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howlingday · 6 months ago

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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."

#rwby #knightfall #arcfall #jaune arc #cinder fall #adrian cotta arc

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regulus-books · 8 months ago

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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.

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #regulus books #jfp #james fleamont potter #rab #regulus arcturus black #james x regulus #regulus x james #fluffy #fluffshot #jegulus fluff #jegulus microfic #jegulus microfics #under 500

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conditioned-to-obey · 2 months ago

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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.

#atlas shrugs

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joehawke · 2 years ago

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ever since watching this edit I can’t get the idea out of my head of Eddie coming over like he normally does, Eddie who stood at the door for a good 5 minutes with sodas and popcorn and an array of random junk food in his hands waiting to be let in. But Steve never answers the door. And Eddie doesn’t want to worry, just assumes Steve forgot about their normal Friday night ritual, just assumes Steve’s in the shower and lost track of time. But a deeper rooted part of Eddie, the part of Eddie that’s been stuck with him ever since Chrissy stuck to his ceiling, feels a gnawing sense of fear pooling around his gut.

Eddie carefully sets the multitude of snacks and drinks down on the concrete before rummaging around underneath the terra-cotta pots that hold dead flowers (and Eddie remembers a conversation in passing when Steve drunkenly mumbled out how his mother planted flowers and never came back home to water them and how he tried so hard to keep them alive, but how’s he supposed to keep a stupid plant alive when he can hardly keep himself and the kids alive? And yeah, Eddie never forgot that drunken confession, ‘thinks he never will either as his heart clenches at the memory) when he comes across the gold key he knew was there, a little “ah ha” falling out of his mouth with a hushed tone as his tongue sticks out of his mouth in concentration. Eddie goes to unlock the door quietly, only going back outside to collect all of the snacks. He throws the key in the key dish next to the door before toeing off his sneakers (new white ones courtesy of the governments hush money, and as much as Eddie misses his old broken in ones, he thinks maybe he doesn’t need a walking reminder of what his shoes had walked through). He makes his way to the kitchen and flicks the light on as he gently places everything down before finally taking a look around. All the lights are off besides the one he just turned on, and it’s eerily quiet. Eddie wonders if maybe Steve isn’t home, if he really did forget about their movie night, but Steve’s not one to cancel on any member in the party, is always present no matter the circumstances. His car was in the driveway though. Eddie makes his way to the living room to see if maybe Steve fell asleep on the couch waiting up for him, but to no luck it’s just as quiet as it is empty.

“Steve? If this is some sick joke you can quit it now okay? You got me. I’m here. Let’s just watch our movie!” Eddie calls out, gesturing out to no one. When he gets no response he makes his way up the stairs gingerly, careful to not step on the ones that tend to squeak (and yeah, Eddie’s been up these stairs enough to know which floorboards are loose and isn’t that truly something? If you had told Eddie a year ago that he’d know Steve Harrington’s house inside and out, he’d laugh in your face). Eddie turns the corner and let’s out a sigh of relief at the sight of Steve’s door closed, light cascading underneath the door and painting the floor yellow.

“I gotta say Harrington, ‘Was beginning to think you forgot about —“ Eddie goes to say, before he’s cut off with the sight of Steve and his room. There’s an array of trophy’s and what looks to be a few copies of his diploma laying hazardously across the carpet. Pictures of the party and newspaper clippings of his parents laying amidst it all. His one and only poster (“Seriously Stevie? A car poster? I expected so much more from you, I’m wounded” Eddie had said, a hand clenched dramatically to his chest. Steve had just rolled his eyes before getting off the bed and crawling down below (and Eddie seriously needed to get his mind out of the gutter if Steve on all fours had him adjusting his pants) before retrieving a rolled up tube and tossing it to Eddie. Eddie had just looked at the other man slightly confused before Steve motioned for him to unroll it. And lo and behold it was a shirtless picture of Rob Lowe. Eddie had sat there laughing for a good 20 minutes that night) laying ripped to shreds on the floor. And there in the center of it all, sat Steve, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, his hair a mess atop his head.

“Stevie?” Eddie asked, careful not to spook the man. Everything in him, every fiber of his being shook with energy prompting him to move forward, to rush to his Steve, but yet, he stayed with his feet planted forward. He remembers his uncle Wayne telling him once after a particularly bad nightmare Eddie walked in on him having to never approach someone who’s in distress, told him not to make them feel like a wounded animal, but not to startle them either by suffocating them. So Eddie stays put, taking in the scene around him. “Baby? Do you care if I come to you? Can I do that?” Eddie asks softly. If he wasn’t paying attention, he would’ve missed the slight nod Steve gives him. So Eddie carefully makes his way over to the broken and battered boy, careful to not step on the shambles of clutter surrounding Steve. Eddie clears a spot and gently sits down, not saying anything as he takes in Steve up close now. His heart breaks in his chest as Steve looks up to Eddie, tears gathering in his already puffy eyes.

“Babe. What’s wrong sweetheart?” Eddie gently coaxes, asking the question as if he were scared of the answer, and yeah, maybe he is. Steve’s bottom lip trembles ever so slightly before Steve sucks in it, a habit from years of having to hide his emotion coming into place. Eddie furrow his brow and tilts his head softly as if to prompt Steve to answer. Steve turns his head towards his window and Eddie thinks he won’t get an answer before Steve’s wrecked voice is making itself known.

“Do you ever see someone and think, wow God must hate me? Cause he spent so much time on them, and for me he got… lazy” Steve asks softly, a hint of bitterness hanging off his words like cloying honey. And what? Eddie never was one to believe in any type of God, never really put too much thought to it if he’s honest. He wasn’t one for the science or logistics behind it, but he also wasn’t one to question it. Don’t get him wrong, he’s prayed to a God he doesn’t know exists in times of crisis and need, and yeah, sometimes the thought of this being being the thing that controls what happens was a thought he’s let warp his mind sometimes, but in retrospect, he never really cared. He knew Steve’s parents were heavily religious, forcing Steve to attend Sunday mass and bible study as a kid, but Eddie’s still taken aback by the statement.

“Stevie what? Where’s this coming from?” Eddie asks, his brows furrowing as he moves his head to look at Steve. And bless his heart, Steve just shrugs softly before breaking into sobs. Eddie can tell Steve’s trying to hold it in if the wretched noises and breathing is to go by anything, and his heart breaks in his chest once again. Eddie scoops Steve up, laying Steve’s head against his chest. “Let it out baby, it’s okay, let it out.”

Eddie’s unsure how long they sit like that before Steve’s breathing begins to even out, a small hiccup or sniffle making itself known in the quietude of the room here and there, before Eddie carefully picks him and Steve up off the floor and moves them to his bed which thankfully is clean. He lies them down against the blankets, taking he and Steve’s jeans off in the process and throwing them on the floor before tucking he and the other man in. And yeah, they have a lot to talk about, but for now, Eddie holds his boy against his chest until Steve’s breathing evens out completely and he can feel his body go pliant against his own. It takes everything in Eddie to fall asleep that night, thoughts of the mess on the floor and that sentence racing around his muddled brain, but eventually his own breathing evens out with the safe knowledge that Steve is here, and he may not emotionally be okay, but physically he’s in no harm. And Eddie can live with that.

#I hate the ending #but whatever #this is sloppy asf #I apologize #idk what this is #steddie drabble #Steddie #steddie angst #steve harrington has bad parents #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #eddie stranger things #steve stranger things

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leiawritesstories · 1 year ago

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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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#my writing #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin month 2023 #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin au #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #heir of fire #heir of fire au #canon au #alternate canon #age reversal canon #because i said so hehe

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kootiepatra · 3 months ago

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#FFxivWrite2024 - Day 13: Butte

[BE WARNED: MAJOR DAWNTRAIL SPOILERS up through pretty much the end of 7.0]

Under the "Read More" break to help anyone still needing to avoid spoilers.

Keimwyda stepped out onto the balcony of the Hhusatahwi Saloon with a sigh, inhaling the dry desert air that was rapidly cooling along with the setting of the sun.

Estinien had recommended this establishment so highly that she felt she must try its fare before heading back to Eorzea—though she did opt not to inquire whether or not they served sabotender. What she had instead was indeed delicious: a cut of rroneek that had been slowly smoked over hickory until it nearly fell apart on the plate, drenched in a sweet yet spicy sauce, alongside a generous serving of legumes and Turali corn. She could honestly now report to Estinien that it was worth the special trip.

However, she had never been much for rowdy crowds or for strong drink, and the saloon had an abundance of both. The bartender was doing an admirable job of trying to convince overeager patrons to leave her alone and stop offering to buy her a round—or in some cases, challenge her to arm wrestling or drinking contests—but he was just one man, and the joy of victory hung too freshly in the atmosphere.

There were not many Eorzeans in these parts. Thus it was not at all hard for the saloon’s regulars to mark well the tall, lavender-haired foreigner who had aided the Vow of Resolve in recent battles. Zekowa’s enthusiastic bragging didn’t help. Everyone was friendly, but Twelve preserve, they were boisterous and they were many. At last, when the crowd got swept up in a rousing song and folk dance, Keimwyda seized the opportune distraction to slip outside for a moment of quiet. Quiet-er, anyway.

She cast her eyes across the arid plains and drank in the surroundings. Tonight’s sunset was breathtaking, indeed: the sky nearly as orange as the rocky buttes which cut a silhouette against it, the clouds taking on a shade of magenta not unlike the fruits of the nopalitenders meandering across the landscape. Off in the distance, the rickety-looking towers of Sheshenewezi Springs stood stark against the sky, each erupting with a luminous spray of ceruleum, a shock of azure leaping above the terra cotta hills.

And, of course, looming in the distance and despoiling it all, was the roiling, violet, unsettlingly-perfect dome which yet encased all of Yyasulani.

Keimwyda sighed to herself, leaned on the railing, and let her head hang for a moment as she once more tried to process what all she had seen. She still struggled to know how to feel about it. As far as she could tell, the people of Alexandria—the majority of them, anyway—had nothing to do with their relocation to the Source. They did not choose it. Many did not even know it was possible until it had already happened. She met many of them whom she liked, and a few who had been instrumental to her and her allies’ opposition of Zoraal Ja. As far as first impressions of cities went, she had experienced worse.

Even so, it was difficult to fully separate the people who had done no wrong from the thunderous monstrosity that had invaded and blighted the land.

Her heart hurt for Erenville. For his home. For his mother—his real mother. For all the Turali people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and lost thirty years in the blink of an eye. Even with Alexandria’s ingenious farming techniques, that lightning barrier had withered the land, nearly beyond recognition.

She could not deny that Everkeep was impressive. She had not felt so dwarfed by a place since Amaurot. And there was a strange sort of beauty to its artificiality—once one was inside of it, anyway.

Solution 9 was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Lifelike illusions of beautiful people smiled down from large displays along every street. In fact, there were artistic renderings of all sorts all over the city, ever in motion, ever-changing, painted in brushstrokes of bright light. It was clean, it was airy—it had even managed to stock its parks with living plants, which was actually a touch homier than the Loporrits had managed in Greatest Endsvale. Everything was bathed in a striking glow of blues and pinks. And of course, the electrope mechanical marvels casually saturating every street corner were enough to set one’s mind to spinning, were one to truly consider it all. Keimwyda had no doubt that Koana was already taking feverish notes and brainstorming applications.

And the people, on the whole, did seem happy. Of course there were the Alexandrians who had long called the place home, but many even of Turali heritage had adapted to it—even loved it—and come to rely on its comforts. Especially those children born there, who had never known anything else, who did not know why they might care that they had never seen the sun.

All of this, of course, did not balance out the catastrophe of how many people had been robbed of thirty years—nay, robbed of their entire way of life, with no warning, and no ability to leave.

She wanted to be open minded and kind, but. It all still felt so wrong. Receiving Alexandria’s fleeing refugees would have been one thing; Keimwyda would have been energetically in favor of that. But to simply fuse their reality to that of the Source, undeterred by the grave cost to the people who already lived there? To destroy the existing reality of those who were not to blame for Alexandria’s woes, and had no say in their future? Keimwyda could understand Sphene’s desperation, but she could not forgive her for that.

Heritage Found didn’t belong here. It should never have come here. If it had been teleported here, then it must be possible to send it back.

…But she could not shake the suspicion that it was a bit too late for that. She was not even fully sure there would be much of a shard left to send it back to, should the scholars of this realm eventually grasp how to do so. And of course, there was no restoring that lost time, no undoing the trauma of its arrival.

Keimwyda did not envy Lamaty’i or Koana for the decisions they would soon have to make.

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