#sunroom Garden Beauty

[sunroomvancouver]

Inviting Sunrooms That You Would Not Want to Leave

[beautifulfrenchhouses]

195,000 €

103 m² / 1109 ft²

Saint-Jean-d'Angély, Charente-Maritime, Occitanie, France.

[libralounges]

Sunrooms ☀️~

[midnightxhaze]

when fairy tales spill into reality.

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

Urge to update all my mods so I can make Jace and Porter’s house in the sims vs The knowledge that when I get into the sims I get really into the sims and it would fuck up my writing time

[readychilledwine]

Lost Bonds pt 2

Summary - After the second war, an unexpected bond with Y/n Archeron, and repairing all he's lost, Tamlin is shocked with news from the very female Rhys has been protecting from him.

Warnings- cliffhanger because I liked the suspense, angst in a way, unrequited love, one sided fated mates

A/N - I'm going to apologize and ask for forgiveness now. The rest of this is written, but it was uncomfortably long. I broke it into 3 parts, so you all weren't reading a short novella.

Read part one here Pt 3

Winnowing was the stupidest form of transportation, y/n thinks she has ever used. 

She sighed as she walked through the woods she found herself in, praying silently to the void that she was still in the Night Court. 

It definitely did not smell like home, though. The sweet scent of flowers and petrichor surrounded her like a warm embrace. Welcoming her, relaxing her. Her finally clue she was lost came from looking up once more. The trees were blooming. It was late winter in Velaris. Yet here, small pink and white buds covered every tree she could see. They swayed in a soft, rain scented breeze that almost seemed to tingle her skin.

She sighed heavily, playing with the wedding ring and band resting on her left ring finger. She didn't know if Azriel would be proud or upset. She had managed to winnow herself from the Illyrian Steppes to Spring. 

Even new to the world of the fae, she knew that was not an easy thing to do. It explained her exhaustion, the small trickle of blood running down her nose. She continued walking, hoping she would find someone, anyone who may help her. 

Tamlin felt someone enter his court uninvited and shifted to head their way. All the High Lords had just received a message from Rhysand regarding her.

Azriel had evidently been training her with her new powers blooming and suddenly appearing out of nowhere. She had been practicing winnowing, and now they could not find her.

It would have been ridiculous to assume an untrained female had made her way all the way down to the seasonal courts, but after Nesta had shown her hand just a few years ago, and Elain after that, it would not have surprised any of the High Lords at this point. He continued moving closer to the border between his court and the human realm, following where the magic was alerting and then pausing. 

You stood before him, illyrian leathers clinging to every beautiful curve. He shifted with a heavy sigh. “Come. Let's get you to The Manor so Rhysand can come get you.” The look of relief washing over your features tugged at his heart. The bond had not snapped for you, but he didn't need to feel your emotions to know you were afraid and very tired. 

You took his hand, bracing yourself as he tore through the fabric of the world and landed in a garden outside of his repaired estate. “You need food,” he said casually. “We can either go inside so you can eat while you wait for him, or there's a table out here.” 

He wanted to beg you to come inside, to see what he had done, to see what your home should look like. He had imagined for years now a life with you. A life where he heard your laughter every day, where you loved him and he you.

He had rebuilt his home with that life in mind. A grand piano sat centered in a sunroom you'd both use for entertaining. A dais where two thrones sat. Rooms for future children if you want them. He rebuilt the manor with love he had buried away for you. And now he hoped you noticed it, acknowledged it even. You belonged here. You would radiate here.

Aside from showing your body, the black leathers of the Night Court did nothing for you. You needed to be in jewel tones, in light colors. He remembered your skin glowing in the gown at the High Lords meeting. He ignored the pain in his chest as he saw the ring sitting on your finger, the one that matched that dress perfectly.

Blue was a lovely color for you. The silver band was plain as if Azriel had not put much thought into the ring. It was beautiful, but his heart rebroke, knowing it should have been rose gold and diamonds sitting on that finger. 

You motioned inside, wordlessly avoiding eye contact with him. He took you to the dining room where dinner had been waiting for him and grabbed another plate and cup. 

He served you in silence. The familiarity of the situation almost mocked him. “Thank you,” your voice was so soft it had him almost shivering. It had been 6 years since the war ended, 6 years without seeing or hearing it, and it had his soul burning. He yearned for you. His perfect match. 

He nodded. “You're welcome.” He summoned a paper, writing a note to Rhysand and the other High Lords that he had found you and where you had made it to. “Rhys will probably come running, so eat quickly.”

You shook your head. “He's so busy with Nyx lately that he hardly cares what I'm up to. He will send Azriel.” His throat tightened. He'd had to see his mate with her husband. 

Your husband, who was probably worried sick, who probably had been searching as far out as he could. “Then you should definitely eat quickly. Mother knows how desperately he probably wants his wife back home.” Tamlin clocked the way your eyes grew sad, the small frown that formed.

“Yeah. I suppose.” He didn't question that sadness, allowing you whatever space you needed to process it alone.

You were so comfortable next to the male who had ruined everything for you that it was almost laughable. Tamlin, to your shock, was warm. He was being kind. He seemed to know what you needed before you even asked. You had pictured Tamlin as this monster for so long. A cruel male with a heart of stone, but his mere presence had something glowing in your chest, sending warmth through your body.  “I thought the manor was destroyed.”

Tamlin's green eyes looked towards you, spoon held halfway to his mouth. “I had a reason to fix it, along with the whole court.”

You nodded. “It's really pretty.” The walls were lined with Vining floral, marble floors dancing with natural stone veining. Soft green curtains veiled the large floor to ceiling windows. "Elain would love all the flowers. She used to make me work in the gardens with her. I miss it sometimes."

He seemed to blush at the words. “Thank you. And if you truly miss working gardens, there are plenty here that would love attention." Your lips twitched up, but you two fell back into silence.

Tamlin was unsure of what to say to his mate. A piece of parchment appeared beside him, elegant script gracing the page. “Rhys will be here in a moment with Azriel.”

You nodded before caving and asking the question that had been on your mind since you first met the male in his beast form, breaking down the door to the rundown shack you all called home. “What was the significance of killing the wolf?”

He turned to you, brows raised. “Feyre didn't tell you?” You shook your head, staring at the tea you were holding. “I was cursed by one of Hyberns former generals. In short, I had to make a mortal who hated fae enough to kill one fall in love with me in order to break her spell and free the lands. That wolf was one of my closest friends.” The last sentence was barely audible. “Feyre killing him made her the only one who could break the curse.”

As your face fell into confusion, darkness appeared in the manor, gathering in the corner like a void until Azriel and Rhysand stepped out. “Tamlin,” Rhysand greeted smoothly. You couldn't help but to laugh at the High Lord, covered in paint, hair ruffled, eyes tired. “y/n, are you okay?”

You stood nodding, and Azriel moved quickly to you, arms around your waist as he picked you up and held you close. Once he set you down, you turned to Tamlin. “Thank you for sheltering and feeding me and for the invitation to play in your gardens."

“Of course,” he and Rhysand were locked into a stare down, one Rhysand clearly had every intention of winning. “She is unharmed, Rhysand. Just tired and needing rest. You're allowing him to push too hard.” 

Rhys narrowed his eyes, looking to you then back to Tamlin before nodding. “I will consider your opinion. Let's go, y/n. Nyx was distraught when he heard you were missing.”  Any chance Tamlin may have had of convincing you to stay faded instantly. You moved to Rhysand, letting him take your hand and examine your face for any injuries. “Azriel, let's go.”

The shadowsinger nodded and spoke coldly to Tamlin. “Thank you for caring for my wife.”

Tamlin hid a scoff behind his wine and nodded. “It wasn't for your benefit, spymaster.” The two glared hard towards each other before Azriel smirked and walked towards you. 

A feeling of guilt sat in your stomach, lingering there as Rhys began to summon his magic. “Wait,” you pulled your hand away from Rhys and took a step closer to Tamlin. “I'm sorry.”

The Lord of Spring arched a brow feeling the conflict in you from the bond. “For?”

You took a heavy breath, hands shaking as you subconsciously reached for Azriel's hand. You needed his familiarity, possibly his protection. You were about to tell Tamlin something that may have made everything he had gone through feel empty, like his love for your sister had been for nothing. You took a deep breath, looking up and sending a silent prayer to the Mother.

“Feyre didn't kill the wolf," the faces of all three males dropped, the secret finally coming out and being brought to light. “I did."

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr

Lost Bonds Taglist:

@impossibelle

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Shameless

Sequel to Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.

You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day. 

Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.

The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.

There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.

Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.

You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.

“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.

“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.

“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.

“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”

You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.

“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.

“I think.”

“Garnet?” Albina suggests.

“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”

You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”

You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.

“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”

“Cora, please.”

“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”

You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.

“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.

“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”

“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”

“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”

The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.

“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”

You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.

“She shoved me! She–”

“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”

Ruin… 

The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.

💙

The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.

…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…

You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.

You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.

Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.

“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”

“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.

“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”

You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.

“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”

“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”

“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.

“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”

“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”

You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.

“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”

You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.

As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.

"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.

She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.

The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander. 

You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.

You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.

The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.

An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.

You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.

"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"

"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you. 

The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.

"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."

"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile. 

He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.

"Might I–"

"I spy–"

You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."

"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."

"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."

"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."

"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."

"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"

"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."

"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."

"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"

You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.

You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."

"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.

"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."

You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.

💙

The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.

"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."

"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.

You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.

His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.

He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.

You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.

💙

The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.

You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.

You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.

The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails.  Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.

You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.

"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.

"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."

"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."

"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.

"She would like you, very much, I think."

"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."

"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."

"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.

"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.

You face him, a frown.

"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"

"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"

"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"

"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."

"Fooled, my lady--"

"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."

"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.

As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."

His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.

💙

You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.

You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.

You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.

There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.

"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."

He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.

"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."

He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile. 

Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.

There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.

You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."

You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.

"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."

You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.

"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."

The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.

Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.

"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."

💙

"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.

"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.

You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.

"I am the valkyrie," she japes.

"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.

"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."

"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.

"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."

"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.

"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"

"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."

"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."

"Fawning? Don't be silly."

You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.

"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."

"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."

"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."

"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"

Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."

You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.

"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."

You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.

💙

You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.

You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.

You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.

"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.

"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.

"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"

"Perhaps," you answer.

"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"

"If he wishes."

"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."

"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."

"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."

"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.

"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"

"It was only a game."

"I do not think he plays."

"Why..."

"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"

"He is polite."

"Oh, you are stubborn."

You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.

💙

The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.

As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.

You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.

“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.

“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”

“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”

“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly. 

You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.

“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”

Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”

You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.

“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”

“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”

You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.

“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.

You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.

“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”

“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”

Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”

“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”

“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”

“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”

“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.

“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”

As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.

💙

You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.

As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.

"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"

You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.

"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."

You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.

"A visitor, father?"

"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.

You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"

You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.

"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."

"He does not--"

"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."

She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.

"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."

You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak. 

You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.

Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.

"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.

Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.

"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"

The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.

Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.

"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"

"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"

"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.

You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.

"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"

You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Love the potential in this house so much. It's a mid-century modern built in 1960 in Wilmington, Delaware. They have really brought the outdoors in. 3bds, 2ba, $490K.

Walk in the front door and right in front of you is the center atrium of the home.

Love this so much. Can you imagine how stunning this could be?

The layout of the home goes around the atrium and there's a nice railing with stairs to the lower level on one side. The floors need refinishing, they look dull and stained in some spots.

Large open concept living room with a stone corner fireplace.

This is so unique for a home that's not a mansion.

It's very open. Here's the dining room next to the kitchen.

Here's the entrance to the atrium thru sliding glass doors. Can you imagine how nice it would look if you put in French door with side panels?

See? Doors like this, but white.

And the outdoors don't end at the atrium b/c here's huge sunroom. It has heat, so it's a year round room.

This house was lived in hard. It's really worn. These are the original cabinets and I kind of like the green Plexiglass in the upper cabinets. I thing that I would just paint or refinish these cabinets and change out the hardware.

Hmmm. They did some repair in here and didn't paint over it, but thi is the primary bedroom and you can see the en-suite on the left.

Both baths are very dated, but I would have to embrace the MCM style w/the blue tiles and fixtures. The sinks need to be repainted.

It's unusual to have a walk-in closet in a vintage home.

The 2nd bedroom is white so it just needs paint.

The third bedroom is a little smaller, but has 2 murals.

I don't know what's happening here, but it looks like they were using the garage for another purpose.

The basement isn't finished, but there's a big brick fireplace down here. I would definitely have to finish it a some point. Look at how huge it is.

There's a big pantry down here. This could be great for anything kind of storage.

And look at all these shelves.

There's a big deck on the back of the house.

This home has been so neglected, I hope someone who loves it comes along, b/c it could really be special. The .33 acre lot needs landscaping, too.

This can be a beautiful yard and garden.

Oh, now we can see that they were using the garage for something else. The front of the house is well-cared for and there isn't even an HOA.

It's located in a beautiful wooded area. I would love to have this house.

[hxltic]

Just read like all of ur stuff and it’s so gooood! Saw ur post abt price ideas and what about one where he keeps pictures of you, sure there’s the cute ones but then there’s the spicy ones that he keeps as well and you find out but you’re not mad ikykik;))

You and Price have always had a healthy relationship; somehow always back and forth with harmless banter like an old couple, but the chivalry never seems to die. He was the sweetest thing, so sweet it seemed fake. Just like the movies.

The both of you would wake up and brush your teeth, the feeling so surreal in the morning you wouldn’t be surprised if a camera crew popped out of nowhere. You would make sure to make breakfast as he worked in his office.

The technology he used was so advanced, it hurt to look at the three widescreen monitors curved around the desk with several different screens and tabs pulled up. You just rest the plate beside him and lean down to peck him. He had his glasses on for work with papers stacked elsewhere.

And despite being focused, he will never deny your lips. He habitually leans up to find them. The brush of his perfectly sculpted facial hair never gets old.

Like you said, everything was so nice. Sometimes you worked out in the garden. Other times, you read a book or did pilates in the sunroom. Whenever you finished, your husband would either locate the bathroom and hug you from behind, his large biceps encasing almost your entire frame; or come in the bedroom and manually lay you out along the bed. His rough hands would treat you delicately, folding skin and tissue for a well-needed massage. God, you were spoiled.

Life was good. With no kids too? You were his one and only. His main priority.

And don’t even mention when you both go out for dinner. The dress you wear sculpts your body just right, your pretty breasts on display for him all night. He comes around the hood to open the car door for you, plus have his large hand awaiting yours patiently. A soft smile with his tight eyes leads you out of the vehicle.

Your heels clank along the pavement until the valet directs the car away, his arm wrapped around your waist until it disconnects to hold the wide restaurant door open for you. You kiss his cheek on your way in while attempting not to smudge the red on his face.

Once you sit, you go to place the strap of your purse along the back of the chair. He offers to hold it on his side for you.

“Hello and how is everyone doing on this fine evening,” the waiter starts, “My name is Jack and I will be serving you both today.”

Jack passes out the menus and John plucks it to read. He slightly squints without his glasses, but only a little. You smile at the observation.

“Is there anything special going on today?” Jack glances between the two of you.

“Not necessarily,” John shifts and gestures to you politely, “dinner with my lady.”

Sometime later Jack finally leaves, leaving you and your husband. You admire the place around you and the atmosphere. It was warm inside with low lighting, a flickering candle and a centerpiece being the only thing separating you two but a large chandelier decorating the ceiling. A plus about being married to him is that you two definitely weren’t low on money. And with no kids, he had no problems spending it.

You two talk like normal. It was so comfortable: your spot in life, your relationship with him, the environment knowing there’s a trained man by your side—you couldn’t ask for anything more.

Sometimes he’ll just gaze at you with pure delight, and the sight makes you smile back at him.

“What?” you blush and your face brightens.

“You’re a beauty.” he replies. He was taking a mental picture with the perfect lighting, your done hair, beautiful eyebrows, eyes, dress, everything about you. And on top of that, the necklace from the day you got married rested just above your breasts.

. .

After dessert, you conversed with him until the waiter returned. Suddenly, he gently takes the napkin and rests it on the table.

“I’ll be right back; have to go the restroom.”

You nod patiently as he arises and proceeds to walk on. He halts beside your seat and places a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“You alright?”

You nod again, but just in case it wouldn’t suffice, a soft “yes” falls from your lips. You know that you’re the happiest thing to happen to him, and he’d be damned if something from his own profession took that away. His head slightly dips affirmative before he fishes out his wallet and holds it to you.

You really were just going to wait until he came back, but this was better. You take it from him and flip it between your fingers to keep you occupied.

Dinner with him was so good you never even thought about your phone. And in the slim chance you did, it would make you feel bad or improper to use it. Of course he wouldn’t mind if you took a glimpse or shot a quick message, but it’s just your mental.

Jack comes around with the check, and just as quick as he came, he left. In the other hand there was a hot plate of food.

You skim the thin paper and make sure everything was calculated correctly. Your fingers unfold the black, leather wallet currently in your hands, then search for the card you notice he always picked on this occasion.

Your nails proved a problem in retrieving it from its pocket but it doesn’t stop you. You slip it behind the clear plastic of the book.

Jack comes back around.

You could wait for John to sign it, but it would take longer, so you decide to just sign it anyway. Was it illegal? Maybe.

Once the final receipts in the book are placed in front of you, you receive the card, slide it back in its previous position, then sign the tip off.

Your bag was across the table, but you trusted the security of the restaurant. So instead, you unfold the wallet and look around.

His I.D, Driver’s license, military registration stuff, A line of cards, some cash, and a picture. Of you. You’re in the sun smiling, the picture hazy and the glow on your face bouncing off your eyes. You wore a pretty sundress.

You try your best to pull it out without disturbing anything else, and when you do, you almost gasp in the restaurant when it unfolds.

There was a long list of them, some more innocent than others. And when you finally realize just how non-innocent the others were, a red flushes across your cheeks, accompanying the blush you had already put on.

One was in the lingerie you bought for his birthday. Another was you both at the bar, but only you were in the picture, the dress high on your thighs and a drink pulled up to your lips flirtatiously. That one wasn’t that bad, especially compared to the one right under it.

It was taken from behind, your arch on display. Obviously you had no clothes on—though you couldn’t see much but your loose hair, your back, only a hint of under-boob pressed into the bed sheets, and his single ring-adorned right hand holding on to yours. the picture cut off down about three fourths of your back.

Your left hand was gripping onto the sheets for life.

Your face wasn’t in it, and they were all pictures you had no problems with him taking, but the fact that he keeps them in his wallet is something you wouldn’t have thought of in a million years. Before you hold them out too long in a fancy restaurant, you fold them up and put it back.

You rest it on the table and sit your hands in your lap. Right on cue, he returns.

“Are you ready?”

He doesn’t bother to sit down and instead grabs your purse for you. He notices your quick movements and quietness. He’s picked up attentive habits being in the forces so long, so he can’t ignore how red you are. He places your bag on the table.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly. Your chin lifts with his thumb on it and another under.

“I’m okay,” you say, a lot lighter than usual. This prompts you to stand before he can get a good look at your countenance. He watches you move swiftly, then reaches for his wallet— but then it hits him like a truck.

In realization, he holds the wallet up and stares at it, then back at you. A cheeky grin grows on him, and he’s prepared to tease you for the rest of the day. It starts when you grab your purse and speed walk away, aware that he’s figured it out. He also knows you’ve been snooping.

. .

You get home, and once you thought he’d forgotten, you return to your bubbly self again. It only retreats when he’s on a knee, undoing the strap of your heels.

“Thank you baby. I love you,” you grin.

“Always. I love you too sweetheart,” he slides it off and massages your calf. “Love you so much I carry you around everywhere I go.”

You’re not sure if he did it on purpose, but your thoughts immediately trailed to earlier. You blush all over again.

He chuckles deeply as you now look away from him, but warm lips and a bit of his hair meet the slope of your foot.

©️ hxltic

[plumbobbro]

Exquisite Cotswold Style Manor in Henford-on-Bagley

Discover the epitome of luxury living in this stunning Cotswold-style manor, meticulously refurbished to blend historical charm with modern comforts. Nestled in the picturesque village of Henford-on-Bagley, this expansive estate is perfect for a large family seeking a tranquil yet opulent lifestyle. The main floor features a grand living room spaciously designed for both relaxation and entertaining, an ideal office room for remote work or a private study, a formal dining room perfect for hosting dinner parties and family gatherings, a cozy family room for everyday living, and a sunroom where you can bask in natural light while enjoying views of the beautiful gardens. The huge kitchen is equipped with state-of-the-art appliances and a convenient laundry area. Upstairs, the primary suite boasts a luxurious bathroom, walk-in closet, and an adjoining nursery designed for two infants. The upper floor also includes four en suite bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom, providing comfort and privacy for all family members. The basement is a true highlight, featuring a connoisseur's dream wine cellar with ample storage for an extensive collection, an indoor pool complete with locker rooms for year-round enjoyment, a fully equipped gym for all your fitness needs, and comfortable maid's quarters. The outdoor space offers a huge backyard, a private oasis with plenty of space for outdoor activities, a swimming pool perfect for summer fun and relaxation, and an English-styled garden featuring a serene pond ideal for peaceful strolls and reflective moments. This magnificent manor offers an unparalleled lifestyle, combining historical elegance with modern luxury. The extensive refurbishment has retained the estate's timeless beauty while enhancing its functionality and comfort. Don't miss this rare opportunity to own a piece of Henford-on-Bagley's rich heritage, perfectly suited for a large family seeking the best of country living. Schedule your private tour today and envision yourself in this breathtaking residence.

available on the gallery under ID : plumbobbro

FLOORPLAN DOWN BELOW

[floriansfurryfantasies]

Inside World of Between Bramble & Briar

Here are the main settings of the tale; a glimpse into the world behind closed doors of Between Bramble & Briar.

The Sanctuary:~ A gothic themed nightclub, owned by Florian Voltaire. It makes use of a once derelict Romulan Chapel in the city of Dornbury.

Florian restored some of the religious architectural features, such as the stained glass windows, feeling it would've been a shame for their beauty to be lost. He adores the flamboyant stone work and tiled floors and feels that the space feels most alive and fulfilling of its purpose when people have gathered there. However, now they gather for music and a good time rather than to worship Romulus.

Stanley House:~ A stately home built around 200 years ago–in an age gone by. The lavious property sits on the outskirts of Briarbury, village, nestled in the hills of Dorndale County.

A long gravel driveway twists and winds through a coppice of oak, ash, and alder trees and circles the front of house fountain. The surrounding gardens are kept in fine fettle by a retired vole, Mr Waterdown, from the village. So Florian is never without a pristine and floral view from his sunroom and all the windows of his home.

Stanley House was purchased some 30 years ago by his father when Arthur was an infant and retitled the house in his families name.

Today, Arthur still resides at the property and holds dear the fond memories he has of his childhood there and a time when his mother was happy and well.

Once up in a time, he'd hoped to furnish it with a lady of the house and a litter of kits who could build their own fond memories, but he fears that dream has passed him by.

Downey Cottage:~ A quaint cottage in the middle of the sleepy hamlet; Hedgely Woodhouse. Surrounded by a well planted cottage garden, Mrs Blackthorn grows vegetables and herbs, as well as a hedgerow of berried shrubs. Along the west wall of the garden, she grows flowers in raised beds. The family often enjoys sunny afternoons on the little paito there. The lawn is flanked by a wilf flower meadow and a few established fruit trees that provide shade and their fruit come harvest season.

The inside of the home is just as lovely. The kitchen and heart of the home always smells of homemade delights, and the range keeps the house warm come winter. The cosy living room is host to an open fire, a small television, couch, Mr Blackthorns reading chair, and Mrs Blackthorns rocking chair, where she sits to knit and sew.

Upstairs are four bedrooms that were once shared by the seven Blackthorn children, while Ermine and Ada Blackthorn shared the master bathroom.

The Blackthorns home is the apiteny of what a family home would look and feel like. The walls are adorned with family portraits, and Mrs Blackthorn wouldn't be without her trinkets and Mr Blackthorn without his piano and books.

Tag list:~ @caxycreations

Let me know if you'd like to be on the BBB tag list, too.

[sunroomvancouver]

Inviting Sunrooms That You Would Not Want to Leave

Just being in a sunroom makes you want to relax on the couch or simply enjoy your coffee while looking out the window. It encourages solitude, reflection, and quality time with loved ones. These gorgeous examples will provide you with lots of decor inspiration if you are fortunate enough to have a sunroom or if you want to install one when you undertake your next major home improvement

Read More: https://patiocover.medium.com/inviting-sunrooms-that-you-would-not-want-to-leave-7b8b1c179c3b

[beautifulfrenchhouses]

500,000 €

160 m² / 1722 ft²

Avignon, Vaucluse, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur, France.

[foundtherightwords]

As the Sun Will Rise - Chapter 10

Pairing: Grunauer (Overlord) x OFC, Beauty & the Beast retelling

Summary: After losing most of his unit in a disastrous D-Day mission, Derwin Grunauer returns to his hometown near Miami, body riddled with scars and heart heavy with guilt, only to find his neighbors shunning him due to his German name. He retreats into his family mansion and remains there, unwilling to rejoin the living, until the day Alba Reyes turns up at his door with a basket full of warm bread. As the daughter of a Cuban immigrant, Alba knows something of being an outsider, and when she offers to work for Derwin as his housekeeper, it is not only to pay off her father's debt to the Grunauers, but also because she feels some connection to the reclusive young man. When that connection develops into something more, they must overcome both the town's prejudice and their own doubts to find happiness.

Chapter warnings: prejudice, PTSD

Chapter word count: 3.7k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

Chapter 10

The next morning, Derwin was in the kitchen making coffee when Otto jumped to his feet and scrambled to the back door with a happy bark. The door opened, then came Alba's voice, crooning, "Hola, Otto!" mixed with Otto's ecstatic whines. Derwin realized his hands were shaking and fought to keep a calm expression. Coffee spilled everywhere as he spooned it into the pot. Cursing under his breath, he reached for a towel to clean it up. What did he have to be so nervous about? She had been coming here almost every day for nearly three months; today should be no different.  

"I know, I know, I miss you too," she was saying to Otto, who was winding himself around her legs, making her stumble. Derwin rushed forward to help her up, only to realize, belatedly, that his cane was resting against the stove. He stumbled as well and crashed into Alba, knocking his forehead on her chin. Amid a rush of giggles and ouch and sorry and are you OK, Derwin's nervousness was forgotten, and by the time they had helped each other to their feet and started having their coffee, it felt like just another day.

They settled into a new routine. Alba still spent most of the morning outside, cleaning the debris of the storm from the garden. Derwin couldn't join her, but he would lug the gramophone to the sunroom or the porch, and sit there keeping her company through music. When she came inside to start lunch, he would join her in the kitchen. She taught him a few basic things like how to make rice and roast meat, along with some simple recipes that could be modified with whatever he had on hand. Derwin was pleased to discover he was a competent cook—it was a proud day when he managed to make his first pot of rice without it boiling over. Then, after they ate, he would help her wash up. In the afternoon, if there was nothing else to do, they would take the car down the drive and Derwin would practice changing gears and braking and turning. As Alba had predicted, he soon learned how to drive. But more than these accomplishments, he took great pleasure in spending time with her. Before, he'd been satisfied with staying in the study and knowing she was around; now, he realized he'd wasted all those days when he could've been with her in the kitchen or watched her work in the garden or sat next to her in the car, feeling her hand on his as she grabbed the wheel to stop him from driving into a ditch for sinking them into the swamp. He knew they were on borrowed time, and the more he allowed himself to be used to her presence, the loss would be that much harder once she left, but he couldn't help it. How could he return to his old world, cold and dark and lonely, once he'd had a taste of the sun?   

One afternoon, Alba brought in the mail as usual. One letter, with a Gainesville postmark and a University of Florida letterhead, made Derwin pause. He reluctantly opened it, read it, read it again, and eventually threw it down with a long sigh.  

"Bad news?" Alba asked, turning around from the shelf she was dusting.

"No, not news exactly. And not bad. More like... a dilemma. An offer." She raised an eyebrow, curious, so he picked up the letter and explained, "It's from my old professor at the University of Florida. He's putting together a project called"—he glanced at the letter—"Poetry without Frontiers."

"What is it?"

"He wants to translate poems from English into French, Spanish, German, Russian, Italian, and vice versa, and put them in a book. He hopes the universal language of poetry would bring people all over the world closer together after the—the war."

"And he's asking you to join the project?"

"Yes, he's asking me to pick a poem and translate it into German. Since I speak German. I imagine there's not a lot of us around." He meant it as a joke, but it came out rather bitter.

"That's great!" Alba said. "So why are you looking so glum? Glummer than usual, I mean."

He smiled at her teasing, briefly. "I don't know if I can."

"Why not? You always have your nose buried in those poetry books."

"Yes, but reading poetry is one thing. Translating it—essentially writing it in another language—is quite different."

She stopped dusting and sat down in front of him, fixing those enchanting green eyes on his. "If you don't try, how would you know?" He had no answer for that. She smiled. "And if I could translate that Jose Marti poem so beautifully, as you said, I think you can too."

When she was looking at him and smiling at him like that, Derwin felt like he could do anything. "Will you help me pick a poem then?" he asked.

Her smile widened. "Sure."

Derwin went to the shelf and brought down a few volumes. As he flipped through them, he watched Alba's lithe figure bustling about the study with the quiet efficiency he'd come to appreciate so much. Not for the first time, he wondered why someone like her would give him the time of day.

"You told me you don't plan to be a housekeeper forever," he said suddenly. "So what are you going to do after you're done here? Back to the bakery?"

"Well..." She paused in the middle of straightening a stack of books and thought for a second. "If I tell you, would you promise not to tell anyone?" she said, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"Who would I tell, Otto?" he joked, but she was looking serious, so he sobered up as well. "All right, I promise. What is it?" He felt oddly happy that she was choosing to confide in him.

"I want to go to college," she said.

"Why is that a secret?" he asked, confused.

It took her a moment to answer. "Because my father doesn't want me to."

"Why not?"

"He wants me to take over the bakery. Actually, he wanted Raf to take over, but now that Raf is...  well, it falls to me instead. Never mind that Beatriz loves to bake and is much better at it than I am."

"Why don't you tell him that?"

"He wouldn't understand." She put the books down with a deep sigh. "See, during the war, I worked in a shipyard, building torpedoes to take down German U-boats. I was good, too. My supervisor even recommended me for an engineering program. But I couldn't go, because it was only available at some universities up north, and I couldn't leave Papi and Beatriz for ten months. Besides, designing airplanes and building torpedoes are fine and all, but I prefer to work with nature." She looked out the window and gazed at the swamps. "I want to see things grow and thrive. I want to see cypresses rise in the winter mist, I want to see herons and egrets wading amongst the mangrove, I want to see alligators sunning themselves on the river bank—yes, even the horrible one that attacked us," she added, grinning at him. With her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she seemed lit up by some inner flame, looking more beautiful than Derwin had ever seen her. "And I want other people to see them too, see them for their beauty and splendor. Do you know they're setting up a national park in the Everglades? Imagine that! Miles and miles of untouched nature, protected and preserved by man, instead of being destroyed in the name of progress. I want to be a part of that." She glanced away, her flush deepening. "You think I'm having ideas above my station, do you?"

"No, not at all." He cleared his throat. "You know, the University of Miami has a biology program, and they just opened a marine lab too. You should enroll."

Her eyes widened. "Do you think I can?"

"If you don't try, how would you know?"

She tried to glare at him, but her lips quirked up. "All right, you got me," she admitted and went back to cleaning. "What about you?" she asked over her shoulder.

"What about me?"

"Do you plan to go back to college? Maybe finish that degree?"

The thought hadn't occurred to Derwin. Truth be told, he didn't see a point in it. His Army pension and the rent money he got from the bakery were just enough for him to live on, if he was thrifty, so why would he risk putting himself under more stress to get a degree and get a job? What kind of job could he do anyway? But what Alba said next made him change his mind. "Maybe we can go together," she said, a shy little smile hovering on her lips.

To go to college with her... to still be able to see her, even after she no longer worked for him.... It sounded too good to be true. Derwin reminded himself that, if or when Alba did go to college, she would meet new people, fun, exciting people, and she would probably no longer want anything to do with his gloomy self. But a part of him still hoped, and he said, "Maybe," smiling back at her. He was playing with fire, he knew, but the fire was too warm and comfortable for him to keep away.

***

After some consideration, and with input from Alba, Derwin chose Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" to translate. Professor Bauer gave his approval, and Derwin started working on it, laboring over every line with a care that bordered on obsession. He would read his translation aloud to Alba, and asked her whether the words flowed well together. Even though she didn't know German, she had an excellent ear for rhythm and music, which was why he trusted her opinion.   

For all the fun they had driving, cooking, and reading poetry together, Derwin couldn't help dreading their first excursion into town. About a week after she came back, Alba said over lunch, "I'm planning to go grocery shopping tomorrow, do you think you're ready to tag along?"

Despite her casual tone, Derwin's hand froze over his plate. Seeing his hesitation, she said, "If you're not feeling up to it—"

"No, I'm fine," he said quickly. "Where are we going?"

"Olson's. It's right across the street from the bakery," Alba replied. "They have fresh produce and the price is reasonable."

"And what are we going to do there?"

Alba looked amused, but she answered anyway, "Shopping, of course. Pick what you want, put it in a cart, and pay. Maybe chat with the cashier for a bit."

"And what makes you think I can't do that on my own?" he asked, stalling for time.

She gave him an exasperated look. "If you could, you wouldn't be paying Wendell's for their delivery service," she said. "Look, you don't have to go with me if you don't want to."

"I said I'm fine, didn't I?" After all that had happened, the last thing he wanted was for her to see him as helpless and useless.

Still, he spent the rest of the day writing up a grocery list and trying to practice potential conversations in his mind. He felt slightly ridiculous—a mundane activity like grocery shopping shouldn't make him this anxious—and was reminded of his first year in boarding school, when he'd had a single line in the school play, spent a whole week rehearsing, and still flubbed it on the night. He hoped nothing like that would happen this time. At least Alba would be there, and he could count on her to keep him calm.

Alba arrived early the next morning, and they drove into town. It was mid-morning on a weekday, so the store was relatively quiet—he was grateful to her for that as well. Derwin was aware of curious stares from the few cashiers and shoppers as he walked through the store, leaning on his cane with one hand and pushing the shopping cart with the other. But Alba was walking next to him, and occasionally their hands, placed side by side on the handle of the cart, would brush against each other, and the pounding of his heart would slow and he could breathe more easily.

"Good morning, Mrs. McLeish!" Alba waved to a gray-haired battle-axe, who nodded back at her and shot Derwin a suspicious glance. "Is Ted busy this week?" Alba asked. She turned to Derwin and explained, "Mrs. McLeish's son is a builder."

"He's just finished up a job in Coral Way," Mrs. McLeish replied, looking proud. "They need a lot of repair over there after the storm."

"If he has a minute, do you think he can come to the Grunauer house and have a look at the roof? It got hit by a big branch."

The moment Mrs. McLeish heard the name "Grunauer", her hard-looking face hardened even more, her eyes becoming two pieces of flint. She looked Derwin up and down before answering. "I just remember, Ted's booked another job over in Sweetwater," she said coldly. "He won't be able to help you."

Alba frowned. "But I thought you said—"

Mrs. McLeish didn't let her finish. "And even if he was free, he wouldn't take a job there," she said. "My Ted didn't take a bullet in his leg in Sicily only to come back here and serve some coward who hid under his medic insignia!" Her words lashed at Derwin like a splash of acid, scouring away his skin and getting under his flesh, making his whole body burn with a shame that felt almost physical. The old woman obviously took malicious pleasure in it.

Alba lifted her chin, her eyes turning almost as hard as Mrs. McLeish. "I'm sorry he felt that way," she said to the old woman. "But I think medics are just as brave as soldiers, if not more, because they have to save others and not just themselves. If you can't agree, then I think you'd better get your baked goods elsewhere. Good day."

Without another glance at Mrs. McLeish, who had gone pale with anger, Alba walked off with the cart. Derwin scrambled to follow her.

"You've just cost your bakery a regular customer," he said. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't," Alba said. Her nostrils were still flaring, and she gripped the cart handle tightly. "I just can't stand it when people—" She took a deep breath. "Never mind. Let's just shop."

They got the essentials—milk, coffee, eggs, soap—while Alba kept up a stream of chatter, about the best brand of detergent, how the store-bought coffee could not compare to the home-ground coffee her father sometimes got from Cuba, how happy she was that sugar rationing had finally ended. Slowly, the sting of Mrs. McLeish's words faded.

As they reached the meat counter at the back of the store, Alba turned to Derwin and pushed the shopping list into his hand. "Why don't you get some ham and some mince from Mr. Olson, and I'll meet you out front? Oh and maybe a nice roast for your weekend lunches too." He spluttered a protest, but she'd already pushed the cart toward the fresh produce display, after giving him an encouraging smile.

Bracing himself, Derwin turned toward the meat counter. The store owner, Mr. Olson, a barrel-chested, ruddy-cheeked man, stood behind the counter looking at him with pale, impassive eyes. Derwin gave his order in a tiny voice. Mr. Olson picked up a giant ham and started slicing it in quick, practiced movements.

"You're the Grunauer boy, aren't you?" Mr. Olson said.

"Yes."

"Your dad used to come in here all the time." Derwin grimaced, waiting for the inevitable, but Mr. Olson only said, "Sorry for your loss."

Derwin couldn't think of anything to say, so he said, "Thank you."

"Haven't seen you though."

"I don't get out... much."

Like Mrs. McLeish, Mr. Olson ran his eyes from the scar on Derwin's cheek to the cane in his hand. The only difference was that Mr. Olson's harsh features then softened. "Where were you wounded?" he asked.

A tremor started in Derwin's leg and spread until it turned into a pounding of his heart. He'd practiced this conversation in his mind, he could answer the question. Yet why had his throat suddenly gone dry? "Normandy," he said in a whisper, barely audible above the hammering of his pulse in his ears. Perhaps if he said it quietly and quickly enough, Mr. Olson would move on.

No such luck. "Damn," Mr. Olson said gravely, shaking his head. "I didn't even know that any boy in the neighborhood was there. My nephew, he was in the Pacific at the time, same as the Reyes boy. It was bad though, wasn't it?"

In line! In line!

Sarge, there's nowhere to jump!

"Do you still talk to anybody from your unit?" Mr. Olson continued, not noticing that Derwin hadn't answered him. He wrapped up the ham and the mince. There were smears and splotches of blood on his white apron. It made Derwin feel slightly sick to look at them, but he couldn't turn away.

Grunauer, please...

He really was going to be sick now. His chest felt tight. His breath came out in short, shallow gulps. His hands were cold, palms sticky with sweat. Mr. Olson stood with the packages of meat and the blood on his apron, watching him curiously. Without another word, Derwin turned and limped past the shelves and cases of goods, past the astonished shoppers and cashiers. Mr. Olson was calling after him but he didn't stop, didn't even pay attention to the twinge in his leg until he was out in the sun and the fresh air—

No, not fresh air. The smell of exhaust fume hit him, slamming him back into the burning plane, and this time, there was no Ford pushing him out the door. He stumbled blindly, wildly, trying to get away, anywhere but there—

There was a screech of brakes, and Derwin found himself jerked violently backward. Someone was shouting—shouting at him?—while another person was apologizing. Then the scent of frangipani and vanilla replaced the exhaust fume, and the fog around him cleared and he heard Alba saying frantically, "Derwin? Are you OK?"

He had almost walked into traffic. She'd pulled him to safety just in time.

Alba led him to a bench outside of Olson's and helped him sit down. "What happened back there?" she asked. She hadn't let go of his hand, as if she was afraid he was going to bolt again. Derwin held fast to her hand, grounding himself by her sight, her scent, her presence.

"Nothing," he managed to say, as his breathing got back to normal. "Mr. Olson asked me about the war and it—brought back some bad memories, that's all."

"I'm sorry," Alba said. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you on your own."

He shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

"You want to go home?"

The thought of being in the car, with its smell of fuel and confined space, made his heart race again. "I think I'll walk," he said.

"You almost killed yourself last time walking into town."

"I'll go slowly."

She watched him for a moment, then she said, "How about this? I drive home, get my bike, and give you a ride back on the bike. Can you do that? Can you wait for me here for half an hour?"

"I don't want to be a bother—"

"It's no bother. Here." She stood up and pressed something into his hand. It was her handkerchief, a simple cotton one embroidered with an A at the corner. "To wipe your face," she explained. "You can wait in the bakery, it's cooler there."

He felt like he never wanted to go into an enclosed space ever again. "No, I'll be fine here."

Alba nodded at him. "I'll be right back." She loaded their shopping into the car and drove off, while Derwin remained on the bench, clutching her handkerchief like a lifeline.

The half hour crawled by. Derwin focused on his breathing and let his eyes wander up and down the street, watching nothing in particular, trying to keep his mind blank. He got some more stares from the lunch crowd, but thankfully nobody approached him. Eventually, Alba's familiar figure rolled up on her bicycle, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Your chariot awaits, good sir," she said with a grin, patting the luggage rack on the back. Derwin climbed on, a little awkwardly, because of his leg and the cumbersome cane, and also because he had to hold on to Alba's waist to keep his seat. There was a bit of a wobble when Alba got on, but she soon adjusted to his weight and the bike rolled smoothly down the lane, toward the shelter of the swamp.

"This is just like when I was a kid, taking Beatriz to the soda fountain," Alba said, laughing softly. Sitting behind her, Derwin had to fight the urge to rest his head on her back. "Listen, Derwin, I know you said it's not my fault," she continued, oblivious to his torment, "but I think I may have pushed you too much too soon. You don't have to go with me into town if you don't want to. Just take your time and wait until you're ready."

At that moment, sitting so close to her, feeling the calm and quiet radiating from her, he felt invincible. And along with it came a sudden, intense desire to get better, to break free of this prison he'd built around himself. He would do it, not just for himself, but for her as well.

"No," he said decisively. "If I wait, I'll never be ready. I can try again."

Here is "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost, in case anyone is interested.

Taglist: @kitkat80

[sladez]

Au Ra April & Vierapril 2024

VI. Fave Weapon & Bloom

Seishin is at his happiest with dirt under his fingernails.

It is a meditative act, gardening. Tilling the soil with scarred fingers, twisting the roots of a weed around them and pulling it out by ghost-white tendrils. Sowing and reaping, cultivating; creating life with hands that take it.

He sits on his knees in the yard repentantly as he works amid vegetables and sheaves of amber. It’s smaller than the farm and gardens of his youth, but it fits them; it’s theirs. With fists that strike, that kill, he nurtures and protects. His hands are both his weapons and the tools of a healer.

He punches holes in the dirt to plant seeds. His arms bare the tale of revolution. On their surface scars crisscross like river channels. Some tell stories; many are lost to time. There are some he can name: a knuckle where a chisel slipped; a slash from Ran’jit’s scythe on his forearm; a chip on his ivory scales from a woodsaw; a lucky shot from a Garlean soldier whose name he’ll never know but whose life he ended with the same hand. He pats down the soil around the seeds like a grave and grabs a copper watering can to nourish them.

The sun is getting low and the air cool and dewy as he finishes his work planting and weeding. After putting the rest of his tools away he pulls from his belt a kama, the gentle curve of its blade glinting in the evening light, and makes his way to a stand of blooming brightlilies. In genuflection he kneels to them and wraps his fingers around the flower stalks like arteries and pulls them taut, holds the blade against their stems. The petals are vibrant bursts of sunset orange and yellow, and when Seishin cuts their shoots they come soft and willingly.

Inside, the lights are warm and a pleasant aroma hangs in the air. As Seishin removes his sandals in the entryway, a sweet voice greets him from around the corner. “Perfect timing, Seishin! Bertram should be done with dinner soon.” Styrnrael appears, in a sleeveless top and jacket tied around her waist, wiping the sweat from her brow with one hand and holding a broom with the other. “Oh!” she exclaims when she sees the flowers in his hands. A familiar tenderness spreads in Seishin’s chest when she smiles. She rests the broom against the wall and goes to him on the steps, bounding across the wooden floor with the same perfect balance she has on the battlefield. She puts her smaller hands on his as she leans in to smell the lilies. There is a resonance in the way the callouses on her sword hand rub against his scars.

She pulls away from the flowers and Seishin laughs and wipes some pollen that got on her nose, orange upon indigo. He rests his fingers against her horn and the dark scales on the side of her face and pulls her into a kiss. They stay for a moment, foreheads pressed together, smiling against each other’s lips. She holds her hand on his chest, just above the sweeping scar left by Zenos’ blade. Most of Styrnrael's own scars are on the inside, on her heart and her mind. Memories she had lost, and more she doubtless wishes she could. “I think I know the perfect thing to put these flowers in,” she says, and he follows her into the sunroom where she grabs a crystal blue vase from the bottom shelf of his planting bench. Before handing it to him she runs a cloth through the inside of the deep drum to clean out any dust. Her wrist flicks with the expert strokes of a fencer. Many stories have met sudden conclusions by that same movement.

“I’m going to go get changed before dinner,” she says, leaning up to kiss him again before they part. “Don’t forget to wash up!”

“I’ll be there soon,” he smiles, and after she leaves Seishin fills the vase with water and trims the stems at an angle. He peels the ends apart slightly with his fingertips: another little violence in the crafting of something beautiful. He takes his cobalt hair down and washes his hands, and grabs a clean overshirt from a hook next to Styrn’s sunhat.

He heads downstairs with vase in hand and his footsteps are gradually drowned out by the loud sizzle of meat and vegetables in a wok. A familiar sweet and savory smell fills Seishin’s nostrils. He rounds the corner at the bottom and Bertram is in the kitchen with his back turned. Under his apron his white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his own rosy map of scars of blade and fire. They tell the story of a survivor, against Word, against time, against despair; of pain and rebirth in the flame. He deftly wields a pair of long bamboo chopsticks, at home with them perhaps even more than he is with sword and scythe. One of his tall ears twitches toward the stairs and Bertram turns to Seishin and smiles; Seishin loves the way he ties his hair back when he cooks, revealing more of his face under his shock of red.

The dining room table is of live edge wood that Seishin had chopped and planed and sanded himself. Again and again life replacing death replacing life by his hand. He gently places the vase of flowers on it and joins Bertram in the kitchen, coming up behind the Viera and wrapping his arms tightly around him. “Hot stove, hot stove!” Bertram exclaims anxiously. “Hold on a moment…” He puts the chopsticks to the side and with mitts moves the wok off the woodfire stove onto a trivet. He spins around in Seishin’s arms, planting one hand on the edge of the counter behind him and carding his flamescarred fingers through Seishin’s hair with the other. “Okay, there we go. Honestly, Seishin—” and he pulls him down into a kiss. When Seishin laughs and apologizes Bertram just leans further into his lips, not letting him go. They hold each other for a moment longer before Bertram leans back and looks into his eyes. “If you want to help so bad, you could at least take these bowls to the table.”

Styrnrael emerges from their room in a loose tunic and wraps Bertram in a kiss of her own. Seishin walks past them holding a trio of rice bowls and she briefly reaches with her tail and catches his, the friction of their scales holding them tight. They set the table together: three warriors, three gardeners, three homemakers. And as they sit around the table, filling their home with soft laughter into the night around beautiful blooms of blue and lily-orange, Seishin looks down at the scars on all their hands, these that have created and destroyed and created again, and marvels that three people who have been prized by the world only for their sharp edges can at last find some gentleness together.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 1 Pt. 16 (Long Lost Brother?!)

The Nesbitts were extremely close knit, but Neal had been hiding an entire branch of his family tree from the moment he’d met Daisy 18 years ago.

His older brother, Karl, had run away from home the moment he turned eighteen and never looked back. Neal was only ten and worshipped his brother, and the estrangement devastated their parents. He couldn’t understand why Karl had left without a word and spent his formative years trying to forget his grief over the loss.

By the time he met Daisy after the deaths of his parents, he was better able to forget. His parents were gone, and so was Karl. He was alone when he met Daisy, who was herself alone. They didn’t need anyone – just each other. Karl just never came up.

But his omissions of truth came back to haunt him when he made a trip to Willow Creek during one of Daisy’s space missions. Though the UFO plant still hadn’t blossomed any fruit, he spotted a face he truly believed he’d never see again. When the brothers locked eyes with one another, they both knew, instantly, who the other was despite their years apart. Neal approached him cautiously. But Karl’s reasons for leaving had been despite his younger brother, not because of him. He was thrilled to see Neal, and they spent the entire day catching up outside the community centre.

Neal told him about his beautiful wife and amazing kids, and Karl said he’d remained a bachelor all his life, living in an apartment in San Myshuno. Despite the Nesbitts many trips to the city, they’d never run into each other before. Karl admitted he’d searched online for his brother and knew where to find him, he’d just been too afraid to make the first move, even after reading of the deaths of their parents. He was so proud of everything his younger brother had achieved, and Neal headed home knowing he would shock his family with the news of his long-lost brother.

The kids were excited for the chance to meet their uncle, but Daisy was more than a little bemused. She thought she knew everything about Neal, as he knew all about her, and couldn’t believe in all their years together he’d never even mentioned his brother. He’d even said he was an only child! Now, he wanted to introduce Karl back into his life as if nothing had ever happened. It made her wary, but she couldn’t refuse the bonds of family.

They invited Karl to dinner and the kids got along with their new uncle famously. Daisy’s career in astrobotany came up, as did her desire to grow and study her own UFO plant. As fate would have it, Karl worked on salary for a shadowy billionaire in the city, and one of his only regular tasks was to tend to a strange blue tentacled plant in his penthouse’s sunroom that looked exactly like the one she described. He was paid not to ask questions, but he despised gardening, and he made a deal with Daisy – if she could help him tend to it to make his boss happy, she could take one of the fruit harvests to grow her own plant at home.

Though she was a capable space cadet, this was by far the less risky option, and Neal loved to think she wouldn’t push herself too hard in such a dangerous profession. He wanted her to enjoy her missions knowing she’d finally found every plant she’d ever wanted, and Daisy wanted the same. Despite her initial trepidation over Karl’s introduction to their lives, she got to know him on almost daily visits to the city until the plant was ready for harvest. She came to understand why Neal’s way of coping with his brother’s disappearance was to think of himself without a brother to have lost. Now, of course, there was no going back. Karl was an accepted member of their extended family.

What would the newly-expanded Nesbitt clan get up to over the coming Winterfest holidays? ->

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