkien’s LACE text, I’ve come to new conclusions. I’ve highlighted updates in this post in blue. Otherwise the rest remains aligns and unchanged.

For Elves love =/= marriage. Most unions are love matches but at . However, Tolkien did write about Elves who love yet never wed à la courtly love. Elves that love with our reciprocity, even when married. Moreover, of lusty Elf men who wed Elf maidens with dubious consent gained from questionable means.

But sex complicates things. Elves are monogamous. And it's not just culturally.

Elf sex = marriage = binding. Elf marriage = intent + sex or binding of hröa/body and fëa/spirit. Since Elves are inherently bound to Arda’s fate through their fëa/spirit, marriages are thus eternal.

Most couples have children early in marriage and with each child, their sex drive would diminish. It infers that sex (at least cultural) is viewed as being primarily purposed for begetting of children. Based on that, though not explicitly stated in text, it’s also inferred that “real” sex, that kind that led to bringing, would be was PIV (pen-in-vagina). Perhaps a consolation price strong incentive for eternal monogamy, Elf sex is intensely pleasurable.

For Elves, choosing the right partner critical. Divorce doesn’t exist. More accurately, divorce can’t exist because Elves can’t unfuck-bind themselves. But the Valar, spirit stewards of Arda who favor the Elves, are capable. Otherwise an unhappy Elf couple could lead separate lives, and maybe love others, but not remarry.

Can widowed Elves remarry? In the uncommon event an Elf dies, its spirit is summoned to the Halls of Mandos (aka purgatory). After an unspecified amount of time, the Valar will typically reincarnate them. During this Time of Waiting, both dead and living Elf spouse remain bonded. Upon reincarnation, the formerly dead spouse returns home like returning from a very long trip to the store for bread.

As it stands, the Valar will unbind a widowed Elf’s marriage in these rare events: the dead spouse refuses the summons to Mandos (usually evil Elves), eschews reincarnation like Míriel (Celebrimbor’s great-grandma), or denied the opportunity like Feanor aka “Mr. Fuck the Morgoth, Valar, and Teleri Elves.”

Therefore, in RoP, even if Celeborn were indeed dead, he and Galadriel are still bonded. But look, the way she said, “And you? My king?” sounded thisclose to RISKING IT ALL for power and sitting on Halbrand’s handsome face for eternity.

Asking for a friend: Can Maiar and Elves “marry”? Yes, with ample space for speculation and theory

The only canon union between a Maia and Child of Iluvatar (Elves and Men) was Melian and High-King Thingol. They begot Luthien, a powerful Elf and fairest Maiden ever. She even once beat Sauron in a duel.

Maiar are disembodied Eälar or spirits that contrasted with fëar/spirits of Elves and Men. Halbrand is Sauron’s fana/physical form he can change like clothes. But far as an Maia-Elf marriage aka sexy times goes, it’s unclear if it’s inferred binding is like Elven marriage because begetting children requires mutual intention to impart each parent’s spirit to the child. But either way, it doesn’t provoke any mystical moral cockblocking.

Well, one thing is clear: Melian literally fucked around, begot Luthien, and found out such activity had a side effect. She became permanently bonded to her fana. Donning a new fana requires the death of the bonded fana. To note, even though Melian bonded to an Elven fana, she retained her Maia spirit class.

What if Thingol had an Elven wife in the Halls of Mandos? Understand that Elves live on Middle-Earth to guide Men toward a righteous path. Elves and Maiar cucking dead Elf spouses certainly defies Tolkien’s “ideal devout Catholic” behavior. Assuredly he’d invent some mystical punishment to reenforce monogamy. Perhaps even Valar intervention but if they let Morgoth and Sauron run wild, I doubt it. But without precedence, it can only be speculated.

But renegade Maiar like Melian and Sauron do not give a FUCK nor need the Valar’s approval. If they want to fuck elves, THEY WILL FUCK ELVES.

Thus, irrespective of likelihood, conscience, or wisdom, no laws bar love and/or sex between Galadriel and Sauron. Platonic besties, chaste courtly love, or cucking Celeborn to the end of Arda - do you, you crazy kids. Since she is still married to, the closet thing to binding with Sauron would be with a 3rd party conduit and magic. Like a blood oath. Or rings of power (teehee).

Many challenges exist to a productive Galadriel and Sauron union beyond the metaphysical. And the most awkward would follow her spirit husband’s reincarnation. Imagine Celeborn discovering Morgoth’s first lieutenant has been railing his wife for centuries (now that’s a good fanfic prompt).

Thank you for reading! Your likes and reblogs are appreciated. Got feedback?

What did you like? Got theories or insights to share?

Disagree? I love good faith debate and sparring!

Something not quite making sense? Got feedback on readability?

Spot an inaccuracy? Hey, Tolkien's work is complex. Drop it in comments or DM.

[wellthebardsdead]

Kaidan: I swear if you don’t shut your mouth I’ll-

Taliesin: you’ll what? Kill me?

Kaidan: You have a piece of bread, an apple, a copy of the lusty argonian maid and a crappy dagger. Your corpse won’t be worth looting.

Taliesin: I- Okay- first of all!

[smolvenger]

A Court of Mischief and Purpose Chapter Eleven (Loki x fem! Reader Crossover fic)

Series Summary: Based on Sarah J Mass's A Court of Thorns and Roses series with the Tom Hiddleston characters. You are a woman of 1885 in Aldwinter in Essex, England, dying of tuberculosis. Never to be married to the local Lusty Vicar. When Loki appears to you and offers to heal you...if you spend a week of every month with him.

Chapter Summary: The Translation book is found. You learn about Robert's past in a luxurious High-Rise. But Loki has private torments of his own, it seems...

Word Count: 6K (to quote @muddyorbsblr prepare drinkies and snackies accordingly. I'm gonna write a short chapter and other lies I tell myself)

Content Warnings: Brief mention of suicide recalling the canon events of High-Rise. Mentions of cheating (not Loki, but Will Ransome's canon actions). Mentions of drinking and mental illness. Thirst but no actual smut. Nightmares and anxiety.

Series Masterlist

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69

You continued to sit on Loki’s lap as healers arrived to take Skurge away. They were scared and whispering. They stared at him in frightened awe. 

“Hmmm. Could we have some food? The mischief just done to him has made me quite hungry,” Loki crooned over to the Grandmaster.

He nodded, his eyes even brighter with the blue eyeliner. He snapped his fingers at a servant. Another scantily clad woman. You took note of how she moved her hips- so when you walked, you would move your hips that freely too.

“Some food? I have plenty of food. Oh and- what! A! convenience! - I’m hungry too! Give us some snacks and be a dear and be quick,” The Grandmaster said.

She nodded her head with a smile and vanished.

“Thank you. He deserved it,” you sent to Loki.  

He didn’t reply but gave you a smile, his hold on you safe and secure, but not tight.

The woman arrived with platters and set them down as gracefully as a ballerina. You took a sip of your abandoned drink- fizzy and fruity and light. The alcohol could barely be tasted from all the sweetness in its flavor. You took note to take slower sips of it- you didn’t want to test your personal limit of drunkenness now. The plate with slices of bread and meat along with cheeses and grapes. The Grandmaster rubbed his hands and immediately began stuffing his face. 

You gave Loki a smile again, tilting your head as you relaxed on his lap. Then you lifted a hand and traced his cheek lovingly. 

“Oh my poor, hungry god. Let me take care of you, hm?” you murmured.

“When do you not take care of me?” he replied.

You plucked off grapes from the plate and popped one into his mouth. He caught each one with a smile and chewed with a loud crunch. The Grandmaster meanwhile was just blabbering on to any passerby with chewed cheese still in his mouth. You decided to ignore the disgusting sight of spat-up, chewed food. You merely kept feeding Loki his grapes and even lifting his cup so he could have his drink. As you held up the latest grape to his mouth, he caught your hand- his lips barely over your fingers. Savoring that bit of taste of your own skin on him. Then he released it and chewed it like normal.

Fighting how tingly you felt between your legs from it, you scoured the crowd for the others. Hal, Thomas, and Robert were doing all well. Convincing everyone they were just here to socialize and drink and eat and party. Nothing amiss. Robert was tapping his foot to the music, though you could tell Hal and Thomas were inwardly cringing at it. 

Loki turned his head.

“My, my, Skurge never knew when to shut up!” The Grandmaster said, turning back to you two. “Oh well- he should know better than to mess with a god, Loki. Lesson learned! Not gonna lie, the shadows were impressive! You always go for the flashy displays of power.”

“If you weren’t here, the ruler over them, do you know what I’d like to do, Grandmaster? I’d like to make myself their ruler. I’d make every one of them kneel before me, demand it until they did,” Loki boasted.

“Oooo, one of your secrets? Should I take notes- hmmm, that sounds nice to me. A whole crowd of people on their knees before you! Well- I mean- you were a sight in my own bed, Loki.”

The Grandmaster gave another eyebrow wiggle. You saw a pink blush on Loki’s cheeks- embarrassment. But you merely laughed it off.

“Is that how you won his favor?” you thought to him.

“In short- yes. Please don’t ask more.”

“And what of you- YN? I bet…Loki knows the sight of you…kneeling, we shall say,  very well at this point,” The Grandmaster continued with that “shit-eating grin” as Robert would say.

You gave another smile with a slow shrug.

“Oh, of course, I love it!” you cooed.

You turned your head back to Loki as he causally took a sip of his drink and set it down.

“As if you could ever demand me to kneel!” you added on with another grin, your voice in laughter.

The god took his free hand that wasn’t wrapped around you and barely touched your forearm with his fingers. His smile never left, and his voice dropped lower. 

“If you’re a good girl for the rest of today, say the word tonight, my dear. And, I’ll kneel before you.”

A gasp escaped you. Your thighs clenched. You felt as if you could burst into a hundred bits at his words. And the feeling between your legs happened again. It was everything in you not to melt, burst, or react strongly. Only looking at him as he smiled saying those words. A slight surprised inhale took you through, cooling the heat rising inside

The Grandmaster wiped off his food with his sleeve, ignoring the cloth napkins.

“As much as I love it when horndogs don't hide it around me- I want to turn things back to me. Can you believe it- I’m collecting books! I’m a Renaissance man after all! Planet creator, game host, and book collector. Ooo, I have a few new ones that, get this, translate languages. Yes! And I’m smart too! All these aliens and gods and you don’t know what they’re saying. Might as well catch up with all the new and old tongues! But these are the first edition copies of them! I mean- some of them are so expensive, Loki, I couldn’t even let you see them,” he chattered on.

Jonathan returned from a dark corner. His eyes caught Loki’s briefly. The Spy nodded his head in confirmation with a smirk. 

Loki and you exchanged a small look. To not increase suspicion, you stayed a few more minutes. Jonathan merely went to the corner of the party, hands in his pockets and feigning shyness. You fed him Loki a few more grapes. You listened to the Grandmaster's three more ridiculous boasts. 

Then Loki gestured for you to stand up. As he raised his hand, the rest of the circle turned their heads.

“Rethinking about Skurge- I might go to my oaf brother. See if I can persuade or trick him perhaps for your games. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Loki asked.

“Oh- hell yes! The God of Thunder!? Versus Korg! Of course!” replied the Grandmaster.

“Well then- I must hurry to him then. Please excuse us. Everyone! Time to hurry back!” he ordered to his circle.

Loki placed a hand on your back, touching the small middle of it. It felt so…warm, so nice…again the hot, wet, tingly feeling stayed in you. He waved at the other variants to follow behind him. 

As everyone got into the next room, Loki at once created a portal to Asgard. Everyone slipped through at once- hurriedly. You were getting quite used to hurrying through portals now! Immediately you were in your special meeting room in Asgard. All of you breathed a deep sigh of relief. The soft orange lights of the lit candles around the stone walls were welcome versus the garish Sakarr lights.

Jonathan pulled up the end of his shirt and revealed that there was a thin, hardcover book in bright red hidden beneath it. Everyone applauded and Robert patted Jonathan’s back.

“Got it,,” Jonathan said.

“Well now- seeing as also you are the one who’s fluent in a few languages, why don’t you help our Baronet translate it?” asked Loki.

Thomas nodded.

“Oh please, any and all help is much appreciated!” he replied. 

Jonathan nodded his head, “of course.”

“We’ll need to translate the spell, especially for Loki. The dagger itself won’t be too hard- I only need a welder for the blade.”

Thomas slumped his shoulders in his black jacket.

“It’s the tracking device I have trouble with,” he lamented.

“Tracking device?” Hal questioned, eyes forward to him in curiosity.

“A special device we can use to find where the cauldron is…it still isn’t functioning,” Thomas sighed. “It probably needs Loki’s magic…”

Loki folded his arms.

“I doubt my powers alone can…but there is magic in all the realms. We could find something. I will inspect it and ask.” 

The god turned over to you.

“And I think we should thank our gracious lady- looking quite ravishing, I dare say- in her performance in her role. The Grandmaster never suspected a thing with you- the rumored about…lady,” he said.

You gave a small curtsy out of habit, one hand over your cleavage now for the sake of modesty.

“It wasn’t…as bad as I thought. I honestly had a little fun!” you replied.

Loki turned to everyone.

“Now, Thomas and Jonathan have a bit of work ahead of them- but first let us all relax. Celebrate perhaps, if we’re up to it. We had two eventful journeys one after the other!”

You returned over to your room to change out of the dress into your normal clothes. You were still tingly. Ghosts of his touch, his skin over your back, arms, and legs. Still feeling his warmth, the contact…and remembering that you actually liked at. As you looked in the mirror in your room. Your thoughts swam, replaying it over and over…. 

 You may have pretended to be a whore. But the arousal you felt earlier was not pretending.

You put up a mental shield in case a certain god would make a snide comment.  

But…it was just…an emotion. Just a bodily function. Nothing more. It’s done now. Won’t happen again you told yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

That night you woke up with a start. you heard Loki’s thoughts. 

But it was different. Not with the smooth, confident, flirtatious tone he had in. He sounded troubled. And it was loud

Stones…Tesseract…Thor..Danger…in danger-Thanos-Help. Help! 

Though not every word made sense to you, you got up at once. Was he in danger!? Was something happening? You heard no sounds of a battle, of a fight anywhere near you. It all seemed like a normal, calm night. But that didn’t mean something wasn’t going on!

You ran out to the halls. Your senses stretched out, reaching out for where his room was. You located it in not too long a time- it turned out not to be too far from yours. Your feet making a sound against the stone floors. Only some torches on the walls of the palace lighting your way. The thoughts in your head, his scared, scared voice continuing to ring in a panicked murmur

Thanos- Thanos- Thanos.

Sure enough, there were guards right outside the prince’s room. 

“I think Loki’s in danger! Please! Check his room!” you begged them.

They gave a little look of disbelief from the calm stillness from outside. But without further question, they opened the doors. In the dark, from his open window was a sliver of moonlight. There was only a lump on the bed beneath green blankets. You searched around, the guards slowly brought out their spears. Your senses reached out, and you could feel the white-hot trickle on your hand threatening flames-

But no one was there. No one except the lump on the bed. Tossing, and then thrashing- you could make out the top of his dark, curly head.

“Thanos-Thanos-won’t work-his hand-can’t breathe-”

“There is no one here- only his grace sleeping,” one replied.

“I think he’s…he’s having a bad dream,” you replied.

Still, you hurried to him, his voice in your head, ringing in a panicked tone, his thrashing in sleep beneath the blankets continuing as his voice in your head raised-

“Can’t breathe-can’t breathe-can’t breathe- can’t-”

“Loki wake up!” you cried out loud. You shook at the lump violently. 

He emerged from it. His dark curls were all messy from sleep about his head. Free and beautiful. One needn’t guess his divinity. He woke with a start, sharply inhaling from his nose. And he was not wearing clothes- the blanket covering the lower half of his body.

Oh god, oh dammit you cursed silently at the sight of his pale, broad chest with black hair on it. Not to mention all the abdominal muscles. He smoothed it out of his face to see you with a muscled arm.

You forced yourself to focus on his face- after all, his eyes still looked scared. More genuinely scared than you ever saw him.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I heard part of your bad dream in my mind. The shield was down. I heard some of it…”

His face fell, wide eyes and a frown on his face. Vulnerable and scared. You lifted a hand to rub his arm in comfort.

 “But it’s just a dream- it’s not real-this is. Everything’s fine,” you soothed.

He wrapped his arms around him and hugged you. You hugged back tightly. You hadn’t hugged since the night you told him you would stay here.

“What was the…dream? What happened? What or who is Thanos?” you asked. 

The guards stayed positioned and silent. Whatever they thought of the scene, their faces didn’t show it. 

Loki released the hug, then clasped your hands, a stray curl falling over his face. 

“Thomas has things he is not ready to discuss. And I have things I’m not ready to discuss either…Only this- when I- when I went to the Prophet earlier, before Vanaheim, I learned a few more things. About myself, about things that might happen to me…but…”

“You don’t have to talk about them if you’re not ready,” you assured him.

He nodded his head.

“Thank you…”

“Do you need anything?” you asked, peeking over at the guards.

“I’m usually very good at falling back asleep, YN darling…I don’t need much. Never did. I’ll be fine…” he assured you.

He gave you a smile. But one that looked a twinge sad. With that, despite your curiosity, it was better to respect his refusal to talk about the dream further. You left his room with the guards. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next afternoon, You did not mention last night to Loki as he trained you with your magic. He was more into helping you control items.

“Now- spin those daggers!” he instructed.

With a lift of your hands, the daggers on the floor went into the air and spun like windmills.

Your fire and moving about of objects and sensing were fine. But as for the light- that could use a bit more work. You could adjust it when sunlight poured through- but that was it. Control it- like the stage lights of a theatre. But no more. You wished it was something that would be useful to fight Grendel with. But oh well- who knew what fates gave you these gifts? The others would be just useful.

“Very well- you’re quite the little sorceress!” he praised. “Now- I say we have had our fill of that!”

As the training for magic finished, you took a deep breath. Physical training was going to start soon- the ones with you and the men. You and Loki left to go through the halls. From one door to outside, you heard footsteps.

 There in the hall walked Jonathan with a small vase full of little white and yellow wildflowers in a  small grey, ceramic vase. 

Loki went up to him.

“And what are you doing not helping Thomas?” he asked.

“We needed a break. Translating it is hard and grueling. It’s going to take a while,” he explained. 

“Mr. Pine, I have another question! Why- did you get my mother’s or the gardener’s permission to rip out those plants?” Loki asked, hands on his hips. Studying the flowers. 

Jonathan’s eyes were larger and soft, like the soft gaze puppies would get. He held over the vase. 

“It’s a gift for Stella. To remind her of the time in the garden with Sif and me. She got the drabest of all the rooms here- I thought these might brighten it. Make her happy. The queen permitted it.”  

You gave him a smile, a hand flying over your heart.

“How sweet of you! Next time- here’s a hint I can say as her friend…”

You gestured for Jonathan to come closer. He did, and your voice became a stage whisper.

“Remember what the prophet said? Her favorite color is blue!” 

Jonathan smiled, beaming and relaxed. 

“It is mine as well,” he responded.

Loki plucked out a finger and twirled it mid-air. The flowers all turned to blue ones. The vase itself had a creamy white over it with little blue stars painted all over it. 

“Seems fitting- stars for the lady whose name means ‘star’. One shouldn’t miss out on presentation,” the god commented. 

Jonathan thanked him kindly. He seemed far from the serious spy capable of drowning men in pools. 

As he left, you both watched him. Then shared a quiet look with each other, you were biting down a grin. You crept up behind to watch Jonathan head towards Stella’s door, Loki behind you. A mouth covering your giggling.

You and Loki both stopped at a corner to peek over at it, to watch it unfold. 

Jonathan knocked on the door. Sif answered the door with a dagger in her hand, then relaxed recognizing him. 

Stella then went up after Sif. Her eyes went big at him and then to the flowers and vase. She made a small gasp, seeing the pattern.

“The stars-it’s a reference to your name,” you heard Jonathan explain.

“Hmm, at least admit it you got the line from me,” Loki complained under his breath.

Then she gave him a large, genuine smile. You heard her thanking him. Looking brightly into his eyes. She accepted the vase gently, their fingers brushing against each other. You could see some pink in her cheeks as they did.

 Then they said their goodbyes and she closed the door- almost hesitantly. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Training came and went to make the days faster. . Magic almost every day. Sparring with Sif every other day-though she still beat you most of the time. Stella was merely content to watch that one from a bench, applauding quietly for whoever won. Physical Training was still daily. But for the past two days…you noticed Robert never showed up. 

“He’s only repainting his walls. He gets invested in it…it calms him,” Loki confided in you. 

 It wasn’t usual to have him stay indoors and not out socializing with everyone. Bragging about the few times he beat Jonathan in sparring. Making little quips. Saying something to make Sif roll her eyes again. 

Once training was done, you sensed where his room was. You went to the doors of his quarters and knocked. He opened the door at once. He was just in his white shirt and grey tie- but the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Oh, hello!”

“I was just worried about you,” you said.

“I was…I’m just painting.”

“Can I see?” you asked.

He opened the door further and allowed you in. When you explored his room, everything was strictly neat. In order. Controlled The chests in their place. The chairs. A table with a few paintbrushes on them. Their bristles stiff with use. But then it showed there were blankets and plastic over them. The walls were once plain brown but now had a blueish-grey paint all over them. There were cans sitting still on the floor by them.

“How is all of it going?” you asked.

Robert folded his arms. 

“It’s well…I just learned I’m banned from Vanaheim. Forever. For destroying the palace,” he said.

“Oh, my- a whole realm!” you responded.

His eyes went down, his face sullen.

“That’s all I amount to, YN- a creature of destruction,” he said sadly.

“You aren’t!” 

He walked around. Then he sat down on the little couch. He patted the side next to you adn you sat down there.

“I am- I told you I went mad once. Let me explain how- it all started when my sister died.”

“Oh, Robert! How hard!” you commented. 

“We were close and it was hard. I grieved so hard, that I wanted to start over. So there was a luxury high-rise apartment complex set up. The talk of the town. I moved in there. Everything you could name was in it-pools, stores, schools, spas, and there were constant parties every night. It seemed like heaven.”

An apartment complex with all of those things? You could have never imagined! You kept your eyes on him, listening to more. You eyed the cans of paint still sitting in the corner. It seemed he already used half of them. The sting of the smell in your nostrils. 

“I met people, more than just the neighbors on my floor. So many new people. I even had lovers. No strings. No real commitments. Just each other's beds and bodies. And then more parties- with so much drinking, and the drugs. There was one party I showed up to. Brought some wine as a gift for them- but when I got there, it was a costume party. And I wasn’t dressed. They laughed at me. Then this fellow named Munrow- he took my classes and lived there. He grabbed the wine from my hands. Dragged me out by the collar. Tossed me onto the elevator and pressed the button for it to close and descend…all while he laughed. All while they all laughed.”

“How cruel!” you cried.

“It angered me so much that I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted more than revenge. So one day I was given his brain scans. Everything looked healthy. So I went to him and told him he had a brain tumor. It was fatal. All lies, of course.”

He took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He took one smoke and then puffed it out.

“He got drunk and killed himself almost right after I told him.”

Your jaw was on the floor. Then a realization came upon you.

“Robert, when you went to the cottage…Munrow was…was he…”

“That was what the Weaver looked like when I looked at her,” he replied.

“Then it all got worse. First, the garbage stopped working.  Then no electricity. Then no water. There was no food. But I didn’t want to leave. No one wanted to leave. The perfect place, the most convenient place. We were all dependent on the place that badly…we didn’t leave. The rich upper floors decided the poorer lower floors must be killed. People exchanged their wives for food. Then…there were murders…”

He took a shaky puff, letting out the air. His eyes were a little vacant, staring out the window onto the city of Asgard as he continued to speak. Still, you listened.

“I was scared- always scared. And angry. I beat someone. Hid myself. Took another lover- and she said…she called me the best amenity here. Then it struck me- at first I wanted a release, to drown in lust. It was fine at first. But now…no one held me. Talked to me. Asked me how my day was. They didn’t…they didn’t want to see me. Hold me. But I realized…they didn’t give a fuck about me. Just wanted my cock- and they hadn’t changed. With everything breaking down…I…I broke down too. I was so scared, so angry, so alone. I…I broke down.”

“What do you remember about it?” you asked.

“I was covered in paint. I kept muttering things. I remember at the time, my mind was racing- so many thoughts- too fast to catch. I was covered in paint all the time. Eating dog food- it was all we had. I was always scared. I would switch. Euphoria one minute. Terror the next. Fury the next. I couldn’t do anything. But listen to music and paint and drink scour for what little food there was and try not to get killed-”

He paused. Taking a look back at you.

“Robert…that sounds like a nightmare…” you remarked.

He took another puff of a cigarette. 

 “Then one day Loki found me. He appeared right out of thin air. I kept yelling at him to get away from me. He dragged me to Asgard, kicking and screaming. Literally. Forced me to see healers and gave me a bath and a shave. He forced me to clean up. He had me take all these potions, these things…with all sorts of what they have here. They gave me medicines to take daily. I did, even if they were bitter. He made sure I was fed, safe, and clean every day. Then…then I…I wasn’t as scared. My mind didn’t race. It was still. I felt at peace. Now, it didn’t all happen overnight- but it did happen.”

You folded your arms and sat next to him on his chair. He took another slow drag of a cigarette adn then smushed it away.

“I never want to go back to that High-Rise ever again. It’ll break me. Then I will refuse any offers to leave. Then I’ll just break others. And I doubt I’ll get out alive…”

You took in a deep breath. Then you spoke with a soothing tone. 

“It’s over…but it still haunts you- Munrow, the building, the violence- no wonder you broke down. Yet…the building became a trap for everyone. And Munrow…chose what he chose to do. Nothing with you.”

“I feel like his killer. And maybe in that state, I did kill someone, or something, and didn’t know it…it’s like destruction won’t leave me. What if it comes back again, that’s what keeps me awake at night…” he fretted.

“Munrow’s drunken choice was his drunken choice- not yours. And look at you now- learning how to fight! Sparring with soldiers. Surviving among gods. Solving riddles and collecting spellbooks. Offering to help for the greater good! You suffered from guilt and shame and your horrendous experience- and you survived! What would your sister think of you doing all this now? Robert, wallowing won’t help you move on- I know! I’m sure I’ve stopped crying my tears over my own recent pain!”

He looks at you.

“The pain never leaves you. And you can’t control the worries.”

He picked off a piece of invisible lint from his pants. You offered your hand and he took it. 

“But this time, if the…madness ever re-appears. We will be prepared. There are healers here. If I ever start to…you know, show some signs…just tell us.”

“I don’t want any of them to be afraid of me, including you…”

You shook your head.

“I won’t let being afraid interfere with getting you help. I will help you. Loki helped you. We will all help you, Robert!” you promised.

You felt his hand relax, the pulse slowing. You saw him soften. He even smiled a little.

“Thank you.” 

You looked about the room.

“With your new life here, and these walls with it’s new color- you’re not a creature of destruction, Robert. You’re one of creation!” you said. 

His smile increased, and the same old Robert sparkled back in his eyes. He then walked over to the paint cans. Then as he went over to you, he picked up an extra paintbrush that was lying on a little table. 

“Would you like to help a little? It needs a second coat,” he offered. 

“I would love to help,” you answered.

Dipping a brush into the can of paint, the gooey wet stuff dripped down. He pointed to a part of the wall and you began to paint a little of it. Who cared if a few little stains got on your dress? It felt good and you saw Robert indeed calmed down with each stroke. It wasn’t long before Loki arrived, knocking on the door. His voice with a forced calm to it.

“Why- Robert, what is YN doing in your room? She went to find you and was gone for a while!” he said. 

The doctor smirked and then laughed a little. 

“We were only talking and painting the room!” he insisted.

Going over to the table, you picked up another paintbrush. You offered it to Loki.

“Would you like to help us? Don’t use your magic, it’s far more satisfying to do it yourself!” you suggested.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Your arms were a little sore by dinner, and not just from having to do pushups. Though as all of you sat around the table- You, Loki and the variants, Stella, and Sif. In walked Thor excitedly.

“Exciting news, dear brother and friends! This next month is the annual Starfall Ball here in Asgard!” he announced.

Loki and Sif only nodded. But the others looked among them. Thomas’s eyes went big.

“A Starfall Ball?” he asked.

Thor grinned, nodding his head.

“The night when the stars all begin to fall through the sky in one of the most beautiful displays in the nine realms. Father and Mother are hosting a ball beneath the stars to celebrate!” he announced.

You nearly jumped in your seat, your hands tingling. 

“Oh! How beautiful! I’ve been to dances but- a ball! A ball, Stella!” you cried, looking at her sitting next to you. 

Stella’s thick, pink lips parted slightly. Then it broke into a smile. 

“It sounds lovely! I must stay to go! Oh, but YN, I don’t think I have anything to wear! I doubt any of the clothes Loki brought from home are grand enough for a palace ball!”

“Oh, we’ll discuss it later! We will decide what to wear. Our own clothes or perhaps ask Loki to conjure something Or we’ll go shopping!”

Loki glanced towards you at his name being mentioned.

“The fashions of all the Asgardian ladies are fascinating…” Stella commented.

Hal smiled and then looked over the table. 

“Well then- it shall be a mirthful affair-Why, how fares our good sirs Pine and Sharpe?” he asked.

Thomas scrunched his face and then released it. Jonathan’s hands at the table merely turned to fists.

“It’s far harder than we think. It’s hard to translate. And hard to make…” Thomas answered.

“Perhaps you- all of you- could use a bit of levity with this ball,” Robert said. “And we better start to learn how they dance here in Asgard.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had a dream that night.

In the dream, you were close to back home. The forest of Aldwinter.

First- you sensed a presence. A creature. He seemed at first like a tall gorilla, with a large red mouth full of sharp teeth. Standing like a human. Claws and ears like a devil. Grendel- sure enough. You knew it was him. Scary and with bright eyes. 

Then there was a glimmer of gold magic that glittered down him. The magic gave him a humanlike form. He had pale skin and dark hair with a full beard. Bright green eyes. A black suit. Smirking as he looked down from the trees onto the town.  Then with a strut, he began to walk towards the town.

Then it changed. You were back in the town. The dirt streets made muddy when it poured rain. The sight of rolling hills and the smell and sound of the ocean. Where every house was white.

You felt the urge to cough, and when you looked down at your fist there was blood. And you were wearing your engagement ring. You looked at your clothes- your old white nightgown. White like a bridal gown. White like death. 

Then you heard laughter. Music. You looked back up.

 The scene changed. 

It was night and you were inside. It was the wooden hall...the wooden hall for the dances. Candles were lit with their orange glow over the dark night sky from the windows. There was a crowd gathering. Some are in dark dresses, but all nice.

Why-yes a dance was happening! Dance like you and Stella and the other ladies would go to…a dance where once, a time ago, a vicar asked you to dance and you said-

You saw him. Not alone.

In the center dancing, there was Will. With Cora. He was in a tuxedo. She was in a grey dress. Her golden blonde hair- so bright it shone against everything, so garishly yellow it was blinding. A back hair fell down the nape of her neck to show how beautiful she was without trying, without controlling. As you always tried too hard to be beautiful. Smiling bright- tension between them. They kept dancing.

You felt sick. So sick- like you were going to retch. And your breaths were fast, hyperventilating. Hurt and fear and grief washing over you.

You tried to walk forward, but then a lady in a dark-colored dress stepped in front of you.

“Oh, how beautiful!”  she sighed.

You tried to step forward- to reach there. Charge in, stop him. But a member of the party always stepped in. Never able to get to them.

“No- you all don’t understand. He asked me to be his wife. I said yes. I fell in love with him, and he with me- we’re engaged! We’re about to be married! He promised himself to me.”

They kept waltzing. Looks of love and longing and tension between them.

It made you want to scream.

The crowd pushed you further behind. 

“Oh- it’s such a sweet love story!” said one lady.

You turned to her nudging her so she faced you.

“But he’s engaged to me! We’re about to be married!” you cried.

She snorted, shoving your hand away. Ignoring you as if you never existed. As if you didn’t matter. 

You kept trying forward, reaching the crowd. The never-ending waltz between them continued. The music getting louder. The audience even applauded. Reaching through and failing.

You tried to get through, tried to get through the crowd, to reach them- to grab Will, to stop the dance, but you kept getting shoved aside.

“Please! Take me there! I’m his fiancee! He’s going to be my husband soon!” you pleaded. 

And each person ignored you. You tried showing them the engagement ring, and they ignored you. 

You ran forward- but their arms grabbed you back. There were tears, and you began to beg your fiancee. He ignored you- entranced in his dance with the widow. 

“Will! Stop it now! Will, please! I don’t allow it! I don’t allow you to dance with her at all! Please stop it!” you cried out.

They kept dancing, the music getting louder and overwhelming with the applause. You kept calling out to him, your voice half a scream.

“Will- stop it! Stop dancing with her! I’m going to be your wife! You love me and I love you! We’re about to be married- please stop it! Stop dancing with her! Will! PLEASE! WILL”

Cora then grabbed his face and kissed him in front of everyone.

You awoke with a startle. Your heart racing fast. The lights of the dance hall were gone. Now the blackness of your room.

You weren’t in Aldwinter. You weren’t even in that realm! You were in Asgard in the chambers you lived in.

Yet the nightmare still had you by your neck. You were trembling. You thought this was done, that you were strong. Time had passed. There were whole days and weeks and now months you didn’t think about it- then it came crashing back.

No…you loved. Loved deeply. And you were still betrayed. You tried to think of any way you were flawed- any mistake- anything you said and did wrong. The wrong step, anything. 

Maybe that was why he did it- as punishment. So the second you slipped up, put a toe out of line from his internal wishes…another would be in his heart and bed. Snatching your place.

Yes, you had friendships here, old and new from all over…but not…not love. No, you were cursed. You had to be. How could you fall in love again after that? How could you ever hope for romance again? You knew what happened last time. The burn of tears in your chest, swelling up to your face.

“It’s better I stay alone. If I stay a spinster. I’ll never be enough for anyone…and if I let myself…if I let myself love like that again…I’ll just end up hurt. if I let myself…feel that for any man…he’s going meet someone better, as Will did, and it won’t matter if he’s sworn to me - I’m either too flawed or too boring. And he’ll leave me and…and…and…” you thought as you curled up in a ball.

The trembling continued, the overwhelm, the lump, the burning in the back of your eyes.

I’m not worthy of love…I never was. And I never will be.

It then all broke on you, tears fell down like a storm. You began to cry. And then the cry became a sob. Sobbing hard as you sat up, curled up on the bed. Like you were at the tree in the woods that fateful morning. Sucking in a deep breath, another, big, loud, deep sob rung out of you.

The door flung open, and to your surprise, Loki was there, clothed in his normal Asgardian clothes. 

“YN! YN? Are you alright?” he asked, a bit more worried than his usual calm, controlled self.

“I had a dream of…of…” you blubbered out, crying hard, your knees curling up to your chest, feeling snot in your nose. 

“Your thoughts were quite loud- you’re not the only one who can hear each other’s nightmares. You don’t need to tell me what the dream was about, I heard it all clearly…here…”

He embraced you. You let him- what did it matter who hugged you? The notorious Trickster God- you needed an embrace, arms, and security. You embraced him. Smelling the sweet scent they washed his clothes with here and the cold smoothness of the cloth, the leathers.

There were footsteps. In hurried Stella with her blue shawl around her nightgown. Her blonde hair freed and down to her shoulders. Loki released the hug and offered a hand to help you out of bed. Stella at once ran to you, her small hands touching your arms.

“YN! YN! What is it?! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What are you doing up?” you asked back.

“Loki woke me- said he could sense you were in trouble! I couldn’t just stand there! Has something happened, are you alright? Hurt?” she insisted.

You looked down. “I had a dream about Will…” you explained. “I saw him…with Mrs. Seaborne.”

“Oh, you poor dear!!” Loki released his arm as Stella went to hug you. She rocked you back and forth as you clung to her. You let out more tears.

“It’s alright…it’s just a dream, there there, it will be alright…” she consoled.

She turned to the god, watching with soft eyes on you both. 

“Water always makes one feel better after crying. Could you conjure some water, please, Prince Loki?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow at the word “prince” and smiled. Then he conjured a glass of water and handed it to you. You gulped it all down, cold and sweet. You did feel how the water once in your body replenished you after all of your crying.

“Tell me all about it- don’t hide it in you,” Stella advised.

You told them what you dreamt of, omitting the first part about Grendel in front of Stella. Loki looked at you, listening intently to all of it. 

“It is still quite upsetting…do you need to speak any more about it?” he asked.

“I…I…I’d like to…to be distracted,” you replied.

Loki put his hands in his pockets.

‘I doubt the gardens that our dear friend Stella is so fond of is too dark- perhaps I’ll escort you ladies to the library- plenty of stories to distract you there. I have certain recommendations that should delight two beautiful, bookish ladies such as yourselves,” he crooned out.

Stella grinned at him in appreciation. She took you by the arm as Loki walked you down the hall. She turned to you, squeezing your hand. 

“We’re going to find something to read- separate or together. So we can have a little book club between us! And this morning, right after we eat, we’re both going to find ourselves new dresses for the Starfall Ball as you said. We’ll explore the city too! See what it is they wear and decide if we want to try them on! It’s going to be such good fun!” Stella encouraged.

You nodded at her.

“Yes, it is going to be,” you replied, feeling a smile return on your face. 

You glanced back at Loki as he walked you through the stone halls. You sent a thought out.

“Why is it you’re comforting me with my nightmare…but I can’t comfort you about yours…”

“I’m not the one who needs it,” was all he replied.

You wondered if the God of Mischief was lying. To you. To himself.

[drawnbyphilip]

The Lusty Argonian Maid is here to clean your chambers! She can also polish your spear, and bake your bread! She’s such a good maid :) Lifts-Her-Tail is the iconic Argonian heroine from the book, “The Lusty Argonian Maid” in the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim! Now you can take her with you wherever you go. Plenty of time!

[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 Fifteen: Dreams and Revels

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

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

Length: 14.2K

CW: Explicit sexual content (masturbation, M) / blink and you'll miss it: mentions of dub/noncon behavior / Period Typical Attitudes

Being the Magister’s son, Eren finds, does nothing to acclimate him better to this kind of attention. The feast is well underway, though, and the storm of his discomfort has already passed. The worst of it, anyway; he really can do without the occasional gust.

“Here’s to the future lord consort!” a man-at-arms slurs, Anatoly by name, you whisper to Eren with the merest hint of laughter in your voice. He is a great tub of a man with a wine-keg belly and a big bushy auburn beard. It is a wonder the table can bear his weight.

He speaks too soon, as it is; Eren can hear the table creak alarmingly as the man raises his tankard to the dais above the salt, slopping beer all over his hand and the board beneath him. “You had best serve the ‘lil lady well, milord, woman’s like her deserves nuthin’ less’n the best fuck o’ her life!” he roars, blissfully unmindful of the snail shells and bits of bread his fellows are pelting at him as he stands with one foot on the buttered garlic snails. “May your sword stand tall ’n proud ‘n ne’er bend in battle!”

The storm rages anew. Never had Eren wanted to melt into the floor and disappear as much as he did then. Beside him on his right, you let out a tinkling laugh as Anatoly is helped down from the table, staggering and slumping, his face so red it is hard to tell where his beard ends and where his flesh begins. To add salt to Eren’s mortified wounds, the rest of the hall pound their cups on the tabletops, shouting, “Hear, hear!” The familiar first notes of ‘Lusty Boys to Lissome Girls’ begin to play as the musicians strike up a new tune to further compound his shame.

You can well laugh, Eren thinks a little sullenly. You are too trained never to give anything away, never to falter nor show your discomfort no matter the incitement. Knowing you, though, the titter is genuine. A new weapon has been handed you, of course you will be well-pleased; you are sure to use this against him once you resume your new game of flirtation. He both dreads and welcomes the prospect, contrary boy that he is.

For the first time in his life, he wishes he had a courtier’s face, if only to keep his dignity intact. He does not even know what kind of face he is making. A highly amusing one, apparently, to judge by your expression. And your sister’s.

“Best hone your sword well, future brother of mine,” Lydia sings after a bite of dormouse. “You wouldn’t want it to bend after the first stroke. Sister should have some joy of you, at least.”

“I don’t see how my sword is any of your business,” Eren snaps back hotly, flushing even more at the unabashed snort of laughter that escapes you as you reach for your goblet of wine and nearly spill the contents, your mirth making your body rock back into your seat. “How is your little bedmate? I hope you haven’t killed him off already.” He knows, even as he says it, how pathetic that rejoinder is. He has never thought himself a lackwit (he likes to think he is at least reasonably witty) but, gods, does he feel like one now.

Lydia smirks at him from her place on the other side of her sister, clearly in accord with his disparaging self-assessment. “Oh, he’s alive and well, brother dearest, have no fear. I keep him in a small glass bowl for now but I’ll commission a bigger tank for my rooms, to keep him in comfort. He goes by Renren now, I’ll have you know,” she grins at him, the little imp.

“Peace, Sister, you’ve had your fun, now leave my betrothed be. You’ve tormented him enough,” you chide, seemingly taking pity on him at last. Lydia gives him one last puckish smirk before returning to her meal.

Eren graces you with a smile. With his gratefulness comes chagrin, though. He cannot help feeling unmanned. Is he truly so slow-witted that you should have to resort to defending him from your own sister? Can he not even keep it together long enough to turn a phrase, parry Lydia’s words with his own sharper set?

He stamps the feeling down as best he can. He has always prided himself on staying away from the broader courtiers’ circles, away from the frivolity, the lies, the masks. Such webs as they spin with their words put him off, so above them he flies where they cannot touch him. Now he finds himself hopelessly entangled, by a mite no less, a slip of a girl not even half the match of the slimiest sycophants at court, turned round and round until his better faculties left him.

And in front of the woman who he would be equal to. He does not want nor need more reminding of how far removed he is from you, a young woman quickly shaping up to be a courtier as masterly as any of them. Much as he wants to be your equal, though, doing so will have him don a mask, and he will sooner not.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” you murmur to him, the very moment your father stands from his seat on Eren’s left.

“Where to?” Eren whispers back, watching the Lord Rhyzkov stride down to the trestle tables below the salt so he can speak and mingle with his men. Just as Father would do.

You nod to the tall arched entryway of the Great Hall’s terrace, off to the side of the spacious chamber. “The night air would do us good.”

For a moment, Eren takes the measure of you, takes in your smile, which seems to be the precursor to an even wider one, to be given to him once you are well away from prying eyes. A smile held back but not a courtier’s smile - this is all you and not the mask of Rhyzkova.

Perhaps it isn’t a matter of putting on a mask. Perhaps it is simply a matter of restraint.

His gaze slides down the smooth, naked expanse of your back as he trails your progress, admiring the gleam of the chain of diamonds and rose quartzes that traces the dip of your spine as you hail and kiss your lady mother’s cheek further down the table, on your way towards the balcony. He can be restrained. He will be your equal yet.

All at once, the gods see fit to test that restraint. The sway to your hips as you walk, that proud, confident stride that he has come to love so well is even deadlier in this dress - a charovma, he knows now, the southron halter dress that near made him groan aloud the first he saw you this night before the feast.

He had never felt so cunt-struck and so irritated in his life.

“Do you really want me to… break decorum that badly?” Eren had blurted as you sauntered down the empty corridor of the guest wing toward him, holding a crown of silvered laurel leaves studded with emeralds.

“Whatever do you mean?” you blinked up at him, innocent as the purest of maids. A maid you were, and pure, but innocent you were not.

Minx.  

It passed as a simple sleeveless vevda at the front, this dress of peach silk with its white lace paneling and belt of diamonds and rose quartzes. Would that it really was a vevda. Oh, how he wished it was a vevda. And it seemed such a safe dress, much safer than that sheer alabaster wisp of a chelya you wore earlier that day. Your breasts were not like to spill out of this one, at least (a fact he both rejoiced and regretted).

The back wreaked torment enough. He could not have asked for better fodder for his torrid fantasies. The charovma left your entire back bare, from shoulders to waist, now he knew what you looked like naked from behind. No longer would he be reduced to trying to conjure up images of your nakedness from what little had been given him. Well, not truly. But it was one thing, one sight more that was allowed him. Until the wedding night. Not even a day had passed in his stay at Arsechkala and already he had seen more of your beautiful body than he had in your year-long betrothal and friendship.

Still, he could not help feeling… baited.

He had narrowed his eyes at your impeccably artless face. “Don’t toy with me, my lady. Must you always dress like… this?” he gestured at your form gracelessly, made inarticulate by the strength of his turmoil.

The innocence left your face as the imp took over. “I always dress like this at home. I’m sorry if it offends you so, my lord, but you had best get used to it for you will be seeing more of the like.”

And more of me, your smirk seemed to say. It was then that he knew without a doubt: it was no happenstance, that you had your back turned to him when he exited his chambers. You had wanted him to see, and masked your ploy under the guise of examining the tapestry of the first Yelena Rhyzkova hanging on one of the walls down the hall.

Yelena Rhyzkova’s heir had lifted the wreath in her hands and pressed it down on Eren’s head before he could react to her preceding statement.

“Handsome,” you said, tweaking a couple of leaves by his right ear and eyeing the whole arrangement, pleased. “How do you like the fit?”

He glared at you a moment more before answering, “I like it well enough, it’s not uncomfortable.” He was no stranger to the sensation of metal leaves encircling his skull. Being the son of the eminent Magister entitled him to wear the hallowed wreath, reserved for southron guests of the highest acclaim to match their noble hosts. His noble hostess had foregone one for a simple chain of silver and rose quartz, artfully arranged over the elegant plaited knot of her hair.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten where the podonza should be placed,” you went on, plucking at the white garment he had worn over his vevda of indigo damask with its elbow-length sleeves, belted at the waist by a chain of diamonds. The podonza was a garment of the well-to-do, a long sheet of cloth worn over the vevda (and the tube dress povevda, sometimes the chelya), wrapped about the body beneath the right arm by the right hip and fastened at the left shoulder by pins or brooches. Podonzaya were often fringed, with decorative scrollwork for the simpler palette, with gemstones for those of a more opulent bent. Eren was in no way opulent, yet the podonza he donned was dripping with diamonds to match his belt, like icicles hanging down the eaves of some snow-crusted roof.

“Told you that, did he?” Of course he would. Armin took entirely too much pleasure in telling you tales best left untold. Preferably when Eren was out of the picture. “In my defense, I’m a Midlander. How in all the levels of hell was I supposed to know which shoulder this contraption should be draped over?”

“Your minders would’ve put it on you, properly, had you not been a stubborn little mule of a colt. Not that things have changed much. Still a mule, not so much a colt.” You had him there. Not that he would ever admit it, stubborn mule that he was. “The only time we should expect to see you with the podonza fastened on your right shoulder is on a bier at your funeral.” The levity on your face had vanished then, to be replaced by a dawning sense of disquiet. And fear. “Gods forbid that time come soon.”

He had scrambled to revive your cheer but you drew yourself up, shrugging off the dread as you would a stifling thick fur pelt, and took his hand in yours. As though only his touch could drive away your troubles. You left the guest wing thus, slipping back into your comfortable banter.

Eren stares at the back of you, led along as he had been in the guest wing. It is never a pleasant thing to see fear mar such beauty yet he finds it pleasant still. It is an honest sentiment on an honest face. Yours. Not Rhyzkova’s. You are learning. You will be rid of Rhyzkova in your more intimate moments, he can see that happy prospect now. He will have all of you. Your fears, your grief, your anger, your joy and cheer and laughter. Your truths.

He will have all of you.

Around you, the feast is steadily descending further and further into uncontained revelry, as is the nature of these things. A rowdy group has commenced playing a knife game; more than one man will leave short a finger or two, Eren wagers. Yet another lot is trying to outdrink each other, to the tune of their fellows’ rallying calls. One man is already out cold and lying sprawled atop the table, beer foam trickling down his mouth to soak into his beard. The last two are well at it, though not for much longer, Eren can tell. Those whose purses rest with the beardless ashen-haired boy will find them heavier by bout’s end. His older, supposedly more seasoned opponent is lagging, lifting his tankard to his lips as if it is filled with stones and not beer; the eyes visible above the mug’s rim are comically crossed.

A man with a spade-shaped beard snatches at a passing serving girl as you and Eren draw level with his table. Eren looks away as the man pulls the girl onto his lap and slips a hand up beneath her skirts. The crash of her dropped flagon echoes in Eren’s ears as he looks elsewhere, anywhere but at the woman in front of him.

The increasingly familiar aggravation surfaces from his depths once more. He is no shy and blushing maiden boy- well, a maiden boy he may be but shy and blushing he is not. Not until you, anyway. Somehow, you manage to make him regress and dither and fumble like a halfwit loon. He should be long past feeling embarrassed by the sight of randy debauchery. He had been (vocally) randy with you, he should not be dilly-dallying between virginal and sensual.

Now that he thinks on it, though, since when had he ever been embarrassed by lust? Never. He had seen more, seen them at it in the hallways during feasts, seen stableboys tumbling their wenches amidst piles of hay, seen people fuck and be fucked by countless others in the brothels. Not once had he ever shied away.

This girl is something else entirely.

He finds himself glaring at your beautifully supple back. You really ought to have let your hair down. Or worn a robe. Or a shawl, even a podonza. It wouldn’t cover everything but it would still cover something. “But charovmaya aren’t supposed to be worn with a podonza,” he recalls you telling him earlier, blinking that sham of an innocent blink at him.

Oh, how he wanted to kiss it off you.

He is learning more of southron women’s fashions than he cares for, to be sure. They are as revealing on other women as they are on his betrothed. Lydia and Lady Theresia are both clad in chelyakin. His future mother by marriage is elegant in black; tiny rubies dangle down the fringe of the deep crimson podonza she is wearing, adding to the lady’s overall sophisticated ensemble. As low-cut as the strap dress is, Eren deems it more compelling on her eldest. Lydia makes it look a deal more modest. She has dispensed with a podonza altogether, though she hardly needs one to cover herself. Her pink chelya at least has a scooped neckline, quite far removed from her mother’s deep vee.

He cannot understand how all of that inherent sensuality in southron fashions eluded him. He has never truly been susceptible to women’s charms, though, southron or otherwise. And yet he is susceptible, so susceptible to you.

What is it about you that draws him so?

Is it that sweet and pretty smile that is the delight of his eyes? Is it that gentle kindness he oft receives from you in his lesser moments? Is it that spirit, that passion, that fire that smolders within, the true you beneath the mask of Rhyzkova? Is it all of those at once and more?

The jewels sparkle bright against your naked skin, a sight reminiscent of the myriad women he has seen clad in only such. Not one of whom could have held his attention for more than a night.

It is not the garment but you.

The orange glow of lamplight washes over him as you pass through the tall arch of the terrace’s entrance. The strains of ‘The Forest Lass’ fade into the backdrop as you progress deeper into the balcony. Suddenly, he is alone with a fae enchantress, walking as one enchanted. You lead him beneath the trees, brushing past the trailing vines, your hand in his so much smaller yet strong, firm, imperious.

He had always wondered why Prince Rodion risked all for that forest lass, Alena, who had more than a drop of fae in her, the singers say. But perhaps now he knows something of what the prince felt when his maid spirited him away that day into her bower and left him with an insatiable longing no mortal woman could sate.

What were vows and a kingdom worth compared to a woman’s love?

The answer to that verse was clear, once. He is coming to find that it is not so simple as all that.

Arsechkala still yet lives even at this hour. The Great Hall is situated away from the sea, and so the city and the surrounding countryside are your only concessions to a view. The city, indeed, has its charms, as you said. Lampposts still illuminate the slowly emptying plazas, faint music drifts through the streets from some far-off revels; even the smell of cooking permeates the air, something fried and savory that piques Eren’s interest, though he had done the feast great homage mere moments ago. Leagues and leagues away, the line of the Greatshield is a dark starless void against the vast starry immensity that is the sky.

You let him go and lean against the banister, staring up at him. The light from the nearby posts gives you an ethereal cast. Your eyes are deep pools he can drown in. And the better part of him does not want to surface.

“Feeling better now?” you murmur after a time. “You looked like you needed to be away. I don’t know which was redder, your face or Tolya’s beard.” You reach up to take his face in hand and tilt his head up a little, the better to catch the light. “Not so red now.”

Eren threads his fingers through yours and holds you there a moment, savoring the warmth of your palm, before drawing both your hands down. Neither seem eager to be the one to let go and so you remain handfast. “Is that what I should expect as consort? Seems like a raw deal on my end,” he notes sardonically.

You chuckle. “They’ll grow on you. Don’t your men treat you the same at home? They’ll be yours, too, in time.”

Yet more reminders of his subsequent role. It is a strange thought, and surreal, but he is coming to reconcile himself with the fact every passing day. His resolve to be a good consort and knight of your household returns, stronger than ever. He had sworn such before you and your gods, a thousand years ago. It was his first vow to you. So much has changed since then. The boy anxiously waiting in front of the godstone need not have worried about the lady in the red dress. You are no Elva Riehl, no wife that a man can revile, he knows that now. You are a damn sight much better, so much better.

"Being home seems to agree with you."

You smile and release his hand, leaving him bereft. You turn to stare out at your city, hands splayed upon the gray stone banister. “Does it? Well, I’m always glad to be home. It’s just so freeing. It’s like waking up from some long, strange dream… one that seems more nightmare than dream, sometimes… in the end, you’re just glad to be awake and away from it all.”

Eyes of gray glass glare at him from the darkness. He blinks and looks down at the tiled floor beneath his sandaled feet, shaken. But only your eyes return his gaze when next he looks back up again. Concerned, and not condemning. “Are you all right?” you say, cupping his face into your hand once more. “Do you want to rest? We’ve had a long day.”

Eren leans into your touch, taking comfort. He is awake and away from it all; he will not let his ghosts chase him even unto his waking hours. “I’m fine.”

The loud peal of feminine laughter spares him the need to change the subject. Some man-at-arms is tugging a serving wench into the balcony, clearly looking for a quick tumble.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” you sigh, dropping your hand from Eren’s face. “I thought the terrace was unusually empty for this time and this sort of occasion.”

You do not lead him back into the light of the Great Hall, as he thought you would. You are staring at the unheeding pair through the arched colonnade that parts the balcony in half, a detached sort of curiosity in your expression as you watch the man push his giggling girl up the nearest wall and smash his mouth to hers. Darkness swallows them in its grasp. Not enough to be free of scrutiny, though, to those most interested in their commerce.

Somehow, your composure steadies Eren in what is supposed to be a moment rife with awkward tension.

“Do you like to watch?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you are getting at. The air grows hotter in an instant.

“In the brothels, when you go with your lads. Do you like to watch them at their play?” The girl’s legs are now wrapped around her lover’s waist, whose hand crawls beneath her skirts in a trice. The shadows cloak their congress but naught else. The night comes alive with the sound of her moans. “Does it give you pleasure watching them tease, kiss… fuck whatever slut they bought for the night?”

It is obscene, indecent, improper, and yet it isn’t. It is not in Eren to squirm beneath his betrothed’s gaze. Not now. Curious. “I don’t seek it out but I won’t look away when it’s before me.” He stares down at you, quite unblinking. Steady. “Sometimes, it gives me pleasure. When I make what I see mine. When I take the place of the lads, in my fancies at night, in the dark where no one can see.”

Your lips curl up slightly. “There’s freedom in the dark, don’t you think? Beneath its cloak, you can be free with anything. Free with your favors. And your pleasures.” The look in your eyes is… riveting. It is one he has never seen there before. He does not know what it is. He wants to draw it out and examine it further, see what is it about it that makes his heart race.

The woman’s moans take on a new timbre and are soon interspersed with the man’s grunts. Neither of you looks round at the source of the sounds of loving. Eren lets it wash over him and fade away into the distance. The lady in front of him is a more spellbinding thing by far.

“Would you… like to visit the sanctum? You have yet to see it again.” The dark pools of your eyes drink in the light of the nearby lamps.

“Will we be alone, my lady? In the dark?”

“There will be lamps. Except in the corners where there are none. Then, yes, we will be alone. In the dark.”

The call is tempting, so very tempting. It will be so easy to cross that threshold into more intimate terrain. Within the night, he can find himself becoming your lover as much as he is your betrothed. You are willing, he will not need to coax you too much… you can love before the godstone and have the old gods grace your union, and afterward, he can crown you with flowers and tell you… tell you…

A frisson races down his spine, shocking him. The dream is a bolt of lightning that leaves him just as stunned as if he has been struck in truth. He curls and uncurls his fingers, and forces himself to hold your entrancing gaze.

His is a dream too wonderful and too frightening to consider. For this night, at least.

“Perhaps we could go in a less dangerous hour. With you in a less dangerous dress.” And with me in a less dangerous disposition.

Your eyes search his face for several heartbeats. He wonders what it is that you are looking for, what you are seeing. Whatever it is makes your rousing gaze lose its heat, and all that is left is soft tenderness. You offer him a hand, smiling. “In a less dangerous hour, then. Let’s go and leave them to their play.”

Eren stares at you a while, taking in your gentle face, so different from the sultry front you’d worn mere moments ago. The lights shine dully on the jewels that adorn you, on your hair, your ears, your arms, your dress. A lady of surpassing grace and beauty. Beauty most of all. He smiles and takes your hand.

An altogether different sort of scream leaves the serving wench’s mouth the moment you pass her and her lover’s little love nest. The man fumbles as she instinctively tries to hide herself, but you hush down their panicked floundering and tell them to carry on, smooth as silk. Eren has to choke back a laugh.

The brightness of the Great Hall is almost blinding after all that time spent beneath the dimness of night. The feasting and the revelry had gotten a deal more lively during that brief time you spent away. Lord Alexander had returned to his seat at the high table, deep in discussion with Sir Grisha Dunayevsky, his castellan, who had taken Eren’s seat at the right hand of his lord.

Eren feels a thrill course through him, that old thrill of seeing a celebrated hero in the flesh in the same room as him. Before serving as the Rhyzkov castellan, Sir Grisha had led the royal fleet to victory in the Storming of the Causeway during the War Without almost thirty years ago, beating back the combined might of the Cydamaic navy and the corsairs they had hired to bolster their strength at sea.

Sir Grisha turns his head to take a sip of his wine, giving Eren a glimpse of the ropey scar that mars his mouth, a relic from some hard-fought battle. The blow had slashed him open, from the middle of his upper lip to the lower right corner of his mouth. It was not a deep cut, by the look of it, yet Eren knows he had lost a good amount of teeth for his trouble. The old knight had long since replaced the enamel for gold; even at this distance, Eren can see the nubs in the man’s mouth flash as the metal catches the light.

He hopes you can be prevailed upon to… ease his way into a conversation with the living legend. He had wanted to converse with the man the very moment he learned who he was all those years ago. It is not often he claims what rights he has as your betrothed to ask for favors. Perhaps you can oblige him in this; he will sweeten his suit with strawberry cream pie if he has to.

Eren finds his wish coming closer to fulfillment as you proceed to the dais, determined to play Rhyzkova and keep yourself briefed on the matters of your future fiefdom. He cannot help but admire your sense of duty even at this time of celebration.

“If it’s not too much to ask… if you could put in a good word for me to Sir Grisha, I would forever be beholden to you.”

“You mean you aren’t already beholden? If our betrothal isn’t enough to bind you to me… why, then, should I grant you this boon, Sir?” You are smirking though, as you near the heads’ table. You give the next table a wide berth, this one the rowdiest by far. Two curly-haired lads, with the look of brothers about them, are dancing on the tabletop arm-in-arm and armed with tankards sloshing beer everywhere. Someone had stolen some musician’s fiddle and is playing a bawdy jig. The Virgin Queen has shed her silken slip to show her silken skin, the men sing uproariously as you and Eren pass them by, careful not to get caught up in the carousing.

“I would be more beholden to you than I already am,” Eren amends easily, then adds, “I can make it worth your while.” He hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat and slips his hand across the soft, smooth silk of the skin of your naked back. Gooseflesh forms beneath his fingers almost at once, and he feels you shudder just that merest bit. He smiles.

You press closer to him as if you cannot help yourself. “I could… put in a word, formally introduce you as my betrothed. You can carry on from there.” The breathiness in your voice sounds sweet as a nightingale’s trill. Triumph has never tasted this good. And he didn’t even need to ply you with pie.

---

He wakes up hard as a rock and randy as a whore.

Eren blinks up at the canopy of his bed, dazed and bleary and skin prickling with heat. He had kicked the blankets partially off himself sometime in the night, leaving all of him exposed but for his right leg. The haze of sleep reduces him to staring blankly at his cock. Stiff, erect, and weeping copiously with his arousal.

He stares at it a moment longer before turning his attention to his balcony. Not that he can see past the pillars’ drapes, which he had drawn closed before retiring. Faint gray light shines through the fabric, slowly illuminating the room. The hour of the cow has just dawned, by his reckoning. Too early. He will not be getting up until it is at least halfway through the hour. He should not be up at all, but for that dream.

Eren runs his hands down his face and sighs, looking once more down his naked body at his insistent cock, which is quickly (and loudly) making its grievances known.

He had as well take care of it.

His own touch makes him flinch, when he reaches to take himself in hand - already, he is so sensitive, so quick to respond, it will not take him long to reach his pleasure.

It was a new dream, this one. This time you were in the sanctum, which you had shown him the day before. The significant changes to the place suit his fancies well. It is not so dark, not so wooded as before; he could see every hint and spasm and flicker of the pleasure he gave you as he loved you before your gods, who looked on in silent, benevolent benediction.

In the dream, you had slipped into the gardens during the feast, with no one any wiser. In the dream, he had succumbed to the lure, with no compunctions. It is the only place where he is free to slip into temptation. They cannot take him to task for dreams, as dreams hold no consequences. And in them, his sentiments, those newfound feelings are not as frightening and can be overlooked for something baser, more carnal, more sensual. Just for a time, just for a while.

He had you on his podonza, that white, bejeweled sheet, which he had spread out beneath you on the grass. The both of you were, more oft than not, naked in his dreams. Only he was fully stripped bare this time. That ravishing, sinful peach dress was bunched about your waist. You were nude otherwise. Your body in moonlight was a thing of immaculate perfection. In this light, you were as ethereal as a fae maid. And beautiful, as a wild animal was beautiful: unbound, untethered, uninhibited. You in your truest form.

A grunt escapes his mouth as his hand slips down his cock, slowly pulling on the hard flesh and lightly thumbing beneath the flushed swollen head. A bead of arousal drips down to further wet his shaft; he is leaking so much he doesn’t even need his own spittle to ease himself along.

For the hundredth time, he wishes the hand now pleasuring him belongs to you. You can pleasure him better than he ever can himself, he is sure of it.

You would ride him some nights, in his fancies, rolling your hips against his hard and fast and eager while he held on to your waist, sometimes guiding, sometimes holding on, merely holding on, needing something to cling to to steady him lest he lost himself entirely to his desire.

Tonight, he rode you. As he does most every time. As much as he loves the thought of you claiming him for your own, nothing brings him greater pleasure than the prospect of just bearing down on you, taking you as he will, hard and fast and eager, and having you at his beck and mercy.

Eren moans, soft and breathless, as his unoccupied hand comes up to tease his nipples, pinching and pulling one and then the other until they stand hard and stiff on his chest. His back arches a little, and his eyes, already half-lidded, close entirely. He likes to shut his eyes, likes to keep his world of sin dark. For in the dark, his hands are yours.

You run soft tantalizing fingers over his nipples for a moment more, circling, rubbing over the fleshy nubs, before lightly scratching down the ridges of his abdomen. His breath hitches and his stomach tightens at the touch, getting tighter still as your hand slips down to the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock, sliding down further until you are cupping his balls in your palm and gently rolling them in your hand.

A louder, strangled moan breaks the silence in the chamber; your questing fingers have stolen behind his testicles and pressed firmly on that spot, that stretch of skin there that gives him such pleasure. His hips rut up into his fist, and he feels himself get wetter as his cock leaks further arousal over his steadily tightening grip.

Some nights, you would leave a trail of kisses up his body, running lips and tongue and teeth across his skin until you could capture his mouth with yours and let him taste the sweetness of your tongue. The tongue he would have tasted had duty, that poxy bitch, not called him away.

A hint of displeasure bleeds through his ecstasy. His hands can do much and more in the way of sensual satisfaction but they can only do so much. The rough pads of fingertips and the scratch of fingernails are poor stand-ins for the soft wet heat of a pair of luscious lips. But they are all he has, so he has to make do.

In his mind’s eye, he can see you hovering over him, smiling that gloriously sultry smile that he has only ever seen of late. Amid the comforts of home and away from the stifling court, the passionate young woman seems to bloom. Your hair drapes over you as you bend ever closer to his face, lending your congress further intimacy.

This brief scene is not as satisfying as it could have been, however. He cannot smell your hair, your scent, your body. The token you had given him the day of the Warrior’s Tourney would have helped compound his illusions. He keeps the piece of cloth in a clean box, away from anything that might adulterate your scent. It is, unfortunately, locked away in his chest of belongings. He had not needed to use it ‘til this morning, would that he had it now to enhance his dream…

Your perfume of apples and winter roses is still deeply entrenched in the cloth, along with your scent, a scent far sweeter and more intoxicating than any fruit or flower. He would have drowned in it as you lowered your face to his and kissed him. For a moment, he is tempted to get up and fetch your favor, make all of this a thousand times better, but his hand is locked into place, he cannot get up even if he wants to. And does he want to?

So, again and as always, he has to make do.

It is not your favor that drives him closer to bliss. Suddenly, he can smell your drying sheet, and the memory of the sensation hits him hard as a charging bull. His mouth is moving against yours, yet the taste of air is the only thing he knows. But he can smell your hair, your scent, your body, the essence of you you had left behind on your linen, stronger and more intense than it is on your favor.

He is bearing down on you all at once, back in the sanctum, back in the dream of the night. It is easier to imagine how you’d look now, with all the glimpses he’d had the past couple of days. Your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts while he ruts into you madly, hands tight around your lush hips as he presses you down against the ground for better leverage. You are gasping for breath, fingers twisted in the white of his podonza, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

His hand picks up pace around his cock, his thumb rubbing over his dribbling slit, once, twice; his fist is slathered with his arousal, making him slip easily through his steadily tightening grip. The wet slaps of flesh on flesh are all the sound in the room, interspersed with his pants and pleasured groans.

White-hot embers begin to flare up in the base of his stomach, but he is not there yet, still he wants more, wants to further play with this pretty spectre he has conjured and bring you to your own peak…

He bends down and takes a nipple between his lips, suckling hard, flicking his tongue over and around the nub so he can further draw out your moans. You oblige him so eagerly, your back curving into a beautiful arc. The most sinful moan sanctifies these sacred grounds; never has he heard a sound so divine. Your hands come up to run through his hair as he moves to worship the other breast, pressing him close, closer, as close as you can to your yearning flesh.

His hands slide down, from your waist to your thighs. Your skin slips beneath his fingertips, the softest, finest silk he has ever felt, until he is hooking his arms beneath your knees and rearing up between your legs, lifting you a little so you can take him better as he starts pounding harder, faster, hips slamming into yours with wild, frenzied strokes.

Loud cries and whines take the place of your moans, blending in perfect accord with his groans and grunts and the wet slaps of flesh on flesh. Wind sweeps through the sanctum, proof of the gods’ favor, but he cannot feel the gentle cooling touch on his skin. It is so hot, he is burning, burning, and he is glad to burn, fire has never felt this good…

His hips are twitching, wanting more than his hand, wanting more than the tightness it can give him, wanting more than his own wetness. He wants to thrust into the real you and not this spectre, feel how tight you truly are and how wet, have the truth of that pleasure that is so acclaimed of his friends and that he can never get from any other because they will never be good enough, never enough.

Eren tightens and loosens his grip around his cock as he pumps himself faster, an attempt to mimic the sensations of a woman’s cunt at her peak, that most maddening, pleasurable sensation that they spoke of, of your tight, wet, and warm walls massaging his shaft as it strove to bring him to complete and utter euphoria.

His cock throbs; close, he is so close, his hips are moving erratically, so out of his control as he thrusts into his jerking fist, panting and moaning and chanting out your name, the most lustful hymn, the most sinful of prayers.

You are a crumbling mess beneath him, clawing at his chest, crying out and sobbing from the strength of your pleasure, your body near folded in half while he continues his rut, grinding, slamming his cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Your ankles are now draped over his shoulders, toes curling as your peak comes barreling closer, ever closer. You chant your own hymn and call out for him desperately, “Eren, Eren, Eren,” begging, pleading for your climax, let me come, please, please, please…

Hot, sticky spend coats his hand and splatters all over his chest and stomach as he reaches his pleasure with a loud cry, almost screaming his ecstasy into the silent chambers. His back arches, fire lancing up his spine and white heat engulfing him, and for a thousand years, he stays there, drowning in the fount of rapture that is his lady.

Seed still leaks from his swollen tip as he comes to bit by bit. His hips continue to thrust until pleasure becomes too much like pain and his movements slow to a stop. Eren releases his softening cock, letting out a satisfied huff of air. His torso is slick with sweat and spattered with spend but the familiar haze of sated pleasure is stealing over him, leaving him heavy-limbed upon his bed, too sleepy to clean himself off.

His seed will look better dripping down your cunt, he thinks, running a finger absently through a milk-white puddle pooled in the creases of his muscled abdomen. It will be proof of his presence, that he had been in you, had taken you in all the ways you could be taken. He will be secure in the knowledge that you are his in every sense. And he will not need to clean himself up. Stones weigh down his eyelids.

The man glares at him from the dark, eyes wide and gray and glassy. And filled with terrible anger. Eren jolts awake, heart hammering. He stares up at the bed’s dark canopy, suddenly averse to turning his head and looking round the room, dreading the sight of glass eyes staring back at him from the dark.

Contempt for his fear rises in him several heartbeats later. He is the Knight of Highridge, blood of Godfrey the Loyal and the Falcon Knights, a Falcon Knight himself, ghosts have no hold over the likes of him.

He turns his head almost defiantly, daring them to haunt him in his waking hours. They do not dare. Not today. It is lighter now than it had been before, and the muted illumination reveals nothing and no one. No vengeful man, no mournful boy, no accusing gray eyes. He is alone. As he should be.

Sleep has well and truly deserted him. He had as well get up. Perhaps you will be awake by now. The Alyfeis is today, he remembers with a happy jolt. The prospect of enjoying the day’s revels makes him shoot up from bed. He grimaces at the dirty, sticky feeling of dried seed on his skin and resolves at once to wash.

With his revulsion comes some amusement, though. Once, he would have been mortified facing you after what he’d just done. He had fucked himself to you so many times, shame is beyond him at this point. Now you know, beyond all doubt. And seem to love the idea. That is the best thing by far.

Eren stands from the bed and glances down at the emerald sheets. He will not need to launder them himself this time, he notes, pleased. That is the only thing that gives him some measure of embarrassment for his deeds. There is something so discomforting about servants being privy to his desires; it does not bother him overmuch nowadays, yet having control over who he welcomes into that part of his life gives him ease.

He pads naked toward the pillars and pulls back the drapes. Gray is leaching out of the world, leaving only color. Duns and browns and whites and reds. Blues and greens. That most of all. He breathes in the salt morning air, feeling the brief horror of the dawn vanish like the mists of morn. The day is promising to be a good one. Perhaps it can lead into the night. With any luck, he will dream of you again.

To dream of you every night will be sweet. Desire is always better than the dead, after all.

Dearest Miks,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing all right, thank you for asking. It is so strange to see the palace this empty and the court nonexistent, the place is so much larger without people in it.

It’s boring without all of you in here. I thought being a Guardsman would be a lot more exciting than this but all we do is stand by doors and stare down corridors. It is an honorable post, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t expect the slow times to be so… slow. At least Bertolt is with me, having a friendly face around makes it better. I’ve never truly appreciated the chap until now, I’m glad to have him as a sworn brother.

Speaking of brothers, I can’t believe I can call Sir Levi and Sir Erwin that. I still feel like a squire around them half the time… maybe because I’m the youngest of the bunch. Can’t say I like the feeling. I’ll work hard to show everyone I earned this, I’ll be a proper Guardsman in time, they’ll see!

I miss you and Karanes. Even Martin, even though he is a little snot. I’ll make a fine knight of him, between the two of us House Springer will rise to the skies!

Training is deadly dull without you here. Is it the same for you there without your trusty and ever-loyal Connie? Best keep your skills sharp, you’ll need it when next we cross swords. This’ll be the year I will finally throw you down, mark my words.

I hope you get this before the Alyfeis. I hope the Alyfeis here is as fun as it is back there. Thank the gods we’re allowed some fun. Just have to endure a couple of hours of guard duty and I’ll be free to frolic. I would say don’t frolic too hard without me but I know who I’m talking to, I’ll have no fear of that. I don’t think you can say the same for me, though, you know how Sasha is. Bless her.

Please write me. The occasional friendly word would do wonders. Really looking forward to the winter reconvene and seeing everyone’s mugs again.

All the best,

Connie

The letter had come as quite a surprise. A pleasant one, at that. Connie Springer, lowbrow, practically unlettered Connie Springer, is writing her. Mikasa places the missive on her desk, smiling to herself. It must be drearier in Midford during the reprieve than first she’d thought. The plaintive note to his last paragraph tugs at her heart. Is it truly that bad? She reaches for a fresh sheet of parchment and her quill.

A soft tap sounds on the wall beside the entrance to her bedchamber. “Come,” she calls out, lowering her hand.

Louise Ledovskoya brushes back the dark blue velvet curtains that serve as the room’s doors and steps in. She bows her blonde head. “My lady. I am come to dress you for the rite.”

“Of course.” Is it that time already? Mikasa turns her head about to glance down the mullioned window behind her. It would seem so. Cityfolk swarm the streets of the capital below, headed in the same general direction, toward the temple of the Gardener. From the vantage of her tower bedroom, the lively masses are no more than ants trooping back into their hill, come home after a day’s work done in the fields. There is no work to be had for the day, though, and the human swarm is off to worship and make merry; home is far from anyone’s mind.

Not from Connie’s, however. The scrap of parchment lying on her desk seems a dejected thing, and Mikasa feels the weight of it on her back as she leaves her bedroom for the bath. She feels a twinge of guilt. She must needs answer at the best opportunity. Tonight, after the festivities. First, she must give the gods their due.

Her new handmaid is a chipper thing, and chatty, quite unlike the lass before. The Neven girl had been passable as handmaids went, and served her well and ably for three years. She would have served for longer were it not for her light fingers. A chambermaid had caught her filching Mikasa’s jewels earlier in the year, and so she was dismissed, sent home in utter disgrace. Mikasa has never been a flashy girl, and could care little and less for the lost jewels, but thievery is thievery and should be punished in due course. It is the principle of the thing.

“Finished, my lady.” The new girl - Louise - steps back as she finishes the intricate task of clipping Mikasa’s veil to the back of her head. She glances at her reflection. A proper little lady gowned in copper and salmon stares back at her. The future Lady Ackerman, Lady of Karanes. The Shieldmaiden is nowhere in sight.

She stands from the vanity and straightens the sheer silk of the split sleeves that trail down her gown from the elbows. “Let’s go.” She does not deign to grace the painted stranger in the mirror another glance.

This year’s Alyfeis is already proving to be quite extraordinary. Lord Ludwig Ledovskoy is standing beside her lord father on the pulpit of the temple balcony, quite unmindful of the pointed stares and whispers coming from the floor below as the commons gossip amidst the ongoing rite. The more politically savvy ones have heard of the Lord of Ajdoje’s visit and know what that entails.

The scent of burning produce drifts up to the Ackermans on the gallery, where they always observe the rite, the better to have some privacy. Still the commons whisper even as the Bailiff’s voice echoes throughout the building to consecrate the year’s sacrifice and plead with the gods for another year of great bounty. Lord Lukas merely stares at the proceedings, seeming far away. Lord Ludwig is as stern and tight-lipped as he usually is.

Only Mother seems to disapprove of the buzzing impropriety. It is a comically ironic thing that a foreigner would find more offense in the blatant irreverence breaking out within these holy grounds. Especially considering she shouldn’t give a fig about a faith not her own. But so it is with the Lady Otsune, Azumabito as was, Ackerman now. And she has been for twenty-odd years; a developed attachment for the mores of her new home is only to be expected.

Mikasa wonders how they celebrate the harvest in Hizuru. Perhaps it is a festival of great beauty, like the Feast of Flowers. Her parents took a brief tour of Hizuru a year after she entered court, and they had brought her along. They had gone in the spring, in time for the feast. It was the most magical feast she had ever attended. She never knew that flowers could be so… beautiful.  

They never seem to be, at home. They make a riot of color, true enough, reds and whites and yellows, purples and blues, endless, endless pink. Yet it was only in her mother’s motherland that she had ever truly appreciated them. Lovayan cherry trees are not half so enchanting as the ones in Hizuru. They had sat beneath them on blankets, eating local delicacies and drinking local vintages. All the while the petals fell, those pale pink snowflakes that were never cold to the touch. Around them, the Hizurites would whisper, only whisper, all reluctant to break the spell of the moment with noise and volume.

The whispers here sound a deal less reverent. Those and stares follow them to the Bulwark. Mikasa trots astride her piebald palfrey Mitsu, keeping pace with her mother’s litter as their small party navigates Middelfoort’s busy cobbled streets. All and sundry stare them out of countenance. The festival commences as it should, with plays and entertainments, music and dancing and laughter and flowers, with the trade and display of the best of the harvest.

But alongside the beets and carrots and peaches and pears comes a different sort of crop. The best of the gossip is on sale as well, prompted by the highborn passing. Everywhere they turn, only one thing seems to be in everyone’s minds. Mikasa wonders if they would have attracted half the attention they are getting now without their honored guest tipping the scales, as it is.

There he sits atop one of the biggest destriers she has yet seen, a massive dark bay beast with powerful flanks, conversing with her father with no more care for the eyes around him as he would a fly buzzing about his ear. His standard flies before him carried by a bearer, a teal banner with the red fess of his House. The Ackerman pennant is not to be outdone beside his. There it flies in the hands of another bearer, the three longswords of Ackerman crossed upon its blue field, the proud and ancient sigil of a proud and ancient House.

‘Swords, swords, swords,’ Mikasa seems to hear everywhere, at every turn and corner, until it begins to sound like a call to arms, a demand for Lord Ackerman to call the banners and ride to northern aid. Middelfoorters are hardly the most war-like of people; the whispers sound more conspiratorial than anything, curious, even excited at the thought of what these northmen could want, if Lord Ackerman will raise swords.

This is why Ledovskoy is here, she knows. To tell Father of the Ajdine clamor and their discontent with how the Zhelevic were treated. These northmen seem an intimate bunch. Wrong one and you wrong all. In many ways, there is something admirable in that. Many will call it prickly, though. And it is one of the many reasons the rest of the realm takes issue with the North.

The crowd that tailed them from the temple has grown larger and is growing larger still as they near the Bulwark. These will settle on the bridge and one of the courtyards of the castle to prepare for the harvest feast and further sell their produce. Many and more will wait for the autumn audience, to be held later in the afternoon. Here they will offer Lord Lukas the pick of their crops and perhaps bring forth a petition to be settled. The evening is reserved for the harvest feast, one in the castle for the highborn and their household, the other for the commons down in the courtyard.

Father is having little joy of this year’s festival. He had spent the entirety of the audience only half in attendance, absently dispensing his judgements as he pondered other, more pressing matters.

Now, Mikasa sits quietly listening in as Lord Ludwig apprises Father of the building malcontent of his commons, reassuring his liege that he is doing all he can to stem their mutinous flow.

Some assistance will not be unwelcome, says the Ledovskoy lord, him with his hard, lined face with the square, clean-shaved jaw and his long blond hair, which he has tied back behind his head with a red ribbon. The eyes that lock onto her father’s are a muted hazel, green with a faint brown ring about his pupils. Lord Ludwig is handsome, for an older man. And bears a strong resemblance to his daughter, Mikasa’s new handmaid.

This homegrown northern matter seems to be a good deal more pressing than first she’d thought. Both men had vanished during the entertainments, leaving the rest of the household spare and idle. Which worried Mother, Mikasa senses, as she comes over much later to bid her good night and seek her blessing. This further feeds Mikasa’s own foreboding as she makes her way to Father’s solar for his blessing.

He is standing in front of the tall window, hands clasped behind his back as he looks down upon his still rejoicing city. Lord Ludwig is nowhere in sight. Father does not turn around when she announces herself and enters. For a long moment, there is silence, broken only by the soft snaps of the fire in the stone hearth to her left. Above, the glass and iron chandelier shines its balmy orange light over the chamber, lending a certain warm homeliness to the space.

Several more heartbeats pass until at last, he sighs and strides over to his desk, which is standing beside the mullioned panes in front of a shelf of books and knickknacks. The blue and gray carpet underfoot muffles his steps.

A sheepskin map is rolled open on the surface of the table, its corners weighed down by books. A map of Karanes, Mikasa sees, as she strides nearer. There are no markers, no marks upon the painted hide. She wonders what it is that Father is looking for, what he is noting.

“Well, it was only a matter of time. I can’t say I’m surprised, you know what they’re like.” He leans down on the desk, hands spread out on the map. The first two fingers of his right hand lay pointing at the Lord of Ajdoje’s stronghold, up in northern Karanes.

“Northmen are northmen.” She walks to the lounge situated in front of a wall of books to the right of the desk and sits down.

“More’s the pity. Oh, to be a pure Midlander as we were of old… What even are we Karanesi now? Midlander or northmen? We’re not quite one, not quite the other. And both so different from one another. It’s a wonder any man could herd this lot for all this time.”

“Our family has always been able,” Mikasa says, quite awkwardly, not knowing how to address her father’s laments. It is something she is little versed in, to her chagrin. She is little versed in dealing with people generally, a fact which gives her no small amount of anxiety. Especially considering the station to which the gods saw fit to call her.

“If only our family weren’t so… able.” Karanes is the only one of the States spanning two fronts, the Midlands and the North. The Ackermans of old, however, had settled further south than where their descendants now rule, in present-day Neustadt ruled by the Vukasins. Some Reiss king rewrote the Lovayan map and placed his Ackerman lord in the middle of the State as a buffer, a serjeant best suited to handle the insurgent northmen whenever they rose up (which they did often and well even to this day).

The Ackermans have ever been a martial family, producing warrior king after warrior king throughout the millennia until the Titans came and beat them down to vassalship, as they did all the other kings and queens in fair Lovaya. Who better to be a bulwark against the wild than one with warrior’s blood himself?

It is a suit of armor her father is never comfortable wearing. He is an oddity, as far as Ackermans go, more scholarly than warlike, happier with a book in hand than with a sword. This had caused no end of strife between him and his lord father, Klaus Ackerman, who slapped the Vukasins and their dogs down to heel during the War Within decades ago. Lord Klaus’s death had freed Father of his father’s scorn. And he has never been happier.

As happy as duty can make him, to be sure. But Mikasa knows he would rather have the pain of duty than the pain of a father’s derision. Lord Lukas sighs, world-weary. “We hear the same clamors as the rest of the North. It’s not just Ledovskoy. Neven and Brzenska are reporting malcontent as well, at this point, it’s only a matter of time before I hear from Zackly and Zacharius.”

Another sigh, and suddenly, he has aged a decade, as though that last breath of air was his very vitality itself. Father sits down heavily upon his chair, with little grace. He stares hollow-eyed at the map before murmuring, “Ledovskoy is more an Ackerman than I. Hard, stern, dependable, martial. It’s no wonder he speaks for our North. He’s what people want me to be. People think he is me. That’s why I avoid standing next to the man at gatherings, if I can help it, they all think him the Ackerman.” An easy enough mistake to make, in hindsight. Both men are fair as the sun, and the current Lord Ackerman is famously gold as opposed to the ravens their House tends to be.

Lukas Ackerman turns to his daughter at length and smiles, tired yet affectionate. “You’re what people expect of this House, a true warrior and fierce. Perhaps they’ll have more joy of you than they ever had of me someday.”

“But I never wanted any of that.”

That gives her father pause. And brings remorse and pity, that most wretched of sentiments, out into the light. She almost regrets saying anything then.

“You cannot know how sorry I am that this was thrust upon you,” Father says softly. “But it pleased the gods to bring your brother back into their graces and so we have no choice. If I could spare you the chains of commanding, I would. The best I can do for you, ultimately, is to ease the way and prepare you for your calling.”

And what a calling it is. She will forever hate the wild salt sea for forcing it on her and robbing her of a brother and a simpler life.

“Ah, you did not come here to hear a lord’s burdens. Come, let me bless you and bid you good night. May your dreams be more pleasant than mine tonight.” She stands from the lounge, receives her blessing, and goes with her own good night, imparting a gentle kiss on the stubbly cheek and hoping that will give him ease.

She has so much to tell Connie. As he does her, she can see it now. She imagines a thick scroll of parchment tied to the leg of a floundering dove as it flaps frantically outside her window, desperate to enter and snatch rest. The thought makes her snort. The boy would be lonely indeed if he ever writes anything longer than a foot.

It suddenly occurs to her much later, as she settles into bed warm and snug and content, that she had barely thought of Eren today. And it feels… good.

A great rousing cheer answers your father’s foreword, and with that, the festivities proceed apace.

You gaze down at the hundreds gathered below Goldhaven’s presence balcony, smiling your courtly smile and feeling inordinately pleased that you were not asked to give the speech this year. You are equal to the task and will do so if prompted, yet the desire to remain free of the duty of addressing the public is strong in you. You can address all the courts in the world if you have to. When your time comes. And the gods only know how many speeches there are in your inevitable future. What’s one less speech to that endless repertoire?

Lord Alexander turns to you with a smile. “Off to the Great Sanctum-”

“I’d like to show Eren around for a while before we head there. If it please you,” you say hurriedly, hoping against hope for leave.

Bemusement dances across Father’s face before he smiles once more, ever accommodating. “It pleases me to grant you leave. Before sundown, the hour of the dove. You have until then for your frolics.”

You beam and stand on your toes to kiss his bearded cheek. You turn to Eren behind you, still shining. “Get dressed.”

“I’m already dressed,” he points out, perplexed.

“Not in plain clothes, you aren’t. You can’t explore the city in cloth-of-gold. You’ll blind everyone,” you tut, grabbing his arm and marching him off to get changed at once. Pretty as he is in your House colors, he can hardly run about the streets with a podonza threatening to slip down his shoulder half the time. Which is a-wasting.

His orange tunic with its brown trim and belt is markedly less blinding. And brings out the green in his eyes so beautifully. You yourself have changed out of your teal and gold sleeveless vevda for another simpler one, a white knee-length garment paired with a pale blue floor-length underskirt trimmed with meanders in white thread along the hemline. A thin pale blue cord ties the whole thing into place about your waist. Nice and simple. Its only concession to frills is the pair of gold chains looping above your left arm, which is left bare; your right arm is encased in a long sleeve that is fastened from your upper arm with gold buttons.

You lead him through the castle gates and into the bustling streets, both now suitably dressed, joining the throng of servants and soldiers on leave as they pour through the walls to partake of the revels. “No guards?” Eren asks, glancing around for an armored tail, only to find none.

“I have a pact with Father. I avoid the docks and the seedier areas of the city, the guard stays well away from me. Not too far that he’ll be unable to come to my aid if need be. He’ll be keeping a close, and unobtrusive, eye on us. From afar.” You draw your white lesos over your head to keep off the worst of the midday sun.

“What brought this pact on?” Bareheaded Eren quirks an eyebrow at you as you enter one of the city squares. Dmitriy Rhyzkov sits proud and fierce astride his rearing stallion in the middle of the plaza, his noble likeness forever captured in stone atop a tall granite pedestal. The crowd grows thick as you lead Eren on.

His query makes you grin. “Father had a long talk with me after I slipped my guard one too many times. I just couldn’t stand having a solemn bore breathing down my neck as I explored my city.”

“What if you did get into trouble? They can be hindrances but they’re useful to keep around.”

Says one who also ran away from his hindrances the first chance he got. “We don’t have tails in Belris.” At last, you spot your destination. You pull him along, weaving nimbly between festive folk headed in the other direction, one of whom drapes a crown of flowers over Eren’s head before prancing away. You laugh at his startled expression.

“We don’t have tails because the Golden District is safe as can be. Belrish dregs live by the walls,” Eren says, once his surprise had passed into the void. He reaches up to pluck at the crown, seeming gratified.

Around you the crowds make merry, piping their pipes and fiddling their fiddles, dancing and scattering flowers and petals everywhere. Red and pink and gold gently rain down upon you as you breast the human tide. From the buildings around you, more petals fall from homebound roisterers. You turn your head a little to look back at your betrothed, smiling slightly. “You’ll keep me safe. Won’t you?”

“Always.”

His sudden solemnity makes your smile slowly fade, and you have to look away at length. The heat pricking your cheeks is not from the sun’s harsh rays, you do not think.

The Blue Pearl’s hands are as welcoming as ever, its fare as excellent. Custom is meager owing to the festivities; most everyone is lunching in the Great Sanctum, including your family. But Eren is due his tour of your city and you can think of no better day to start than today. The Pearl is one of your favorite haunts and the staff know you well as a patron. Eren is subjected to a light (yet serious) dressing down by the barkeep, who warns him off of ‘doin’ the ‘lil lady dirty.’ Whose face heats up again at the young knight’s grave denouncement of such conduct.

You leave the tavern well-fed and hankering for something sweet and fresh. You direct your path to the packed produce arcade, feeling more than a tad anxious. Here you will see the fruits, as it is, of your labor. Those weeks spent in constant correspondence with your heads of house, all the organizing, allocating, supervising, negotiating, advising… here it will all culminate at last.

The proof in the autumn pudding.

You are far from disappointed. Every stall and stand and cart display the bounty of Vascalin. Apples, figs, pomegranates, dates and plums and lemons - fruits shine bright as jewels next to bundles and bundles of vegetables: leeks, fennel, radishes, cabbages and artichokes and olives. An excellent haul. The gods have blessed you this year.

And you are not to be held accountable for the failure of the crop. That is the best thing of all. All at once, you can breathe easier again.

“Good haul this year. Well done,” Eren commends, grinning down at you, making you glow at the praise. You glow even more when he proceeds to buy you an apple from one of the stalls. It is only fair you have a taste of the gods’ blessings and relish in their favor, he claims, as he buys you both your sweet. You have one more thing to thank them for tonight. Never had you had an apple so sweet as the one you ate that day.

Things sour for you as you move on, however. The foot traffic, already thick, has grown even thicker near the market square, and so you are forced to take the bypass you had wanted to avoid like the plague. You dash through one of the high-end avenues where some of the most expensive and upscale brothels are located, the area busy but not so packed as the square nearby. You practically fly through the street as though the very hounds of hell are at your heels.

Eren staggers behind you, bewildered, feet tangling over each other as he is dragged along like a leashed pup. Nothing diminishes his comely countenance, apparently, however ungainly a sight he makes at the moment. Half-dressed and undressed whores lean out the windows, calling out for patrons. More than a handful call out to your betrothed, to your extreme annoyance. Flower petals rain down on you from the sluts and their basketfuls of blossoms. You impatiently brush a yellow petal off your lesos and march on doggedly.

“H-hey, can you let up a bit, please?” Eren pants, loping beside you to keep up. His crown of flowers has vanished, torn from his head during your headlong rush. “What’s the rush? It’s barely past the hour of the lynx, we still have another hour…”

You give a vague grunt and keep your silence, just as a whore draped in jeweled chains and nothing else calls down to Eren coquettishly from her trellised balcony. Your stomach lurches unpleasantly, then lurches again with something more buoyant as you pass the fountain that marks the end of the avenue.

“Jealousy truly becomes you, have I told you that lately?”

You refuse to grace him with your attention, misliking the tone of his voice. The look on his face is only fit to be smacked off, you are sure, if you ever deign to look at him now. You jolt, surprised, as his arm wraps around your waist and holds fast, forcing you to look at him. Behind the teasing grin is something more insistent. Honest. “Eyes only on you,” he says simply.

The day is sweet, oh-so-sweet indeed.

In time, you find yourselves exploring the arcades, acquiring yourselves chains of flowers from the stallkeeps in the process. Eren amuses himself by picking at the many garments on display in the fashion arcade, flourishing dresses at you at random. Most of which have sharp vee-shaped necklines.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” you ask, entertained, as Eren brandishes a sleeveless emerald green vevda at you. One with a deeply slashed neckline, of course. “I regret to say I don’t own nearly enough breast-baring dresses for your tastes. That’ll look pretty with a silver belt.”

“It will, won’t it?” Eren beams, then carefully places it back on its display as you walk off. “Pity about your dresses. Charms as lovely as yours aren’t meant to be hidden away.”

You laugh. “Pity the court has such blue noses for all their love of randy chatter. More charm can be a useful thing up there. But court fashions have their own allure. It gives you only enough to tease at the truth and all that. Gives you something to long for, think about.”

“That it does.” His eyes sweep down your body, slow and sensual. You shiver, as though he had caressed you all over with his hands instead of simply looking. “I have much to long for, true enough.”

It is a feat of remarkable ability, you think, that you can stand here still and brave his flames. You are getting better at that as time progresses. Then again, you are a being of heat, after all; who better to brave his flames than you?

The smell of salt wafts pleasantly toward you in the fashion arcade, sited as it is near the docks. The snatches of conversation that leap out at you from the many stallkeeps are glaringly less pleasant. Even this far south, news of the North still haunts you. That it has managed to trickle down here of all places concerns you. Was the clamor getting that bad? You do not want to think about what awaits you all when court reconvenes the next season.

It is an utter relief when you pass through to the next, less gossipy arcade.

The sight of all the handmade crafts - furnishings, figurines, toys - reminds Eren of his niece and the present he owes her as an uncle visiting a place of note. “There’s a qaxan parlor by the docks, did you know? The only one in Arsechkala,” you inform him as he examines a carved wooden dragon overlaid with silver leaf from one of the many stalls. “I could take you there sometime, see how you go up against someone else besides me. Thus will we know your true capability.”

Consistency has entered Eren’s court at last, to your utmost pleasure. His first true win back in Friedfurt wasn’t entirely a fluke, it turned out. Your games after that have been more balanced. At last, Eren is making up his lost ground, steadily winning game after game after game. Your pride knows no bounds.

“I’ll know my true capability when I can go up against Armin at last,” Eren says, as you move on to the last of the line of stalls, leisurely browsing.

“I think that’s too high of a goalpost… A step at a time, yes?” You will not soon forget your games with that golden commander. Any and all wins you can scrape against him are much treasured.

“He hasn’t written back yet, has he? I wonder how his Alyfeis is going. His dull and dreary Alyfeis.”

“It’s only dull because it’s what you’re used to. You’ve experienced it all your life and so the magic of it’s disappeared.” You tramp down the steps of the arcade, emerging into another relatively less packed street. Little stalls are still scattered about the area, those of vendors unable to secure a lease to hawk their wares in the arcade proper.

You stop by a table bearing little wooden figures of the twelve sacred beasts of the Creed. Which in itself is a surprise. The Creed has never been strong here. The small temple of the Gardener in the city had held its quiet celebration earlier, for its handful of Arsechkalan believers. Eren turns to you, fingers wrapped around a figure of a lynx. “Do you find your Alyfeis dull?”

That brings you up short. “Point conceded.” You have never found the harvest feast dull and will never.

The rumble of sound about you seems to grow louder. It is then that you notice how thick the throng is getting. Before you quite know it, a host of people is passing through, as though a sluice gate has been opened to let the tide in. Eren moves to take you aside and away from the carousing crowd.

“Oh!”

Someone knocks into you and then you are stumbling, crashing into something hard and warm, who lets out a yelp of his own as he staggers back into the table behind him, scattering wooden figures everywhere. His arms fly up to wrap around you on instinct, and it is all you know. His strength, his heat, his scent mixed with that of flora. Wide green eyes stare down at you. Beneath your palms and the crushed blossoms, his heart races.

Thump, thump, thump.

Fire and water fill your world, from the flame of his shirt and the sea of his eyes, and for a long while, he is your everything.

A thousand years pass until you can think to look away. A cluster of carvings had landed by your feet. An eagle, a wolf, two serpents twined. The Sun, the Moon, the Lovers.

“M-milady!”

The elderly stallkeep had gotten to his feet, toothless mouth agape, pale blue eyes bulging with shock before he remembers himself and bows. Your lesos has fallen about your shoulders, displaced from your head by the commotion earlier. The stallkeep straightens up from his bow, his long, wrinkled fingers tangling together nervously. “M-milady, such a surprise- ‘s an honor to see you ‘round this parts, and by me shop, too! The honor-”

“It’s my pleasure, goodman. Please pardon us for jostling your stall- here, let me-” You move to step away from Eren’s warmth and pick up the fallen figures. His grip tightens around you, and you think he would not let go, but let go of you he does. You can feel reluctance leech into you. His own or yours, you cannot say.

“Ah, no, milady, can’t possibly let you trouble yourself-”

“It’s fine, we knocked over your wares, it’s the least we can do,” you reassure the man, smiling and putting his worries to ease. Beside you, Eren has set to, helping you scoop up the figurines and carefully placing them back on the table.

The elder bows once more, stammering out his thanks as you place the last carving on the counter, and offers you a gift of his wares, which you swiftly wave away. In the end, he makes you a present of the twined serpents - which you still insist on paying for, a handful of coppers, for his trouble.

Money well spent, you think, admiring the skill and the craftsmanship that you can tell went into the making of this piece. The serpents weave about each other, an endless loop, unbreakable. Eren weaves his fingers through yours, and away you go.

“The hour of the dove,” you state, catching sight of the tall clocktower ahead, with its triple arches spanning the river Goldtide. And so you set your steps toward the Great Sanctum, following the tide at last instead of going against its current.

He has never been, Eren had told you, so you take great pleasure in showing him the greatest pride of the city, one of two marvels of the Old Way. The largest godstone in the realm stands at the heart of its little island in a lagoon not too far off from the coast. You pass through the wardens’ commune, home to the holy isle’s caretakers, through the arched gate and onto the narrow stone bridge that connects the isle to the mainland.

The sea breeze blows strong here. You take a deep breath of the clean salt air, cheerful and content and alive. Overhead, seabirds fly, gulls and sandpipers and terns. Your cheer is mirrored in Eren’s face to mate with his awe. He glances down at you, grinning, and his eyes are the sea surrounding him, blue and green and sparkling. He takes the sea with him, wherever he goes.

“It’s massive,” Eren exclaims once you step foot on the islet at last, craning his neck back to gawk at the godstone and its hundred feet of glory.

“Magnificent,” you beam with pride and no small amount of reverence. The stone god carved into its face is majestic, stern yet kindly, a true king of the gods. Four hundred years' worth of salt air and rains have eaten away at the august face, however, to your and the Old Blood’s dismay. No mage now can keep nature from doing what she will to this sacred effigy. Powerful as they are, not even the gods are a match for that wild sovereign where their earthly forms are concerned. It is now for the caretakers to do all they can for the gods. And that must be enough.

“The most beautiful sanctum,” Eren remarks, glancing about at the rows of trees ringing the island as you break away from the still-long line of worshipers passing through another gate to the foot of the godstone, where mounds upon mounds of produce are heaped. Perhaps they will have offered enough for yet another year of bounty, to judge from the sheer quantity you had glimpsed through the hallowed entrance. You lead Eren on, to the spot in the isle where your family usually gathers. It is custom for you to picnic behind the gigantic godstone in that patch of grass beneath the trees, beside the viewing platform, which is open to the sea.

“You think the Great Sanctum more beautiful than the godsway?” Through the trees, you see a garlanded little boy running, trailed by his father, young and tall and dark, with his hair in its loose knot behind his head, a chain of flowers about his neck. You look after them, heart pounding, but they have melted into the mass, one of many families taking their joy of the festival. You wonder if they are vision or muddled truth.

“Even more beautiful.”

There is nothing muddled about your betrothed’s truth, and you cling to that. He is a vision, yet true and living and tangible. His is the only truth you’ll have.

He seems to hesitate a moment before asking in a quiet voice, almost bashful, “Do they allow weddings in front of this godstone?”

You smile, at the question and at him, this sweetest of boys. “Yes, they do.”

He looks away, out at the great salt sea. The tips of his ears have gone that sweet shade of pink, pink as the blooms of pink princess about his neck. “The sanctum in Midford- I mean, I’m not saying it’s not a good sanctum to wed in but- only if it please you and your family, of course- and the hassle of travel and all that-”

“I think we should say our vows in here.”

His head whips back around, so fast you are astonished he did not crick his neck at all. His eyes are wide for several heartbeats before he smiles, the softest, most tender smile you have yet seen from him. It is then that you are resolved. You must see that smile again, every day of your life. From this day to the end of your days.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

Happy belated birthday, Eren! Have some smut in honor of his happy day! (Not the real thing, though, sadly, we'll get there, we'll get there.)

(Now I'm obliged to do a masturbatory scene for YN so, uh, there's that).

The first NSFW scene. And not the last. At last one goal done.

Nerdy info dump 2. Just to help clarify the many, many styles of southron clothing, I'll list them out the best I can:

Chelya - strap dress

Charovma - halter/backless dress

Povevda - tube dress

Vevda - catchall term for southron clothing for both men and women. Everything not mentioned above is a vevda for simplicity's sake (except for the tunic/pants combo). All of this is inspired by Greco-Roman culture (tweaked massively for my own worldbuilding), if you can't tell, and gods, they had A LOT of clothing terms to sift through. I hope I managed to get my descriptions right...

Also, added a slight change to the way I described the Great Sanctum in chap. 3 cause I hadn't really fully envisioned what it looked like til now. Just a couple of sentences for continuity's sake.

Oooh, yeah, happy belated birthday to Jean, too, I guess. (Lol, nah, I love you, too, Horseboy. Not as much as Eren but still. You're great!)

Thank you so much for following! Til next update <3

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

[the-tzimisce]

woe be upon us...just took a nice lusty bite of some bread and then turned the piece over to see the mold on it...guess i'll just crawl into my wretched bed hungry and full of spores...

[whitegoldtower]

Some more Solemnar and Lydia headcanons:

There’s a slight language barrier - Sol can speak the common tongue with little to no difficulty but reading it is a whole other story; his first language is Aldmeri.

Lydia can’t read or write.

Sometimes they get absolutely shitfaced on firebrand wine and Lydia makes Solemnar attempt to read both volumes of The Lusty Argonian Maid. Shenanigans ensue and they’re howling the entire time

———————————🍷🍷———————————

“Stop it, I’m trying to be serious here!”

*Lydia snort laughing* “No, continue, please.”

“But my oven isn’t hot enough… for the baking. It could take me whores (hours).”

*She’s fucking dying at this point, and he’s laughing too, her cup of wine has almost tipped over onto her lap*

“Does this turn you on? Lewd bread-making? Ahem. You want me to k-need the loaf? Here?”

*he drunkenly makes these absolutely absurd kneading motions with his hands*

“IT’S KNEAD”

“You read it, then!”

“*tears in her eyes from laughing* I can’t!”

“That’s what I thought! … Pfft-”

———————————🍷🍷———————————

In an Interview:

Q: Do you ever miss each other when you’re apart?

Solemnar: Preposterous. [He looks at her fondly]

Lydia: See, [She glances at him] sometimes I begin to think I’m getting a little sentimental about him, and then-

Solemnar: And then?

Lydia: And then I SEE HIM and he’s just a disappointment.

[He chokes on his wine]

Q: Have your perceptions of society changed at all since meeting one another?

Solemnar: [he checks his jerkin to make sure he didn’t tip any wine on himself before taking another long sip] … No.

Lydia: Liar. You know, underneath it all he’s actually not such a bastard?

Solemnar: I’m not?

Lydia: and I think he’s learnt a lot from us Nords, as much as he won’t admit it. In his own little twisted way, I think he quite likes living in Skyrim. [she takes a good long drink]

Solemnar: … Perhaps. I’m not confirming nor denying anything. And, [he gazes at Lydia again] I think you’ve learnt a lot more about why I am the way I am.

Lydia: Well, yes. I won’t give too much away, but he’s very much a person with thoughts and feelings. He’s not this heartless monster made by the Dominion: he’s Solemnar ‘cal Galadhremmin, a mer from a little hunting family on the Summerset Isle, who is actually very good at singing when he’s not hurling fireballs at bandits. It’s… unfortunate that the Thalmor got their hands on you at such a young age.

Solemnar:… Thank you. I actually happen to think you’re a very intelligent woman with great instincts and an admirable aptitude for weaponry. In fact, I think my family would like you very much. You’ve got a good hunting frame, and I also think they’d approve of your ability to haul an elk several hundred paces over your shoulder, without help, might I add.

Q: Do you ever worry about one another?

Solemnar: [slightly tipsy] … Absolutely. Back at home, Lydia is what our culture would refer to as a ‘deathling’. It’s in reference to the shorter lifespan men have in comparison to mer. So, yes, I worry about that a lot. If I can stave it off in any way, then I will.

[Lydia rests a hand over her heart, sincerely]

Lydia: Aww, that’s actually really sweet. [she goes to pat his knee]

Solemnar: Don’t touch me. [mocking side-eye]

Lydia: Ruin it, you twat.

[he raises his eyebrow at her, and she turns back to the question at hand, taking in a deep breath]

Lydia: To answer this question, myself… Of course I worry about him. While he’s trying to prolong my life, he seems to be doing everything to make his own life shorter. It was only three days ago that I had to sprint into the Moss Mother Cavern because this idiot thought he could take on three spriggans without sustaining any sort of injury.

Solemnar: I needed to blow off steam.

Lydia: You’ll be blowing off something if I ever catch you pulling that sort of shit again.

[they eye each other whilst taking another mouthful of wine]

Solemnar: Save it for the bedroom, won’t you?

Lydia: I’m going to give you a thick ear.

Q: Lastly, heads or tails?

Both: [without hesitation] Heads.

[they look at each other with their lips pursed]

Solemnar: Ooh-

[Lydia punches him in the arm]

[lancastrie]

@alienored​

The Holy See professes that fasting and abstinence purifies the soul, makes lusty men even more saintly in the eyes of God, but tonight the provisions are ample. Cloudy-eyed servants, draped in gossamer wimples, dip in and out of the King’s chambers to deliver bowls upon bowls of victuals, joints of hearty bore, bread pregnant with precious oils, goblets of blessedly unwatered wine, picked from the French King’s own vineyards. In the cold, damp streets below, a cacophony of chatter flares up, ladies cluck in the mizzled nightfall, and bishops hum out their sonorous chants, swinging flaming incense about, sanctifying the palace with rich, earthen smells (for God is displeased by foul odours, though not, evidently, by indulgence). 

Henry Plantagenet’s heavy hand looms over the oak table, its blackened grooves and splintered contours hacked from an ancient log.  His ruby heirloom clinks against the wood, appearing molten in the hearth’s amber glow. The table has been cleared of food, but wine and ale flows in abundance; Gascon, German, Italian, corked in better times. None, of course, English –– that sweet, viscid nectar of the marshy moorlands, where Brutus trampled over thistles, where dragons belched out flames  –– though this is a sin Henry readily forgives. 

The King quaffs another swig, his countenance immovable with thought.

Though a tempestuous channel now separates him from that misty isle, his kingdom lingers upon the conscience; a court of hawks and eagles, unwilling exiles and conquerors, unrest rumbling out from the Council of the North, sickness leaching in from Ludlow. An image of his boy, now twelve years in the grave, with the soapy scent of youth still upon him, beckons. The English retinue, with so many and such lively princesses, had dazzled the Parisian convocation. Their pious King; their holy, freely-moving Queen. But it would not take more than a hard glance to peer past the plastered exterior, and into the moulting, crumbling centre of their primaeval keep.

Henry’s thoughts, to whatever acidic depths they might have descended and fizzled like an old coin, are snared in the net of Aliénor’s emerging presence, dispatching from the long, yellowed shadows of the evening; a radiant, golden beacon, her long throat nuzzled by the soft grey plumes bunched about her shoulders, her freshly plaited hair tapering down her spine. She is not dressed for a reception in the Great Hall, splashed with pearls, bedecked with the richest of English jewels; but brought low to the role of a wife, a maiden, her body sculpted, softened with tokens of childbearing –– all of it the more pleasing to the husband who’d warmed her lovely bed, these twenty years. 

 ‘Wine,’  the King begins, tipping his chalice toward his wife, ‘must run in Charles’s veins.  Though I predict that its soporific quality may be of value to us.  Come, sit.  Are our daughters abed?’

[missbaphomet]

TLAM takes:

1.) TLAM is a dark fantasy about a forbidden romance and an imbalance of power in which an argonian woman is preyed upon by her master and conforms either out of necessity, convenience, or a trauma bond.

2.) TLAM is a romcom about two consenting adults who have a specific roleplay fantasy they act out extramaritally, shenanigans ensue

3.) The titular Lusty Argonian Maid is a fucking idiot that does not understand wordplay or double entendre at all and the scenes we see are simple miscommunication because the maid, as a trope, CAN NOT understand that the things she says are sexual, because then it would stop being funny. She very genuinely thinks she is going to polish a spear or bake bread (and probably ultimately does as fulfillment of the trope) and Crantius is trying so very very hard to fuck her in increasingly ridiculous situations that are in part created by the maid's own naïvete.

[gunpowder-tim]

'ello margery 'ows the bread today

lusty

[sigil-stone]

tels giving the most incomprehensible lecture about the tonal-architectural implications in the art of baking bread, that upon closer detail you realize is just the lusty argonian maid translated into every known mortal language and back

[ciceroandlucien]

Cicero awoke the next morning to the flagon nestled in the crook of his arm and the book on the floor. He had slept soundly for the first time in weeks. He yawned, stretched and sat up, taking in the scene of his room. He had made little effort to keep it tidy during his mourning period. His clothing was strewn about, pages of poems littered the surfaces of his nightstand and table and the drawers of his dresser were ajar. His motley hung over one of the drawers like a beacon for a weary traveler. Home, it beckoned. Find comfort here. 

Cicero pulled the motley from the drawer and pulled it on. Like an old friend, it hugged his shoulders. He pulled on the pants and buckled the belt around his waist. A deep sigh escaped from Cicero’s mouth. It did feel like he was coming home. He attached his dagger and sheath as well as his satchel and donned the boots and gloves. Lastly he pulled the hat out of the drawer by the tips where bells had once been attached. He pulled it down over his unwashed orange locks and closed his eyes, feeling whole once again. 

He tidied up his room now, tucking the poems into the nightstand drawer, folding his clothing and putting it away. He cleared the floor of refuse and put Mjari’s book on the bookshelf. He took out the Lusty Argonian Maid book from his knapsack and stuck it beside Kolb and The Dragon with a melancholy smile. 

When he was satisfied with the state of his room, he went out to visit the Night Mother. The Listener was sitting with the matron’s corpse, nodding and taking notes. 

“Good morning, my Listener,” Cicero greeted.

“Keeper!” the Listener cried, spinning around. “How are you doing?”

“Much better, thank you. Cicero has gotten sleep and is feeling renewed.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. I am just getting some contracts from the Night Mother. Are you here for your duties?”

“I am,” Cicero replied, stepping up to the chest with the supplies in it.

“I’ll be done in a bit, feel free to start, though.”

Cicero drew the oils from the chest and set them on the steps in front of the Night Mother. He set flowers around her coffin and began the recitations. The Listener sat quietly scratching away at parchment and when they finished they quietly stepped away. 

“Mother?” Cicero whispered. “Thank you for trusting Cicero to be your Keeper and thank you for letting me continue my duties as an assassin. Cicero may not always get it right, but you do.”

He completed his Keeping duties and made his way down to the main hall where he found Nazir.

“Cicero is ready for another contract,” he said, sitting down across from Nazir. Nazir handed him a plate of bread and cheese.

“Eat,” Nazir urged. “I do have some contracts available. There must have been some sort of falling out outside of Whiterun. We have received two from that way. Would you be interested in one of them?”

“Cicero is always eager,” Cicero replied, taking a bite of the cheese wedge.

“Very well,” Nazir told him, sliding a folded note across the table. “Here are the details. Let me know if you have any questions.” Nazir got up from the table and walked to the fire to stir some soup he had going.

Cicero examined the contract. A farmer with a grudge. The guard that traversed his path had taken to helping himself to the harvest, explaining it as a tax for keeping watch over the property. The farmer knew he was being swindled and wanted it put to an end. Cicero knew the guards in the Whiterun hold could be a bit pestilent and delighted at the thought of sending one to Sithis for eternal servitude. 

After he finished his meal, Cicero returned to his room to gather his necessary items for the contract. He had decided the task would be completed at night, but he needed to first visit the farmer to make contact. He packed his knapsack with some food, an ale, and some potions as usual.

He set out in the early afternoon, planning to take his time to get there as the contract had stated no urgency in the task. The air was brisk and the sky was clear. The smell of the water carried over the shore and filled Cicero’s nostrils. He felt rejuvenated and ready for the job ahead of him. 

He made his way south and pulled the contract out to remind himself of where the farm was that he was headed. It sounded familiar and when he approached the farm he suddenly knew why. Loreius’ farm! Except obviously it wouldn’t still be Loreius’ farm any longer, right? Cicero began to wring his hands as he approached. He wished now that he had not chosen to wear his motley, so he found a bush nearby to duck behind and drape his robes over his outfit. That’s better, Cicero thought to himself with some relief. 

He came up to the door of the farm and stepped from one foot to another, still somewhat nervous. Surely this was a new family entirely. The fishery worker in Riften had not mentioned Loreius’ relatives taking over the farm and as far as Cicero knew, Loreius did not have relatives in the Whiterun area. 

Finally he mustered the courage to knock and when the door opened he was greeted by a young Imperial man. He didn’t look old enough to be running a farm and Cicero could see by the expression on his face that he was clearly overwhelmed and panicking about something.

“Are you here for the cabbages? I haven’t had a chance to harvest them yet. I’m heading out to the field right now though and will have them shortly!” Cicero opened his mouth to correct the man but the man had pushed past him to rush out to the field. Cicero jogged along behind him and when he finally caught up to the man, he spoke. “You had a request,” he began. “I’m here to fulfill that…..contract.”

Recognition spread across the man’s face and he smacked a hand to his forehead.

“Of course! That was quick.” He lowered his voice, though no one was around them. “The guard that walks by my farm, he is extorting me and I’m tired of it. He can’t just take what isn’t his. I want him dead. And if another guard with the same attitude replaces him, I’ll be seeing you again. You’ll know it’s him because he always sits on a rock when he’s sure no one is watching him. Lazy louse can’t even do his job right.” He pulled a coin purse from his satchel and jingled it in front of Cicero. “You can have this when the job is done.”

Cicero nodded as the farmer pulled a cart to the end of a row..

“Have you lived here long?” he asked the farmer. 

“No, I received this farm as an inheritance. An uncle of mine lived here with his wife before me. I’m not exactly cut out for farm life, but what else was I supposed to do, let it fall to ruin? Until I can sell it, I’m having to pay the actual taxes on it and I can’t do that until I get these cabbages sold. I’m expecting someone to come by for them soon, so please make yourself scarce. I’m behind as it is, but I think I can pull it off if I get to work. Thank you again.”

The man herded Cicero to the gate of the garden and Cicero closed it behind him. He walked towards Whiterun, figuring he would waste some time there until nightfall. 

The city was busy and Cicero was just another face in the crowd. He walked up to the SkyForge and found Eorlund Gray-Mane sharpening a sword on the grindstone. The aging man agreed to sharpen Cicero’s weapon and while he waited, Cicero walked down to the Bannered Mare to warm up. The forge fire kept SkyForge relatively warm, but the temperature in Whiterun was still cold for a man of small frame and Cicero was chilly.

The Bannered Mare had a warm, welcoming fire and Ysolda stood at the counter and greeted Cicero as he came inside.

“Care for a bite to eat?” she asked him.

“Do you have any sweet rolls?”

“Fresh baked, actually, I’ll bring you one. Settle in and get warm,” Ysolda directed Cicero to sit by the fire and went to fix his sweet roll. 

Cicero sat on a bench and listened to the fire crackle and pop. There were others in the inn with him, but they were all involved in conversations with each other. Cicero sat quietly and patiently awaited his sweet roll. 

“Here you are,” Ysolda handed him his treat and asked if there was anything else he might want. Cicero declined and thanked her, handing some gold over for the sweet roll. 

He sat eating, watching as people came and went through the inn. Some rented rooms, others came for drinks and company. The light from the windows slowly faded and when it was close to dark, Cicero stepped outside. He walked back up to SkyForge, collected his dagger and paid Eorlund Gray-Mane for the service. He then walked to the city gate and readied himself for the task ahead. 

Getting back to the farm in the dark was a little more difficult than Cicero had expected. The guards of Whitewatch Tower were out in full force and Cicero had to sneak by so as not to draw attention to himself. He wanted to know how many guards would be on the road and where they were so he could be sure he wouldn’t be seen. 

He crept along in the shadows counting the guards and watching their patrol patterns. Two guards took the path towards the Loreius farm. One split off the path and into a field and the other continued down the road. Cicero tailed this guard off to the side and when he came upon the Loreius farm the guard left the path. He walked up to the porch of the Loreius house and opened a barrel, helping himself to an apple. He headed back to the path, munching the apple as he walked. 

This has to be the one, Cicero decided. He needed to be certain though, so he waited in the darkness as the guard made his way back to the road and towards the rock. The guard spun all around before sitting, checking to be sure no other guards would witness his indolence. Cicero silently thanked the guard for doing his work for him. Knowing the guard was alone, Cicero padded closer until he could almost reach out and touch the guard. 

“Just a few more hours and I can crawl under some furs…”

Cicero paused. That voice. He knew that voice. The guard! Cicero realized. This is the guard who apprehended me on the road when I was transporting Mother’s coffin! He had intended to use his dagger, but at his realization he decided it would feel more satisfying to look into the guard’s eyes as he sent him to the Void. 

Cicero leapt out and wrapped his hands around the guard’s neck. The guard, caught by surprise, immediately began to fight back, but Cicero overpowered him easily, knocking them both to the ground. Whether it was a result of his laziness or inexperience, the guard flailed uselessly against Cicero’s powerful grip. Cicero could feel the heartbeat in the guard’s throat and watched the terror form in the guard’s eyes. Choking noises escaped from his mouth as he attempted to beg Cicero for his life. 

“Strangulation music,” Cicero whispered to the guard with a smile as he finished the job. The guard’s hands fell to his sides as his soul escaped to join Sithis in the Void. 

Cicero stood and admired his handiwork for just a moment before scurrying back off the road. He began to head back toward the Loreius farm, but decided that this one would be on the house. It settled a score for Cicero and he did feel slightly bad for Loreius’ nephew having to take over the small farm on his account. Cicero instead turned back towards Dawnstar and disappeared into the dark.

[canadachronicles]

"My neighbour has a field of wheat And I a rood of vine; And he will give me bread to eat, And I will give him wine. And so we are a jolly pair, Contentedly unwed, Singing with supper as we share Red wine and crusty bread. Now venison is mighty meat And so is trout and hare; A mallard duck is sweat to eat And quail is dainty fare. But such are foods for festal day, And we will not repine While on the table we can lay Crisp bread and rosy wine. A will to till one's own of soil Is worth a kingly crown, With bread to feed the belly need, And wine to wash it down. So with my neighbour I rejoice That we are fit and free, Content to praise with lusty voice Bread, Wine and Liberty."

-- Neighbours, by Robert William Service, is the poem of the day, as my neighbours and I, all bringing food and wine to the little park around which our houses stand, will spend the afternoon together, toasting to new friendships and a warm and sunny Saturday, and perhaps even, yes, to "Bread, Wine and Liberty"!