#marble nest of tables

[harrowdecor]

Unlocking Elegance and Functionality: The Marvel of Marble Nest of Tables

In the realm of interior design, the fusion of style and practicality often leads to the creation of timeless pieces that elevate the ambiance of any living space. Among these treasures of functionality and aesthetics, the marble nest of tables stands out as a testament to sophistication and versatility. Comprised of a set of tables designed to nest within one another, this furniture ensemble exudes elegance while offering an array of practical benefits. Let's delve into the world of marble nest of tables to uncover their allure and utility.

Aesthetic Marvel:

The allure of the marble nest of tables lies in their innate ability to blend seamlessly with various design schemes, from classic to contemporary. Crafted from luxurious marble, these tables exhibit exquisite veining and a polished finish that exudes opulence and refinement. Whether adorning a lavish living room or serving as a statement piece in a minimalist setting, the inherent beauty of marble imparts a sense of sophistication to any space.

Moreover, marble's natural elegance transcends trends, ensuring that these tables remain relevant and captivating for generations to come. The timeless appeal of the marble nest of tables makes them a worthy investment for homeowners and interior designers seeking enduring style.

Space-Saving Versatility:

One of the most notable features of the marble nest of tables is their space-saving design. Consisting of multiple tables of varying sizes, this ensemble allows for effortless nesting, with smaller tables neatly slotting beneath larger ones. This compact configuration is particularly advantageous in smaller living spaces where optimizing floor area is paramount.

The versatility of the marble nest of tables extends beyond their spatial efficiency. Individually, each table can serve a distinct purpose, from holding drinks and snacks during gatherings to showcasing decorative accents such as vases or sculptures. When not in use, the ability to nest the tables together conserves space while maintaining an uncluttered aesthetic.

Functional Elegance:

While marble nest tables excel in aesthetics, they also deliver on functionality. The robust nature of marble ensures durability, providing a sturdy surface for everyday use. Whether used as a coffee table, side table, or occasional perch for laptops and reading materials, these tables offer a practical solution for various needs without compromising on style.

Furthermore, the smooth surface of marble is easy to clean and maintain, making it an ideal choice for busy households or commercial settings. Regular dusting and occasional polishing are all that's required to preserve the lustrous appearance of the marble nest of tables, allowing them to retain their allure for years to come.

In Conclusion:

In the realm of interior design, the marble nest of tables stands as a harmonious blend of elegance and functionality. Their timeless appeal, space-saving design, and versatile utility make them a coveted addition to any home or commercial space. Whether gracing the center stage of a grand living room or accentuating the charm of a cozy sitting area, these tables are sure to elevate the ambiance with their exquisite craftsmanship and enduring allure. Embrace the marvel of marble nest of tables, and unlock a world where style and practicality converge in perfect harmony.

[1redwudstore]

Joe Nesting Table/Marble Nesting Table/Nesting Coffee Table in Gold Finish (D.I.Y)

Unique Addition to your Interior: Smartly designed coffee table which is more than just mere tables in the corner. The luxurious golden touch on the metal makes it an attractive statement in your living room, bedroom, or study. Round and resilient marble on the top is more like the cherry on the top which imparts that essential wholesome look to the table

[aultreneveulxestre]

Transitional Basement Inspiration for a huge transitional walk-out laminate floor and brown floor basement remodel with white walls, a two-sided fireplace and a stone fireplace

[georgesarell]

Basement Walk Out Cleveland Basement - huge transitional walk-out laminate floor and brown floor basement idea with white walls, a two-sided fireplace and a stone fireplace

[legovignette]

Transitional Basement - Basement Example of a large transitional walk-out basement with a brown floor and laminate flooring, white walls, and a stone fireplace

[bibliotecauditiva]

Transitional Basement Cleveland Example of a huge transitional walk-out laminate floor and brown floor basement design with white walls, a two-sided fireplace and a stone fireplace

[ezelvir]

Transitional Basement - Basement Example of a large transitional walk-out basement with a brown floor and laminate flooring, white walls, and a stone fireplace

[allindiadecor]

Buy Metal Nesting Table at Best Prices | All India Decor

All India Decor has a wide range of metal nesting tables at the best prices. Take your pick from our collection of round, square, and rectangular nesting tables. Whether you need a nesting table for your living room, bedroom, or patio, we have the perfect table for you. Shop now and get free shipping on orders.

[heritagecollectibles]

Set of 3 Vintage Nesting Tables with Faux Marbleized Tops

Set of 3 Vintage Nesting Tables with Faux Marbleized Tops

[evilgwrl]

Neighbour!Simon Riley x Reader

Girl Next Door (Six)

CW: You’re approached by a drunk man who grabs you, nothing violent

Previous Chapter

The sky settled with a midnight blue, a murder of crows digging among the trees before burrowing away into secluded nests. It had been a multitude of days since you had seen Simon, practically barging out his front door with only a squeak of goodbye after the previous unfortunate incident.

You were constantly distracted. Your brain was plagued by the thought of him, and you felt like you were going to spiral, the whine of anxiety in your stomach doing you no favours. You pondered on the thought of knocking on his door, apologising for ignoring him, yet didn’t.

You headed to the bar instead.

The night air was balmy, the breeze kissing your skin as you walked in. The clinks of glasses and the exaggerated commotion of laughter bounced from the brick walls, faux vines hanging from the indents in an attempt to brighten the grimy room. There was a permanent stench of yeasty beer and cheap wine, couples canoodling in the corner or stumbling out of the toilets, rubbing their noses.

The lights were dim, barely able to see your own feet as you weaved through the throng, bodies pushing up against you as you searched around for your friends. You settled once you had the familiar voice of your long-term friend, Tamara. Your legs hobbled over to their table, ringlets of water staining the wood, multiple drinks already strewed out and consumed. You took in the two men you had never seen before, noting that one must be her new boyfriend she was gushing about.

“There you are!” She cooed, her arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, the soft ringlets in her hair rubbing against the side of your face, “This is the guy I was telling you about, Max.”

Max stood tall, offering you a polite handshake as you introduced yourself before he nudged the man next to him. The man was handsome, a boyish grin on his face as he extended a hand out to you. You feel a flutter of nerves but push through, engaging in light banter as you return his grip, mumbling your name out. You began to relax under the crowded atmosphere, scoffing down a shot that Max’s friend, who you now know as Louis, had shouted.

You listened to the story of how Tamara and Max met, bustling with laughter as you were fed drinks, the camaraderie drawing you in. The ambience embraced you with a warm glow, a soft smile on your face as you chattered amongst the group, mind fuzzed over with the alcohol that slurred through your bloodstream.

“The next rounds on me, what are we after?” You blurted, standing abruptly as you toppled slightly, Louis’ arm grabbing hold of you in a tight squeeze to catch you. He was sweet, offering you polite nods all night while you spoke, eyes lingering on you a little too long, but he wasn’t what you wanted. Not right now. Not after Simon.

Tamara huffed out, “4 shots,” before she attended to her boyfriend in a drunken matter, smoothing his hair down as they giggled amongst each other.

“Do you need me to come with you?” Louis yelled over the music, his lips curled in a grin before you shook your head, promising him it would only take a minute. You stepped away, huffing out a loud breath as you regained composure, eyes fluttering under the influence as you mingled between crowds to reach the bar. You needed a moment to reprieve, slightly overwhelmed by the severity of people, the damp smell of sweat and alcohol burning through you.

The bar was cooler, the marbled surface offering you a moment of solitude as you ordered the shots, resting your head in your hands as you waited. It wasn’t hard to feel a presence beside you, the scent of hair gel and poorly sprayed cologne blinding you as you felt a hand brush against your waist.

“Hey there beautiful.”

His voice was garbled, alcohol staining his breath as he gulped down the remainder of his beer, eerie eyes watching you with a perverted intensity. His hair was slicked back, brows furrowed as he scanned your face, hazel eyes practically consumed by his pupils as you noted the white residue that stuck to his flared nostrils.

“Can I help you?” Your voice was uneasy as you stared at the bartender, tapping impatiently against the exterior.

“Just wondering what a girl like you is doing here alone.”

You cringed. “I’m not alone but thank you anyway.”

Your lips curled in a polite smile as the bartender handed you the shots, a sigh of relief leaving as you nodded goodbye to the odd man. Talons dug into the flesh of your forearm, turning you around in a huffed frenzy as his face was still.

“I wasn’t done talking to you.”

“Look, I’m here with my friends, I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested.”

The warmth of the bar slowly begins to suffocate you as your eyes dart around the room, anxiety penetrating through you as you desperately attempt to get Tamara’s attention. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he insists, his tone shifting from casual to demanding. You felt stuck in place, his grasp coiling around you in a bruising grip. Your tongue was wedged in your throat, eyes widening in fear as you attempted to pull away, the shots slopping around in the tall glasses, liquid rolling down the back of your hands in a sticky mess.

“Please let me go.” Your tone was mousy like it was trapped down your oesophagus, losing all confidence.

“I believe we were having a conversation.”

“I believe she said to let her go.”

Your eyes flickered to the man behind him, face clad in a worn balaclava, eyes impossibly dark as a hand clad itself on the stranger’s shoulder, knuckles an ivory white.

“Sim-“

“Listen, man, we were having a simple conversation so get your hand off my fucking shoulder before we have a problem.”

You watched as your neighbour turned him around, a knee pressed against the man’s thighs as he held him by the collar, fingerings lacing the Adam’s apple of his neck, almost tracing the arteries as the stranger stilled.

“We gonna hav’ a problem?” Simon spat, tone an icy low as the man shook his head, rustling himself out of the Lieutenant’s grip. You watched your neighbour for a moment, lips pursed before you furrowed your brows.

“What are you doing here?”

“Friends from m’ task force are in town; you know that,” he smirked, testing the waters between you as almond eyes looked you up and down. Your skin was on show, an iridescent glow settling amongst it with a shining hue, the rest of you covered in a black one-piece, an expensive-looking necklace hanging low above your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for being my knight in shining armour,” you chortled, jabbing him in the ribs slightly. It was impressive how hard his chest was.

Simon was admiring you, your eyes radiating a toxic that drew him in, poison spreading through his body like wildfire, and he allowed it.

“Let me take you home.”

“But my friends-“

“Let me take you home, Y/N. Please.”

Simon felt pathetic, his tone lacing with a gentle whine as he pleaded you with his eyes, the brown softening into a deeper shade. You liked it. The ride home was peaceful, the benign muse of the radio playing as one of his hands gripped the wheel, another at the gears.

“Y’ alright? He didn’t hurt you did he?”

You let out a ‘hm’, slightly confused before the gentle throb in your arm reminded you. “I’m okay, he was just a drunk guy.”

Your head rested against the window, the zip of trees blurring into a static mess, the dim headlines occasionally piercing through closed eyelids as you huffed out a clement breath. Your cul-de-sac welcomed you with a silent wave, all the houselights a mute shade of nothing as Simon pulled into your duplex.  You giggled as you stumbled from the car, buff hands grabbing onto you as they lifted you up the stairs.

Nimble fingers fiddled with your keys, jabbing them into the door in a frustrated manner before you managed to wedge it open, a satisfied grin across your face, eyes blinded with tipsiness as you turned to your neighbour.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” You blurted, covering your mouth immediately as you stumbled over your following words, “I mean in my bed- not with me- because that would be weird to ask- you can say no-“

“Okay. I’ll sleep with you.”

I FUCKING HATE THIS BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE !!!!!!

[urbanwood02]

[harrowdecor]

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Our marble nest of tables comes in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors to suit any taste and complement any decor. Whether you're looking for a classic white marble set or something more contemporary with black and gold accents, our collection has something to suit every style.

Not only do our marble nest of tables look luxurious, but they are also incredibly practical. The tables nest together for easy storage when not in use, and the sturdy metal frames ensure they are sturdy and stable.

At Harrow Decor, we believe in providing our customers with exceptional quality and service. That's why we offer a hassle-free ordering process and quick delivery times to make your shopping experience as enjoyable as possible.

Transform your living space with the elegance and style of Harrow Decor's marble nest of tables. Browse our collection today and find the perfect set to elevate your home decor.

[pokemonshelterstories]

>wake up this morning

>let the pidove out to stretch their wings

>go to the kitchen to make my Drank for the morning (strawberry kiwi smoothie)

>go to living room to enjoy my Drank

>presto! (female pidove) is sitting on top of the brasero looking very broody

>the boys have brought her four sticks to nest on

>did she lay an egg on the table?? reach my hand under her to check while she pecks the shit out of me

>It Was A Marble

[hey-august]

It's not always a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake (Buggy x GN!reader)

Gif from monikanarnia

Description: Late one night you find Buggy in the kitchen growing increasingly distressed over dessert.

Word count: ~1.2k

A/N: One shot fluff with an established relationship. Gender neutral reader, no use of Y/N, pronouns, or physical descriptions. Based on OPLA buggy. Not beta read. Hope you like this! Let me know if you see any errors or typos. ♡

Warnings: Some light profanity, but that's about it!

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Lured by the sounds of activity at a time when most of the ship was asleep, you peered into the kitchen and finally found the person you were looking for. Buggy was hunched over the center island, deeply focused on the cake in front of him. He finished spreading the frosting and stepped back to observe his work. The scowl on his face and annoyed muttering were clear signals that he wasn’t satisfied. Despite being an artist, cake decorating was not his usual medium and it showed. Based on the amount of flour on his vest, pants, bandana, and in his hair, baking was also not his forte. 

Buggy ran a knife along the top of the cake, attempting to smooth out the white frosting. Instead the sweet coating stuck to the knife and lifted up to expose the bare cake underneath, as if he had wounded the confection. Trying to hold in the anger that wanted to burst from his mouth, Buggy’s fists flew to his head and he turned in place, stomping on the floor. Shouting was guaranteed to wake someone up and Buggy did not need anyone to see the absolute failure in front of him.

His glare flitted between the marred cake and the knife still in his hand before he flung the offending utensil towards the other side of the kitchen. The resounding clang caused him to flinch. He hoped it wasn’t loud enough to attract attention. A few heavy moments later, Buggy sighed and leaned over the cake. From where you were, you couldn’t tell if the weight in his rounded shoulders was from anger or disappointment. But you knew Buggy well enough that he wouldn’t give up yet. And you were right. 

With a cautious hand, Buggy began tapping at the lumpy frosting, nudging it into place. His gentle, feather-light touches showed a level of restraint and artistry that could only rival Michaelangelo chipping away marble, intent at bringing out the beauty only his fingertips could find. Finally satisfied with the coverage, Buggy assessed his work again. Despite being slightly worse than it was before the frosting incident, he was afraid of making an irreparable mistake. There wasn’t any more flour or sugar left in the kitchen. This wasn’t the first cake he baked. Or the second. But this was the first one that was fluffy and edible. Maybe if he decorated the cake with other things, the streaky, lumpy, crumby coating wouldn’t stand out as much.

Buggy stalked around the kitchen, rummaging in the cabinets and digging through drawers, looking for ingredients that were worthy of garnishing his confection composition. His frustration grew with each cabinet and drawer he opened and slammed shut. When he finally ripped open the fridge door he was greeted with the perfect gems, signaling the end of his kitchen treasure hunt. His greedy pirate hands pulled out some ruby red cherries. Buggy gave them a quick rinse in the sink and popped one in his mouth, finding satisfaction in the sharp snap and sweet juice from the ripe fruit. 

Moments later, the fruit adorned the top perimeter of the cake, each one nested carefully into the frosting. Buggy stared thoughtfully at the cake as he fiddled with the last cherry, lightly rolling it on the table with his finger. With an air of hesitation, he placed the red orb in the center of the cake. No one else would second guess the placement, but the pirate clown was overly sensitive about anything that could be mocking the one feature he had trouble accepting about himself. A feature that you never shied away from. If anything, you adored it. And while he couldn’t love his own nose, knowing you did filled him with warmth. You always brought brightness and sunshine to his dark and twisted world.

As you watched Buggy stare at the finished product with an expression you couldn’t see clearly, your interest got the better of you. The kitchen door released a tattling creak when you tried to gain a better view of the kitchen show. Thankfully Buggy did not have his knives on hand, but the glare he threw at the entrance was sharp enough to sting. His face softened when he realized it was you, before hardening back into a scowl that was equal parts annoyed at being interrupted and embarrassed that you found him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he chided, sending his hands over to push you out and close the door. Anticipating that he would do that, you ducked the flying appendages and slipped inside.

“I could say the same about you.” Buggy knew your comment was true. Despite being the captain, the kitchen was not his usual scene. “What are you up to anyways?”

Despite the innocent tone behind your question, the twinkling in your eyes told Buggy that you already knew the answer. You walked closer and looked at the cake, missing the wince that flashed on Buggy’s face. It looked alright, but it was not at all like he envisioned.

“It looks good. The cherries were a great idea,” you said in earnest.

“Don’t lie,” Buggy snipped. Agitation bristled in his body, feeling scratchy and uncomfortable. Every muscle was fighting the impulse to throw out the cake and act like he hadn’t wasted hours creating something so far below his usual standards. 

“It’s awful! A disgrace! The shitty frosting isn’t smooth and it’s full of crumbs. It’s too sweet and I used all the sugar so I can’t make more.” The tirade increased in pitch as he continued, the tension in his body constricting his throat. The frown on your face slowed his monologue.

“Are you serious? This looks like one of those cakes you buy at a high end patisserie in the fancy part of town. People pay a lot of money for rustic cakes and fresh fruit.” Flattery was always guaranteed to uplift Buggy when he was in a bad mood, but these were genuine compliments that you shared with such conviction and admiration. A flush crept across Buggy’s face and tickled his ears at the intensity and sincerity of your praise.

“O-of course! I knew that, I just wasn’t sure if it was your style.” Yeah, sure, that’s what he actually meant.

“So it’s for me?”

“Who else would I do this for?” He responded quickly, since you already knew the cake was yours.

“I was going to give it to you later, but you ruined the surprise,” Buggy continued, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. He slid the cake towards you and finished with a surprisingly gentle, “happy birthday.”

Although he was supposed to be showering you with gifts on your birthday, the radiant smile you gave was definitely a gift to him. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to look away from the brightness or continue staring into the sun, in awe of the radiance.

“Thank you, I love it,” you said, the words heavy with appreciation. Buggy watched as you plucked the cherry from the center of the cake and popped it into your mouth with a wink, feeling as though his heart was replaced with a bumbling moth, fluttering everywhere and bumping into everything. It was probably drawn to your brilliance, just as he was.

[highlordofkrypton]

ACOTAR Omegaverse Week // Day 1 - Nesting

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

SUMMARY: Tamlin's things have been going missing from his manor in the Spring Court. More specifically, all the clothes Rhysand has gifted him are disappearing one by one. It's time for him to get to the bottom of this mystery.

PAIRING: Alpha Tamlin x Omega Rhysand

TAGS: General Audiences, fluff, light angst, nesting, no smut

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Ahhh, my very first entry to @acotar-omegaverse-week! I've never written for Omegaverse before, so this is totally new to me. Hopefully, as the week goes on I get a better grasp of the universe. I hope you guys like it!

TAMLIN AND THE CURIOUS CASE OF UNGIVEN THINGS

That's strange… It was here just last night.

Tamlin stares at the plush velvet chair by his closet, the one where he tosses things that he is either far too lazy to put away in the separate room three feet away dedicated to his and his mate's clothes, or that he uses frequently enough that there is no point in putting it away. The shawl was made of white fur, purchased somewhere in the Winter Court—or so Rhysand told him.

He liked that shawl. It was nice to throw over his shoulder and run his hands through its softness, absent-minded, while working.

Perhaps it has been sent to cleaning.

The High Lord catches Alis, startling the little urisk who was puttering around the manor chasing chirping dustmites with her broom.

"My lord!" She straightens, as if she should never offend him with the sight of her… doing her work. Alis has old values, ones that Tamlin does not particularly adhere to.

"Good morning, Alis. Have you seen my shawl? The white one?" Tamlin describes it, holding his hands out to better show its size. "I would think it was sent to cleaning since it's not on my chair."

"No, no… I instructed the others not to touch anything on your chair unless you put it away for cleaning." Alis hums. It's better that way, so not to assume their lord was done using it when he still needs it. "Perhaps someone took it by accident. I hope it's not another sock elf."

"I thought we put out old clothes for them to steal instead of our laundry." Tamlin frowns. The sock-elves had stolen a sweater he rather liked, too.

"I thought so, too. I will look into this myself, my lord." Alis bows and shuffles away as quickly as she can without running.

Maybe he shouldn't kick up such a fuss. A new shawl can easily be bought, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Rhysand that he lost yet another gift from him. Come to think of it, Rhysand has been giving him a lot of things lately. Tamlin should give him something in return; he's been so busy with work, the gifts must have been a quiet way to ask for his attention.

Rhysand, much like the shawl, is nowhere to be found in the manor. He left a note on their beside table, a vague but trustworthy 'be back soon'. His absence gives Tamlin time to think of a way to shower him with the adoration he deserves, so he gathers a piece of hand-pressed parchment, a quill with gold ink and heads to his library to sit in his favourite chair—

"My chair is missing?"

Now this is ridiculous. It was an egg-shaped chair with a base made of marble and a very comfortable cushion. The chair was large enough to accommodate Tamlin both in his already massive Faerie form and in his beastly shape, should he want to curl up in something den-like.

"Your what?" Rhysand asks, popping his head into the library.

"My chair. My favourite chair. It's missing." Tamlin motions at the very empty spot in the very full library. There's even a circle on the ground of dust and discolouration where it used to be—that's how long it was there.

"Oh my," Rhysand says in muted concern. "This is a tragedy. Oh well, we'll just have to order a new one."

"I don't want to order a new one. I liked that one. Do you know how long it takes to get the cushions to fit you just right?" It also smells of him, his childhood, and it has all the memories that matter. "What if they don't make them exactly like that anymore?"

Tamlin huffs, trying not to pout. Oh, if the other Lords could see him now, sulking because he can't find his favourite egg-shaped chair.

Rhysand approaches him, reaching up to cup his cheek and caress it with his thumb. "I'm sure it'll be alright. I remember the exact dimensions. We'll get you a new one and break it in together?" He grins.

The thought of marking their territory and just basking in each other, erasing the scent of anyone else who's ever touched the chair makes him happy. Tamlin is a simple faerie; he asks for very little, and if Rhysand promised to cuddle him for all eternity and nothing else, he would be a very, very happy man.

Tamlin leans in, pressing a kiss against Rhysand's lips, smiling, and pulling him close. He moves to his neck, breathing in the scent of him and nipping at the skin there lightly. Humming, a very different kind of territorialism spurs in him.

"Wait, wait," Rhysand palms his chest, politely asking for distance. "I wanted to give you another gift."

The Night Prince steps back, opening a drawer encrusted in one of the ornate wooden bookshelves and pulls out a black box. He hands it to Tamlin.

"What… What is this for? Rhys, you're spoiling me. I should be begging for your forgiveness for being busy." Tamlin accepts the gift, but doesn't open it. "You should know," he starts, looking openly guilty. "I keep misplacing the things you've given me. I suspect we may have a sock-elf problem, but I should have been more careful."

Rhysand smiles; he isn't angry at all. "Things are… things. What matters to me is being able to give you these gifts. Even if you make use of them for just a day, it's good enough for me. Open it."

Tamlin kisses Rhysand again, opening the gift. It's a beautiful dark green robe, almost black, that glimmers with colours when held directly under sunlight. It's beautiful. More importantly, it's so soft and velvety.

"You should wear it. Make sure the size is right," Rhysand grins.

***

There's only so much Tamlin can lose before it starts to keep him up at night. The beautiful deep emerald robe disappeared after a day of having it, which is a record, honestly. He can't pass it off as a conniving creature playing a trick on him anymore. It's now a reflection of his capabilities as High Lord. A skill issue, per say.

Then again, he could be awake because the right side of his bed is empty and there is nothing more sobering that missing a part of him.

Tamlin worries. Everyone knows that.

He sits up on his bed and realizes his sheets are missing too? What is going on? Tamlin expects the slide of cool spidersilk against his bare skin, and though he naturally runs hot and kicks the sheets off, he still expects them to be there.

A part of him wonders if Rhysand was kidnapped, bundled up in the fancy sheets he insisted on and carried away into the night. The thought makes Tamlin jealous. If there is any sweeping away to be done, it is by him and him alone.

Fuck taking the stairs; Tamlin must find his mate quickly. He blows open the windows with a hint of magic, launching himself out of his manor and tumbling onto the ground, two floors down, with ease and grace. He sniffs the air, and locks onto the scent, sprinting straight into his forest.

Any other night, he would drink in the beauty of the trees, the symphony of the cicadas, the owls and the foxes, but Tamlin is on a mission. He cannot and will not be stopped until he finds his mate. His hunt takes him down a familiar path, straight towards his second home—a den that he played in as a child, then turned into his own safe haven as he grew older and his father grew crueler. It is the only place where his secrets are harboured and his vulnerabilities are shown.

He hasn't needed his den since Rhysand came into his life—since Rhysand stayed in it.

Tamlin blinks, and his eyes shift to better accommodate the darkness.

"Rhys? I know you're in here."

No response.

As he steps into his den, he realizes… it's been transformed.

The den has always been nothing more than a cave. It's walls were enough to make him feel safe and he would always sleep facing its entrance. No one could get him without his knowledge. The animals would visit and watch over him, of course, but no one else was welcome. (Not until Rhysand.)

Now, it's brimming with things. All the things Tamlin thought he lost, the gifts ungiven and taken back by one clever mate. He walks along the edges, touching the portraits of them and of Rhysand's family. He finds nearly every toy from his childhood; his mother had tried to save what she could from his father's annihilation of his childhood, and Rhysand must have found where she hid them. Tamlin picks up a toy cart with a long, long string. He used to fill this thing with flowers and berries, then drag it along behind him through the forest and all over the manor.

There are books here too. Tamlin recognizes them as Rhysand's. The Spring Court has never tolerated human 'fairy-tales' and he only knows of them because Rhysand has read him each one as proof that humans are brilliant.

Naturally, his egg-chair is here, too. Tucked at the back of the cave, right up against the wall, its opening is blocked by pillows upon pillows. Rhysand's scent leads right to it.

Tamlin tries to hide his smile as he leans in and plucks one pillow out. The rest start to topple, but Tamlin is careful to push them inwards into the nest.

"It seems I have found my thief."

Rhysand's expression is far too cool for someone buried to the neck in Tamlin's clothes.

He's hiding.

That's the problem with faeries like them. The way they were raised—it didn't matter what their natures were. They needed to be exactly what their fathers needed of them. Tamlin needed to be strong and immovable. Soft things were barred from him, even his heart needed to be made of stone. Rhysand needed to be sharp, but not bothersome. He always handles things alone.

Tamlin doesn't ask why he wasn't told or invited to help.

"May I enter?"

Rhysand shrinks into his pile, hiding his face except his watchful violet eyes. "You may," he says without a hint of emotion.

Tamlin crawls into the nest, careful not to squish Rhysand or disturb the hoard of things. Rhysand likes his things in particular order. Tamlin has no preference, so he's happy to adjust to his mate.

"I'm wounded," Tamlin sighs dramatically, taking Rhysand's own words and intonation for when he isn't getting his way. "My mate would rather my things than me and my," he pauses, trying to find a word that only Rhysand would use. "Luscious self?"

"Luscious? I do not say luscious." Rhysand unburies himself to glare at Tamlin. "You were busy."

"And you know that I would drop everything for you, if you told me you were nesting."

"I don't need you to drop everything. I have everything under control." Rhysand's jaw ticks, determined to handle himself. Were they in the Night Court, Rhysand would run his court, nest and make sure that Tamlin doesn't lift a finger because that's just who he is.

Tamlin crawls closer, squishing him purposely this time.

"Then control me," Tamlin leans in, breathing his words against Rhysand's warm lips. "Fit me into your plans. Hoard me like all these things. I am yours," he reminds his mate, kissing him slowly. "Do with me as you please, as long as you're doing it with me."

All this is new to both of them.

Tamlin has always known his dominant Alpha nature, and for his own safety, he had to swallow back his instincts. He wasn't afraid of what his father would do to him, but rather everyone else between them—his brothers, his mother and everyone Tamlin has even glanced at. The battle between Alphas is ugly and violent, especially in the transition of power. At the end, they both knew it was his father's mistake for not killing him at birth.

For Rhysand, Tamlin knows it was the opposite. Suppress, suppress, suppress, was his mantra. Not only did he have to hide, but he needed to deny every instinct within him. At least Tamlin could be a lesser version of himself, but Rhysand…

"You are perfect." Tamlin whispers between kisses. "You are stronger than I am."

"Liar," Rhysand denies.

"You are," Tamlin hums, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "I wouldn't have been able to do this alone. I need you by my side. Also, my den is a lot cozier than it was before. I might have to move out here."

Rhysand rolls his eyes and kicks at him from the layers of stolen clothes. "Flatterer." He says, clearly won over.

Tamlin pushes the clothing aside, snuggles in beside Rhysand and curls at his side, before putting the nest as it was. He says nothing, happy to kiss Rhysand's shoulder and listen to him breathing.

"I want to have a baby," Rhysand says suddenly.

The confession has Tamlin tensing, a reaction that comes from deep within rather than anything to do with actual thoughts. He eases after a moment. "Okay."

"I'm not even sure we'd be good," Rhysand can't even finish the sentence. The shame is visceral. His mother did her best and his father was selective in his affections. He knows how true mates love each other, and he knows how it feels when an Alpha rejects his offspring. It's not that he thinks Tamlin would—Tamlin would be a great father. "I just… With you… I feel ready. My body wants…"

The half-Illyrian flushes, turning to try and bury his face against Tamlin, but they only end up in a more intimate position, foreheads pressed against one another. Tamlin can see the worry on his face. Tamlin kisses them way.

"We will be good parents."

"How do you know?"

"Because we know pain. We know everything not to do."

Tamlin will never raise a hand against his mate or his children. He will never use them as weapons. He will listen when they speak. Everything his mind and body has come to know—all the violence and punishment he has come to expect—he will go against it. He will raise his little ones without fear. They will be free to be happy.

"That's horrible, you know that right?"

"But it's the truth." Tamlin assures, nuzzling Rhysand. "We have all the time in the world. You can over analyze this as much as you need," he teases.

"Oh, fuck you."

The Spring Lord grinds against Rhysand's hip with a playful grin. "Mmm, is that a request?"