#terra cotta steps

[fairdig]

Patio Brick Pavers Mid-sized southwestern backyard brick patio design with an addition to the roof

[laineydiemond]

Photo of a mid-sized southwestern full sun front yard stone landscaping.

[biggsunko]

Exterior Stucco Phoenix Idea for a medium-sized Mediterranean yellow stucco exterior home with two stories and a tile roof.

[compelamaserati]

Austin Pool

Image of a medium-sized transitional backyard fountain with a rectangular lap pool and concrete pavers

[themightyif]

Dining Room - Mediterranean Dining Room Large image of a dining room enclosed in Tuscan terra-cotta tiles with white walls, a regular fireplace, and a stone fireplace.

[magisource]

Portland Tropical Landscape Inspiration for a mid-sized tropical shade front yard mulch landscaping in summer.

[betsyloop]

Exterior Stucco Phoenix Idea for a medium-sized Mediterranean yellow stucco exterior home with two stories and a tile roof.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This lovely 1928 Spanish villa in New Castle, IN looks in need of repair on the exterior, but the interior is beautiful. 5bds, 4ba, $779k.

Isn't this amazing? It's bringing the outdoors in, b/c it looks like a outside courtyard.

This is so beautiful, I wonder if they would leave the big plants. Look at the stairs and balcony. Love the arches, too. And, look at the wood & lattice leaded glass doorway on the left. The architecture is wonderful.

The ceiling is glass, so to block out too much sun and give it a real outdoorsy look, they've installed a canvas canopy with delightful yellow & white stripes.

The wood doorway opens to this living room with a fireplace and tall ceiling with wood beams.

The fireplace is stunning.

Very large dining room- it has 2 tables. The room has a lovely wall of wood accents and a matching wood ceiling.

Here's a wrought iron rail that blocks a steep step. The home has so many pretty touches. The floors are typically terra cotta in color, but a fancier style.

The kitchen is smallish, but there's a double stove and lots of cabinets.

Part of it is galley style and it's unique. Look at the scrolled wood door.

The mezzanine is beautiful with it's railings and arches.

The bedrooms are all large, but this is the primary. Look at the crown light fixtures.

This bedroom has a pitched wooden ceiling with a built-in desk.

Cute vintage bath.

Upstairs sitting room.

A larger vintage bath. This house has wonderful bathrooms. I hope the new owner doesn't renovate them.

One of the smaller bedrooms is an average size.

Look at the tile in this bath.

They use this basement room for storage, but there's a great stone fireplace down here.

Wow, this is a large wine cellar. It could use a little decor.

And, there's also a workshop down here. Looks like kitchen cabinets. I wonder if there was kitchenette.

There's a very large brick patio with a privacy wall.

The property is 2.90 acres, so there's a lot of land.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/800-Hawthorn-Rd-New-Castle-IN-47362/85350243_zpid/

[rwac96]

Prompt

Professor Au

8 months of carrying their first child, weiss finally given birth to the baby girl, jaune was there with her providing support, in the waiting room friends and family are waiting to meet Arc-Schnee love child, when nurse said it was ready to meet the baby, jaune's mother rushed in pushing her son aside.

"Oh, my Gods," said a relieved Jaune Arc, his ocean eyes staring at his newborn daughter with Weiss. "She's...She's beautiful."

"She is," Weiss nods lightly, holding the swaddled infant. "Hello, sweetie." The Middle Schnee coos to her baby.

"Hey," Jaune says in a similar tone, reaching out with his finger to touch his daughter's cheek, who gurgled in response.

---

"Gawds!" Nora groaned as she lay against one of the chairs in the waiting room, "How long does it take to squirt a baby out?!"

"Nora!" Ren calmed his wife down, "It takes time."

"Oh, Gods," the hammer-wielder grimaced, her teal eyes moving down to her own slightly swollen stomach. "I'm dreading when it's my turn."

"It's not so bad," Terra Cotta Arc said, sitting next to Saphron while their seven-year-old son was sound asleep. "I mean, it was painful when I gave birth to Adrian."

"Mama!" Squeaked a blonde, cat-eared toddler sitting on Blake's lap. "I'm tirsty."

"Okay, Nala," Blake reaches into her violet bag, pulling out a sippy cup and handing it to her daughter.

"I hope Weiss' okay," Ruby Rose said, clutching Oscar's hand as she worried for her best friend and teammate.

"I'm sure she'll be okay," the former host of Ozma spoke up, "she's been through worse."

"Childbirth's different, Oscar," Yang pointed out, "my first memory: Mom screaming like a banshee when Ruby was comin'."

"YANG!" The leader of Team RWBY's cheeks reddened at her sister, who snickered in response.

Then, the doors opened, and a nurse stepped out. "Ladies and gentlemen," she spoke, "you can now see the baby--."

"FINALLY!!" Juniper "Mama" Arc screamed as she rose out of her seat and rushed towards the delivery room, despite her age and the protest of the nurse. "I WANNA SEE MY NEW GRANDBABY!!"

"Uh," Adrian opens his eyes due to his grandmother's outburst, "is my new cousin here yet?"

[novankenn]

Ice Cream Social?

A snippet from "a Mafia" AU

Pyrrha Nikos, formerly the Goddess of Death. Once the Invincible One. Was NOT happy, and very uncomfortable. Jaune Arc, the former target of a contact killing that she had only a couple short months ago attempted to cash in on without her mother's knowledge, was dragging her into a "Mom & Pop" Ice-Cream Parlor. The once assassin now "secret" girl-friend was VERY uncomfortable in such social gatherings.

"Jaune can we?" Pyrrha tentatively asked as they prepared to enter the establishment.

"Pyr?" Jaune asked, his voice indicating his confusion at his "bodyguard's" resistance. "Is something wrong?"

"No... maybe... yes?" Pyrrha stuttered out.

"Ah... huh?" Jaune raised an eye brow. He withdrew his hand from the action of pushing open the establishment's main door. "That was... confusing. Is there something wrong, Pyr? You know you can tell me anything right?"

"Anything... su... sure. I... know that." Pyrrha replied, while her in her mind she pictured Jaune's mother and sisters giving her a glare. Pyrrha KNEW she couldn't tell Jaune the reality of the world, that she was part of, and that his family was shielding him from.

"Pyr?"

"It's just... just I feel underdressed... and I've never... gone to one of these before." Pyrrha's voice faded from tentative to barely above a whisper as she answered.

"It's an Ice Cream social, Pyr." Jaune informed her. "It's not a big deal, just a bunch of us spending money on ice-cream to help a local charity."

"But... still..." Pyrrha stammered, a slight embarrassed blush coloring her cheeks. It was a combined reaction, one from not knowing how to be average and normal, along with the fact she was acutely aware of Jaune's hands cupping own.

"Wait here." Jaune smiled, that warm goofy, comforting gesture. Pyrrha's heart skipped several beats every time he used it on her.

"Jaune?" Pyrrha asked suddenly wishing he hadn't released her hands.

Her scroll buzzed in her pocket as Jaune stepped through the door, leaving her alone outside. Pulling it out after loosing sight of Jaune in the crowd gathered in the shop, she opened the messaging application. It was a message from Terra. Jaune's sister-in-law, and a member of the legendary Sisters of Mercy. A fact when revealed caused Pyrrha to seriously question many of her life choices.

"Stop being a fraidy-cat and woman up, Nikos!"

"What? How? Where?" Pyrrha typed out in response.

"Inside. To your left." was the repsonse.

Pyrrha looked up from her scroll and in the direction instructed. There seated at the counter running the length of the massive plate glass windows was Terra Cotta-Arc. Eating a rather large and overly topped sundae. Pyrrha actually was surprised at just how many toppings the dusky skinned woman had piled onto the dish. So many in fact she couldn't even tell what flavor of ice-cream she was eating.

Terra smiled at the former assassin, as she took another heaping spoonful of toppings. Raising her free hand she wiggled her fingers at Pyrrha, before dropping her hand back to the table and typing something out on her scroll.

"You need to woman up there, Goddess. You won't catch Jaune's eye acting like some pre-teen school girl."

"I am not!"

"Yes you are." Terra replied. "You fell for him, not step up and stake your claim before some skank steps in."

"I would never let that happen!"

"There's that fire!" Terra replied, "Now... oh never mind."

"Huh?" Pyrrha responded, until she head the bell chime as the door was opened. Looking up, he blush became instantly nuclear. In a complete replay of their first face to face interaction Jaune was standing before her, a simple, plain ice-cream cone held out to her.

(Commissioned Image by @pilot-boi)

"Ja... Jaune?"

"Here Pyr." Jaune stepped forward holding the slowly starting to melt creamy treat. "I made my donation, and got you a treat. We can go somewhere else, if this make you that uncomfortable."

"I..." Pyrrha hesitated. Her scrolled buzzed, and she took a quick glance. It was another message from Terra.

"Pussy. Take the cone!"

"Pyr?" Jaune questioned, a look of concern, "I thought you liked vanilla? Did I mes..."

"NO!" Pyrrha shouted, startling Jaune. He almost dropped the cone, and if it wasn't for Pyrrha's honed reflexes it would have been lost to the sidewalk. "Thank you."

Jaune's faltering smile returned twenty-fold, making Pyrrha almost swoon, as he lifted the cone with a shaking hand and gave it a lick. Pyrrha actually preferred cookies-n-cream, but each time Jaune got her vanilla... it tasted like heaven.

"Good girl. ;-)" appeared on her scroll. Pyrrha hurriedly stuffed the object into her pocket before reaching out and tentatively taking Jaune's hand.

"Want some?" Pyrrha asked her cheeks glowing a vibrant red, as she held the cone out towards Jaune.

Jaune didn't lick the cone, but instead took a bite off the opposite side that she had been licking. His goofy ice-cream coated grin making Pyrrha's heart fluttered.

"Want to go for a walk in the park?" Jaune asked.

Pyrrha nodded, as she let Jaune take her hand, and when he wasn't looking twisted her cone about and took her own bite off the side of the cone he had. She felt her scroll buzz, and buzz and buzz. Obviously her little action didn't go unnoticed. Pyrrha was dreading what those messages would say once she looked at them. Taking another bite from her cone, she let Jaune lead the way towards thier next destination.

[vague-humanoid]

When I stepped into John Roe’s apartment early last December, slipping off my boots at the elevator that opens into the home, it wasn’t immediately clear that people inhabited the space, let alone a child. The four-bedroom, four-and-a-half bath Manhattan residence looked like a showroom. In the living room, a white minimalist couch with no arms confronted two white bouclé chairs. White couch, white lamps, white walls. Even Roe’s wife, Cherry, wore white. Charlotte of the Upper West Side has no dust, she told me—unlike the couple’s previous home, on the sixty-second floor of the Four Seasons Private Residences. Above my head, gentle classical music issued from invisible speakers.

Roe, a ruddy Asian man who wore a pink polo shirt tucked into khaki pants, is the developer of this nine-story brick and terra-cotta building, named after his daughter. His goal, Roe said, was to create the most immaculate and sustainable indoor environment possible. He obtained a Passive House Institute certification, which recognizes when buildings minimize the energy used for heating and cooling with airtight seals and insulation. (Such measures can decrease energy consumption by up to 90 percent.) To reduce residents’ inhalation of volatile organic compounds, Roe employed nontoxic building materials. Indeed, the star of Charlotte is its air. Each unit sports its own Swiss-engineered ventilation system, called Zehnder. On an iPad, Roe showed me the app that gives residents control over what they breathe.

The building’s approach to filtration is undeniably sophisticated. The air in each unit isn’t shared with any other. Outside air is brought in, filtered, treated with an ultraviolet-C light that kills 99.9 percent of pathogens, and completely changed out once per hour. Circulation can be boosted or slowed. Most apartments with similar systems recycle the air every four to five hours a day. “We were thinking, if we’re already going to build a Ferrari, then why would we only give it a 200-horsepower engine?” Roe said. “Let’s put a 1,000-horsepower engine into it.” The quadruple-layer, triple-paned windows feature museum-quality glass and are generally opened only for cleaning. Otherwise, you’d let in air far dirtier than what’s circulating inside.

At night, when Roe’s family is sleeping, it “smells like you’re camping, because the fresh air is getting pumped in at such a rapid rate,” he said. You know the air is good, he told me, because the hydrangeas last. Typically, when cut at the stem and arranged in a vase, the delicate flowers wither and droop in a few days. In his apartment, the blooms will stay perky for nearly two weeks.

@karpad @ubernegro @redstarovermoundcity @socialistexan

[howlingday]

So a Knightfall prompt: Cinder can't stand children and babies. Her rough upbringing and their constant needing is pain for her to handle. But she is meeting Sarrfon,Terra and Jaune's favorite little guy Adrian. So she has to fake till she makes it. Or gets Baby fever after a disaster of watching Adrian and yet still loving him.

Cinder Fall was far from a good person. She'd done many an unsavory thing in her life. She'd lied, cheated, stole, and did anything and everything she could to survive, and even then some when her life wasn't already in danger. In the eyes of many, she was a monster. However, to her boyfriend, Jaune Arc, she was... Well, she was still awful, but she was making amends now.

Still, she didn't deserve such torture. She sat in the living room and watched as Jaune played with cars and trucks with his nephew, Adrian Cotta Arc. The young Arc scion was barely four years old and was already the most terrifying person in the room to Cinder. She couldn't explain it, but children made her feel more uncomfortable than any person or creature she'd encountered, and yes, that's including the Grimm, Neopolitan, and Tyrian Callows.

"Oh, I gotta take a call."

"No!" The child shouted. "You play!"

"It's work, buddy, I gotta." Those beautiful blue eyes fell on Cinder and filled her with dread. "Can you play with him?"

"M-Me?" Cinder felt chills over her body. "I don't think that's such a-"

"It's just for a couple minutes. Please, Cinder?"

"I..." She looked to the toddler, who was staring at her with wide eyes. "What are we playing?"

"Thank you, honey." Jaune then walked away, pulling free his scroll as he stepped out. "Hey, it's me."

"Are we... playing with trucks, or..."

KCHOO! Cinder flinched at the sudden sneeze from the youngling. Snot and drool dribbled from his face. He rubbed his face with his sleeve, smearing mucus all over himself. Suddenly, Cinder wasn't alone with a child, but with a biological weapon that threatened her immune system. He looked to her, as if he were expecting her to react some way.

Taking hold of the tissue box, if only to defend herself from the goo-covered child, she plucked a tissue from its contents. She then got closer and began wiping him. He started to giggle from it, even as she was wiping around his face. He was enjoying being cleaned after, the little monster. Tossing away the wipe, she looked to him once more.

"So... what are we playing?" She asked, silently hoping he didn't sneeze as a response again.

"Shoot!"

"Excuse me?"

"Shoot!"

Cinder looked outside, seeing Jaune still on his scroll. A few minutes he said. If it was only a few minutes, it was the longest she'd experienced. She then looked to Adrian, who'd gone to his toy chest and pulled free a toy gun. In one hand was a projectile with a suction cup. He handed them both to her, which she took as a sign to help him load the weapon. Off-handedly loading the toy, she handed it back, though cautious of him shooting something in the house and breaking-

POP!

"Ow!" Cinder rubbed her lips, having been shot by her traitorous, little charge. He handed them back to her, expecting her to be dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice. This time, though, she held onto the gun and pointed it at the back of Jaune's head. This wouldn't kill him, of course, but it would be funny. After a few seconds, as he turned towards the window, she fired on him, making him jump. Adrian squealed with joy, partially from the scare and partially from the suction cup sticking to the mirror.

Suddenly, she felt Adrian tug at her dress. He wanted a turn to shoot his uncle. Giving a smirk, she handed plucked the "bullet" from the window, loaded it into the "gun," and handed it to him. Jaune, now fully aware of the events inside, stood at profile, occasionally eyeing the two. Another shot was fired, another scare for the uncle, and another laugh from the toddler.

--------------------------------------------------

"So, what did you think?" Jaune asked.

She could have asked for clarity, but she didn't because she didn't need any. She knew he was talking about Adrian. The child left an unquestionable impression on her, though it wasn't all good. And she wasn't one to lie to Jaune. Not anymore, anyways.

"He's cute." She said flatly, like it was a fact rather than an opinion. "But he's also disgusting."

"What, because he sneezed?"

"He didn't just sneeze." Cinder argued. "He exploded with snot then soaked himself with it." She shuddered.

"Never took you for a germaphobe." Jaune chuckled. "But yeah, kids can be gross."

"I wasn't." Cinder said.

"Well, we can't all be perfect, Cinder."

"Nobody can." Cinder replied, tossing her hair. "At least not as perfect as I am." Jaune rolled his eyes. "But he is cute."

"Have you ever thought about having kids?"

"I have." Cinder answered. "But don't get your hopes up, Jaune. I can't stand children, even if they were mine." Jaune gave a grunt in reply. "Although..." Jaune looked to Cinder, who was looking back to the Cotta-Arc residence. "I'm willing to make an exception for him."

[regulus-books]

183 words - spring - @jegulus-microfic

Regulus wakes up in the morning to a rough crashing noise, startling him. He immediately rushes out of the warm covers, skipping steps down the stairs and swinging into the kitchen.

His unruly haired husband is standing in the middle of the room, face paused in a grimace, his hands stuck in place. A pot is shattered on the floor, shards of terra cotta clay are scattered all over the room. The anxiety that was settled in Regulus' stomach withers away rather quickly.

James' eyes finally meet Regulus', an apologetic look in them. "I'm sorry, Reg, it was supposed to be a surprise." He frowns, standing back up to his full height.

"What're you doing, hm?" Regulus walks up to him, wrapping his arms around James' neck, as James' fall to his hips.

"I was gonna plant your apples, you know? Spring's coming up."

"That's okay, Jamie. Now we can do it together. But you're cleaning this up first, okay?" Regulus smiles, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss on James' lips, a wink and then back up the stairs to brush his teeth.

[conditioned-to-obey]

i'm a submissive type, but i think i should take a step back from subbing for a while and just be alone. i don't know if i can do this anymore. i've been abandoned by multiple doms in the past. how can i sub if i don't trust them(a new one)?(rhetorical question, i can't) how do i know the next won't? i am filled with sadness and strangely rage(i think) i feel i may be overreacting

That is completely understandable, doll. You are not overreacting, you are saying how you feel in this moment of hurt and loss. It is natural, as in any relationship to feel guarded and ambivalent. Treat this as an opportunity to be gentle with and for yourself. You can put down all the heavy stuff and come back to subbing when you feel you are ready. It'll be there when you return, if you so choose to.

It'll be alright, give yourself time to heal and plenty of room in your new terra cotta pot to grow. The old one may just be too small to fit all of the healthy growth in store.

Wishing you the very best, doll.

[emmtropywrites]

"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 5: Growing Pains

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Also on AO3

The next four weeks have you walking on air. Filled with gentle touches and kisses on her fingers, face, and forehead, you find yourself expressing a side of your emotions that rarely sees the light. Shadowheart seems to have an anxiety around affection, both showing and receiving it, but she works hard to overcome this with small, consistent gestures. While going on walks, she loops your arm with hers, and her visits with you increase to twice a day. She even brings in books that she’s reading and shares passages that she thinks you’ll like. This makes you blush quite often, and you admit that her voice is one of your favorite things about her.

Today, it’s your one-month anniversary, and while your brain is telling you not to get too mushy, your heart is tempted to try your hand at poetry. Adjusting your clothes in your mirror, you hope that your outfit is fancy enough for the restaurant you’ll be meeting Shadowheart at this evening.

You leave for the restaurant, feeling both nervous and excited. Upon arriving right on time, you give the host your name for the reservation, and are seated at a table for two in a window bay. Since you got here first, you take the time to look over the menu and order the bottle of wine you know she will like the best. Then you wait.

And wait. And after the first thirty minutes, you begin to get anxious. You wonder if she maybe got the time wrong. You have a glass of wine to try and calm down. Another half-hour passes, and your anxiety turns to worry. After waiting another fifteen minutes, you pay for the wine, trying not to let the server’s sympathetic smile get under your skin. Then you step outside into the cool evening air, taking deep breaths, tears pricking at your eyes.

Should you go to Shadowheart’s flat? Maybe she’s sick, or something happened to her. She seemed alright yesterday… Maybe you’d said something and she was angry with you? 

Deciding that you should check on her, you make your way over to the building where she lives. The landlady, Mrs. Thomas, opens the door when you knock. “Hi there Mrs. Thomas, do you know if Shadowheart is in?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll go and check for you,” she responds, inviting you into the parlor. “I say dear, are you alright?” She adds upon seeing your red eyes. You give a short nod, but don’t trust yourself to say anything. “Well, I’ll just head on up and check.”

Mrs. Thomas is a kind old woman, and Shadowheart had been glad that you two had gotten along when she’d first introduced you. You three had taken tea in this parlor, and you had gotten the sense that Shadowheart considered the old woman as not a landlady, but a friend. Now, you sit and try to breathe deeply while taking in the various artworks and dried flowers that decorate the green-wallpapered room.

You make a mental note that you would like to bring a custom dried bouquet for the short terra cotta urn that sits on a windowsill. Something with elegance, like pale pink roses, but also something with whimsy, like white veronica. Silver coin eucalyptus would drape nicely, and would match the cool tones of the-

Mrs. Thomas shuffles back into the room, and you stand quickly. “Shadowheart is here, but she’s, ah, in a bad way,” she confides somberly. “She didn’t say why.”

Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re climbing the stairs to the third floor and knocking on Shadowheart’s door. “Hey, it’s, uh, it’s me,” you call softly.

You hear movement, then a beat of silence, then, “I’m afraid I’m rather unsightly right now.”

“Well I can close my eyes if you’d like,” you respond.

You hear her give a quick huff of amusement, before she says, “I’m sure you look wonderful. I look like a mess.”

So she hadn’t forgotten about your date. “I’d offer to take off my fripperies, but I doubt Mrs. Thomas would appreciate a nudist in her hallway.”

This gains a full laugh from her, and you hear the locks click open. Then Shadowheart is standing before you in a gray nightgown, her silver hair hanging tangled and mussed around her torso. Her face is red, puffy, and streaked with tears, eyeliner smudged around her lids. Upon seeing your outfit, she tries for a smile, but starts to cry again as she says, “I was right, you do look wonderful.”

You’ve seen her anxious, annoyed, concerned, and downcast, but you haven’t seen her cry before. Carefully, you step into the room, closing the door softly behind you. Then you reach out for her, offering to hold her but still not sure if you’ve caused her some pain.

Shadowheart immediately draws close to you, burying her face in your shoulder as she sobs. Your arms wrap around her, one hand placed gently on the back of her head. You feel her sobs shake her body, and you carefully guide her over to her couch so you can sit together. Gradually, as you stroke her hair, you feel her breaths begin to slow, and her body begin to relax.

When she raises her head again, she says, “I’m so sorry, this is very unfair of me.”

You furrow your brow. “There’s no need to apologize, Shadowheart, you’re clearly going through something.”

“Yes, but I- today was supposed to be-” she looks like she’s going to start crying again, but taking a deep breath, she instead says, “Today is our one month anniversary together. But yesterday was… was the anniversary of my parents’ death. And I’ve been so caught up in how happy I am with you, that I… I forgot.”

She had told you about how Shar had offered her a deal, to either keep her parents and live with pain, or live without Shar’s constant presence, sacrificing her mother and father for peace. Having chosen the latter option, she didn’t live with guilt, per say, but you knew the emotional wound was just as painful as her physical one had been.

“I didn’t realize that was something I could forget, and now I’m scared that I’m turning into someone I don’t want to be,” she continues, gripping your hands. “I don’t want to be someone who just doesn’t care about those I’ve lost!”

“Whoa, slow down,” you say gently, rubbing your thumbs on the backs of her hands. “You clearly do care, otherwise you wouldn’t be this torn up about it.”

“But how can I be sure that I won’t forget other important things about my loved ones? What if I end up forgetting our anniversary? What if I forget a friend’s birthday, or a special occasion?”

You detangle your fingers and instead take her face in your hands. “Shadowheart, forgetting doesn’t mean you don’t care. We all forget things, and I don’t think your parents would fault you for finding happiness.”

She looks at you with wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t want to forget anything. Shar forced me to give up memories for so long. I can’t forget, not again.”

You nod. “Then I’ll help you remember. We can put together a planner of important dates, and make scrapbooks of important moments, and- and keep mementos and trinkets and the like. And most importantly, I’ll remind you not to hate yourself, because you’re allowed to make mistakes.”

Her panicked expression softens, and she asks hesitantly, “You’re not angry with me?”

“Not at all. I was anxious, mostly. I worried I had done or said something to upset you, or that something had happened to you.”

She takes one of your hands and kisses your palm. “I’m sorry-” she starts, but cuts herself off and starts again. “Thank you for being so understanding. You mean so much to me, I…” She takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

The joy you feel is different from the elation you felt upon your first kiss. This joy is sturdy, wide, a strong feeling that fortifies your bones and confirms what you already knew deep inside. “I love you too,” you respond, seeing relief and happiness spread across her face.

Then you both start upon hearing a knock on the door. “It’s only me, dears,” says Mrs. Thomas, voice muffled through the wood. “I’ve brought you some tea, I thought it might do you some good.”

You get up and open the door, taking the tray with the teapot and two cups from her hands. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Thomas,” you say with a smile. “This is just what we needed.”

The old woman nods, smiling, and heads back downstairs. You turn to see Shadowheart cleaning off space from a low table in the middle of the room. Her flat is large, but is separated into different rooms with partial walls, meaning that the layout is a little limited. When you set the tea tray down, she says, “Collecting memories with you sounds lovely, but I’ll need a bigger flat if I’m to be able to store all of them.”

“Or we could get a house,” you venture carefully. “Not now, obviously. But I’ve been thinking about how much we both dislike the city, and I think having our own space would be very helpful.”

Her eyes light up at this suggestion, and she sighs and says, “Yes, I think I would like that very much.”

[leiawritesstories]

Varese, Reimagined

Rowaelin Month, Day 30: Alternate Canon Scene

sh*ttiest title ever, i know, and also super horribly late but we'll ignore that because....college 🙃 anyway here's a lil alternate canon scene thing based on the idea of "age reversal"

Word count: 2.3k (currently)

Warnings: swearing, bickering, fighting, weapons, sassy Rowan, snarky Aelin, mentions of Maeve

enjoy!!!

@rowaelinscourt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gods, it was boiling in her cousin's useless excuse for a kingdom. 

Maybe it just felt that way because the terra-cotta rooftop she was currently perched on had been baking in the sun for hours, but still…if Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was going to survive another day of waiting for her darling aunt Maeve to make a godsdamned move, she needed more wine. She reached to her left, where she could have sworn there was a glass bottle of cheap, unripened wine that she’d swiped from a vendor yesterday, but the bottle was gone. 

She turned, blinking in the harsh sunlight, and found the rutting bottle teetering on the edge of the rooftop as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to fall. Before she could roust herself to lunge for it, the damn thing tipped over the edge and crashed to the cobbled street with a symphony of shattered glass. 

Hells. 

Grumbling some of the more creative curses she knew–three centuries of life had their benefits, it seemed–Aelin swung her sleep-stiff body upright, stretched the creaks and cracks out of her limbs, and darted across the tiled rooftop towards a convenient drainpipe. She wrapped her legs around the sturdy clay pipe and slid with feline grace down into the alley below. 

The instant she set foot into the street, her senses were assaulted with the acrid scents of sweat, spices, alcohol, and the clamor of too many people crammed into the vendor-lined street market. Even without her Fae senses, the sensory commotion was nearly enough to topple her. She sighed, tucked her face into the shadows of her hood, and joined the throngs of people bustling through the market. 

It was laughably easy to swipe some roasted meat on a stick and a flask of wine from various stalls, and she ate the food quickly, washing it down with the absolutely terrible wine. Gods above. If she happened to visit Galan’s castle like Adarlan thought she was going to, she’d need to have some words with her human cousin about the piss-poor quality of his kingdom’s wine. She dropped the empty flask in a gutter, swiped a new one from a different vendor, and sauntered back into the alley, intending to slip back up to the rooftops to watch the stars appear. 

The back of her neck prickled as she turned into the alley. It took her all of three seconds to identify the presence of a male body in the shadows near the end of the alley, so she stopped in her tracks and took a long draft of the wine–marginally better than the other one, but still godsdamned awful. Then, summoning all the bravado she could, she spoke. 

“If you’re here to kill me, you might as well get it over with.” 

There was a rustle, and a tall, muscular, cloaked Fae figure stepped into the soft orange glow of the single streetlamp. “I’m not here to kill you.” His face was hidden by the shadows of his hood, but from the depth of his voice, she could tell he was an adult. At least Maeve hadn’t sent some quivering youngling. 

“Really?” She kept her tone conversational. “Because lurking in the back corners of an alley certainly seems conducive to a friendly greeting.” Sarcasm oozed into the end of that sentence, and she waited for the male’s retort. 

“I’ve been sent to bring you to Doranelle.” The words rushed out too quickly to be natural–he’d memorized that line, probably at the hand of Maeve herself. “Her Majesty would prefer to meet you alive, but she is not averse to the sight of your corpse.” 

“How unfortunate that I have no intention of meeting her, dead or alive.” Aelin tossed the flask into the side of the alley. 

The male strode forward, each pace eating up the distance between her and him. “It is not my desire to harm you.” Swift as the wind, he darted behind her, knife glinting in his hand, and made to immobilize her. 

Centuries of training with Terrasen’s (and other kingdoms’) military and years of Arobynn’s relentless harshness had made Aelin just as swift and twice as lethal, though, and she dodged his attack, countering with a well-placed boot to his upper thigh. He grunted and lunged towards her, and she grabbed a fistful of his cloak and twisted, destabilizing him. 

“Shit,” he yelped, jerking himself back onto his feet but losing his cloak in the process. He stumbled a few steps back, as if it would stop her from assessing him. 

She swept a keen gaze over him, from his silvery, braided hair to his well-worn boots. “A Whitethorn, hmm?” A grin curled across her face. “I’ve never met a Whitethorn.” 

“Prince Rowan Whitethorn,” the male snapped, as if her borderline-lustful comment had hit precisely the nerve she wanted to hit. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Prince.” Aelin smirked, and with a tight exhale, she shifted into her Fae form. “I’m sure my lovely auntie has told you all about me.” From the poorly-suppressed flicker of fear in his emerald eyes, she deduced that Maeve indeed had. “Don’t be afraid, little prince,” she purred. “You’ll wake up a little dazed, but it will be alright.” 

Rowan glowered. “Do not call me that,” he hissed. “I am thirty-four, not a rutting child.” 

Aelin chuckled. “My mistake. When one has lived centuries, it is easy to forget how childish we all were for our first century.” 

“You–you’re–but we thought–” He was, for once, lost for words. 

“Has nobody taught you manners, prince?” She clicked her tongue. “It is terribly impolite to ask a lady her age.” Darting forward with whip-swift speed, she swung the hilt of her dagger at Rowan’s temple, aiming to knock him unconscious. 

He caught her wrist with barely centimeters to spare. “No so fast, Galathynius,” he growled. “I. Am. Taking. You. To. My. Queen.” 

“Now, now, there’s no need to speak down to me,” she chided, teasingly. “You forget that I have a century or three on you, young one.” 

Ire flared in those pine eyes. “And I have your knife hand in a–ooooof!” He’d been so distracted trying to keep her wriggling knife hand in his grasp that he hadn’t noticed her knee gradually slipping back until she rammed it directly into his groin. 

“I don’t want to do this any more than you do, Whitethorn.” Aelin set her face into placid blankness. Doubled over, clutching his manhood, Rowan wheezed, unable to form speech. “But I do so hope we shall meet again.” With that, she bashed the hilt of her knife into the male’s temple. 

He dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the cobblestones. She held the back of her wrist over his mouth to make sure he was breathing, then swiftly tied up the slumbering Whitethorn prince, and propped him up in the same dark corner where he’d been waiting for her. 

“Sleep well, Whitethorn,” she crooned, blowing him a kiss as she left. 

~

Rowan’s head hurt worse than it had since the first time he let the Moonbeam twins take him to a tavern. The agonizing throbbing pounded insistently through the fog of his brain as he fought his way out of sleep, his memories blurred, fuzzy. What in ten hells had happened? He reached for his head to see if there was a bump or a bruise. 

And found his arms bound tightly behind his back. 

Hellas himself. 

The memories of the night before suddenly flooded back with crystal clarity. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Working on orders from his Queen, Rowan had tracked down the elusive princess, followed her scent into its freshest mark, hidden himself in the shadows, and waited, patiently, for the supposedly alcoholic, supposedly human princess to make her appearance. 

Everything he thought he knew about her was wrong. Rutting hell, everything Doranelle thought they knew about the Galathynius princess was wrong. She was far from the lost, drunken, half-feral assassin they thought she was–not only was she perfectly in control of herself, but she was coherent, shrewd, fought with a terrifyingly unfamiliar blend of military, assassin, and unknown technique, had enough Fae heritage to shift, and was bleeding immortal. Queen Maeve would have his head on a fucking spike if he returned emptyhanded. 

Muffling a frustrated scream, Prince Rowan Whitethorn started working his fingers around the ropes binding him hand and foot. He’d be rutting damned if he couldn’t get out of the bonds within an hour, and if he had to use a knife to do it, then so be it. 

As he grappled with the last knot standing between him and enough freedom to move his hands properly–of course, this would be the least maneuverable knot–Rowan heard a soft, amused chuckle, and it was with no small amount of dread that he dragged his gaze up and found Aelin Galathynius leaning against the alley wall, hood tipped back just enough to partially reveal her stunning face–still Fae, he noticed–her smirk razor-sharp in the afternoon sunlight. 

“Are you familiar with Illyrian knots, Whitethorn?” 

He scowled and bit his tongue, forcing himself not to answer. 

She chuckled. “Probably not, I keep forgetting I learned those knots two hundred years ago.” She took two paces forward, bringing herself close enough that her scent–jasmine, lemon, and the crackling tang of fire–drifted into his Fae nose. “In simplest terms, the more you tinker with the knot, the tighter and more tangled it will get.” 

“Hellas,” Rowan grunted. 

“No, a Hellas knot is far simpler to undo.” Mirth laced her words. 

He sighed and dropped his almost-freed hands in defeat. “You’ll just abandon me in this godsforsaken alley, then?” 

She hummed. “As much as I’d like to leave you to the urchins and street thugs, I believe my darling aunt is waiting, and it seems I need one of Maeve’s own to get into Doranelle.” 

For an instant, hope raced through his veins. “So you’re setting me free?” 

Aelin tipped her head back and laughed. 

A fierce blush scorched across Rowan’s dark tan face. “Am I to be let in on this hilarious joke?” 

“Respect your elders, young one,” Aelin drawled, lazily rolling a throwing star back and forth across her gloved knuckles. “I’m offering you a choice, Whitethorn. Either you stay here and rot in this pathetic excuse for a respectable street–unless, of course, you figure out how to unravel an Illyrian knot before nightfall–or you serve as my guide to dear old Auntie Maeve.” A frighteningly sweet smile curved her full lips. “The choice is yours.” 

“Not much of a choice,” he snarked. Deep down, though, he had already decided.

She shrugged. “We all have to learn about one-sided choices somehow.”

He clamped his lips together, refusing to submit to the painfully obvious decision for as long as he could stand. Just say it, Whitethorn! shrieked the little voice inside his head. You know perfectly damn well you’ll be useless in an attack if you’re still tied up!

“Enjoy your new home, then.” Aelin’s voice held absolutely no shreds of emotion; she merely turned on her heel and started to leave the alley. 

“Wait!” His hoarse yell cracked through the hot, still air. “I-I’ll do it.” 

Slowly, with the kind of graceful confidence that only came from lifetimes of experience, she turned back around and prowled towards him, stopping when she reached the knife she’d left on the sun-warmed cobblestones. “A wise decision, prince.” 

He grunted. “Get me out of these ropes.” 

For the second time in ten minutes, she threw back her head and laughed. “You think you’re giving me orders?” She flicked a mirthful tear off her cheek with the point of the knife–a feat Rowan refused to admit made admiration rush through him. “Hardly, Prince Rowan.” She smirked, the expression purely Fae, tinged with just enough wickedness to make his heart stutter. 

It made him wonder just how Aelin’s eventual meeting with Queen Maeve would go. 

“Move, and the knots will tighten,” Aelin warned, waiting for him to still his body before she strolled around behind him and released the ropes binding his restrained legs to his restrained arms. 

The ropes slackened for a moment, and he leapt to his feet, surging backwards to knock her off balance, only for her to give a sharp yank on the ropes and send him sprawling gracelessly to his feet. 

“Rutting hell,” he muttered, dignity crumbling. 

“Well played, Whitethorn,” was all she said in response. She knelt and held a flask to his lips, and despite his embarrassment, he was bleeding thirsty, and the water was cold and fresh, so he drank. She whistled shrilly, and there was a minute of silence before hooves clattered against the street and a horse trotted into the alley. 

Rowan blinked, half convinced he was dreaming. “Galathynius, is that my godsdamn horse?” 

“Is it?” she returned, innocently. “He was tethered a few blocks away and looked awfully thirsty, the poor thing, so I took care of him and here he is now.” 

Rowan chose not to answer. 

Aelin snickered. “Shall we?” She tugged on the ropes again, and Rowan picked himself up, stood, and faced the princess of Terrasen and her immortal, incorrigible smirk. 

“Are you going to make me follow my own damn horse like a war criminal?” he grumbled. 

“No.” 

“Then–” 

She cut off his question before he could ask it. “Mount up, Whitethorn. I’ll ride behind you so you don’t try any clever shit like shifting.” 

Well, shit. There went his perfectly sound plan. 

Aelin waited for him to mount, then swung effortlessly up into the saddle behind him. “Lighten up, prince,” she teased. “You won’t be able to shift for a few weeks, anyway.” 

He blinked. “What?!”

She tossed a tiny glass vial over his shoulder. “Didn’t anyone teach you about nightroot tincture when you were in warrior school?”

Gods burn him, it was going to be a long ride to Doranelle. 

~~~

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