#LIGHT BROWN SANDSTONE

[adobe-outdesign]

Could you review the shiny forms of regirock/ice/steel? The change from 2D to 3D did regice so dirty

Regirock: Regirock's shiny is pretty good! Swapping out the light gray for a sandstone-esq brown looks good as it compliments the warm tones of the orange accents and yellow eyes, and it makes sense thematically. I wouldn't have minded them tweaking the other colors a bit more just to go the extra mile, but eh, no big deal seeing as the rest of it's plenty distinct and the whole palette still works together.

Regice: An unfortunate victim of sprite colors shifting; originally, regular Regice was a very dull slate blue, almost gray, and the shiny was bright cyan blue.

Come BW's sprites, and they changed the regular sprite to be more accurate... without changing the shiny to actually retain some contrast compared to the original (this happened a lot—Gengar is another example). Then 3D models came along and now "shiny" Regice is near-indistinguishable from regular Regice.

The obvious solution would be to flip the shinies again—make shiny Regice the same color as the OG Regice sprite. You could also make it an icy white or just... you know, literally anything other than this.

Registeel: Shiny Registeel is at least easy to distinguish from the original, with a light minty-ish aqua color in place of the regular gray. I don't hate it, but I don't really love it, either—I feel like the mint doesn't really go with the red that well, and too much attention is being brought to the outside, flipping the original focus (with all of the attention being brought to the inside due to the darker gray). Also, I don't think the mint works very well thematically; it doesn't read as metal or steel so much as like, 1970s plastic.

I think a better choice would've been to pick out a more metallic color—gold, copper, etc. That would've made a bit more sense thematically and might have helped the balancing issues as well. Still, this one isn't awful—you can at least tell it's shiny, which is more than I can say for poor Regice up there.

Overall: Regirock's shiny is really good. Registeel's is okay but doesn't make a whole lot of sense for the 'mon, and Regice is a straight-up travesty.

[wolveria]

👀👀👀 can I ask about the wing AU??

Yesss!! The Wing AU! Which is really just a long document with the various clones and Jedi/Sith what their wings would look like.

I'm going to post it as it is because the bullet point works, and this is the "baseline" part of the winged universe. I might have several stories stem from it, because... I just really love wings and I feel like I could go in several directions. So here it is!

There are only two beings in the galaxy with wings: those who are Force-sensitive, and the clones engineered by the Kaminoans

The wings of a child will be drab until they molt in maturity, bringing in their true colors

Touching another person’s wings without permission is disrespectful and invasive, while trusting someone enough to allow them to preen their wings is a sign of trust and closeness

The clones were engineered with wings to keep up with the Jedi during the war, though this has brought its own controversy with senators questioning if engineering wings is a step too far in cloning technology, as wings are supposed to be sacred (but the Chancellor claims this is a sign they are on the side of righteousness, though in reality he wants the clone troopers to have wings to keep up with the Jedi when he orders their execution)

Yoda has grey wings, Dooku has elegant black wings, and Darth Sidious has no wings at all (he removed them at an early age to hide his affinity for the Force, and he almost abhors the idea of them), Maul’s wings are black with red tips, and Ventress has wings of white with black tips

Anakin has beautiful golden-brown wings, Obi-Wan has soft sandstone-colored wings, and Ahsoka has white wings with blue stripes

Cad Bane has wings of blue variation, light blue at the base and darker at the tips, though they are so ragged from being unpreened and kept in bindings against his back that they can only glide, not fly, until they are restored with care and practice (which is unlikely since he always keeps them hidden and no one knows he even has them)

Clones Wings:

Hunter has dark grey wings, the same color as his eyes, and the feathers are broader and longer than a typical clones’ (his brothers used to joke that his missing height went into his wingspan)

Crosshair has silvery white wings that match his hair, and they’re especially soft around the shoulders of the wings, almost downy, but if anyone tries to touch them, they’ll get pummeled for it. Not with his hands—Crosshair has learned how to “punch” with his wings with uncanny accuracy, and other troopers learned long ago to steer clear of them

Wrecker has reddish-brown wings that have golden highlights in the sun, though he had to have cybernetic feathers and muscles implanted into his left wing after the explosion that took his eye

Tech’s wings are golden-brown, and they are prone to being unkempt much like his living space, the clone too distracted with his work to care for them, and if it wasn’t for his brothers they would be nearly unusable (which would be a shame, because he flies like a mynock on fire)

Echo used to have grey speckled wings that complimented Fives’ grey and white wings, but once he was captured, the Separatists cut them off. After he was rescued, Rex and Cody made sure there were funds to build him advanced mechanical wings so he could fly again

Omega has golden-white wings, and the Batch had to teach her how to fly because the Kaminoans didn’t show her and probably never would have

Crosshair would be the one to preen Hunter’s wings after a battle, and Hunter would preen his (Crosshair would let Wrecker preen his wings but no matter how hard he tries, Crosshair’s too sensitive, and Hunter is the only one with a light enough touch to do it)

Tech doesn’t really care who preens his wings out of the Batch, just as long as they don’t screw up and pull out any feathers, and he’s more than happy to let Wrecker do it since the big clone loves preening his brother’s feathers

If a flyer goes through a traumatic event, their feathers will molt and grow back a different color: this is what happens to the clones after Order 66, they lose their individuality/feathers, and grow all white wings to match their bleached armor (Crosshair loses his silvery feathers and they grow back in a much darker shade, showing he’s not completely under their control and is suffering for it)

There are only a few Imperial clones that don’t grow plain white feathers, but instead, they grow in pure black. The ones with black wings are selected to be Death Troopers

Crosshair’s new wings are not technically black, they’re more of a dark grey, and coincidentally, the same shade as Hunter’s wings

For clones who start to fight their chips, or their chips start to fail, they gradually shed their feathers and start growing them back with color. Such as Howzer, who started to grow back his teal-tipped feathers, and he had to bleach his wings so his superiors wouldn’t find out

The new TK troopers are given mechanical wings, but they are far inferior to the natural wings that clones are engineered with, but mechanical wings are cheaper than biological ones, and the clone troopers that remain are taken to Tantiss for experimentation

[ekrochford]

Maul x femreader NSFW self-insert fanfic (part 1/10)

[First off, I'll admit right here and now that this might be the most vile thing I've ever written, so under 18 gotta git. I know you lied on you birth year. Second, I'm a slightly-feral Maul girlie, and there just aren't enough good smutty fics out there for my boy, so I had to write one. Third, this takes place in an AU that is almost indistinguishable from the cannon universe but for the fact that Maul owns a tooth brush, because damn that mouth ain't right.]

Part 1

"Well... We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

You sit there, frozen as if he's pulled a blaster on you. In some ways, it would be simpler if he had—at least then you would know for sure whether your heart was punching up your throat out of fear or expectant thrill. 

But things couldn't be so simple, and he's still seated next to you, leaned back in his chair. He's let slip a tiny curl of a smile, pleased with himself to catch you off guard. He sure picked his opening perfectly. You really thought you were going to have more time to bat your options back and forth. 

Two hours ago...

You're tucked into a tiny sliver of wall on a stiff wooden chair, which is grinding your spine into a barb-wire coil. It's still afternoon and the only light apart from the primary array over the bar is the glaring white sunlight edging through the small, deep windows. It leaves the sandstone walls and ceiling in cool shadow. There's a glass of murky something on the stamp-size table in front of you, and your dusty travelling pack is huddled against your feet. You have the strap hooked around your ankle. This cantina has the look of a place where lots of things go missing. 

The atmosphere is a bit tense, a bit hushed. You're looking at the hooded stranger at the bar—stars, everyone is looking at the hooded stranger at the bar. His black cloak can only hide so much, and from your spot on the wall you saw his face clearly when he walked in and took a seat. 

The Ithorian barkeep passes him a clay tankard. He reaches up for his hood, and there's a shared intake of breath across the room—yourself included—as he pulls it down to his shoulders to reveal a tattooed, horned skull.

Everyone in the dim-lit cantina hastily busies themselves in their own drinks and card games, diving back into conversation and making a point to appear occupied. 

You have no one to talk to, but your eyes study the water rings left on the dusty tabletop as you rotate your untouched glass back and forth. You catch yourself looking up at him, then wrestle your gaze away. You've travelled a bit with the University, but you've never seen a Zabrak up close. The ones who leave Dathomir tend to work as laborers...or as criminals. 

The Zabrak males you've seen working in docks and shipyards or hanging about in the shady, seedy ends of spaceport towns all have a similar look: angry and harried, like many underprivileged species in the Republic. And even though they all have a smattering of cranial horns, you've only ever seen Zabrak skin in yellow-greens and earth-oranges.  

This one is no dock worker or even a smuggler; all the low-lifes in this cantina know hired muscle when they see it, and you do too. Dressed in head-to-toe black, his cloak, his tunic, even his boots are too clean and too nice for grunt work. Cartel muscle, maybe. 

And his skin under the black tattoos is screaming red; you didn't know Zabrak could be that red—not orange, not brown. Red.

You look up again, and terror zips through every nerve. He's looking right back, and you find yourself staring into baleful yellow eyes 

You snap your attention back to your glass. Everything about him is alarming. But somehow the yellow of his irises only makes him seem more dangerous still—like a loth-wolf or some other predator. 

Out of your periphery, you see that he's turned away to the bar again. Your chest unlocks and the breath you were holding wheezes out. 

And then, your stubborn eyes carry themselves right back over to him, just asking for trouble. The silty water in your glass just isn't as interesting. 

Cut it out. You're on your own here for several more days until the rest of the expedition arrives from the Core. Excited to begin and much closer—already being in the Anakis system—you rushed here to Tatooine as soon as your professor's holocomm disconnected. Study the ruins? Excavation in Tatooine's Dune Sea? You've been waiting for this kind of field work since you were a freshman. Starting a site from the ground up. First boots on the sand.

If you get murdered in a cantina by a Hutt mercenary (or worse, another syndicate elbowing into Hutt territory), it's really going to put the wet towel on your archeological career. 

You look up. Again, his eyes are fixed on yours. 

Dammit. But...I wonder if he's spent much time with the Nightsisters. Curiosity is poking around the edges of your anxiety. Dathomir was a staunchly matriarchal world; the females ruled from hidden cave cities, where they performed Force magick and trained to be fearsome warriors. The clan Nightbrothers were exiled to live in surface villages. He probably hadn't seen much of the infamous Dathomir witches.

Rumor has it that the Nightsisters have little contact with the men of their planet. When they needed one, the Sister in question would simply go to their village and select one that met her requirements...

Your throat feels a little dry, but not quite dry enough to take a sip from the only-somewhat-clear water in your glass. Mindlessly, you look up again. This time, he's turned in his chair, watching you from across the cantina floor. 

Dammit.

The table is much too small to climb under, even if you could afford to show so much cowardice to a crowd like this. At least it's become much easier to keep your eyes on the tabletop. 

At the blurry edge of your vision, you see him stand up from the bar. Uh-oh. 

He's leaving. He's leaving. Please be leaving. 

He's moving towards your table. Definitely not leaving. Anxiety is bunching into something more solid in the pit of your stomach. Here you are, alone in the least-dangerous cantina in Mos Eisley, with no one to help if there's trouble. If you were a little bolder, you could just look him in the eye and...and... The thought of looking in those yellow wolf eyes and telling him to get lost seems impossible. 

Across the table, your field of vision is blocked by black—black cloak, black pants, black tunic belted by a wide black belt buckled in silver. Black gloves, even. He stops so close, you can smell the exhaust on his clothes; he must ride a speederbike, or some other open vehicle. 

"Excuse me."

Well, it wasn't a war cry. Stop being such a child. You creak your neck upwards until finally, at the top of all the monochrome black, his red and tattooed face comes into sight. 

If anything, he looks puzzled. 

Say something! Say something! 

"Hello." Not that.

"Hello," he repeats back at you with a frown. He folds his hands behind his back; the motion has the well-worn smoothness of habit. "I noticed you watching me from the bar. Who are you?"

In a heartbeat, you feel your fear twist into embarrassment. You stammer your name, then, "I'm a researcher with the Lina Soh University of Coruscant—here for-for the ruins, out in the Dune Sea. To study them. I'm so sorry—I don't—usually stare like that, it was very rude, I didn't mean to offend you..."

His yellow eyes have been moving between your face, your untouched water, your tunic—with the University signet and the crest of the Galactic Histories department stitched on the breast—to your travel pack tucked between your feet. The confusion is gone; now he looks...amused. 

"Of course you are. I apologize for the intrusion. I thought you were someone else."

"No problem," you answer quickly. As soon as it started, the conversation is over. He turns away, presumably to return to his place at the bar. You should feel relief; oddly, you're a little disappointed to see him go. 

Maybe he heard your thoughts, because he pauses and looks back. His yellow eyes meet yours, then land on the glass sweating moisture in a puddle on the grimy tabletop. His mouth twists in distaste. 

"You weren't going to drink that, were you?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I don't think I can bring myself to."

"Good. Unless you're more Yinchorri than you look, it'll probably slough off half your stomach lining. They have their own bootleg water harvester in the back; I doubt it meets guild standard." 

Humor, even desert-dry humor, was not what you were expecting. It's welcome, and your shoulders uncoil a notch. "Well, I have to say I'm rather attached to my stomach lining. I'm not prepared to give it up, just yet."

He gives you a nod and a lip-twitch of a smile, then he's moving back to his seat across the cantina. You look down at the miniature table practically sitting on your knees and shrug. What the hell. 

"Hey, bartender." You're up at the bar, dropping your pack back between your feet. You wave at the Ithorian and push the still-full water glass in his direction. "What have you got without alcohol?" 

There were other openings at the worn old bartop, other places you could have elbowed in. But you take one of the wide-open seats next to the Zabrak, and he doesn't object. At your question, the barkeep gestures irritably. Even through the voice modulator it has a greasy sneer.

"Ya lookin' for a bar or a lemonade stand? Whaddya doin' here if ya ain't lookin' to drink?"

"This doesn't have much alcohol in it." Your new friend lifts his tankard with one hand, leaning his chin on his other fist and his elbow on the counter. "Even a human metabolism shouldn't find it too strong."

"I'll have whatever he's having." 

The Ithorian swipes your water glass and plunks away, muttering through the voicebox around his throat. You watch him lift the cap of the water jug, pour the contents back in, and put the glass straight back on the shelf with a mix-matched collection of dubiously clean tankards and mugs. Next to you, the Zabrak doesn't comment, but you see his mouth flatten in a grimace. He eyes his own tankard doubtfully, but takes another drink anyway. 

"Here I thought heavy metal was the worst thing I could end up drinking," you murmur. 

The bartender brings you a mug of something caramel-brown and cold. You take a small sip; just under your nose, it has a sharp spicy smell. It almost tastes like tea, mellow and woodsy with only a hint of alcohol. 

"What is this?" You mutter to your neighbor.

"No idea." He takes another sip from his own tankard. "I asked for something without alcohol, and this is what he brought."

You think about that. You've never heard of syndicate or cartel muscle that didn't drink. Much more common to hear of ones that didn't breathe (at least not anymore) but as long as they were still kicking, thugs and booze went hand in hand. 

He doesn't seem to mind your company, in any case. "Travelling alone?" 

Should you lie? Maybe. You think of him coming across the floor at you, stopping over your table like a storm cloud... "I'm here with my colleagues." Half a lie. "I'm just waiting for them to catch up."

He nods. "You don't look like the sort of woman who would be travelling alone in the Outer Rim for pleasure."

Your skin prickles a little at the way he says that word. Pleasure. But he seems to be examining the collection of bottles against the wall, and you brush it off. "Definitely not."

"You're not going to wrap your bag's strap around your ankle again?" If you didn't already have a taste of his dry humor, you would have missed his smirk. You snort, even as your foot curls protectively around your pack. 

"I figure no one's likely to come close enough to you to steal my bag."

He doesn't answer that, but he's hiding a smile behind his tankard as he goes for another gulp. "I would think a single scholar like yourself would prefer to stay in the privacy of her room while she waited for her party."

You shrug. "To be honest, I'm waiting for a room to open upstairs. The Weequay in the front said she was waiting on last night's tenant to get out, and once it's open I can move in."

"Ah, I see."

You realize that he slyly gave you the opportunity to deny being single, which you of course didn't notice—being that you are. You take another cautious sip, rolling it across your tongue. There is alcohol there, you're sure, but it's almost a suggestion rather than a fact. Your friend notices. 

"You're wise to be cautious."

You smile wryly. "I'm alive because I'm cautious. It isn't my first trip to the Outer Rim." 

He gives a single chuckle. "And yet, here you are. Chatting with the low-life that all the other low-lifes are frightened of. Strange choice."

You shrug again. "The other low-lifes make their living by robbing people like me. You look like you make a living on bigger fish. I don't think the sum total of everything I possess on my person is worth your trouble."

He nods, seeing your logic. "So by making friends with the scariest person in the room, you can avoid having to deal with the variety of small fish." He doesn't laugh, but you can hear it in his voice—he likes the way you think. 

The two of you sit in pleasant silence for a time, while the clinks and mutterings of the cantina fill in the space. You can still detect a hint of the exhaust smell you picked up earlier, mixed with a bit of sweat and underneath it the familiar scent of male skin. You swipe at your nose briefly; you spent too much time smelling old jars and crumbling stone at your previous site trying to tell resin from rosemary. Your olfactory nerve is still pulling overtime. 

"So," you start brightly, ignoring the impulse to lean closer. "You ever been to the Star Temples on Dathomir?"

The next two hours passed in conversation as the light from Tatooine's dual suns shifted from one flat horizon to the other. No one attempted to steal your bag, and in fact the other customers of the cantina appeared to relax, seeing the Zabrak's attention absorbed elsewhere. 

"I can't believe it's true." You sit there, stunned, and shake your head. "I thought the gender separation was exaggerated."

"No, no. I wasn't raised in a Nightbrother village, but I assure you, it's very true. The other Dathomir witch clans are much different—the Nightsisters are the most—ah—sensational, so they receive the most attention from galactic rumor mills. But they really do keep a...population...of Zabrak males. They live rather primatively. No space-capable vehicles, little modern technology."

"They're captives there."

Your companion shrugs. "They don't know any better, and even if they did, most are too prideful to be candid. Some are removed as children. Others escape to other settlements on Dathomir or find passage offworld. But really, is it worse than other Outer Rim planets? Or the lower levels of Coruscant? There's a slave market right here in Mos Eisley—the Republic doesn't care."

You finish your third mug. You doubt you've drunk an entire shot's worth of alcohol and you don't feel its effects; maybe you'll notice when it's time to try and walk. "Slavery is bad enough, but...what you're describing...the men of those villages are just...” Breeding stock. "What kind of quality of life can they have?"

Can he read your mind? He pauses for a long time with a small smile on his lips while you wonder if you want to bring the subject of breeding into the conversation. 

"It's even more hazardous than you think," he says at last. "Many die in the selection process alone." At your look of shock, he goes on, "I nearly forgot to bring that up. Yes, Nightsisters frequently hold a series of...trials, I suppose. Fights to the death are common, and other tests that are quite lethal if you fail."

"That's big risk to be...well, enslaved."

"From what I understand, some are simply required to participate. Others, I suppose, actually fight to be chosen."

You scoff. "Oh yes, I'm sure it's worth it."

"Perhaps it is. The alternative is living the rest of your life barely seeing a woman." 

"I'm sure that's their biggest concern."

His smile is coy. "Well... We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

Your eyes cut to his before you can stop them, and you see in an instant that he's thinking exactly what you suspect. You realize that you have to decide much sooner than you expected where you want this encounter to go. He's turned in his chair to face you, and his knee is resting against your thigh. You can hardly think with him so close, so physically present. It has been some months since you were with a man, after all.

"The sex drive in most species is so strong," he continues. He doesn't try to touch you, beyond his knee resting against your leg. "It can seem like the most important thing in the galaxy, at times. Strong enough, even, to forget one's circumstances."

Before you can stop yourself, you roll your bottom lip under. His eyes haven't left yours for nearly a minute straight; he's waiting for an answer, but you're having trouble conjuring up anything witty. You're having trouble coming up with anything but monosyllables. He's such a smooth talker, and you aren't used to being tongue-tied like this. 

"What's your name?" you ask finally. 

"Maul."

You realize that you've been leaning just a little towards him. But then, he's done the same. Just a single degree, as if a spark of magnetic charge were tugging between the two of you. 

"If this barroom has gotten too crowded," he begins slowly, "you could wait with me, in my room upstairs."

You feel your pulse break into a sweating trot. All at once, half of your brain shouts enthusiastic agreement... while the other half remembers a bizarre story from a college acquaintance that Zabrak have barbed phalluses. That can't be true. If it is, you have an awkward conversation waiting upstairs in his room. 

You almost lose rein of a hysterical giggle at the thought. If you were having trouble gathering up the words before, now it's nearly impossible. So you give up on eloquence and instead drop your hand to rest on his thigh—just near the knee, not too obscene for out in public. He's corded muscle under your hand; you can feel his quadriceps tense at your touch. You had his undivided attention before. Now he's staring at you like the rest of the cantina, the rest of Tatooine and the Outer Rim as a whole, have disappeared. 

"Let me leave a message up at the front," you purr with a smile. "In case my group gets here as asks for me."

Maul nods and returns the smile. "I'll wait upstairs for you. Room 6."

You squeeze the muscles of his thigh, then swing off the barstool to your feet. As you feared, you find yourself a bit lightheaded, but it's not the stingy alcohol content. You leave a few credits next to your empty mug and pick up your travel pack. 

"See you upstairs," you tell him. He doesn't answer; the look he gives you is answer enough. His stare is like electricity down your back as you leave the barroom and approach the counter where the Weequay is now dozing. 

"Excuse me?"

Behind the counter, the Weequay hostess jumps and nearly tumbles to the floor. "What—oh, yes, what? What do you need?" She lurches to her feet, blinking sleep out of her eyes. 

"Can I leave a message up here? I'm expecting to meet up with other University researchers. They may ask for me if they can't find me." If I've been murdered or kidnapped by some stranger in a Mos Eisley cantina, you add to yourself. It wasn't realistic to dismiss the possibility off hand, and you wanted him to know that someone would come looking for you. But at the thought of following Maul up to his private room, you’re not feeling your usual suspicious self. He was dangerous—anyone with eyeballs could see that—but as before with the barroom thieves, you feel that you are outside the range of people who had to worry. 

Besides. What was the point of keeping yourself in one piece with caution and prudence if it robbed you of adventure?

“You were waitin’ on the room, right?”

“Oh—yes, is it ready?”

In answer, the hostess hands you a key disc with a ‘4’ scratched into the metal. She waves you in the direction of the upper floor.

You record the message for Professor Taq Norr, and leave it in the Weequay hostess' care. The stairs are around the corner; you hope Maul is already there. Time to go find out how accurate the rumor mill is. 

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - X [Finale]

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. Complete.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Redemption: the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

This is it, y’all! Thanks for coming along for the ride. Love hearing feedback.​

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous

Even as the sun set in the distance, the air was hot but dry. None of the sweltering humidity of Lemoyne, nor even the briskness of the northern reaches of New Hanover. No, this land was a land of sun-bleached sandstone and dusty brown earth. Of desert scrub and towering cactus, of coyotes and pronghorn and rattlesnakes.

Fitting, it seems, this inhospitable place is where he landed, the snake that he is.

Arthur Morgan heaves a bale of hay over his shoulder, walking it along the parched ground to an animal pen, where a few ewes linger in the shade of the passing shadows. Even they knew to wait until evening to start moving around - something he will never get through his thick head. Not when there was work to be done.

He should count himself lucky, he supposes. 

No, he doesn’t suppose. He knows.

He’s very lucky. 

Arthur places the bale within the wooden fence, turning back toward the sunset and clearing his throat. The wet cough that had so plagued him is almost gone - the sickness that had left him nearly dead passing with each day. 

He is lucky - and he certainly doesn’t deserve it, not with the life he’s lived. He should have been dead on a mountainside in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood, left by Micah and Dutch after the gang fell apart.

But that didn’t happen.

Somehow, someway, he ended up here, in New Austin, under the hot desert sun - ironic considering that is what the doctor in Saint Denis told him to do - get somewhere warm and dry. Convalescence in an abandoned cabin in Cholla Springs - weeks and weeks of rest before he was able to even leave the bed, much less work on what was slowly becoming a homestead.

He slowly plods back toward the cabin, where amongst the pink-purple light of the dusk settling in, an oil lamp shines through the window. He adjusts his hat on his head, wiping the dust from the back of his neck, and enters the door, closing it behind himself.

“You need to watch how hard you’re pushing yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up to find you scrubbing at dishes in the sink. Your hair is messily tied into a bun on the top of your head, and you wear a light cotton dress, blue like the color of his work shirt. He loves that color on you.

“Ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“I am fine. Stop worrying your pretty little head off.”

He frowns, taking his hat from his head and placing it on the table.

“My head definitely ain’t pretty or little.”

He stops behind you, leaning over you to place a kiss on your cheek. His large hands find your hips and slowly inch forward, lightly pressing on the skin beneath your dress.

“Let’s hope this one is.” You laugh, leaning back against his frame, as Arthur’s hands continue their forward journey, finally resting on your stomach.

Your very swollen stomach.

“Let’s hope they look like you ‘nstead of having my ugly mug.” 

You roll your eyes, swatting playfully at one of his hands, “Hush, you. I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about with ugly mugs. All I see is my handsome cowboy.”

Arthur chuckles, spinning you around.

“How about I get the rest of this and you go lay down.”

Arthur shoos you off from your cleaning as the sun fully sets, telling you that he would finish and for you to get off your feet. You sigh, but agree to his request, rubbing at your back as you slowly walk toward the bedroom. He finishes cleaning up after dinner and puts out the oil lamp in the kitchen, slowly closing the door to your bedroom after he steps in. He takes you in, laying on the spacious bed in a chemise, absentmindedly stroking at your stomach while you look out the window into the night.

He marvels at the sight. Months ago, he held you in his small cot in Roanoke, weeping at the death sentence you both had been given - and now here you are, blooming in the dry desert on the other side of tuberculosis, somehow, someway, surviving the illness and being given a second chance.

And then your stomach slowly began to swell - it was always a possibility, but he never thought this would actually happen. 

“Feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks as he sits by the side of the bed, pulling his boots off and placing them on the floor.

You don’t answer, propping your head up on your elbow, your other hand circling your belly as you lay on your side.

Arthur looks over his shoulder, “Mm?”

You nod, reaching for him as you remove your hand from your belly. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling at him, “C’monnnn.”

Arthur turns completely around, facing you. He snorts with a knowing grin on his face. “I reckon you’re feelin’ mighty fine, my lady.”

“Arthur-” You narrow your eyes in annoyance before he laughs, shucking his shirt from his body and dropping it to the floor.

Laying on the bed next to you, he smirks as your eyes rake over his broad chest - he’s not looking nearly so gaunt these days, emerging stronger and stronger from his sickness.

He reaches for the buttons of his pants, watching your eyes flit down to his hips. 

“See somethin’ y’like?” He teases, pressing one of the buttons of his pants through its eyelet.

“I swear, you’re a no good-” 

He leans over and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. You gasp into his mouth, hands flying up to his chest. 

Arthur’s large hand cups a swollen breast through your chemise, and you moan into his mouth as he gently squeezes.

“Here, turn over, I’ve got you.” He whispers into your mouth, his hand moving to your ribcage. He gently turns you over to face away from him, pulling up your chemise to bare your skin to him. 

Arthur shimmies his pants down his hips, kicking his jeans off before rolling over to press his front against your back. You moan as you feel the long, hard line of him press up against your rear, and a low rumble echoes out from his chest as his arm rounds your belly, tracing down your skin to the apex of your thighs.

You gasp as he slides his middle finger against your core, groaning into your ear when he finds you wet.

“Christ,” he mutters, rubbing gently at the opening of your cunt, making you roll your hips urgently, whining as he refuses to press inside.

“P-please, oh god, please just-”

Your begging halts immediately as he tilts your hips and presses the blunt head of his cock into your core, sliding into your warmth slowly, gently, carefully.

“Look at you,” he drawls as he bottoms out, his hips pressed fully against your rear, and his hand spreads out over your belly, “Heavy with my child and you still can’t get enough.”

You can do nothing but whine as he pulls back and slowly pushes forward again. He presses his face against the curve of your neck, sucking at the skin gently.

The two of you move against each other in a cacophony of sound - skin meeting skin, the wet sounds of bodies tessellating, gasping, and moaning and pleasure.

You press your hips back at him with a gasp, body clenching around him, leading only moments later to him throwing his arm over your belly again, spreading his hand out over his child as he grunts, spilling his hot seed into your cunt.

He pants into your ear, satiated, as your breath slows, you place your hand over his as he gently, slowly circles your stomach.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” Arthur laughs into your hair, rubbing at your belly as he softens inside you.

You smile, craning your head to make eye contact with him, “Least you’ll die an empty man.”

“Yer a minx, you hear that?”

-

Of course, it’s the middle of the night some weeks later when you push at his shoulder, jolting him awake. 

“Arthur.”

“Mmph?” He groans, wiping his hand down his face for a moment before his eyes adjust to the dark room.

He focuses on you, leaning over the bed, rubbing your stomach expectantly.

“Shit, shit, are you-”

“My waters broke a little bit ago. I think we’ve still got some time.” You say calmly, sitting on the side of the bed.

Arthur rockets out of the bed, stumbling around the room as if he were drunk, finding his pants on the floor and forcing his legs through them over his union suit.

“Christ, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I did wake you up, silly.” You deadpan, wincing slightly as a pain rolls through you.

“Damnit, damnit.” Arthur mutters to himself as he shoves his feet into his boots, “I’ll.. I’ll ride up to Armadillo and get the doctor. Y’just…” He trails off, looking at you sitting on the bed.

“I’ll stay right here. I’ll be fine, Arthur.”

He rolls out of the small house like a tornado, saddling his horse and riding through the New Austin desert at a speed he had not in months - the breakneck galloping days outrunning lawmen, those seemed to be behind him.

Ahead was something completely different.

He reaches Armadillo in record time, banging on the doctor’s door and nearly yanking the man out when he answers it. Arthur sits fuming as the doctor, an old bearded man, seems to take his time packing his bag and saddling his horse. After what seemed like forever, they were off again, riding hard for the cabin in the desert. Reaching it, Arthur barges through the door, the doctor following behind, looking somewhat bedraggled.

He finds you sitting in the rocking chair next to your bed, slowly rocking back and forth, hands framing your distended abdomen. You frown as you see Arthur’s frenzied state and the less-than-thrilled look on the doctor’s face.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I hope he wasn’t too difficult,” you say guiltily from the chair, hand over your swollen stomach. The doctor grumbles slightly, and you move to get out of the chair, wincing with difficulty before Arthur pulls you gently to your feet.

“How far apart are the pains?” The doctor asks matter of factly.

“A few minutes.” You grit your teeth slightly, letting a long breath loose after your comment.

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed.” The doctor turns around, pacing toward your bed, putting his bag down on the side table.

Arthur, for the life of him, cannot figure out why both you and the doctor are so calm. He helps you walk slowly over to the bed, and once you’ve reached it, he helps peel off the dress you shrugged on, leaving you only in a chemise as you lie down, breathing out heavily.

He looms over the bed, eyes darting between you and the doctor, who slowly unpacks instruments from his leather bag, placing them on the bedside table, each more terrifying in his eyes than the last.

“You know you aren’t helping.” You say crossly, clenching your teeth against another wave of pain.

Arthur gives you a withering expression before rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands.

The doctor, completely unperturbed or surprised, simply snorts under his breath, “He’s a new father. They tend to be like this.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort something sarcastic, but all that escapes as you moan loudly in pain, your abdomen seizing up.

Without fanfare or any regard for some sort of modesty, the doctor flips the hem of your chemise up, over your waist, and pulls your legs apart, propping them on either side of him, your heels flat against the mattress.

“Alright there, looks like you’re ready. Miss?” The doctor says, turning back toward his bag and 

You look up at Arthur expectantly, breathing in quickly through your nose to keep your mind off the pain.

He quickly moves to the side of the bed, falling to his knees and grasping your hand, which you take and immediately squeeze to get your way through the wave of constriction in your body.

Arthur looks down at you, trying to disguise the fear and trepidation in his eyes. Fear and trepidation that seem to compound when they are finally reflected back at him.

He leans over and places his lips on yours briefly, pulling back before sitting at the side of the bed. 

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shut your eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to calm yourself down. You grasp his hand tightly before your eyes open again, and you nod at the doctor.

The doctor’s mouth presses into a line, “Alright, ma’am. Let’s get this baby born.”

-  

If you were to ask Arthur, years from now, how long it was between the doctor making that comment and the high screech of a newborn cutting through the heavy air, he would have told you hours - hours, days maybe.

You, on the other hand, would laugh and say it was naught but a single hour before the doctor deposited the squalling newborn upon your breast, sticky with blood and the fluids of birth.

“A girl.”

The doctor’s words echo distantly in his head

But oh, that moment, that moment, as the doctor wiped at the child’s skin with clean linen, that Arthur gazed upon what you had created and the newborn takes a breath to stop her crying - her eyes open and Arthur sees his own reflected back at him…

“Oh… ” You whisper lightly, looking down at the baby, “Oh, she has your eyes, Arthur.”

You look back up at him, and the doctor at least has the sensibility to leave the confines of the bed, gathering up the dirty linens to deposit them on the floor.

The newborn wails against her mother’s skin, trying to find warmth as you pull the linen around her tighter, and Arthur is sure he’s never heard a sweeter sound in his nearly forty years of life.

The doctor returns, “We must finish the birth. If I may?”

Arthur watches, mesmerized, as the gruff older man gently removes the child, placing the baby on the bed next to you while picking up the cord that served as the last tie between your bodies.

He holds the pulsing white-blue cord taut, and with his other hand, he flicks the scalpel above the newborn’s stomach, severing the connection between the child and yourself. He blots at the blood that seeps from the stump of the cord before rewrapping the child in the linen blanket. He looks up to Arthur, who is still wide-eyed and incredulous.

“Here, take the child and step outside, I’ll finish the process with her.”

Arthur looks down at you and you nod, and he takes the bundle as the doctor gently lays the newborn in his arms. Her screaming has slowed, at the very least, into a whimper.

Arthur is shocked into stillness, in his broad arms is one of the smallest, most fragile things he’s ever held - he’s terrified and awestruck.

He never held Jack as a newborn. Hell, he never held Isaac when he was a newborn. 

“Go on, I’ll be alright.” You whisper, moving to slowly sit up as the doctor moves to your side.

Arthur nods, trepidatious, taking careful steps from the bedroom into the main area of the cabin, the door behind him closing.

He sits down at the table, slowly, and gently so as not to disturb the baby, finally quieting down as he gently moves his arms back and forth.

What strange dream was this? Was it a dream? Would he wake up dying on a mountain somewhere in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood?

God only knows that’s what he deserved: not to be rescued and thrown into the back of a wagon, taking a long, slow journey west, into the dry and arid desert, where his failing lungs did not feel as heavy in his chest.

His thoughts fly from his head as the baby’s brow furrows, a high wail emanating from her, so much louder than he’d ever imagined.

No, he thought as he stood up, rocking his arms gently as he circled the small kitchen of the cabin, he would not dwell on the past and what has been.

All he knows is the future. All he needs is this. All he will bleed and fight and die for, it exists in this little cabin in New Austin.

The baby cries, her small arms punching upward in discontent.

Arthur also cries, humming some off-beat tune as he rocks his child gently, whispering promises into her ear as he circles the room.

-

Some months later…

-

“She go down alrigh’?”

You nod, closing the door to the baby’s room quietly, and latching the door behind you. It was only a few days ago that you had moved the bassinet from your bedroom into the other one, now that she was sleeping through the night better.

Arthur sits at the table, fiddling with a rifle cartridge, whittling at it with his large knife.

You raise an eyebrow as you sit down opposite of him. He glances up and smiles before continuing his work. 

“Caught a coyote out by the henhouse the other day. Hadn’t made it in, but if I can shoot it and keep the pelt in good condition… Well, there’s two birds with one stone.”

“Ah.” You reply, interlacing your hands together.

He looks up again, his brow furrowing.

“What?” He asks, placing both the knife and the cartridge down, giving you his full attention.

“Wel, it’s uh-” you start, stumbling your way through your sentences, “It’s been… I mean, I’d like…”

“Darlin’. Stop your bellyachin’ and out with it.” Arthur says, the hint of a smirk on his face, his beard finally trimmed short after much complaining from you.

You blink, inhaling slowly. On your exhale, you breathe out a jumble of words so quickly that he doesn’t catch your meaning.

“Alrigh’. Come on now. What are you sayin’?”

You rub your eyes with the heels of your palm in exasperation.

“Christ, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Darlin’.”

He stoops down on one knee next to your chair, taking your hand from your lap and placing it between his own large ones.

“It’s just… I miss you.” You sigh.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No… it’s, I - ”

“You what?” He rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

You sigh and squeeze his hand. “It’s been three months since she was born. I reckon I’m healed enough now to sleep with you again.”

He snorts, part of a smirk on his face, “Y’know you ain’t gotta do any of that to make me happy. I am perfectly fine wa-”

“But what about what I want?”

Arthur takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing it gently.

“What do you want?”

“Arthur, I want you to take me into the bedroom and make love to me.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips again, “You think you’re ready? Healed?”

“Yes, Arthur, I know I’m ready, please-”

You yelp as he heaves you up into his arms as he stands to his full height. One arm below your knees, one behind your back, he carries you to your bedroom, softly nudging the door shut with the heel of his boot.

He makes his way across the room and gently deposits you on the bed, his hands moving to your feet, pulling your boots off before he sits on the edge of the bed to take his own boots off. He tosses them to the side of the bed, before turning back to you, placing a large, warm hand on your knee.

You sit up, placing your hand over his. Your eyes flit from his gaze down to his lips briefly before you lean further forward and catch him in a kiss. Your hands grasp at his shirt, pulling him closer to you, as he slides up the bed to lay out next to you.

You pull back, breathing heavily, and immediately start working at the buttons of his linen work shirt, as his hands move to the ties on your dress, feverish, as if you were teenagers falling into bed for the first time.

He’s stripped you and himself bare, laying you down in the bed before pressing his body against yours. You gasp as he slides his hand, big and warm, between your thighs, rubbing gently at the seam of your body before he slides two fingers inside you.

You mewl into his neck as he crooks his fingers in your cunt, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, lest you dig scars into the poor man’s back again.

“Ar-Arthur… please-”

He lifts his head from the pillow, ceasing the nibbling on your earlobe.

“Yes, darlin’?” He rumbles, his low voice hoarse.

“Pl-please- I’m ready-” You gasp as he thrusts his fingers deeper.

“Think you should come for me, just to be sure.” He smirks into your mouth, pressing his tongue against the seam of your lips. A shift of his hand makes you gasp as his thumb presses on the small nub of your pleasure, slowly circling it. 

You keen, turning your body into him, trying not to cry out too loudly as he works you through a rolling orgasm, clenching hard against his fingers. He grunts in approval into your mouth, slowly pulling his fingers out of your body.

“You tell me if anything hurts, you hear?” Arthur says, panting slightly as he climbs over you, pressing your legs apart as he presses his lips to your jaw.

You nod desperately, wrapping your legs around his hips and chasing his lips with your own. He settles against you, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press at your opening. He slides in, the stretch nearly painful after so long, and you gasp as he stills, halfway buried.

“No, no - I’m fine, just… be gentle.” You plead into his warm neck, your ankles crossing over his hips to not let him out.

“You tell me if you need me to stop,” Arthur whispers into your ear, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Plea-ohh-”

Your mouth goes slack as he presses forward, burying himself completely in your heat. He holds still, his arms bracketing your head as he lifts himself to his elbows.

“Y’okay?”

You nod, smiling, trying not to cry from the sheer feeling of him enveloped in your hips again, you’ve never missed something so much.

Arthur leans back down and kisses you, pressing open your lips with his tongue, groaning into your mouth as he retracts his hips, pressing forward again gently, waiting for any negative response from you.

All he gets is a soft mewl from your throat and your fingers making their way into his hair, to which he takes as permission to find a rhythm of lovemaking.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to be given this chance - after all of his sins, all of the crime and the blood and the wrong that he’s committed in his miserable life - how any benevolent deity could even think about giving him anything.

You moan his name into his ear as he gently rolls his hips into yours. A faint pang of desire settles in his gut - the desire to thrust into you like the early days of your relationship - rough and heady with the need to make you scream. But this isn’t the time. He is more than satisfied moving above you, slowly, gently, and with care.

He’s seen what you’ve been through - he saw how the birth of his daughter took a toll on you - the last thing he would ever want to do would be to hurt you.

You give a hushed cry, nails digging into his neck, as you clench around him. Arthur lowers himself to place his forehead on yours, smiling before pressing his lips against yours, urging entrance again with his tongue. He slows his hips, eventually coming to rest as you pant beneath him, taking in the sweet feeling of constriction on his shaft.

“There’s my girl.” He rasps between open-mouthed kisses, his lips curving upward in a smile.

“God,” you moan, “Ngh-, Arthur…” Coming down from your high, your hands sweep across his broad shoulder blades, the hard muscle returning after his long convalescence recovering from his sickness.

“Mm?” He presses his lips to the bridge of your nose as your breathing slows down.

“Lemme-” you try to push him off of you, hand under his shoulder, “- Lemme get you-”

“Darlin’. You ain’t gotta do nothin’.” He responds, brushing a stray lock of your hair from your forehead.

“I wanna-, I wanna hear the noise you make when you come.” You whine, continuing to push on his shoulder, completely unable to move him in your frustration.

Arthur smiles, and extricates himself from your hips, settling himself to lay at your side, one of his hands spread out on the expanse of skin at your hip, damp with a sheen of sweat. Finally out from under his frame, you lean over him, pressing his hip back so that he lies down on his back. You press kisses down his jaw, across his collarbones and chest, down his stomach to his hips. He grunts slightly as you grasp his shaft in your hand, splayed across his hips as you move to take him in your mouth.

Arthur moans needily as you bob downward.

You look up at him, mouth full of cock, and he’s immediately back in a fancy drawing room wearing a black suit, your eyes just as mischievous as those early days. Those early days when you and he would sneak off and pry orgasms from each other with greedy fingers.

He leans up slightly and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. Arthur smiles, his eyes fluttering as you gently suck. Your hands fondle him, and he does more than shutter his eyes when you lean over farther, taking the entirety of him in your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Darl- god-” he pants, unable to keep his eyes on you as he stares at the ceiling, “I’m gonna -get off, gonna -” 

He looks back down to find you staring at him with that glint of mischief before you bob down again. Arthur grunts, one hand fisting the sheets. 

“Oh god, sweetheart-” his hips buck up once, uncontrolled, as you can taste the beginnings of his orgasm - salty and bitter and very much him. He babbles on as his cock twitches in your mouth, “ Jesus, woman - ngh - suckin’ me so good, -agh - it’s all for you -fuck-”

He bucks up once more and you press your head downward, and with a helpless groan, Arthur stutters his hot release down your throat, gasping in pleasure as you swallow each drip. 

You sit up, wiping your mouth as Arthur falls back on the pillow, utterly spent.

“Jesus, woman, you ain’t lost your touch.” He laughs, swiping at his sweaty forehead as he stares up at the bedroom ceiling.

You smile in return, gently rubbing his hip as he comes down from his high. After a few moments, he raises his head and takes you in with a satiated grin.

“Get over here-” he pulls at you and you happily acquiesce, draping yourself over him as you settle in at his side. Your head pillows on his collarbone, your hand placed firmly over his beating heart. With you securely wrapped in his arms, skin on skin, in this small house you share, your baby girl sleeping across the hall, Arthur marvels at the state of his life.

He doesn’t know how he’s been blessed with this ending. Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it.

But for you - for her - he will walk the narrow path that he has evaded the entirety of his life. You fall asleep quickly, as Arthur pulls the sheet over your nude bodies. Through the somewhat dusty window, the moonlight shines on the pale skin of your shoulder.

Arthur shuts his eyes, a wistful smile settling in on his face as he’s back on the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, watching your bare form in the waters, bathing in the light of the full moon.

He’s thankful for whoever or whatever decided to have mercy on him. For all of his sinning, for all that he is - he is completely unworthy of the hand he’s been dealt.

One doesn’t choose whether or not they get considered for redemption, he figures. All he knows is that he’s gotten it.

[gogandmagog]

Someone perfectly lovely, called Paul Hendricks, put together this thoughtful map of the Four Winds community. His website, where this map was obtained, is HERE. What follows below the cut are Paul’s own words, detailing how he went about putting this together this map, complete with thorough book citations and explanations of inconsistencies!

“This is the rough map I've put together, based in the clues mentioned below, which are taken from various of the Anne books. (See note on the format of the references.)

The map uses a 'browser-safe' palette, so you should see roughly the same colours that I do. The orange/brown lines are roads. The dark-green areas are woods. The light blue is, of course, the sea.

Reconstructing the setting for the four books based on Four Winds and Ingleside has proved much more difficult than for Avonlea. Beginning with the premise that Four Winds is about 60 miles from Avonlea (AHoD, ch 1, 10th page), I tried a layout based on the area around Sturgeon, Gaspereaux and Georgetown, in the south-east part of the Island. Eventually it proved impossible to put together a consistent map on this basis. What is more, I realised that there was no evidence in LMM's diaries that she had ever been to that part of the Island.

I then tried a construction based on the area around New London, as there were many similarities of detail, and the area was well known to LMM. This fits in reasonably well with the descriptions of Four Winds in AHoD. There are some difficulties and inconsistencies noted below, but alternatives (such as putting the House of Dreams and the Lighthouse on the East side of the bay) have turned out to be unworkable. I have also managed to reconstruct the area around Ingleside, on the assumption that it is in the position occupied by Clifton/New London. Given the basic framework of roads that results, the result is more convincing than I had hoped, and seems to fit in quite well with the text of AoI, RV and RoI.

House of Dreams 'looks to the sunset and has harbour before it'. Dining room looks out on the harbour (AHoD, ch 2, 4th page). Living room windows and front door look towards the lighthouse (AHoD, ch 2, 5th page). There is a brook going through the corner of the garden.

The entrance of the harbour is between a bar of sand dunes and a sandstone cliff. The fishing village is where the sand bar meets the harbour shore (AHoD, ch 5, 1st page).

It is dusk, but there is no mention of seeing the setting sun. This suggests that going from Glen St Mary towards the house they are facing north or east. This is consistent if Glen St Mary is south, and the house is on the west side of the harbour (AHoD, ch 5, 1st page).

There is a chapel on the far side of the bay. The lighthouse is to the north, as they approach the house from the Glen. The house is 2 miles from the Glen, and 1 mile from the lighthouse. Miss Cornelia's house is between the House of Dreams and the Glen (AHoD, ch 5, 2nd page).

Poplars line the lane from road to house; fir trees between house and sea (confirms that the sea is to the 'back' of the house (AHoD, ch 5, 4th page).

Leslie's house is further up the brook, 'among the willows' (AHoD, ch 6, 4th page). The lane of Leslie's house opens onto the 'upper road' (AHoD, ch 9, 2nd page). Miss Cornelia's house is half a mile from the house of dreams (AHoD, ch 6, 5th page).

'From the deceit of the McAllisters...' (AHoD, ch 6, 5th page) is a paraphrase of an actual saying referring to LMM's relations, the Simpsons, the McNeils and the Clarkes, see also page xv of introduction to volume one of selected journals. Confirms the view that the families referred to in the 'over-harbour' area are modelled on LMM's own family in Clifton, Cavendish, etc.

As Anne and Gilbert are walking towards the lighthouse, the house 'up the brook' is to their right (AHoD, ch 9, 2nd page). There is some difficulty in fitting this in with my map. We might perhaps conceive an arrangement where the house by the brook was to the right hand side of the road to the lighthouse, though the road would have to be not so close to the shore as the modern road.

The distinction (AHoD, ch 10, 1st page) between the 'harbour shore', the 'sand shore' and the 'rock shore' is consistent with New London Bay - corresponding respectively to the shore inside the bay, the shore on the north side of the bar, and the shore to the north of the lighthouse.

'North shore' presumably means 'North shore of PEI' (AHoD, ch 14, 1st page). It was this which first alerted me to the possible inconsistency with my original presumption about the location of Four Winds.

'North-western sky' (AHoD, ch 18, 1st page), implies that the lighthouse is north-west of the house of dreams.

The Fishing Cove (AHoD, ch 27, 1st page) must be on the shore by the sand bar (therefore the same place as the fishing village). Anne and Gilbert go there via the lighthouse because intending to row over to avoid the long drive round by road which would otherwise be necessary.”

— Paul Hendricks

[little-bee-draws]

art vs artist 2024

let's hear it for the best color combination - teal, purple, and yellow!

ID: nine images in a 3x3 square, the outside 8 are pieces of digital art and the central is a picture of me, the artist.

Image 1: a bust portrait of a grey skinned firbolg with long black hair and fuzzy ears. One eye is brown and the other is green; the pupil of the green eye is glowing gold with rays of light radiating from it.

Image 2: a landscape of a river in an orange sandstone canyon. Two whitewater rafts, one blue and one orange are floating in the foreground.

Image 3: a bust portrait of my oc Idris, a blue skinned air genasi with pink curly hair. She is looking over her shoulder at the viewer. The background is a page of text and she's framed by flowers.

Image 4: a bust portrait of a mutated humanoid who is half human and half purple goop. She has Black features and the human half has dark brown skin. Their kinky hair is black and has green streaks in it. She wears a hot pink tank top and a choker necklace with a yellow radiation sign on it.

Image 5: a photo of me, a white nonbinary person with short brown hair. I am looking to the side at my bicep as I flex. There is a lake and trees in the background.

Image 6: a bust portrait of my oc Yarrow, a drow woman with warm purple skin and brown hair and glowing freckles. She is smiling slightly and looking at the viewer. There is a ball of yellow light haloing her.

Image 7: a cool toned bust of Yarrow, showing her against a starry sky with an aurora. She wears a cloak made from a wolf's pelt and skull; the head forms the top of the hood.

Image 8: a digital painting of two cats cuddling on a blanket. The bigger is a blonde tabby and the smaller is a dark grey tabby. The blanket has stars and moons on it. There's a decorative border of fish bones and cat toys.

Image 9: a portrait of Yarrow with a light-skinned hand cradling her cheek. She is smiling at someone out of frame. Her freckles are connected like stars in a constellation.

All images are watermarked and signed "L-T-Bee." End ID.

[velidewrites]

Summary: Nesta is having the worst time on her vacation—until she spots a handsome stranger in a restaurant. Lucky for her, he's determined to show her a good time.

Pairing: Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Smut, mature language, Mrs Archeron

Read on AO3

The only source of light in the restaurant were the candles, laid atop each table and flickering whenever the evening breeze dared to gently whoosh inside. There were no windows in the space—the climate here was warm enough to not have to bother with such things—so instead, someone had opted to carve rounded, open archways into the sandstone walls. Every now and then, the wind would find its way in, prompting the small flames into a dance that threatened to smother their enthusiasm for good.

Such cruel fate had been suffered by the fire burning over at Nesta’s table, its only remnant the thin swirl of smoke that was now slowly trailing upwards. Nesta’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the blackened wick, as if she could still feel the soft flame casting shadows over her face.

It had only been seconds, and yet the wax had already begun freezing into place as it dripped down the candle’s ivory length. To Nesta, though, the moment had somehow managed to extend into eternity—a fate even more cruel than the flame’s unfortunate death. Right now, she would do just about anything to simply evaporate into the nightly air.

A light click sounded somewhere near her side, and time resumed in an instant. A symphony of voices poured into her ears—conversations in too many languages to discern, tangled between the music playing quietly from the speakers hung in the gap between the back wall and the ceiling. Everything became too loud, too rushed, like an impending wave of the sea, the same kind that was now crashing into the shore overlooked by the restaurant. With a will of their own, Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut, as though shutting off one of her senses could somehow ease the fervour of the other, and she quickly blinked, realising there were too many gazes on her to allow an escape into her own head.

When her eyes opened again, her candle was burning anew. The fire rose from from the spent wick, resuming its dance as if never interrupted at all.

Nesta blinked one more time before finally looking up.

The waiter stood over their table, a sleek, electric lighter in his hand. He flashed her a smile, his perfect set of white teeth nearly brighter than the flame itself.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked in a thick accent. Nesta thought it made his question sound like a song. Rich and lovely—each word enunciated, each syllable important.

She opened her mouth when another movement caught her eye—a glimpse of lustrous silk, reflecting the light softly. Pink.

Nesta’s mouth closed with a flat exhale. Elain always managed to select the perfect fabric for the occasion—as if she could somehow predict how the setting would best compliment her outfit. Indeed, her own pencil skirt and a sleeveless top were no match for her sister’s dress, which could probably challenge the very sun with its own gleam. Nesta’s all-black ensemble, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light.

Seated to her left, Elain’s brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the menu carefully. “Do you have any vegetarian options?” she asked, brows creasing in worry.

Another movement—opposite from Nesta, this time. Her eyes darted to its source, just in time to catch the wave of their mother’s dismissive hand.

“She’ll have the octopus,” she told the waiter, whose own frown mimicked Elain’s before he quickly jotted down the order. “We’re at the seaside, after all.”

Elain’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My eldest will have the calamari,” their mother continued, gesturing to Nesta. “Grilled, not fried. And the mussels for me.” And with that, she returned her gaze to the menu.

Elain cleared her throat pointedly, though the sound was hardly acknowledged as the woman flipped onto the last page, already examining the restaurant’s wine selection. Their mother did not deign to look up as Feyre spoke.

“I’ll have the salmon, please,” she said quietly, something strained in the back of her throat.

All the numbness Nesta had carefully cultivated in her chest prior to this evening vanished at the sound, a fire much more angry than the candle’s filling her instead. A ruthless, icy flame.

Her fury must have been evident in her eyes, because before Nesta even managed to make her feelings about mother’s obvious dismissal perfectly clear, Feyre’s slender hand wrapped around her wrist.

Nesta’s head snapped toward her little sister.

It’s not worth it, blue-grey eyes told her, even as their mother continued to question the waiter about the bitterness of the local wine.

Nesta swallowed. Hard.

Then, she looked to Elain—who shook her head quickly, honey-brown curls shifting over her shoulder.

Fine, then.

Nesta let out a deep, deep breath, and did not stop until all the fire was out and that familiar numbness filled her again.

She never thought she’d say this, but Nesta missed New York. Missed her apartment, however small, and the peace and quiet it offered on days like these—days when she felt forced to exist in the moment, to flow with its relentless current. She would give just about anything right now to be able to curl up on the grey couch in her living room and disappear under her favourite, plush blanket. She’d left a book on the coffee table beside it—she meant to bring it along for the journey, but it seemed that her mind had been too preoccupied with the destination to remember. The story—four hundred pages of her favourite romance—would have been the perfect escape for this occasion.

Frankly, Nesta had wanted to turn back and go home the moment she’d stepped on the plane. Her mood had only darkened when she discovered a raging six-year old was seated right behind her. The child had been intent on making her life even more miserable, opting to spend over half of the ten-hour flight frantically kicking her seat until his legs finally gave out about two hours before landing. The insufferable kid had been carried out by his mother, sleeping soundly in her arms and no longer resembling the devil’s spawn that he was—until they’d reached baggage claim, of course, where he’d taken the carousel for his personal playground, jumping right over her suitcase before Nesta had managed to fish it out.

The air had been warm and humid from the minute she’d left the airport, and it had only grown heavier since then. Not even the occasional breeze seemed to lift it as it swept over her face—as if mocking the beads of sweat that had begun to gather under her hairline. The climate didn’t bother her that much, to be honest—the island was beautiful, after all. The golden sand sparkling in the beaches, the turquoise water surrounding it. The palm trees growing on both sides of every stone-clad alley. Perhaps, in different company, she’d even be able to appreciate this place.

But alas, this trip was not the case. She and her sisters had been putting off this trip for two months now, though none of them had ever voiced their lack of enthusiasm aloud. Feyre would always cite her classes as an excuse, Elain was quite literally elbows-deep in work, and Nesta…after her fifteenth job interview, she was practically losing her mind.

Now, though, with the semester over and summer quickly approaching, the three of them found themselves with a lot of free time and too many missed calls from their mother. And so, when Nesta suggested they get on the plane and get the whole thing over with, neither one of her sisters even tried to protest.

It wasn’t that Nesta didn’t love her mother—they all did, truly. But love was a complicated thing, almost as complicated as the woman herself, and sometimes…sometimes it overwhelmed her.

She did feel guilty, of course. Mother’s health had been deteriorating over the past few years until finally reaching its critical point in early January. Her doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—a place where chaos didn’t thrive as wildly as it did in New York. Somewhere warm—somewhere quiet, where she could live out the rest of her days undisturbed by other worldly afflictions.

All of it was merely delaying the inevitable—even their mother knew that too well. Still, Nesta supposed, a remote island far away from the rest of the world did not seem like the worst place to turn to for comfort. She would have probably done the same had she found herself in a smilier predicament.

Except that comfort seemed to elude Mrs Archeron no matter where she fled—in fact, Nesta was starting to believe there wasn’t a single place on Earth that the woman could truly be satisfied. Even here, surrounded by nature’s radiant beauty, there was something missing. Sometimes, it was her favourite boutique in New York. Other times, the friends she’d left behind there, the weekly card games they always held at the Plaza. And lately, it was her three daughters, who, after all had not visited her in six months.

She’d seemingly forgotten that it had been Feyre who’d helped her move all the way across the world—who’d taken care of all the planning and paperwork until their mother had set foot in her new, beachfront suite. Her youngest sister had missed an entire week of lectures because of that trip, and would later sacrifice her sleep to catch up on the material overnight.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nesta blinked, the question snapping her focus back into the present. The waiter was long gone—instead, mother had now seemed to engage Elain in a conversation, from the exasperated flush on her sister’s cheeks.

“Nesta,” Feyre murmured.

God, she needed to get it together.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said carefully. “I got distracted for a minute. You were saying?”

The woman let out a long-suffering sighed. “You spend too much time in your own head, Nesta, and I know very well why.” Nesta’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’ve always told you should read less—or at least, read something more productive than those silly rom-coms I’ve seen on your shelf.”

Suddenly, Nesta regretted ever inviting her mother to her apartment. She’d only come over for tea once—and apparently, it had been enough for her to restock her ammunition for later.

Forcing a smile which came out a bit crooked, Nesta met the woman’s gaze. Blue-grey eyes, the same exact shade as hers and Feyre’s, stared back, adorned by wrinkles not yet smoothed out by botox. “What was your question, mother?” she asked.

Another sigh, aimed to make her disappointment clear. “I was saying you should perhaps speak to your boss about Elain,” she suggested.

Nesta angled her head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Mother,” Elain cut in, “I told you it’s not—”

“A job, of course,” she said, dismissing her daughter completely. “You work for a high-profile company.” It was the closest to a compliment Nesta had ever heard fall from her lips. “Surely they could find something for Elain, too.”

“Elain already has a job,” Nesta reminded.

Her mouth twisted in distaste. “A different job.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I do now,” Elain spoke again, her tone sharper now, colder.

Their mother raised a hand, the golden rings on her fingers glistening under the candlelight. “Of course there isn’t, dear. You misunderstand me again.” She turned to Nesta. “I’m only saying you could ask your boss if there are any opportunities. I’m sure Elain could use the extra money.”

“I’m doing perfectly fine where I am, mother. But,” Elain added through gritted teeth, “thank you for your concern.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it business is going well, then?” She never called Elain’s bakery by what it was—as if the mere thought of her daughter spending her days dabbling in flour already filled her with some unimaginable horror.

“Yes,” Elain said tightly. “Perfectly well.”

Mother shrugged. “If you say so. Still,” she looked to Nesta again. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Elain’s face practically burned red.

“Fine, mother,” Nesta quickly said, making sure to squeeze Elain’s hand under the table. “I will.”

She sure as hell wasn’t asking Tomas Mandray for anything. As of Monday, she’d never have to see him again.

Her mother didn’t have to know about the resignation latter, saved on her laptop and waiting to be sent out the second she returned. If she found out Nesta was planning to quit her stable, corporate job…not even the island’s lovely climate would save her.

Mrs Archeron nodded. “Good. You should ask him about your promotion, too,” she added. “I keep hearing about it, and yet nothing ever happens.”

Nesta tried not to cringe at the displeasure in her voice.

“A fine man, that Mandray,” she mused innocently. “Good looks…good social standing.”

Dread began to build in her stomach. Please, don’t, she begged her silently. I hate him.

Something twinkled in her mother’s eyes, and she opened her mouth.

“Greysen and I broke up,” Elain announced loudly.

Mother’s face whipped to her middle daughter, and Nesta’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Why?”

A one-shouldered shrug, so similar to the one mother had given her only a minute ago. Thank you, Nesta wanted to shout across the table, though she suspected Elain hardly needed her gratitude. She was clearly enjoying this—especially as she added, “He wasn’t good for me.”

Mother was practically seething. “Greysen Nolan is a good match,” she said, as though unaware they were living in the twenty-first century. “His father and I are friends.”

“Just how good of a friend is he?” Elain shot back.

Nesta stilled.

Beside her, Feyre’s eyes widened.

Slowly, their mother leaned back in her seat.

“Ladies,” a deep voice sounded. “Your drinks.”

The waiter appeared as if out of nowhere, leaning to set their wine atop the table. Nesta had never reached for her glass quicker, urging the crimson liquid to flush down the heart lodged in her throat. Feyre, it seemed, had opted to do the same.

Only when the man pulled back, moving to approach another table, did Elain finally sway the wine in her hand, her gaze still levelled on her opponent. While mother had taken Nesta under her wing from a very young age, and completely dismissed Feyre as anything other than a tiresome presence in her house, she’d never seen Elain as anything beyond her looks—it was no surprise that she’d quickly become their father’s daughter—calm and unyielding, unafraid to face her head on and risk her disapproval. Mother had always underestimated her.

She seemed to realise that at last, as lightning seemed to rage in her blue-grey eyes, just barely restrained—an ancient storm ready to ravage a blooming land.

Not good.

So Nesta spoke, “Mother, did you know Feyre passed all of her finals with an A this year?” Feyre’s head snapped to her at that, even the freckles on her face paling. “Tell her about your post-colonialism class, Feyre.” And when Feyre didn’t manage to utter a single word, Nesta turned back to their mother, explaining, “It was the most difficult one, and she got the best grade out of her entire cohort. At NYU.”

Feyre released a breath. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Those icy flames licked at Nesta’s chest again. Acknowledge her, she wanted to scream. Praise her.

“It’s not nothing,” she told her sister. “You’ve been brilliant, I—Mother?” Nesta frowned, realising the woman had already risen from her seat.

“Oh, please, keep going,” she waved a hand. “Don’t let me disturb you—I’m just going to go find the restroom. I need to freshen up.”

And with that, she was gone, the light click of her heels on the stone floor following her to the back of the restaurant.

Nesta eyed the movement, willing that inner fire to stifle its rage—until her eyes settled on something else entirely.

“You broke up with Greysen?” Feyre spoke beside her, but her voice was distant now, as if sounding from miles away. “When?”

“Last month,” Elain answered. “But he had it coming long before that, really,” she added quickly.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. You were dealing with your finals, I—I didn’t want to add more onto your plate.”

A sigh. “I get it. Just—please know you can always talk to me?”

“Of course. Besides, Nesta was—Nesta?”

But Nesta had long stopped participating in the conversation.

For sitting at the table a few away was the most ridiculously beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She would’ve spotted him right away had it not been for her mother’s seat shielding him from view the entire night. It was impossible not to take notice of him—and not simply due to his size, the broad chest, the strong, golden-brown arms, their muscles practically glistening under the soft light. He looked like he’d spent the entire day on the beach, his dark, windswept hair loosening a few strands over his forehead—over his hazel eyes, bright with amusement as he listened to his companion.

And his companion…of course he’d come with a date. A woman so beautiful she seemed as though the sun itself had crafted her, her golden hair cascading down the red silks of her dress, down her exposed back. What the hell did they put in the wine in this place?

From the corner of her eye, Nesta could just barely make out Elain following her gaze.

“Go talk to him,” she urged.

At that, Nesta turned, schooling her features into cool indifference. “Who?”

Elain’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t act stupid now, Nesta. You were practically drooling.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good looking man?” she asked innocently.

“It’s a crime not to do anything about it.”

Feyre huffed a laugh. Nesta shot her a glare.

“Just do it, Nesta,” she told her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s clearly here with a date.”

“Could be his sister,” Elain supplied helpfully, though there was little confidence in her tone.

“They look nothing alike.”

Feyre sighed deeply. “Nesta, just go talk to the guy.”

“She’s right, you know.” Elain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been busy.”

“Exactly,” Feyre said. “And now you’re on vacation—you deserve to…let off some steam.”

Elain chuckled.

“Is that so funny?” Nesta challenged. “Maybe you should go talk to him, Elain—a little rebound’s never hurt anybody.”

Elain sipped from her glass. “Normally, I would,” she started, a small twinkle appearing in her gaze. “But I don’t think Lucien would appreciate it.”

Feyre’s jaw practically hung open. “Lucien? NYU Engineering Lucien?” She shook her head. “No, scratch that—my friend Lucien?”

Pink bloomed on Elain’s cheeks, and Nesta suspected it had little to do with the wine. “He came by the bakery a few days after your party.” That’s right, Feyre’s end-of-exams party—the one she’d quite literally begged her to show up to. The one she’d told Tomas about when she requested a day off—and so naturally, he’d made her work overtime well into the early hours of the night. “We’re going on a date next week.”

Feyre’s arms folded over her chest. “I can’t believe that asshole didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. Lucien may have been two years above Feyre—but he was still a good friend. At least, that was Nesta’s understanding from the one time she’d met him.

“I know what would lift your mood right up, Feyre,” Nesta suggested, a sly smirk curling up the corner of her mouth. “Go talk to the guy.”

Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “I will if you don’t do it first.”

She gestured towards his table. “Be my guest.”

Feyre groaned loudly.

“Nesta, would you please stop being so stubborn?” Elain begged.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself,” she huffed.

“We’re literally on the other side of the world,” Feyre argued. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What indeed?

Nesta considered—they were leaving after the weekend. If the golden woman really was his date, and Nesta was about to face a blatant rejection—she’d never have to see him again. She would probably have to avoid every beach on this island for the next two days, but now that she thought of it, she’d always been more of a winter person, anyway. And then, she’d simply go home and never think of him again.

If he was single, on the other hand… 

Nesta sighed. “Fine.”

Elain squealed in delight.

“Ask him what he ordered—it’s good small talk,” Feyre advised.

“I can see what he ordered from here,” Nesta protested. “Besides, his plate looks horrible. Who orders steak in a place like this?”

“You’re starting to sound like mother,” Feyre cautioned.

Oh, god.

“Do it your way, then, Nesta,” Elain hurried. “Just go.”

Alright then.

Nesta set her glass, rising from the table carefully. She did not nearly have enough wine for this, she realised. Her body felt warm—but not warm enough to untangle the knots that had managed to form in her stomach. It wasn’t like her to put herself out there so…publicly. Honestly, she’d never had to work this hard to catch a man’s attention before.

“Have fun.” Feyre smirked. “We’ll be watching.”

Nesta hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

The sound of her sisters’ quiet giggles carried her through the space. She didn’t think she’d ever walked more slowly in her life, each step determined to drag this out for as long as possible. God, did she at least bother to check her hair beforehand? What if she’d smudged her mascara by accident?

Too late—she was so close now that she could make out just how perfectly the man’s stubble shaped his sharp jaw. Could see how large his hands were as he clasped them together, seemingly in excitement at whatever the woman had just told him.

She could see the perfect fullness of his lips as he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Well, shit.

Nesta practically lunged for the bathroom, making a turn so sharp she almost slipped on the polished stone floor. Damn her and her stupid heels—everyone wore sandals in this place, anyway. What devilish forces pushed her to leave all of her flat shoes back home, she did not know. She could only pray no one saw her obvious escape—or the heat that was no doubt burning her face red.

The restaurant had been booming with conversation and music all night, and despite this, the only sound she was convinced everybody could hear now was her heels, loudly carrying her away as she disappeared into the corridor that led to the restrooms.

The door swung open before she’d even managed to reach for the handle.

“Ah, Nesta,” Mrs Archeron said, and Nesta almost stumbled back a step. Her mother reached for something in her handbag as she continued “Here, use this.” She fished out a small packet of tissues and pressed them into Nesta’s palm. “Public restrooms are an atrocity.”

And just like that, she left.

Nesta stared at the packet for a few seconds before finally entering the quiet room.

It was a cozy space, with golden-framed mirrors, hanging from an old mural of the sea, and marble sinks. She placed the tissues atop one of them and faced her reflection at last.

Well. She did not look half bad, at least.

Her makeup was still intact—by some miracle, even the dark wings of her eyeliner remained sharp. She’d braided her hair into an updo earlier, and though a few loose strands had fallen out to frame her face, the entire ensemble looked somewhat presentable. Nesta reached for one of the tissues, dabbing it lightly over her face in places where the heat of her embarrassment melted her foundation slightly, and sighed. What was she thinking?

She made herself count to ten before going back into the dining area, her mind already crafting a pathway back that did not involve walking past the guy’s table. There was a staircase on her left, in the corridor right by the bathroom door, that she hadn’t noticed before. The sign next to it had been written in a language she did not understand, though the message seemed pretty obvious—no entry. Shame. Nesta would have done just about anything to hide upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice appeared beside her.

Nesta stilled. He sounded exactly as she’d imagined.

Please, let this be a dream, she begged silently. A hallucination from the humidity.

If only.

Slowly, she turned from the stairs and faced him.

Up close, he was almost criminally beautiful. He knew it, too, there was no doubt in her mind about that—not as he folded his golden-brown arms over a powerful chest, leaning against the wall with a smirk. He was so ridiculously large that he shielded most of the restaurant from view—barely, just barely, she could make out her sisters’ forms, sure to be watching them intently.

The idea made her thoughts sharpen, like a fog lifting from her gaze���pretty or not, he was still a man, and Nesta was hardly one to fall at their feet at first glance.

And so, schooling her features into what she hoped was cool indifference, she asked “Excuse me?

A chuckle.“When you left your table, I was hoping you were coming over the say hello,” he mused, his voice like a melody sang by the darkest night—low and smooth over her skin, penetrating every fibre of her being. Nesta nearly gritted her teeth as a new fire awoke inside her—hot, teasing and wet.

He’d sought her out.

“I don’t think your date would share the sentiment,” she said, careful to keep her tone aloof.

His brows knitted over hazel eyes—from up close, she could see the speckles of green dancing around his pupils. “My…” he paused, a shadow of confusion clouding his face as he took in her words. “Oh.” A smirk curled the corner of his lips. “Mor is a friend.”

“You have very pretty friends.”

He hummed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one more.”

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her own lips. “You’re very cocky for a…” A what? With a face like that, she couldn’t really blame him.

He flashed her a grin, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and enjoyed every last bit of it. “What’s your name?” he asked. God, she liked his voice. She liked everything about him.“Nesta,” she said, extending a hand.

He lifted himself off the wall, stepping in close enough to take her hand into his. That delicious heat stirred in her again at the contact—at the warmth of his skin, the slightly calloused fingers. She began wondering what he did for a living—until all thoughts evaporated from her head as he leaned to brush his mouth over her knuckles in a light kiss.

“Cassian,” he said, and the liquid fire descended down to the deepest, most aching part of her.

“Cassian,” Nesta repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. It did not sound nearly as nice on her tongue as it did on his—though Cassian hardly seemed to agree, from the way his eyes darkened at the sound.

He released her hand much too soon for Nesta’s liking. “I was about to have some dessert. Would you like to join me, Nesta?” he asked, motioning to the stairs and up.

Nesta’s brows furrowed. “Upstairs?” she questioned. “Isn’t it a private area?”

Cassian smiled at her again, and suddenly, she stopped caring about signs altogether. “Oh, it is,” he said. “Lucky for us, my brother owns this place.”

Lucky indeed.

“What of your date?”

He snorted. “I told you—not a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cassian jerked his chin to his table, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “She was waiting for somebody else.”

Nesta followed his gaze—to where the beautiful woman, Mor, now smiled openly as she took the hand of her new companion. The woman who had taken Cassian’s seat returned her expression, her dark eyes shining brightly.

“Oh,” Nesta simply noted.

“Yes,” Cassian agreed, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “What’s your final verdict, then?”

Nesta shot a quick glance at another table—where Feyre was now giving her what seemed like a thumbs up. 

“Lead the way,” she told him.

Cassian, it seemed, did not need to be told twice.

The room upstairs was a lovely studio, the interior similar to that of the restaurant. A small but well-equipped kitchen made up the corner on the left side of the entrance, divided from the rest of the space by a dining table of dark, polished wood. A couch stood by the windows toward the back wall, overlooking the village beneath. Nesta moved closer to the sight—it only took her a few steps to reach the other end of the apartment—as though unable to help herself, to admire the soft lights glinting from inside every household. The sea laid on the other side of the building, but she could still hear the gentle rustle of waves docking ashore. Now, with a peaceful view and a change in company, she felt her appreciation for this place grow.

“It’s beautiful.”

Somewhere behind her, Cassian hummed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nesta turned on her feet to meet his gaze—only to find it occupied. Cassian’s eyes surveyed her closely, sweeping over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts—until they finally settled on her mouth, something bobbing in his throat at the sight.

For some reason, Nesta’s mouth felt dry. “Do you stay here often?” she asked, but her words felt distant, absent even as she spoke them.

Cassian shook his head, his gaze reluctantly moving to meet hers again. “Only sometimes. My other brother usually watches the place.”

“You have two?”

He nodded.

“I have two sisters,” she said.

He took a step towards her. “I saw.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, the question no more than a breath. He was so close to her now—she could wrap her hands around his neck if she wanted to.

His voice was hoarse as he admitted, “I was.”

Nesta went molten, all the heat he’d rallied inside her fluttering in her belly and swirling down to her core. She needed him to touch her now—anywhere, everywhere, all at once. She wanted to know how those fingers would feel as they traced the curve of her breasts, how they’d stroke that aching place deep inside her that thrummed under his stare.

He saw her—had spotted a stranger in the sea of candlelight and decided to wait for her move. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—she fascinated him just as he did her. 

Perhaps this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

Feeling bold, Nesta closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his broad chest. She tried not to gasp at the hard muscle she felt underneath—at the heartbeat that began to race under her touch. She couldn’t help but smirk.

A large palm covered her own. “So, Nesta,” Cassian said, the low rasp of his voice caressing that desperate tightness inside her. “Tell me what brought you here tonight.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean the restaurant. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Something twinkled in his gaze as he asked, “Not enjoying your time on the island so far?”

She slid her hand up to his neck, her thumb reaching to brush the roughness of his stubble. She could’ve sworn he shuddered slightly at the touch. “Could be better,” Nesta teased.

His eyes darkened. “Let me show you, then,” he pleaded. “Let me show you a good time.”

“Yes,” Nesta breathed.

In a quick and definitely practiced move, Cassian grasped both her hands in one of his palms, lifting them above her head. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pinned them to the wall behind her, his grip on her deliciously firm. Nesta’s exposed shoulders brushed the stone, its cold touch instantly smothered by Cassian’s hot breath on her skin as he leaned down to crash his lips into hers.

He tasted like fire and the richest of wines, the feel of him nearly dizzying, consuming. His other hand rested heavily on her waist, trailing upward as if wanting to explore every last inch of her. Nesta’s lips parted slightly when he cupped the side of her breast, and his tongue slipped forward to meet her own like a hungry flame.

His body pressed in closer, and Nesta arched into him, desperate for more friction. Like a bolt of lightning, pleasure rocked through her she felt the hardness bulging under his trousers, digging into her stomach in repressed need.

“Take this off,” she commanded between breaths. Cassian chuckled.

As he pulled away, sliding his shirt off in one, swift motion, Nesta allowed herself a moment to admire the man before her. With his chest laid bare to her, he looked like one of the marble sculptures that decorated the space downstairs—like some kind of ancient warrior, crafted from iron and flame. He was intoxicating.

With her hands freed, she moved to trace the cords of carved muscle with her fingers, delighting in the sight of his chest falling in uneven rhythm. “I was right,” she mused, more to herself than him.

“About what?” Cassian asked, his question no more than a rasp.

Nesta flashed him a smile. “This is going to be fun.”

His lips found hers again at that, the kiss deeper now, more desperate, as if he wanted to ingrain the feel of her into his memory forever. A rustle of fabric signalled his hands on the hems of her shirt, and Nesta raised her hands, suddenly feeling very smug about her decision not to wear a bra for the evening.

A low, feral noise escaped Cassian’s throat as he took in the sight. Nesta shivered, and it had little to do with the breeze that made its way in through the open windows she was nestled between.

His hands slid down her body, and Nesta stopped breathing entirely as he circled the tip of a finger around her pebbled nipple. Her nails dug into his arms, the sensation of his touch on her sensitive skin tantalising. She needed more of him—and she needed it now.

Then, Cassian flicked her nipple, and a wretched moan ripped free from her throat. Cassian snickered in delight and flicked again, the touch drawing just enough pain this time to spur another, clawing ache that dripped between her thighs.

“Cassian,” Nesta pulled away, panting. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, moving back an inch to meet her frantic stare. “What is it?”

“The windows.”

Cassian frowned slightly. “What about them?”

“They’re open,” Nesta said, her breath still uneven. “There are guests downstairs—”

A very satisfied smile curved his lips upwards. “Well,” he teased, his hand on her side moving to wrap under her thigh. “I guess you’ll just have to be very quiet, then.”

And with that, he lifted her up.

A thrill shot down Nesta’s spine as he pinned her to the wall again, and she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in to settle between them.

“Just like that,” he praised, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass. There was a feral edge to her smile as she looked up at him, and a low rumble reverberated through his chest. “Nesta—”

She let her name drown in his mouth as she brought her lips to his, her legs wrapping tighter around him. The core between her thighs throbbed with her need, her anticipation, begging to be filled—to be given what she so badly wished. Keeping one of her hands on his neck, she slid the other down to the buttons of his trousers, working them quickly until another, grey fabric appeared.

Cassian groaned into her mouth as she skimmed her hand down his length.

“Who’s quiet now,” she mocked, her fingers teasing him again.

“Bossy,” he panted, his own hand moving to spring himself free at last. Any smug retorts her mind began crafting died on her tongue as she took in his cock, the breath in her chest hitching at its size, at the velvety shaft promising to completely and utterly wreck her.

He pulled her own, black skirt up to her hips before she’d even realised, as desperate for her as she was for him. Cassian’s hand moved to cup her ass again, fingers digging into the pliant flesh deliciously, as the other reached down to guide himself to her entrance.

His cock brushed the thin layer of her underwear, practically soaked with the pleasure he’d coaxed from her. “You’re killing me,” Cassian breathed, feeling the wet heat welcoming him, urging him in. She could not longer endure it—the feel of the blunt tip of his cock so achingly close, and yet not nearly close enough.

He seemed incline to agree as the sound of a ripping fabric filled the space between them. Cassian discarded her underwear to the floor before Nesta managed to open her mouth in protest, the darkness in his eyes drowning out the hazel.

“You won’t be needing it anymore,” he told her simply, his hand returning between her legs.

Her gaze followed the movement. “Is that so?”

The asshole had the audacity to wink. “I promised you a good time, did I not?” he asked, another wide smirk blooming on his beautiful face as he lazily teased a finger at her entrance, her aching cunt coating him in her slick. “Seems to me like you are,” he hummed, crooning his digit inside her.

Nesta gasped, her walls immediately clenching around him, pulsing with need. He hissed at the sensation, his cock twitching impatiently beside his hand, begging to take its place. Nesta could not agree more—she needed more, needed to feel the fullness of him inside her, to find out just how deeply she could take him. Her vision glazed with lust as she watched him add another finger, stretching her with ease.

“Cassian,” she urged, her voice tight now, strained as those fingers retreated and dipped into her again, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm that threatened to push her over the edge. Too soon—she had to find out now, had to get her craving satisfied, had to have him fill her entirely before she exploded. “Cassian,” she said again, louder, this time as her thighs shook slightly around him. It felt so fucking good and he knew it, from the smile she felt on her neck as his mouth lowered to nip at the exposed skin.

“So impatient,” he purred, his breath hot beneath her ear and shooting that familiar lightning through her again, setting every nerve in her body on high alert, tingling. His pace quickened, pulling in and out of her increasingly tightening centre, and she rolled her hips into his hand, pushing him deeper, her efforts messy, needy. “I want you to come for me, Nesta,” he told her, his lips descending on her neck again as he added, “Before the real fun begins.”

Release crashed into her without warning, her inner muscles clenching him tight as she moaned loudly, unable to contain her the sweet, white-hot fire inside her any linger. Cassian’s mouth found her own again, the kiss muffling out the sounds of her pleasure from any unwanted spectators as his fingers continued to ride her through it. Nesta’s tongue darted into him, scraping over his teeth, not nearly satiated enough—she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of him. 

He did not break apart from her as he wrapped both arms around her again, taking them to the couch a feet away. She straddled him the moment his back rested against the cushions, the feel of his hardness against her now dripping core rekindling that greedy fire inside her. She rolled her hips once, twice, relishing in the feel of him, in the guttural sounds he was making in return. His palms rested on her sides, lifting her slightly before flashing her a wicked smile.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he teased, the broad tip of his cock nudging at her entrance again.

God, she was in such deep shit.

Without another thought, Nesta slid her hands to his neck and drew him inside her.

All the air was sucked from her lungs at the stretch of him, of every aching inch as she lowered herself on his cock. Cassian hissed sharply, his grip on her hips tighter now, as though he needed to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside her, to give her a moment to adjust to the thickness of him.

But Nesta was done waiting.

She grasped a hand at his shoulder, urging him to move closer, deeper, to move with her until she could no longer see anything but stars. She could practically hear how wet she was as his strokes grew steadier and devastatingly precise, each one of them reaching further into her core, each one making her breaths go shorter and her legs grow weaker.

“Nesta,” Cassian panted, his head dipping to the crook of her neck, “You feel incredible.”

Maybe it was the way he spoke her name, low with a flash of possessiveness in his dark eyes, or the praise he’d thrown at her, but she shuddered with delight as she sunk fully onto his length, her walls gripping him tighter. Cassian swore loudly, the curse in that language she didn’t understand yet still shooting jolts of pleasure through her body. She looked down to where they joined, to where she was split open around his cock, where he dragged himself up and down the slick folds of her cunt.

Her pace quickened at the sight, something in it breaking the last shred of composure within her.

Nesta mewled as he pushed in deeper than ever before, his cock hitting the back of her cunt, stroking that sensitive spot inside her that made her melt entirely. She moaned his name, no longer caring for whoever might hear—there was only the fire erupting inside her as he filled her, the sound of his heavy breaths as he matched her pace, the wildness in his eyes as she moved on him, deeper and deeper.

She felt the inevitable tug of another climax, creeping in closer and closer with every thrust, every flutter of her cunt around him. Her legs trembled, threatening to give in the next time his cock found that secret spot inside her, her breasts bouncing with her movements.

“Cassian,” she choked, throwing her head back as his hands slid up to cup them.

Cassian’s mouth closed around one of her nipples, and she exploded.

Her walls clenched around him hard as she came, Cassian following swiftly after as his thrusts became messier, more chaotic until he finally gave in. His groan reverberated into her body, settling deep beneath her skin, caressing every shuddering inch of her as she rode them both through their joint release. They recovered together, their heaving breaths syncing into one, and it felt so good and so right that she never wanted to leave.

When Cassian’s eyes searched her own again, flickering brightly, Nesta couldn’t help but grin.

“I believe you promised me dessert,” she told him.

His gaze swept over her body, over the mess she’d made of him, and when it returned to hers at last, it was filled with a new hunger that sent heat into her once more. “Yes,” he hummed. “I believe I did.”

Taglist: @sv0430 @queercontrarian @asnowfern @helhjertet @isterofimias @octobers-veryown @fieldofdaisiies @teamazris @a-frog-with-a-laptop @jmoonjones

[inqorporeal]

I rescued an orchid from the grocery store last night. It looked small and pathetic, and next to the vibrant purples of the other plants, it was a subtle and lovely burgundy with interesting patterns on the petals. I have had very little luck with plants (other than the Christmas Rose I named Audrey III after it took over the kitchen) but I won't get better if I don't try.

Looked up orchid care instructions on the ride home, so the first thing I did was unpot it to inspect the roots. The poor things were tangled up in a dense brown spongelike thing that was definitely not any sort of potting medium designed to let it breathe and definitely way too damp. Some of the leaves were cold-burnt or broken, there was fuzzy mold on part of it, some of the roots were already browning and squishy from rot. I trimmed everything out carefully, cleaned as much of the brown sponge off as I could (it's adhered to some of the roots and I'm afraid to scrub too hard), and dug out the African violet pot that I got from a craft fair in my hometown years ago.

It's currently recovering wrapped around a little statuette of a shaman with a sandstone base soaked in water, on the windowsill in the bathroom to maximize indirect light, warmth, and humidity. No idea if it'll survive (I'm REALLY concerned about the root rot, which is why I'm letting the roots air out). But I ordered some potting medium and fertilizer which should arrive soon, so we'll see.

[pillowspace]

You had put very little thought into seeing new places before your adventures with the gods, but now, you had an preying need, a desire. The Celestial Realm had been beautiful, when you first saw it anyways, igniting a spark at all the wondrous landscapes. It made you wonder what you were missing out on back on Earth. Much as you loved your home, and were quite content to be there, sometimes you would venture out with one of the gods, whom had no trouble taking you places.

Today, your companion was Eclipse, the incredibly tall, crimson and coal faced god, head encircled by fiery rays, trailing behind you, staring out uncertainly with their many red eyes, dotted by yellow pupils containing black slits. They were just as unused to the travel after all their years imprisoned, the rocky, plateau-dotted desert stretching out on all sides. Passing under a massive light brown sandstone arch, Eclipse reaches up, stroking at the soft rock, laced with patterns and swirls while forming.

"It's pretty," you note, breaking the silence. The imposing being startles, glancing your way, tilting their head just the slightest bit. An awkward moment lingers before they hum, a more calm Meno side. "It is," they agree, moving past. A canyon swallows you both, following a straight line past prickly bushes and cacti. Dry dirt stirs at your feet, dust glimmering in mid-morning sunlight.

Soaking it all in, it takes a moment to realize your companion has stopped, currently staring intensely down at a rock a little ways off. Curious, you join them, your shadow unintentionally falling upon a long, spiky lizard that basks there, startling it from sunbathing. It blinks an eye at you and Eclipse, the god wide-eyed, watching it like a child that just found something particularly fascinating. They reach down towards it, but the movement disturbs the frilly creature, zipping from sight in an instant.

The god lowers their arm, disappointed. You offer a small pat along the appendage to try and cheer them up, smiling and gesturing to continue the walk when they look at you. They concede, gaze lingering for only a moment where the lizard had lain. How strange it must be for them, you think. From your understanding, neither Sunna nor Meno had held much care for the Earth before. Now, though, getting to see anything different was like a miracle, a fact that left you feeling crestfallen on their behalf. You knew things had been really hard for them, after their merge and the imprisonment, one of the reasons you'd forgiven them after the rough start to your friendship. Gods were strange beings, but they were also people, and neither deserved that.

You're yanked from your thoughts by Eclipse, stopping in front of you, examining you with a level of concern. "I'm alright," you swear. "Just thinking."

Curiosity brims once more, tilting their head. "About what?" they ask. You cringe at the idea of bringing up their past, knowing it's a sore subject, so instead throw on a smile, hands folding neatly behind your back, rocking forward on your tiptoes in a jovial motion. "About how lucky I am to have you all. You're all so amazing," you reply. Certainly not far from the truth. Despite everything that happened, the danger you faced, it is a constant thought in the back of your mind. You don't know where you would be without Eclipse, Sun, or Moon. Probably dead, or worse.

Eclipse preens at the praise, grin splitting wide, dripping obsidian liquid down their chin. Realizing, they turn away, trying to wipe it off, chattering between themselves, embarrassed. You smile, stepping up to tug gently at their sleeve. Looking back down at you, you guide their hands forward, laying their massive palms on top of yours. "You're okay, Eclipse. I've seen worse," you assure them. You think, for a moment, that they might cry. It passes, though, their hands lifting off yours to cup either side of your head. A few streaks of the thick black fluid that caught on their fingers ends up smearing a bit on your cheeks, but you don't mind. They lower, nuzzling their face to yours affectionately, eyes closed. You return the gesture, smile farther softening.

Eclipse is reluctant to pull away, but does, releasing you. Your eyes meet their largest pair of red orbs, a shared fondness between you. Taking a hand, your appendage is engulfed in theirs when they carefully fold their fingers down, and you both turn and walk, hand in hand, deeper into the desert, content to continue your exploration together.

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

Part 3 of 3 complete! Happy birthday! Hope it's a fun one! ☺️

UAHHH I LOVE THESE, THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭😭 POST-CSD ECLIPSE WAHHHHHH. I made the happiest sound scrolling through my inbox and noticing this here, I am giving you the largest wettest eyes. I ADORE THIS, THANK YOU!!

It also is fun seeing Y/N's perspective having mentions of Sunna and Meno, because that is something that i actually want Y/N's thoughts to be like a lot later on. Even after they find out about Sunna and Meno, I want them to not really linger on it and just think of Eclipse solely as Eclipse until about the end of arc 3 when they start properly trying to understand it. And Eclipse would be so fascinated by the Earth, despite having never liked it prior.

I GIVE YOU A MASSIVE HUG, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

[echinoid-fossils-on-the-rocks]

In Preperation for the new little Trilobite Tuesday post.

Two alike trilobites, assume they are calymene Sp. from Morocco. Likely formed in sandstone.

Both specimen have the length of 5 & 6 cm. Some parts like the upper matrix mantle of the rock and the eyes of both are missing.

They have the sandy rusty brown gray charm of the once sandbed and the desert, one glitter slightly in the light. ✨

[claybefree]

Tulip Poplar

Sorrow is my own yard

where the new grass

flames as it has flamed

often before but not

with the cold fire

that closes round me this year

William Carlos Williams- The Widow’s Lament in Springtime

Every spring I have to ask for the name again. Tulip poplar, Saucer Magnolia, something like that, you’d think I wouldn’t be surprised by her anymore. Whereas last week empty arms cast veins of silhouettes across a cold carpet of previous year's leaves, today I’m able to come home from a long day of work, and face her canopy of flowers, half open like teacups, and that is miraculous news. I take it as further evidence that after two years the sucking wound in my chest has finally closed.

Each March was a celebration, a maelstrom of pink hung beneath the blue, pinks so dark along thick shouldered leaves, almost purple, and then bleeding out rapidly to porcelain white, there was no ignoring it. I notched one end of an eight foot pallet we brought home into the main cluster of stems, six feet up and propped the other end with a door. Of course the kids never climbed into the blossoms, but we did.

Now everyone’s gone but me and the whole yard creeps more every year, abandoned gardens filled with weeds crawling out of their beds, privet’s relentless march choking everything in between. A cold wind brushes the tulip against the rafter tails outside my bedroom, waking me. Limbs resting on roof shingles, a stitch of yellow rope left from a swing I hung years ago cut deep into the bark like a tourniquet. Her blooms will turn brown and slimy and clog the already rusted gutters. Neither tree nor house belong to me but as far as I’m concerned, I’m the steward of both, for now.

So I spend sixty dollars that I do not have on a bright orange pole saw from Lowes which I run up into underbelly pierced with morning light, trying not to focus on saw teeth tearing past bark into white flesh, or sap raining onto my cheekbones. I’m grateful for the strength I have in my arms for this work today but I worry I got started too late in the season and the half dozen or more wounds I’ve left will become infected and kill her. Despite all this I work for the better part of a morning, and pile up branches tall as me in the burn pit in the middle of the yard. In the fall I’ll light it up and likely scare the new neighbors. The blossoms lining the crooked pile go for broke and open their white faces wide to the sun.

The days are consistently warm enough and the new tires on my motorcycle beg to be chewed up, but my heart’s not in it. Not yet. One morning soon I’ll blast out 64 sometime before eight thirty, get away from the Florida interlopers that keep trying to kill me and hit the Blue Ridge Parkway and adjacent counties on this side of the mountain- Nelson, Rockbridge and Amherst.

The best road out there is also the most dangerous, and yet with half a dozen ways up to the Parkway, I still find myself on route 56 more often than not. A million years ago I guess, before someone gave it a name, the Tye river cut a gorge out of the mountains, twisting impossibly through the rocks and at some point homesteaders ran a road alongside and named that 56. Highly technical, it’s not the curves that will dump me. Every rental cabin and vacation home has a driveway cut into the shale and sandstone hills which provide, after every good rain, an opportunity for gravel to spill out on the tarmac. If I’m not on top of my game that’s what will kill me.

But before all that, when it breaks off from the Rockfish Valley highway, 56 passes through a couple thousand acres of farmland on one side, and the Tye river on the other. For some reason I think a good bit about the people who work that land. Last year the fields appeared to be left fallow, two years previous, in the fall, thousands of pumpkins were left scattered and rotting on the vine, collapsing into orange pulp. All I could think was that the pumpkin patch contract fell through.

I want to find the old timers and see if anyone will talk to me about August 1969, when Hurricane Camille dumped two foot of water in three hours and drowned birds in trees. When the Tye jumped its banks, broke the back of every bridge that dared cross it and cut the census of Massies Mill nearly in half.

Sometimes I see the pictures they post and get jealous of my friends who travel abroad, but I’ve decided what I need is to ride a motorcycle entirely too fast through the middle of some fields in Nelson county every three months and do that in perpetuity. I’ve been in that valley headed home late in the day with the sun low under the clouds turning everything golden, worried that I’m too far out. I’ve encountered the Tye river in a spring flood, washing across 56 nearly to the point where I had to turn back and find another route. I’ve ridden it half frozen in a driving rain, tucked behind the fairing with a mother of three on the back seat holding onto me for warmth.

Back in 2022, at my lowest, whenever I talked about tulip flowers or graveyard moss carried home from a chapel where it crosses over the mountain and heads down toward Vesuvius, my closest friends would encourage me to move out. They’d point to the marks on the door casing in the kitchen chronicling each child’s growth, five years worth, both hers and mine, and yeah, I got it. My argument was I’d have to find something else just like it- a shed for my tools, a garage for my bikes, somewhere to write. I dunno, man, I would say, it just feels like I belong here.

One of these days, instead of waving to them on their harvesters, I’m gonna pull over and talk to one of these guys. Yeah me, a wild eyed weirdo biker from the city rambling on about something I don’t know if I could even put into words. The idea of the two of us having a shared language with a place, a connection, whether it be on a tractor or a motorcycle, bound by both sorrow and joy. The connection running deeper because you’ve seen it flood, seen it bake, seen it come alive every year in a blaze of green.

Clay Blancett, 2024

[jovianaquarium]

ok so my lovely mutual @icarrymany dared me to post proof of my rock/min collection so this is his fault >:)

im not gonna go into depth on all of the samples bc 1. i dont remember the details on all of them lol and 2. it would take. forever

so instead ill talk a little abt one or two of them per section :3

first up: tumbled minerals!

i have a bunch more of these but after becoming a geology student they kind of piss me off bc raw minerals often look way cooler and tumbling removes the crystal habit (and also makes them harder for me to identify hgjhfd)

first image, from left clockwise: (possibly) blue lace agate, chrysocolla. labradorite, snowflake obsidian, moss agate, brown agate, and two samples of tigers eye

2nd image: up close picture of one of the tigers eye crystals, showing its lighter banding

3rd image: up close picture of the labradorite from a different angle, showing its pale green luster

my absolute favorite mineral ever is labradorite also!! i think its luster is gorgeous and ive heard it represents transformation and change, and i first got this sample back when i had just come out as trans :)

i dont really have a lot to say abt these unfortunately lol

anyway. next is fossils!!

1st image, clockwise from bottom left: trilobite cast fossil, tumbled stromatolite, dinosaur bone (? got this one at a mineral stall and the dude said it was a dino bone, didnt think to ask details lol), plant fossil, coral fossil, assorted fossil molds (mold as in taking the shape of something, not spores) in wackestone, mosasaurus tooth, crocodile (?) tooth, 2 ammonites, a turtle scute, a crinoid stem, and a (broken) orthoceras

2nd image: up close pic of the assorted fossil molds, which include horn corals (circular with ridges toward center, hole in middle), crinoid stems (cylindrical with ridges perpendicular to long sides), and shells

3rd image: up close pic of larger ammonite, with iridescent luster due to aragonite (a polymorph of calcite) replacing the calcite of the shell

4th image: up close pic of dubious tooth. i found this on a field trip about a year ago while looking for shark teeth. this is not a shark tooth. idk what it is. i think it might be from a crocodile but i havent been able to fully identify it lol

now.... raw minerals!!!!!

1st image, clockwise from left: moss agate, talc, serpentinite (this one is a metamorphic rock but i accidentally put it with the minerals and dont want to retake the pics. other geologists you may come kill me), two calcite samples, and a tiny topaz @ramones2 gave me

2nd pic: close up on the topaz crystal, which is light orange (if u leave these in the sun they get bleached and lose their color </3)

3rd pic: close up on one of the calcites. its crystals are a bit more squared and close-knit than the next calcite, and appear more white in color. there are also some small purple fluorite crystals mixed in. i traded with a classmate for this one lol

4th pic: close up on the other calcite. this ones crystals are more rounded and transparent.

5th pic: close up on the serpentinite. serpentinite is metamorphosed from peridotite, which makes up the earth's mantle (if youve ever heard that the mantle is actually green, that is true!! the green comes from olivine mostly, but also some pyroxenes). when peridotite is lifted up to the surface and comes into contact with water, olivine gets very unhappy and serpentinizes, or hydrothermally metamorphoses (water + some heat + olivine = cool as fuck snakeskin rock)

6th pic: another close up on the serpentinite, this time wet. you can see the serpent-like pattern a bit better.

finally: rocks :3

1st image, clockwise from bottom left: amphibolite, sedimentary rock with calcite vein (i dont remember what this one is lmao), malachite-bornite ore, iron-stained sandstone(?) with chalcedony/agate, phyllite, sandstone trace fossil of a burrow, and meteoric rock possibly with iron

2nd pic: close up on the ore, showing the malachite vein. it's almost powdery, with a gradient of light blue on the edges to teal in the center

3rd pic: another close up on the ore, showing the bornite vein. it's iridescent like an oil slick, with the main color being purple. this one is often called peacock ore for its colors :)

4th pic: . im gonna be honest i have no fucking clue bro. i think the mineral in it is agate/chalcedony (the lighter gray/white areas) and the red parts are an iron-stained sedimentary rock, but i forget if its siltstone or sandstone or smth else. idk. it looks cool.

bonus: extra pic of my rocks for further proof of collection

hope u enjoyed o7

[mxxnlightooo]

Sasa Asahina

General

Name: Sasa Asahina / Sabaku No

Age:

Pre-Shippūden: 16

Shippūden: 19

Boruto Next Generation : 38

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Blood Type: O

Birthday: March 8

Personality: Balanced and composed, with a fierce sense of loyalty.

Good Trait(s): Strategic thinker, compassionate, determined.

Bad Trait(s): Can be overly cautious, self-sacrificing to a fault.

Like(s): Training, moments of quiet reflection, bonding with her team.

Dislike(s): Dishonesty, unnecessary violence.

Hobby(ies): Meditation, calligraphy, and perfecting wind-based techniques.

Strength(s): Mastery of Fūton techniques, strong sense of teamwork, excellent tactical mind and the unique pupils of her clan that enhance her perception and focus.

Weakness(es): Vulnerable to emotional pressure involving her family, struggles against Genjutsu specialists.

Personal Quote: “The wind shapes the sands, just as resolve shapes destiny.”

History

Sasa Asahina was born in Konoha to a union of two clans: the Asahina by her father and the Aamaï by her mother. Despite her early years in Konoha, she chose to align herself with Sunagakure upon her marriage to Kankurō Sabaku No, solidifying bonds between the two villages. She rose through the ranks with exceptional skill, gaining recognition as both a Jōnin and an ambassador. Her strategic mind and loyalty made her a critical asset during the Fourth Great Ninja War.

Clan Info

Clan Name: Clan Asahina (Father’s lineage), Clan Aamaï (Mother’s lineage)

Symbol: [Two overlapping circles representing balance and harmony.]

History: The Asahina clan is known for its long-standing alliance with Konoha, specializing in elemental ninjutsu, while the Aamaï clan focuses on spiritual balance and defensive techniques. Sasa embodies the strengths of both lineages.

Specialty: Fūton techniques, unique pupils of her clan that enhance her perception and focus. and versatile elemental jutsu.

Jutsus/Techniques:

Wind Release: Cutting Gale Strike

Wind Release: Wind Imperator Jutsu

Wind Release : Anscetral Wind Jutsu

Wind Release: Fast blade of Wind

Earth Release: Sand Shield Formation

Water Release: Soothing Current Barrier

Kekkei Genkai: None

Status: Ambassador of Konoha and student of the Fifth Hokage.

Clan Appearance

Skin Tone: Light, with warm undertones.

Markings: Unique pupils characteristic of her clan.

Hair color(s): Deep reddish-brown.

Eye color(s): Bright blue.

Looks and Appearance

Body Type/Looks: Lean and athletic with graceful movements.

Height:

Part I: 163 cm

Part II: 170 cm

Weight:

Part I: 50,6 kg

Part II: 52 kg

Makeup/Facepaint: None visible.

Hairstyle(s): Long, straight hair with a middle parting, flowing down past her shoulders.

Accessories: A dark cloak or shawl draped around her shoulder.

Scent: Not specified, but could be imagined as fresh or earthy due to her affiliation with nature-based chakra.

Scars or Tattoos: None visible.

Jewelry and/or Piercings: None visible.

Relationships

Parent(s): Hiroto Asahina (Father), Maiko Aamaï-Asahina (Mother)

Sibling(s): None

Relative(s):

Gaara (Brother-in-law)

Kankurō (Husband)

Temari (Sister-in-law)

Shikadai Nara (Nephew)

Shinki (Adoptive Nephew)

Midori Sabaku No (Daugther)

Mikio Sabaku No (Son)

Naoko Sabaku No (Niece)

Best Friend(s): Temari

Friend(s): Members of Team 5

Sensei(s): Tsunade, Heisuke

Student(s): Shinki and Shikadai for Kazegake training, her children and Zahya (her disciple).

Crush(es)/Spouse/Bf/Gf: Kankurō Sabaku No (Husband)

Pet(s): None.

Favorites/Least Favorites

Food(s): Dango, grilled fish.

Drink(s): Herbal tea.

Color(s): Sandstone beige and emerald green.

Season(s): Spring.

Time of Day: Early evening.

Weather: Mild breezes with clear skies.

Flower: Desert rose.

Animal: Peregrine falcon.

Ninja Information

Birth Village: Konoha

Current Village: Sunagakure

Academy Graduation Age: 12

Chūnin Promotion Age: 13

Rank: Jōnin

Ninja Status: Jonin

Are you in the Akatsuki?: No

Bijuu [Tailed Beast]?: No

Teammates: Members of Team 5

Sensei: Heisuke

Nindo: "Adapt like the wind, endure like the earth."

Chakra Element: Fūton, Suiton, Doton

Personality

As explained by her backstory, Sasa has a disdain for men, making her naturally cold and authoritative. However, she can also be gentle and graceful. She has a strong personality like Tsunade but the wisdom of her mother. She is very intelligent and particularly perceptive. She enjoys teasing, especially Shikamaru, and much later, Temari. As part of the new generation that aims to unite nations, she will do everything in her power to strengthen the bonds between villages by becoming an ambassador and later a representative of Konoha in the Shinobi Union. She will not hesitate to risk her life to protect all ninjas during the Fourth Great Ninja War.

Appearance

Part I Sasa wears a reddish, copper-colored top with one black sleeve that extends to her hand, forming a sort of mitten with a metal plate. She wears high-waisted pants, with one leg cut off to form a short. She has fishnet tights and a pair of sandals. Her headband is on her right arm.

In Part II, her outfit changes radically. She opts for a classic forehead headband. She wears an asymmetrical green and yellow top with the Asahina clan symbol on the right side, a dark green suit, and classic black shoes. During the Fourth Great Ninja War, she wears the typical Konoha ninja uniform, initially with the Konoha symbol headband. When she is outside the front lines, she did not have the new headband, but she wears it with the Shinobi Alliance symbol when she joins Gaara on the battlefield.

Two years after the war, she wears a black dress with long sleeves resembling mittens and a turtleneck, a headband with the Sunagakure symbol, a blue skirt with the Asahina clan symbol, a metal plate similar to Part I, and a bandage on her left arm due to an injury in the war. She also wears black boots. Her hair is styled in a high ponytail. As accessories, she has earrings with fictitious scrolls and a pouch at her waist.

In Part III, she has a new hairstyle with bangs and straight hair. She wears a purple dress, black pants, black heels, a metal plate, and a bandage. Her headband is now worn at her waist.

Skills Chakra Nature

Sasa has a water (Suiton) chakra nature from her mother and wind (Futon) from her father. Thanks to her paternal grandmother, she learns to master the wind chakra, forsaking the water chakra. She also masters medical jutsu thanks to Tsunade. She has the Mizu (Water) pupils from her mother's Aamaï clan. She can create a water prison and a water wall, which she can later transform into a large wave. She uses everything without accessories. She can use scrolls for sealing techniques and, with her eyes, create a genjutsu where water becomes the enemy of her target.

During the Fourth Great Ninja War, she was recognized as a great user of both elements and nearly landed a legendary punch on Madara.

Two years after the war, she is recognized as the most powerful Suiton user in Konoha and one of the best in the world.

Intelligence

Sasa accurately analyzes the actions of her opponents, allowing her to predict their strategies in advance, thanks to Shikaku Nara's teachings. She often participates in Konoha's major meetings, is strategic, and later becomes Gaara's right-hand and a council member of Sunagakure.

Other Abilities

Sasa’s summon is Luna, a midnight-blue cat with whom she can combine strength and speed. Luna can also assist her with Genjutsu, and together they later create an attack combining Suiton and Luna’s abilities.

Statistics Databook

[insomniac-isotope]

I added in some better palette support, and now I can realistically palette-swap rocks!

Previously, all sprites were just drawn in true color and then loaded up into textures and palettized there, and then converted back to true color by referencing their index against a palette texture. This meant I could palette swap, but only if I changed the entire palette. Colored text, for example, works by replacing the normal palette with one where the whites and greys are replaced with reds / oranges / yellows / greens / blues / purples etc.

This is not how historical palette-using games did it. In those games, images data was natively stored as arbitrary index values, and then to draw a sprite those index values were associated with a palette. Hence the Mario cloud/bush sprites sharing the same image data, just being drawn with different palettes.

Previously, all my rock sprites were drawn in different colors, so if I wanted to palette swap one to another color, I'd have to make a load of variant palettes like, 'sandstone rock to granite' (yellows&browns to greys), 'glass to red sandstone' (greens&blues to reds&browns), etc. This would not be practical. Instead I recolored them all using a specific band of 6 colors, and I made several small, 6-color palettes, one for each rock color -- yellow, red, light grey, dark grey, etc. So now when they're drawn, I just draw the same sprite with the selected palette offset, and that draws the sprite with the proper palette color. This is more useful and also closer to what games would've historically had to do -- it means each tile can only use 6 colors max. It can be any six colors from the whole palette, but for these rocks I can only ever use six at a time.

Anyway I had been really wanting to add some more variation to the landscape, & part of that is likely gonna be using palette-swapped rock colors as necessary, so I don't have to draw rock litter in every possible color.

[apilgrimpassingby]

Halloween Monster Dwellings

So, I've done stuff like this before, but I'm making a single post about it: giving different Halloween/Gothic monsters a home, modelled around a central theme of that monster.

Vampire

Theme: Undeath

Home: An immense gothic castle, perched high on the mountains, with winds shrieking about it. Ivy smothers the walls, and from broken towers grow crooked trees where hosts of bats twitter to each other. Through the dilapidated oaken doors, it's a maze of eerily quiet corridors and open grey stone halls, with the only sound being the scuttling of rats in the wainscotting and the gentle spinning of the spiders creating the cobwebs that carpet everything. The chandeliers overhead and the decorations on the walls are made of gold and jewels, silently solemn in their coats of dust, sitting in place unused. The shadows are long and low, enveloping everything, and in the crypts they drown sight entirely.

Werewolf

Theme: Degeneration into animality

Home: A tumbled-down cottage, with the thatched roof falling to pieces and the walls torn. Inside, piles of gnawed bones are dotted around the house, and the furniture is shredded with claw marks. There are bloodstains, but they're ancient, browned stains. The stairs are covered in these stains and dotted with bone shards, and the banister has been torn off and reduced to a series of splintery stumps. Outside is a vast tract of boggy moors bare of any cover taller than a gorse bush, through which an immense and steep gorge of jagged bare rock cuts. Dispersed throughout the landscape are the mutilated corpses of sheep, and an occasional shepherd's hut reduced to a few walls covered in ferns.

Frankenstein's Monster

Theme: Transgression

Home: A rambling hospital in a degenerate state - the windows are smashed, the corridors are covered in dirt and the few patients still there are chained to the walls and profoundly scarred in mind and body. In every storage cupboard lies pickled body parts floating in tanks of rancid fluid, and the books in the library are scattered over the floor, covered in arcane scrawl and occult symbols. Along the walls are pentagrams and sigils, becoming larger and more noticeable the deeper in you go. Medical equipment is strewn across the aisles, and blood and other stranger substances seem to paint all the walls. What little light there is comes either from flickering gas lamps or equally unreliable candles in the deep gloom.

Ghost

Theme: Death

Home: A mansion with the paint slowly peeling off and dust gradually accumulating in the windows; surrounding it are browning bushes containing dead roses and willows shaking in the wind. The curtains are all drawn shut and moth-eaten, despite the absence of any moths. The corridors are bare of life, bare of dust, bare of anything except carpets whose threads are slowly coming undone. The walls are adorned with black-and-white photos in ever-so-slightly-cracked glass frames. The house is in a perpetual pall from the unbreaking cover of grey clouds over everything. In the nursery, china dolls lie on the floor, and the great rocking chair in the corner continues to rock gently despite having no occupant.

Witch

Theme: Occult

Home: A tower emerging from a thicket of yew trees, the grey stone carved with lost symbols and the oaken door covered with eyes drawn in all kinds of menacing ways. Behind the oaken door lies a space lit only by black and purple candles burning blue; here lie leather-bound Latin books with ominous titles and harrowing illustrations, phials of strange-coloured liquids, skulls of humans and half-humans and other horrors besides. Progressing up the narrow creaking stairs reveals more of the same; charts of skies that are not our own, strange and cruel metal tools, a crystal ball of night-black obsidian and a great cauldron emitting rancid fumes as the thick liquid in it bubbles and gurgles.

Mummy

Theme: Fatal curiosity

Home: A pyramid of millennia-old weather sandstone, accessible only by breaking the rocks. Once entrance is granted, the black tunnels - the interiors visible only through torchlight - twist and turn endlessly, each way revealing new passages. Through one doorway is a host of gold and jewels shaped into the imagery of a forgotten civilisation, through another is a pile of dust and bone. Other animals make their way in through the gap created; snakes and scorpions and scarabs, scuttling at the edge of the auditory range. Every surface pressed against gives way, revealing secret passages and hidden chambers, each new discovery luring you deeper and deeper into the heart of the pyramid.

Fishman

Theme: Power of the sea

Home: A shipwreck lying beneath the surface of the water, the prow jutting out to reveal the location to those on land. The cargo of riches it bore is now scattered across the seabed amidst rocks and bones, and the hull has been reduced to ribs that fish swim among and crabs crawl over. Barnacles and seaweed cover the decaying planks, and the silence of the deep is unbreakable. More morbid things are there, too - human skeletons draped over the ship's ruins, and things dredged up from it have a vile marine odour unassignable to any fish. The ship rests in a cove of austere grey rock polished and worn by screaming seaborne winds - the same gusts that batter and curve the knots of dark pines a little further inland.

Night Hag (sleep paralysis monster)

Theme: Paranoia

Home: A neo-gothic hotel where the staff - dressed in uniforms as old-fashioned as their place of employment - are wholly terse and fearful, and with good reason. In each room is a four-poster bed adorned with grotesque carvings, the curtains of dark fabric softly blowing, and a gas lamp that gutters often and occasionally plunges the room into darkness for a moment. The shadows dance and shift, accompanied by a whispering sound, which only grows louder as night falls. Where other hotels have "do not disturb" signs, this one has gory crucifixes. The carpeting of the hallways is arranged in abstract menacing patterns in dark colours, and crunches beneath your feet whenever you step.

Zombies

Theme: Violence

Home: A churchyard where the earth has been torn up, revealing coffins with the lids reduced to piles of wood and splinters; the smells of soil and rotting flesh emanate from these pits. The headstones have been toppled or smashed, with the pieces scattered widely. The whole field reeks of blood, and still-fresh splatters of it are seen atop headstones and on the grass. At the centre sits a church, with the doors torn off and the windows smashed to pieces - inside, the pews have been piled up into a barricade, and atop it lies the parson, his throat torn out and robes soaked in gore. The yard is ringed with a fence of black iron bars, many torn down and almost all bent - one panel has been wholly thrown to the ground.

Faeries (they can be pretty scary in folklore)

Theme: Hostility of nature

Home: A barrow in the middle of a forest, surrounded by an impassable thicket of briars and brambles and hawthorns that tangle amidst each other, their thorns scraping the flesh of anyone attempting to move through them. The barrow itself releases strange hovering lights and otherworldly music into the misty night, and is accessible only through arcane means. Within it is an immense expanse of twilight, surrounded by twisting trees and vines like those outside, which slowly move to trip or trap human visitors. Roaming through the forest are huge white dogs with red ears and eyes, growling and howling at the slightest sign of humans - if they leave you alone, it's because they're assembling for the Wild Hunt.

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

So I found out that blue is apparently rare in nature but I want it to in fact be relatively abundant in my world. Honestly for no apparent reason than it's my favourite colour and I want it to work in it. What would I need to change from real life in order to do that? Preferably from blue pigments but reflected light would also be great.

Tex: Blue is rare in nature because in order to produce what we perceive as blue, the red wavelengths of light need to be absorbed and not refracted out, so physical structures are usually relied upon instead (The University of Adelaide, Live Science). A lot of the work for this to be naturally-occurring was also covered in a previous ask.

However, there can be a shortcut to this - shift the wavelength band a little to the left and use ultraviolet. Flowers communicate with insects in UV light as a form of coevolution (Wikipedia), and when colour-corrected to a wavelength we can see, it comes across as blue.

Some examples:

Photo by Debora Lombardi (My Modern Net)

Photo by Craig Burrows (CPBurrows.com)

Feral: As Tex points out, nothing is going to appear blue if the people of your world cannot perceive the wavelengths of blue light. Even without UV, this trick of light is a popular option. Bluejays (and all birds with blue plumage) actually have feathers that are pigmented brown where we perceive blue because of a specific way air gets trapped in them.

However, another way to manipulate the proliferation of blue in your world is through geology and mineralogy. Tweaking the abundance of certain elements and how they are incorporated into the biochemistry of your world will change certain colors found in nature.

You can make certain blue rocks and minerals more prevalent. Basalt, slate, limestone, and sandstone are all common rocks that can appear blue. The mineral glaucophane can be mixed with basalt to create the metamorphic rock blueschist. Thus, the earth itself can appear more blue, rather the generally brown color we tend to associate with dirt, rocks, and sand. 

But metals and minerals are also very important in biochemistry as cofactors, nutrient minerals, and trace elements. Most people will know that iron is an important metal for humans because it carries oxygen in our blood stream, and this is why our blood turns red when it’s oxygenated - that’s what iron does. But crustaceans have a greenish-blue blood because the oxygen-carrier is hemocyanin, containing copper. Cobalt, important to Vitamin B12, is a nutrient mineral that comes to mind when I think of blue.

So what about the flora of the world?

Flowers and fruits get their coloration from two types of molecules: carotene and anthocyanin. Carotene pretty exclusively produces reds, yellows, and oranges. Anthocyanin generally produces reds and purples, but in the rare occasions a blue flower is produced, it can be due to a chemical complex called metalloanthocyanin, which contains magnesium, aluminium, or iron (or a combination). 

For a more scientifically robust look at coloration in flowers, including options other than metalloanthocyanin, check out this article, “Natural Blues: Structure Meets Function in Anthocyanins,” in the National Library of Medicine’s Center for Biotechnology Information Journal.