#or that it has to be on the offset from the middle at the mouth of the cave instead of the back because the air goes inside the cave

[daily-snufkin]

🌿 DAY 6

Waiting out the rain.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

A Perfect 40

CCF Spring Break Prompt: Sunscreen | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Pre-Steddie | CW: Equal Opportunity Objectification | Tags: AU, Famous Corroded Coffin, Meet Cute, Wet T-Shirt Contest, Gay & Horny Eddie Munson, Confident & Big Dicked Steve Harrington

Eddie is kicked back on the panel, his paddles piled up in front of him. He's the worst person to judge a wet t-shirt contest. He's not exactly a boob man. But the other three were thrilled, so he was game. He'll just give all the girls 10s and call it a day.

They parade each contestant out, wet, white tees clinging to their bare breasts and true to his word, it's 10s from him. Everybody's going home happy on his watch.

Then, Eddie finds a good reason to sit up straight. The only straight he'll ever be.

There's a guy, with perfect hair, and a skintight white shirt clinging to his torso, showing the thick thatch of chest hair underneath. And a slight softness at the middle, offsetting his broad fucking shoulders.

And then the swim trunks. The goddamn swim trunks. They're wet, too, and ain't hiding shit. The bulge that the material is clinging to is gonna drive Eddie insane, right here in public. He looks big. Eddie likes big.

He licks his lips, making eye contact with this perfect 10.

Then, Eddie's distraught. He wasted all those previous perfect 10s on boobs. Now, he sees tits. Manly, hairy tits, a happy trail showing through the white fabric, and that goddamn cock on display that he wants to get up close and personal with immediately. This is the one that deserves the highest score. The other guys are holding up middling numbers, fives, and a disgraceful three from Goodie, and Eddie has to act. He reaches next to him and grabs Gareth's ten paddle. And holds it up along with his own. Giving him a 20. 

The guy laughs, and it's not enough, he bullies another 10 paddle away from Goodie, and snaps his fingers at Jeff, who relinquishes his without a fuss. 

40. 

This guy deserves a 40, and Eddie's gonna give it to him.

And then he winks. He winks at Eddie. 

Eddie reaches for Gareth's 9, the next best thing, and gets his hand slapped in the process.

Oh well. 40 will do.

As far as Eddie's concerned, get this guy his prize money. His crown. He's obviously the chosen one. The winner.

One of the stage managers is trying to argue behind them that Eddie's cheating, and it's not allowed. Eddie argues that no rules were laid out that said he only could use one paddle at a time.

He's pedantic, but not wrong. 

They eventually stop arguing with him, crown some bleach blonde with big boobs the winner, and the hot guy is given some sort of honorary runner-up. A concession to try and keep Eddie's mouth shut.

He won't cause a scene, but they are the goddamn, dirty cheaters. Not him. He just gamed the system. There's a difference.

Then, the stage clears, and Mr. Body Hair is gone.

Leaving Eddie bereft. 

Backstage, they get their swag bags for participating and there's only one prize Eddie wants in the bottom of his cereal box. 

Eddie steps out onto the beach, and scans the surrounding area. He finally spots him, pulling off his shirt. Which, amazing. Less amazing is his girlfriend fussing over him, rubbing him with a towel, then putting more sunscreen on him.

Lucky broad. 

Eddie's about to turn around and head back, when she meets his eyes. And nudges the guy, who turns. 

He grins, striding towards Eddie, and there's a glob of sunscreen clinging to his nose. Eddie reaches out and rubs it in, paying extra attention to the pair of moles on his cheek. The guy closes his eyes and lets Eddie do it.

Goddamn.

"The real winner, robbed," Eddie says, "I'm Eddie."

"Steve," the guy answers.

"Well, you should have won, Steve. Rigged system. It's an injustice. Maybe a class action lawsuit in the making. I'll join you."

Steve smiles.

"They didn't say a guy couldn't enter," Steve quips, and that's the exact kind of disobedience and bending of rules Eddie fully appreciates.

"And they didn't say I couldn't use all the paddles I could hold," Eddie banters back. Then he reaches for his wallet. Thumbs through it. He doesn't have enough to match the original prize money, but he takes out the hundred dollar bills he does have.

"I'll pay up. Even if they won't," Eddie says, and Steve shakes his head.

"No way, I'm not taking your money. I just did it for fun."

"Don't make me put it in your g-string."

Steve laughs, looking down, "I'm not wearing a g-string."

Eddie's well aware of that, but banters back, "Damn. Ruin a guy's dream, why dontcha?"

Steve tries to press it back into Eddie's chest as he laughs.

"He won't take it, but I will. That's a month's rent, dingus," Steve's girlfriend says, and Eddie hands it over. She's been damn cool about the whole thing.

"Robin!" he chides. "I'm sorry. I swear she's housebroken."

She kicks him in the shin, and he kicks back.

Definitely not a girlfriend. Sister? 

"Best friend," Steve says, as if he's reading Eddie's mind, "Most days. When she's not acting like this."

Best friend? Eddie's lucky day.

"Well, in that case," Eddie says, really turning up the charm, "You wanna get out of here? I have ten inches I could settle up with."

Steve raises an eyebrow, challenging his claim wordlessly, and Eddie laughs, delighted at being called out. Nobody calls him out anymore. That's the price of fame. Yes men. Steve doesn't seem like a yes man.

Eddie grins, flirting, "Okay, I don't. But you won't tell anybody, right? That'll be our little secret. You and me. Eddie and Steve."

Steve's a good sport, that much is obvious, especially when he banters back, "Deal. I won't get out the tape measure if you don't."

"That's mighty kind of you."

"I wouldn't want to show you up," Steve quips, grinning.

Eddie glances at Steve's wet trunks, and just grins devilishly.

Oh, Eddie's in trouble with this one. Big trouble.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on Spring Break prompts, or to offer up your own!

[gyldowen-draws]

💖 Asks About Love 💖

(Thanks @zennihilation for inspiring me to make a silly little header image)

Answers under the cut!

10. Does your OC have a type? Have they ever been surprised by their feelings for someone who doesn't fit this? asked by @zennihilation

Besides having a preference for men, he isn't super picky when it comes to physical attributes (though he does have a soft spot for big brown eyes 🥰)

11. Has your OC ever been the object of someone's affections that they did not (or could not) reciprocate? asked by @totallynotaspecter

A couple of times, yes. Dathrash never means to be a heart-breaker, but when you're this cute, people just can't help themselves! The first time was when they were very young, a teen in the middle of their tamassran training. One night they were in the library late at night, studying with a girl from their training program. She had had a crush on them for a while, and when they got all of the answers right on the practice test, she told them to close their eyes for a reward: their first kiss. Dathrash was shocked and awkward, not feeling the same way about her. They left the library in a rush and didn't meet her eyes in class the next day. (I plan on turning this into its own fic one day. . .) The other time he didn't return someone's feelings was when Emmrich developed a crush on him. While he really enjoyed spending time with Emmrich - swapping teacher stories and magical theories over tea - he was too horns-over-heels for a certain Grey Warden to notice the professor's fond gazes and yearning sighs. Poor Emmrich 😔

3. What does your OC look for in a romantic (or perhaps purely sexual) partner? Is this always healthy? asked by @larknnightingale

Dathrash yearns for a confident man. This helped him fall so quickly for Davrin, which was a very good thing. But it's also gotten him in trouble in the past (espcailly when he'd been drinking). Back when he had just left the Qun, he would be easily swayed by any asshole who swaggered up to him at the bar. These weren't always the best (or the most considerate) guys, which left Dathrash feeling used and hungover in the morning.

14. If they wish to impress someone for whom they have romantic (or at least sexual) feelings, does your OC attempt to present themselves as more confident, wealthy, popular or otherwise impressive, than they truly are? asked by @larknnightingale

Dathrash isn't one for boasts of wealth or status or strength. Oh no. If he has feelings for someone, it's a one-way ticket on the Puppy-Dog Eyes Express. Just the biggest, wettest looking things in Thedas.

🥺<- POV the 6 foot 7 inches, 300 pound Qunari has a crush on you.

4. Does your OC consider themselves to be attractive? Do they put much effort into achieving this? asked by @vishantikaffar

Under normal circumstances, Dathrash would think that he's a pretty good-looking guy. However, he is deeply self-conscious about the scars around his mouth and on his lips from when they were sewn shut (which is why he grew the beard in the first place). Because of this insecurity, he feels like he needs to put extra care into is appearance to "offset" the unsightly scars. He keeps his beard tidy and trimmed. He makes sure that his curls are hydrated and stylishly cut. He even does his yoga every morning to stay limber and flexible. But his real point of vanity is his horns. He's meticulous about his 6-step routine to care for them, from the elfroot-infused cream to soothe their base to the final coating of beeswax to keep them from craking. He even uses a special pillow designed for his horn type so he doesn't put too much pressure on them while he sleeps. His horns are his pride and joy, and his most attractive feature according to him.

7. What is the most romantic gesture your OC has ever performed? Alternatively (or additionally), what romantic gesture would they most like to perform? asked by @tiravi

Dathrash isn't really into big romantic gestures or elaborate dates. Part of this is due to his cultural ties to the Qun while part is due to the fact that he's a pretty simple guy. Just spending time with his partner is perfectly romantic to him. Though he does dream of the day that he can make a dragon-tooth necklace for his Kadan. (Soon after the events of the game, he asks Neve and Taash for some help dragon hunting 😉)

6. Has your OC ever had their heart broken? Have they ever truly recovered? asked by @teamtakagi

Not in a romantic sense, no. But it did break their heart when their magic manifested and they became saarebas, forced to leave their life's calling and beloved students. Even years after leaving the Qun, he still misses his students terribly and mourns the lost opportunity to help them grow.

Thank you all so so much for these wonderful prompts and giving me the opportunity to ramble about my special boy! You all rock 💜

[gumnut-logic]

Talk No.1 (Complete)

Alexander Sweetapple series

Here is the whole fic as one 2700 word piece. Apologies for the tiny bits posted before. Nowadays I can only do snippets at a time and I'm far too eager to post for my own good. But here is the whole thing complete :D

Many thanks to many people for this series - @onereyofstarlight and @whatgaviiformes listened to my extensive babbling about this fic and other random topics today. They deserve an award. Many thanks to @idontknowreallywhy for the ask this belongs to. It doesn't quite answer it, but there are other conversations planned. After all, it says No.1 in the title :D Too good a prompt, I must say :D

I hope you enjoy this conversation between Alexander Sweetapple and Scott Tracy :D

-o-o-o-

��Alex baby, Mr Tracy wants to see you.”

Okay, if he balanced the reaction by adding more stabiliser earlier and slower, the result might give him the flexibility he needed in the final polymer.

“Yo, Alex!”

It was a bit of a stretch, pun intended, but it might just work. He calculated the time and volume of-

“Alex!”

He jumped and his stylus flipped out of his fingers, flying across the room to hit the pinboard full of notes he had been scribbling on earlier.

There was a crash as a pin, holding up far more than physics should allow, gave way and let its stack of flimsies explode to the floor.

“Oops.” Erica held a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”

Alex stared at the mess scattered like artificial autumn leaves and just sighed. It had been one of those mornings. His current project had hit a bit of snag and he’d had to dive deep to find a solution.

Erica stood in the light from the windows of the portable building they were currently calling their labs. Her hair had shifted to more of a purple since the earthquake. Alex figured it was to offset the bright fluro yellow of her cast. Why her broken arm had a fluro yellow cast had been explained but Alex had yet to understand it. As always with Erica, colour choices were a mystery. Purple hair, pig tails with bobbly yellow ties, bright red lipstick and eyeshadow sparkly yellow with a touch of green.

She was just Erica.

She frowned at him. “Tia said Mr Tracy needs to see you.” She thumbed a hand in the direction of the door.

“Virgil? Virgil’s here?” Great he would love to hear about this solution.

“No, not Virgil, THE Mr Tracy.”

Alex blinked. “Mr Jeff Tracy?”

Erica let out a breath and rolled her eyes. “No, Mr SCOTT Tracy. Really, they need codenames or something. There are just too many Mr Tracys. The bird one, Alex. The Eagle has landed.”

“Mr Tracy?” Oh shit. “Where?”

“Tia’s office. Apparently, he was ‘in the area’.” She put a finger to her lips in thought. “Gordon could be the Fish. He’d like that, I think.” She started counting fingers. “There are three space guys, though. Youngest flies the Rocket, so we can call him that. Middle one…” She eyed Alex. “…assuming he does actually exist, could be Spaceman. Their Dad is The Astronaut. That leaves just Virgil.” She smiled and walked towards her desk, past Alex, trailing a blood red fingernail across his shoulder. “We all know he’s the ‘Lover Boy’.”

“Erica!”

But she only laughed. “You better get moving, Sweet Pie. The Big Bird’s a-waiting.”

He grunted, grabbed his tablet, and fishing his stylus off the floor, fled out the door.

The morning sunlight was glaring but warming in the cold brisk air. Around him the Māhia facility was a buzz of activity, mostly workmen hammering and hollering at each other as the new labs facility emerged where his former workspace had crumbled. It was an energising atmosphere. Change, for good or bad, was still change, and it offered new points of view and new inspiration.

And, of course, it didn’t hurt to return to Māhia with such a big change in his own life.

In all honesty, he was just really happy.

He trotted across the grounds towards the main offices, at one point glancing off in the direction of the landing strip to see if he could spot a Thunderbird.

No such luck, so he guessed Mr Tracy…Scott…had arrived in one of their private jets. He briefly wondered why he had dropped in and why he wanted to see Alex. Virgil had called him last night, with only a hint of checking up on him. He was learning that Tracys were much like Tracy Industries, a bunch of caring people who did their best to look after those close to them.

Close.

He grinned a little goofily.

He was close to Virgil Tracy.

It was with that wonderful thought that had him almost skipping into the offices and down the hall to Tia’s.

He was brought up short, however, when instead of finding Tia’s PA seated outside, another familiar and efficient woman sat there instead.

“Hello, Mr Sweetapple. It is nice to see you again.” Carly, Mr Tracy’s PA, smiled at him knowingly.

Well, it seemed knowingly. There was a sparkle in her eye that just said, ‘I know what you’ve been up to, Mr Sweetapple’. Whether she approved or not was not clear, but she knew.

Everything.

“Hi.”

“Mr Tracy is finishing up with the Director. Please take a seat and he’ll be with you in a moment.”

Alex blinked. This was the first time he’d seen Mr Tracy in a formal setting since leaving Tracy Island. On Tracy Island, Scott appeared to shed the ‘Mr Tracy’ persona and relaxed.

Alex had seen him joking and laughing, messing with his youngest brother’s hair, and there may have been a prank involving blue shampoo and Gordon.

To be honest, Alex wasn’t sure if Scott had been the victim or the perpetrator. After all, Gordon had also ended up with blue hair and because he was blond, the blue stood out much more than what had taken to the few silver hairs Scott sported.

That morning had been interesting. A little eye opening to see both brothers running around in towels yelling at each other - the athleticism had definitely been an eyeful. It had taken Mrs Tracy to bring the ruckus to a halt. Alex’s mum had been giggling so much - a presence the two Tracy men had obviously forgotten and there was a lot of red face to match the blue hair.

Alex himself had been curled up on the sofa with both his breakfast and Virgil, and had kept quiet in order to not remind them of his existence. Though his eyes had nearly fallen out of his head in the process.

The situation was not one he thought he would ever encounter.

Virgil had just rolled his eyes and smiled at Alex, probably at Alex’s expression, and kept on eating.

Let’s just say that Scott Tracy at home was vastly different to Scott Tracy in a professional capacity.

He swallowed and settled into the chair as Carly returned to doing whatever she was doing with her tablet.

Alex tried his best not to wear the corner of his tablet cover off with his fidgeting.

“Thank you so much for all your support, Mr Tracy. You’ve been so generous towards our rebuilding efforts.” Tia was walking through the office door, Mr Tracy at her side, smiling.

Blue eyes sparkling.

Alex looked down at his tablet.

“I’m gratified it is going so smoothly. You should be proud of your team here, Tia.”

“I am.”

Alex looked up to find the two of them shaking hands. Did Tia have a little of that hero worship in her eyes? He frowned. He’d never noticed it before, but there it was.

It was so familiar, it hit home.

He looked away again.

“Alex!”

He jumped and shot to his feet. He did not…did not…drop his tablet…barely. “Mr Tracy!”

“Tia, speak to you soon. Let us know if the team needs anything.”

“Thank you, Mr Tracy.” She eyed Alex with a smile as she walked past. Why did everyone seem to have that knowing look in their eyes?

“Alex, come on in.” Mr Tracy gestured towards the open door. The man was dressed head to toe in a silver grey business suit with a blue tie. A red tiepin shone in the overhead light, an engraved TI logo fading in and out as he moved. As expected, every hair was in its place as if he was ready for a promotional shoot. His eyes glittered as he smiled.

Alex did as asked and trotted into Tia’s office.

It looked like it always looked. Neat, professional and efficient. But as Mr Tracy shut the door behind him, Alex found himself swallowing hard for no reason whatsoever.

‘Take a seat, Alex. I’ve been meaning to speak to you out of earshot of Virgil for some time. Sorry to interrupt you at work, but I don’t think it can hold off any longer.”

What?

Alex followed him with his eyes as Mr Tracy took a seat on the couch opposite him, near the window. He sat back and crossed his legs, one elbow on the arm rest. Chin on his knuckles, he stared at Alex.

Alex began reconsidering all his life decisions up until now. Why did he want to talk to him without Virgil?

Shit.

Had he done something wrong?

Keep it calm. Worry about it when you know about it.

Yeah, right.

The silence grew as Mr Tracy looked at him a moment longer.

“I believe there is something we need to talk about, Mr Sweetapple.”

Mr? Oh, shit.

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“As to how our records claimed you were on site, when in fact you were in Gisborne.”

“Oh.” That.

“The mistake caused a great deal of grief on our part, Alex. We thought you were dead under the rubble.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Tracy. I thought I had signed out, but I didn’t.”

There was something on the man’s face, something like a memory that hurt.

Oh, god. Really? Mr Tracy had been worried about him?

A blink. Of course, Mr Tracy had been worried about him. The Tracys doted on their employees like extended family.

He stared at Scott. Did he know about him and Virgil before Alex did? He put himself in the place of the Commander of International Rescue, the great man who Erica described at length, heroically rescuing her from the rubble. Those blue eyes scanning the remains of the lab, knowing he would have to tell his brother who…

“Oh, god, I am so sorry.” He stumbled around the table, almost sending it flying, to land on the couch beside Scott. “I didn’t intend to cause worry. My mum was in Gisborne. Erica refused to let me have my laptop. It was a long drive. When I left I was in a hurry. I thought I swiped my card, I must have missed it. Honestly, I didn’t realise. I will make sure next time, I promise. I am so sorry.” His breath left him. How could he have done this to this amazing man who did so much. How could he have done that to Virgil? He had to apologise to Virgil.

He was suddenly caught between grabbing his phone and ringing Virgil, and consoling Scott, Virgil’s big brother who had thought he was dead.

“Alex.”

How could he have done this to either of them. The thought of Virgil going missing, the need to dig under rubble, the fear and grief…

“Alex, it’s okay.”

He looked up into kind blue eyes.

“I wasn’t intending to criticise. It was an accident. A situation we can use to improve the procedure. I was going to ask you for feedback and any suggestions you might have towards improving our staff security.” Scott arched an eyebrow.

Alex stared, mouth open just a little.

The eyebrow curled into a frown. “You okay?”

A blink and Alex shook himself. “Um, yeah. Sure, um, I’ll take a look at the system.” He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his lip. He took a breath and straightened where he sat. “I’m still sorry, Scott for what I put you and Virgil, through.”

“Mistakes happen. We learn from them so they don’t happen again.”

“It won’t.”

A half-smile. “I didn’t think it would. But any suggestions to improve the system would be welcome.” He sighed. “But anyway, that isn’t what I called you in for.” He reached over to the desk and grabbed his tablet.

What, there was more?

Perhaps it was mother nature throwing Alex a bone in that moment, because while Mr Tracy reached across to the desk, his head passed through the shaft of morning sunlight shining into the room.

The blue highlights in his hair lit up.

Barely there in normal light, but with the sun’s intensity they sparkled as much as his eyes.

Something curled up warm in Alex’s belly at the sight of them. It was a reminder of the man behind the professional. The Scott under the Tracy.

But then Scott moved out of the sun and Mr Tracy returned.

He studied his tablet, poking at it for a moment. “Your conduct during the Gisborne Earthquake was exemplary, Alex. You saved thirteen people.” A smile. “We are very proud of you as both an employee and a friend.”

“Oh.” A friend?

Scott smiled again. “And the people of Tairāwhiti would like to give you an award.”

Alex stared at him.

The smile shifted a little sideways. “Are sure you’re okay?”

Suddenly aware of an undercurrent of familiar Tracy amusement, Alex pulled himself together. “Um, they do?”

“You’ve earned yourself a Tairāwhiti Hero Award, Alex. Congratulations.”

-o-o-o-

Erica jumped on him as soon as he walked through the door to their lab. “So, did he give you the Talk?”

“What?”

“The ‘treat my brother right or I’ll skin you alive’ talk?”

Alex stared at Erica. “No.”

“Oh. So I don’t need to threaten him back?”

“Erica! He’s our boss!” Alex pushed past her.

“So? I’ve got your back, Sweet-Pie. I’ll take him for ya.”

He held his hands up. “No one is threatening anyone. Virgil was barely mentioned.”

“But he was mentioned?” Erica really did love the gossip.

“Only because of you.” Alex plonked himself down in his desk chair.

“Me? What did I do?”

“You dobbed me in about the cereal.”

“That? I have a right to report my silly lab partner for falling asleep in his cereal because he was up all night. You scared me. I thought you had drowned! I thought I was going to have to give you CPR!”

“I know. I said I was sorry. Did you have to tell?”

“Of course, I did. It was for your safety.”

Alex grunted. It had only been a parting heads up from Mr Tracy, but it was still mortifying.

Mr Tracy had even placed a hand on his shoulder. “Alex, from one insomniac to another - you are dating a worrywart. He’ll hound you for it. Trust me, I know.” Scott rolled his eyes a little. “Not that he can talk.” He let out a breath. “But as your employer, I want you to look after yourself. Far be it for me to advise on the maintenance of the artistic mind, but you are more important than the work, Alex.”

Alex twisted his lips at the memory. Mr Tracy was being kind but Alex had hit a breakthrough at 2am. He had been in the zone and if he had gone to bed, he would have lost the thread.

He had tried to protest that the design frenzy had saved him a week of work, but Mr Tracy had only frowned at him.

Alex turned to glare at Erica. “You didn’t have to give him the photos.”

Erica twisted her lips. “How could I not? Besides, the Fish loved them.”

“You gave them to Gordon?!”

She snickered. “Sweet-Pie, you are so cute when you’re flustered. Of course, I gave them to Gordon.” She grinned. “You should see what he gave me in return.” Her eyes were literally sparkling with mischief.

“What?”

But she turned away. “Nope, saving it up for bribery material. Be nice to me or you don’t get to see.”

“See what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She sat down at her desk and did a very good job of suddenly looking busy.

“That’s blackmail, Erry.”

“Nah, you trust me too much.”

Alex grumbled and turned back to his computer. “Well, in that case, you don’t get to know what Mr Tracy called me in to discuss.” He opened one of his project files, jammed his headphones over his head and purposefully ignored her curious eyes.

Besides, he had an award ceremony to attend in a few weeks - a black tie event. And it had occurred to him that he was yet to see Virgil in a suit, much less a tux.

And the possibility was very distracting.

-o-o-o-

[astrxlfinale]

There is a strange, almost investigative glint in Yukong's indigo hues as she looks down at Caelus with her arms loosely crossed over her chest, as though the man before her was still a mysterious enigma waiting to be studied. She is – and forever will be – grateful for the Trailblazer extending his hand of friendship and camaraderie towards her in spite of the rocky start upon their first meeting all those months ago, but even Yukong has moments where she has questions regarding a few of the man's more... unconventional (if not a little inappropriate) interests.

"Caelus?" The Helm Master's tone is the exact same one she had used back when she had caught a sneaky 6 year old Qingni attempting to swipe more egg tarts from the kitchen in the middle of the night. Maternal, non-threatening, and steady, yet nonetheless containing a hint of disapproval. "Could you tell me what makes you so enamored and fascinated with...peaches?" No, she is not referring to the fruit.

Why does he get the distinct feeling he's being watched? Not the usual 'I'm going to slay the Stellaron soul' sort of eye honing, rather it was one specialized within the Xianzhou itself. For his heroism didn't offset his more wayward and adventurous qualities at all. It was a sense of appeal, a sense of bizarre, and truthfully he's all cases of inner peace on the matter. ..In most cases. The warmth of these very eyes he's come to learn in time, that mature note and tone prompting a shiver down his spine.

Unfamiliar, but welcomed all the same. It was a stalwart soul who was comfortably setting her 'claws' upon the wild. "Madam Yukong." He'd intone similarly, allowing the technological tools to drop from his hand. She was another who gained express permission to visit his quarters if the mood struck her, a more casually fun lesson of less political finesse and the old-fashioned fun of hangouts.

"Gotta say, quite the rare guest--" Pivoting upon his seat to face her, to get an ample view of that posture, a more gentle but still certain authority as what follows feels like some wayward dream he had once upon a time. No beating around the bush, no platitudes, it was merely an outright question for what made be one of the most important qualities in his Trailblazing journey.

How in the three fucks could this man not be stunned?

Mouth briefly agape, the clear perspective of this broad question in their vested privacy struck a bolt through his heart. Energizing compared to piercing, elevating the way his next breath was moreso a gulp of air than anything else. "No remote hesitation, striking at the source compared to elsewhere. Courage like that I need to repay in kind." Propping up from his seat, the ashen haired Trailblazer stands collarbone to face with her, a minute adjustment soon letting those foxian eyes peer into his very soul on this matter.

Peaches. The ultimate grounds of foundation itself, despite his steadfast confidence, it'd be the particular choice in company that makes a stubborn shade of pink bloom upon his face. Come hell or high water no hesitation on this matter.

A step forward would be his declaration of war.

"You ever had something that moves your very soul? A view, a certain brand of something, we can start it right there. Inspiration takes flight with the most formidable wings when that very view comes into the equation." One could only wonder, where was any modicum of shame when it comes to Caelus's fixations? It certainly wasn't held in these grounds as he stands shoulder to shoulder with Yukong.

A single arm draws forth, as if painting the unseen picture of what beautiful behind's presence can enact on the soul.

"There's intimacy, there's trust, a shape that can create worldly wars and a comforting softness or firmness that can eliminate all woes and malady to the soul. Ms.Yukong, there's power at that very foundation. Why else do you think countless examples of inspiration create models like lingerie for instance?" Oh he dares, Caelus was a bold soul who openly challenges position, canting his head to let those golden irises pierce directly against her own.

Another breath is drawn, let the ironclad determination become the shield against her gaze! Tension evaporates from his body as he resumes.

"While I certainly can't jump upon the divide of your personal life. Let it be said, there's no doubt in my mind that not just the teasing aspect, but even casual intimacy can stoke the very fires of the soul." What beloved partner of someone could ever be ignorant to the power of sitting upon their chosen's lap? How frisky forays were easily sparked from minute movements, a touch of laughter, until intent enriches the very scene into something more spice induced?

A low hum eases from him as he pivots once more, turning to face the Helm Master fully.

"I could go on for years, doesn't this bring some enlightenment to my angle about it?" Naturally there's no ill will that's held, for learning is a great power all of mankind holds. And if someone approaches with the intent of learning about this passion of his? Caelus never amused any ideas of 'holding back' to begin with.

Front and center, raw and ready, any challenge will be taken on.

@acr3ss-the-cosmos

[novelyst]

Skyrim Female Head UV: The Definitive Post

We begin as like a cooking blog's recipe, with a sort of vaguely related yet unnecessary anecdote. I've been thinking about putting modding stuff up on this blog, lately. I used to run into the problem on Discord where I'd be like: man, I'm spamming this channel, who even cares about this stuff anyway? So I made my own dev thread in which to spam these posts. As more and more people started joining, though, and still not replying to anything I wrote, I ran into the same issue where I've now become hesitant to post whatever I want in my own dev thread for fear that people will find it annoying. Silly, I know, but I figure that this here, tumblr, is the option with which I cannot go wrong, right? So long story short: this might turn into a mostly modding blog now.

I'm about to do an explanation of UV mapping as an introduction to this post, for those who know very, very, little about it. Many of you reading this may already be modellers or texturers who don't need this dumbed down, so you are welcome to skip to the big red UV map if you wish.

Without further ado: this is Nur.

Nur is what I would call a 'chatterbox', but she was made in the same way as any paper fortune teller. One thing that you should note about her: she is three-dimensional. I have power over Nur's state of being, and I can unfold her.

Unfolded Nur looks very different. We can see that her mouth, usually a triangular bipyramid minus a couple of faces, is now four separate triangles. We could also conceivably understand this as a '2D' version of Nur. It's flat, but it has all of the colour information that ends up on the surface of her 3D self; the area painted red is the 'mouth' part, the top squares on the left and right are the upper part of the 'face'.

Now, if we were to make a 3D mesh of Nur, we could use something like the second image for her texture and tell the computer which area of it should be shown on the surface of a given polygon. We'd do this by giving every point two dimensional coordinates, instead of inventing some kind of new format where every voxel in 3D space is assigned a colour—after all, it's only the surface that matters, right? This process of giving 3D vertices 2D-coordinates on a texture is called UV mapping. What you should really take away from this is the UV map holds the information of how to wrap a texture on to a mesh.

And, since all vertices already have X, Y, and Z coordinates, (and W is used for something else,) their two-dimensional texture coordinates are U and V.

Now, UV maps can be different from a piece of paper you fold in a few ways. What you mainly need to remember is that in UV Maps, we aren't bound by angles, length, or area – the lines making up a UV map are 'stretchy'. This mapping allows, then, for you to 'stretch' the texture over the surface of the mesh.

Now that everyone is (hopefully) on the same page, let's move on to the subject of the post!

This is the UV map of the female head mesh in Skyrim. Right away, a few weird quirks are going to stand out about it.

It is not truly vertically symmetrical along any X-coordinate.

It is kinda symmetrical along a line a short ways to the left of the centre.

Even along that line, the eye sockets are not symmetrical.

The symmetry along that central line starts falling apart towards the boundaries of the image, where there is not really very much symmetry whatsoever and what there is seems to fold more along the actual central vertical axis.

Now, if none of that stuff stood out immediately to you, or you are having trouble seeing it, that's absolutely fine! This image here should help to clarify the things I just mentioned.

The white line in the middle highlights the true centre of the image, from which (as you can see) the UV of the mesh's 'central line' is offset. The sort of lens-shapes either side of it trace the UV map's eye sockets, which are quite different.

Now, is all of this stuff fine? I mean, kind of. No, it's not really a good UV map (there are serious issues, for example, at the back of the scalp) and the symmetry problems all suck for working with it as a texture, but it's still useable and, for a high-poly to low-poly workflow, won't really impact things all that much for the creator. Painting on to the mesh, baking from a sculpt – all these will suffer for a worse UV map, but are still essentially the same process as with a different UV. The game's textures were made for this UV map, and Bethesda seem to have been able to manage fine with it.

Credit to Bethesda Game Studios. A section of the 'FemaleHead_MSN.dds'.

The issues come in more for people working on a 2D level. Making textures in photoshop? Painting some tintmasks? Then these things are going to annoy you, especially those darned eye sockets. So, is there a better way?

A Better Way

Sorry, that section header is kind of misleading. There's an extent to which this is subjective but, honestly, I don't think there really is a better way. I firmly believe that you can't fix Bethesda's UV because it's not broken. A little annoying to work with? Sure. But it wasn't meant to be another way, and it works with the textures provided by the game. There is nothing to fix.

On the 15th of March of 2012, Enhanced Character Edit (ECE) was published on Nexus Mods, in its description claiming thus:

Fixed asymmetry head mesh for Female.

Enhanced Character Edit had not 'fixed' issue of the off-centre axis of symmetry. What it had done was make the eye socket on the right symmetrical to the one on the left in the UV map. Behold, the ECE head mesh with the vanilla game's texture.

On the left: the ECE head mesh with the vanilla textures. On the right: the vanilla head mesh with the vanilla textures, as Todd intended.

ECE needed its own textures, made for the 'symmetrical' eye socket UV. There were already existing texture sets made this way (even reflecting the same eye; I suppose people preferred the left side), so it wasn't too great a problem—ECE was providing a fix for existing mods, really!

Except, well, it's a little more complicated than that. You can change the mesh, and the textures along with it, which works. This only affects the player character, however—generated face data for NPCs must be regenerated or, in the case of NPC overhauls, manually changed by the user, a thing few users actually know how to do. Pretty soon, though, people were using ECE in their character creation, and then for the NPC overhauls that they put on Nexus. Skin mods were being made specifically with use of this head mesh in mind, like SG Female Textures Renewal, which actually includes ECE as a requirement for this reason.

So everything is great and we can just use ECE, right? Sure, we have to regenerate all of our NPCs' faces which requires the creation kit and a lot of time, but that's workable. Well, not quite. Some mods have mismatched diffuse maps and normal maps when it comes to eye sockets, like Tempered Skins, which has ECE's eye sockets in its diffuse, but bases its normal maps mostly off of vanilla, including keeping its asymmetry. Mods like Mature Skin don't even use the ECE sockets, which means that those textures will look wrong on NPC overhauls based on the ECE head meshes. This issue ends up happening both ways, too—users of ECE-based textures have an even worse issue when using a mismatched mesh, to the extent that Enhanced Female Head Mesh was created, a mod that solves an issue that isn't in the base game. The ECE sockets are that ubiquitous.

Credit to DomainWolf. A comparison image from the mod Enhanced Female Head Mesh, showing the issue that ECE-based textures have when using the vanilla mesh.

Incidentally, this user has also created tintmask mods. Many of the textures included in those would have to be manually edited in order for them to look right on the vanilla head mesh.

We can see that the effects of ECE's change ripple outward without ever really becoming understood by the common modder. When installing High Poly Head, users are presented with the option of Symmetrical Eyes (Female). The average user probably doesn't know what this means, let alone whether the texture that they're using is based on ECE. If they choose the wrong option, many won't think to go back to the FOMOD. ECE itself has been far surpassed in popularity by RaceMenu on SSE—how many people would think to install it for its head mesh alone? Even Enhanced Female Head Mesh, which is specifically mesh-only and for SSE has only ~25 k downloads as of writing. Popular skin mods with symmetrical eye sockets have millions.

This whole thing impacts almost all modders. Most of them know barely anything about it. So, this stubborn ass who refuses to use the 'fixed' eyes and manually converts all of their NPC mods by painstakingly fixing things in NIFSkope wanted to write a post aggregating everything they knew about the subject, endeavouring to maybe improve people's awareness of it.

If you read all of this, thanks! I'm honestly surprised at how long it got. I hope you enjoyed my writing.

Hello, future me here. If you read this before this message was added, please note what I had earlier said about ECE not working on SSE was wrong. I have updated the previous sentence to reflect this information.

[riwrite]

from @deiscension. "Miiiiiing-xiong," Shi Qingxuan sing-songs, voice thick with wine and laughter. She had invited him over for a 'light evening meal', knowing full well he would do all the eating while she chattered away. She had not intended on drinking anything other than the exquisite brew of chrysanthemum tea gifted to her by an acquaintance, but at some point she had traded the tea set for a bottle of wine and two cups. She has no idea if the Earth Master has so much as glanced at his cup. What she does know is despite such good company, food, and aesthetics, he is still frowning. "I know you have a smile in there somewhere. Don't make me come over there and find it for you." But she's already doing just that; sleeves trailing across the low table, coordination not quite as graceful as it ought to be, Shi Qingxuan leans until a finger pokes against the corner of his lips. She pushes just enough to lift them into an artificial half-smile. Eyes narrow as she studies her handy work, scrutinizing mouth, then eyes, then brow, then his face altogether. She grins. "I've done half the work for you! Come on, give me your best smile and I'll give you my best frown. We can trade for the night."

if he xuan were a generous man, he might allow himself to turn his gaze to shi qingxuan. he might allow himself to see her bright eyes, alight and creased in joy, or the faded red of her smiling lips, lipstick wearing away to kisses on the rim of her wine cup, or the delicate flush painting her cheeks pink, alcohol slowly deepening the embrace it shares with her. but he xuan is not a generous man, and he lets her laughter settle into him only for his poison to churn mirth into irritation. she is annoying as ever, her laughter too loud and her chatter too meaningless, the very picture of undeserved happiness.

from the corner of his eye, he watches her lift her hand, torn between flinching away and, inexplicably, horribly, leaning in. he does neither, and her nail digs lightly into his skin as it makes contact with the corner of his mouth, pushing upwards in an attempt to force an expression he hasn't made in an eternity. if he didn't know her better, didn't know that she genuinely, for whatever unfathomable reason, wants to see him smile, he might think she's drunkenly mocking him. the officials of heaven love to gossip, and they love to talk behind each others' backs. he xuan has enough eyes and ears in the middle court to know that his dour stoicism makes him a target to some of these people.

but shi qingxuan — she's different, isn't she ? she sees the best in people, only complaining about others when they've wronged someone or behaved poorly. she's generous and sociable and yet she's the subject of a lot of those hushed whispers, herself.

what a foul place, the heavens are. not a day goes by where he doesn't yearn for what was rightfully his, but he's not blind to the faults he can only now see that he's dead. he can fall further into dread by thinking in circles about it too much, and he very much has. now, though, all he can do is scoff and bat her hand away, his lips falling back into its usual discontent frown and his eyes sharpening into a glare. she didn't really expect that to work, did she ?

   " i'm not playing your stupid games, " he says darkly, the underlying threat offset by how it's immediately followed by a large mouthful of food being shoved into his mouth.

[health-views-updates]

How Will Emerging Economies Influence the Dental Suction Systems Market?

According to a new report published by SNS Insider, the Dental Suction Systems Market Size was valued at USD 516.08 Million in 2023 and is projected to reach USD 800.30 Million by 2032. The market is expected to grow at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 5.18% over the forecast period of 2024–2032. This robust growth is driven by increased awareness of oral hygiene, the growing number of dental procedures globally, and technological innovations in dental practice equipment.

https://www.snsinsider.com/assets/images/report/1731997958-709192537.png

A Steady Surge in Global Dental Procedures

The global rise in dental disorders, combined with an aging population and increased focus on cosmetic dentistry, is contributing significantly to the demand for efficient dental suction systems. These systems play a critical role in maintaining hygiene, visibility, and comfort during dental procedures by removing blood, saliva, and debris from the patient’s mouth.

Recent years have witnessed increased investments in dental infrastructure, particularly in developing economies. This, coupled with rising disposable incomes, has led to more people seeking regular dental care. The expansion of dental tourism, especially in Asia-Pacific countries like India and Thailand, is also contributing to increased equipment demand, further fueling market expansion.

Technological Innovation Driving Market Expansion

Manufacturers are continuously introducing advanced dental suction systems that are quieter, more efficient, and eco-friendly. Innovations such as oil-free compressors, centralized suction units, and dry vacuum systems have improved energy efficiency and reduced operational costs for clinics and hospitals. This technological progress is not only enhancing patient experience but also enabling dental professionals to perform complex procedures with higher precision.

Smart suction systems with digital monitoring, integration with dental chairs, and noise-canceling features are gaining traction. As dental practices modernize, demand for such advanced systems is expected to accelerate.

Regional Outlook and Competitive Landscape

North America dominated the market in 2023 due to its advanced healthcare infrastructure and high awareness of dental hygiene. However, the Asia-Pacific region is projected to exhibit the highest growth rate during the forecast period. Emerging markets are seeing rapid expansion of dental clinics and favorable government policies promoting oral health awareness.

Key players in the market include A-dec Inc., Dentsply Sirona, Air Techniques, DentalEZ, Cattani S.p.A., and more. These companies are focusing on partnerships, mergers, and new product launches to strengthen their global presence.

Market Segmentation Snapshot

By Product Type: Wet Suction Systems, Dry Suction Systems

By End User: Hospitals, Dental Clinics, Ambulatory Surgical Centers

By Region: North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, Latin America, Middle East & Africa

Opportunities and Challenges Ahead

While the dental suction systems market is poised for strong growth, certain challenges could restrain it. High equipment costs and the need for skilled personnel to operate and maintain these systems can hinder adoption in low-income regions. Nevertheless, growing public-private partnerships and technological democratization are expected to offset these challenges.

Conclusion

The outlook for the dental suction systems market is promising. As patient expectations evolve and dental practices adapt to modern standards of care, the demand for reliable, efficient, and innovative suction systems is only set to rise. Market stakeholders who prioritize research, cost-effectiveness, and sustainable solutions are likely to benefit the most from the evolving market dynamics.

About Us:

SNS Insider is one of the leading market research and consulting agencies that dominates the market research industry globally. Our company's aim is to give clients the knowledge they require in order to function in changing circumstances. In order to give you current, accurate market data, consumer insights, and opinions so that you can make decisions with confidence, we employ a variety of techniques, including surveys, video talks, and focus groups around the world.

Contact Us:

Jagney Dave – Vice President of Client Engagement Phone: +1-315 636 4242 (US) | +44- 20 3290 5010 (UK) Email: info@snsinsider.com

[alicelillianshaw]

Jack smiles down at her; Alice stares up, and for a brief second she's worried the expression on her face is as clear as a headline.

It felt dreamy, to be smiled at like that. Dreamy enough to make her neck prickle.

'Well. We should go dry off then.'

Did she imagine that?

Jack's hand had rubbed up against her back hadn't it, brief but present? And with nothing between them too. Just an inconsequential bikini string— otherwise it was just his palm, and her back, skin and skin, a thought which makes her shiver again strangely.

Fuck.

Fuck, she needed to get it together. Only two days and this trip has her less composed than usual.

Alice rolls onto her stomach. Stands, feeling the way her hair plasters to her neck and back, water dripping in fat rivulets when she finally hauls herself out of the pool.

The concrete feels hot beneath her feet. A smoother version of the river stones in Jemez. Wasn't it crazy to think they would be there? If all went right ... she and Senator Jack Kennedy, the man she had met yesterday, would be hiking into that canyon together.

Alice would be able to turn her head and look at Jack's head stand in relief against a craggy red mountainside.

'You should go put on something comfortable. Like leggings or shorts. A t-shirt, if you have it. And maybe some tennis shoes.'

Comfortable clothes? For what?

Where was Jack taking her? Alice takes mental inventory of her clothes. Tennis shoes, yes, and old and dependable pair. A hair tie to keep it up and away from her face...

'I have some old t-shirts you can borrow. You know, in case you didn't pack for this.'

'I don’t think my leggings or shoes would fit you though, sorry.'

Alice lets out a snort of laughter. Leggings she did have. T-shirts too, heather grey and lilac tees that been included with the admission at a writing conference— they were soft and good for a variety of things.

But something in her brain is pinging, loud and obnoxious and insistent. The mention of Jack's shirts. Just there for her to borrow, apparently.

The words that come out of Alice's mouth as she wraps a towel around her middle are both selfish and deceiving, but she's already loosened herself from so many tethers already.

"—Um. If it is okay with you, I might take you up on that? I am sort of wondering if I packed something suitable ... everything I can think of right now is a button-up shirt. Or a blouse?"

Maybe she can award a spare point or two for the gesture; that would offset her lie, wouldn't it? Karmically?

Alice definitely didn’t have any real reason to say yes. In fact, she probably should’ve said no. They were now two days behind on this interview, and — well. Jack wasn’t sure how they’d get back on track, and he really didn’t want to.

But he’d touched her spine, and he swore he felt her shiver above his touch. Jack didn’t care what other responsibilities they blew off.

Alice looked up at him, hair sprawled around her head. She trusted him enough to go into this blind.

Jack smiled down at her, rubbed at her back a little more directly, before providing Alice with some more instruction.

“Well. We should go dry off then.”

Jack had something in mind. He didn’t want to reveal too much to Alice, but he wasn’t really sure how to go about that. Hopefully she wouldn’t ask questions.

“You should go put on something comfortable. Like leggings or shorts. A t-shirt, if you have it. And maybe some tennis shoes.”

Maybe she hadn’t packed for that. This was a work trip, technically.

“I have some old t-shirts you can borrow. You know, in case you didn't pack for this."

Jack wasn't sure he'd be able to handle seeing Alice in one of his Yale t-shirts.

"I don’t think my leggings or shoes would fit you though, sorry."

Jack grinned. He definitely didn’t wear leggings, didn’t really understand how they were comfortable, but hey. To each their own.

“I’m gonna go get rinsed off, but. We can meet downstairs in like … thirty minutes?"

[brookpub]

Brook Indian Gastro Pub | Pubs in Cambridge

Brook Indian Gastro Pub, tucked away in the middle of Cambridge, is more than simply a restaurant; it's an immersive eating experience that fuses traditional Indian cuisine with modern influences. With an emphasis on creativity, the bar has unveiled a mouth-watering new menu that will transport your taste buds to a world you will never forget. Serving up tantalising appetisers, juicy main meals, and classic desserts, Brook Indian Gastro Pub is revolutionising Indian dining in Cambridge.

The Starters' Appeal: Brook Indian Gastro Pub

The appetisers at Brook Indian Gastro Pub are expertly prepared to whet your appetite and set the mood for the rest of your meal.

Szechuan Paneer Bao:

Picture a bao bun with a twist, all fluffy and soft. Indian and East Asian flavours come together in perfect harmony in Brook's Szechuan Paneer Bao. Paneer, a famous cottage cheese in India, is marinated in a hot Szechuan sauce with lots of ginger, garlic, and scorching red chillies in this meal. After that, the paneer is expertly packed into the fluffy bao buns, resulting in a symphony of flavours and textures. The Szechuan paneer's spiciness is nicely offset by the bao's subtle sweetness, creating an appetiser that will have you begging for more.

Dragon Chicken:

Just like its name implies, Dragon Chicken is a very spicy dish. Crispy chicken tossed in a colourful Indo-Chinese green sauce and sautéed in a marinade makes up this appetiser. Flavours explode in your mouth from the fresh green chillies, coriander, and acidic lime juice that make up the sauce. The chicken is perfectly cooked—crisp on the outside and juicy on the inside—and the green sauce gives it a tangy, pleasant kick. By combining the finest elements of Indian and Chinese cooking, this dish personifies the fusion food movement.

Lamb Pepper Fry:

At Brook Indian Gastro Pub, you must order the Lamb Pepper Fry if you desire something meaty and robust. Fall in love with these luscious boneless lamb chunks sautéed with coconut, a blend of aromatic spices and freshly ground black pepper. The end product is a dish that is full of texture and flavour thanks to the black pepper's spiciness and the coconut's inherent sweetness. The lamb is succulent and flavourful, with a subtle earthiness that is typical of South Indian cuisine. No matter how cold it is in Cambridge on a winter night, this meal will keep you toasty.

Main Course Delights — Brook Indian Gastro Pub

Guests at Brook Indian Gastro Pub can continue their culinary adventure with a variety of hearty and exciting main courses.

Mushroom and Cashew Nut Curry:

The combination of the soft mushrooms and crunchy cashew nuts in the semi-dry sauce creates a sensory feast. The gravy is prepared by sautéing onions and capsicums with a blend of Indian spices until they are cooked to perfection. In the end, you get an incredibly flavorful curry—rich, nutty, and slightly sweet. You may enjoy every piece with rice or bread thanks to its semi-dry texture.

The Special Fried Rice from Brook:

Everyone loves fried rice, but the Special Fried Rice at Brook Indian Gastro Pub is out of this world. Fried eggs and spicy chicken create a harmonious blend of flavours in this dish. The fried eggs bring a richness that balances the heat of the chilli chicken, and the perfectly cooked rice keeps the texture and taste of each grain. It's a dish that will satisfy even the pickiest eaters with its vibrant yet comfortable flavour profile.

Veg Manchurian Fried Rice:

Vegetarians and vegans alike will love the veggie manchurian Fried Rice. The vegetable balls in this recipe are a culmination of finely chopped veggies cooked in a spicy, acidic sauce. When the veggie balls are mixed with stir-fried rice, a dish bursting with flavour and texture is achieved. The crunchy stir-fried rice complements the savoury veggie balls, while the acidic sauce balances out their richness. Indulge in this dish at any meal because it is both filling and revitalising.

Dessert Kulfi: The Sweet Finale - Brook Indian Gastro Pub

Dessert is an essential part of any dinner, and the Kulfi at Brook Indian Gastro Pub is the ideal way to round off your culinary experience. Rich, creamy, and flavourful, kulfi is a typical Indian ice cream. Kulfi has a distinct and delightful texture thanks to its unusual combination of spices—cardamom, saffron, and condensed milk—and sugar. It makes it heavier than ordinary ice cream. Served with a drizzle of rose syrup and a sprinkle of crushed pistachios, the Kulfi at Brook elevates this traditional delicacy to a more refined level. It's an incredibly satisfying sweet treat that will leave you wanting more.

Biryani and Tapas: An Unparalleled Gastronomic Adventure

Not only is the new menu item delicious, but so are the Biryanis and tapas at Brook Indian Gastro Pub. Crafted with care, the Best Biryani in Cambridge at Brook feature fragrant basmati rice, succulent meats, and an aromatic spice blend. The dish's richness and satisfaction are enhanced with every bite, thanks to the wonderfully calibrated spices. No matter what your taste in Biryani is—vegetarian, chicken, or lamb—Brook offers it all.

The Tapas menu at Brook is almost as remarkable, with a variety of sharing-friendly small tapas. The finest ingredients go into every one of our mouth-watering dishes, from spicy pakoras to crunchy samosas. Indulge in a variety of meals from the Tapas menu and discover the entire spectrum of flavours offered by Brook Indian Gastro Pub.

Perfect Setting:

The experience is more critical than the cuisine at Brook Indian Gastro Pub. The pub's friendly ambience is ideal for enjoying a meal with loved ones. Warm lighting, cosy seating, and an open kitchen that lets you watch the cooks work create an atmosphere that is equal parts modern and classic. At Brook, you'll always get helpful recommendations from the kind and educated staff about what to eat and drink to go with your meal.

The bar also offers craft beers, exquisite wines, and unique cocktails. The bartenders at Brook can make any cocktail to go with your dinner, from the traditional to the more experimental.

A Dedication to Excellence:

The foundation of Brook Indian Gastro Pub's operations is quality. When workable, the chefs use locally produced ingredients so that you know you're getting the freshest food. Because every dish is prepared to order, you may be certain that the freshness, flavour, and perfection of your dinner will be met. The pub's dedication to excellence permeates the entire dining experience, from the cuisine and beverages to the service and ambience.

Exciting Times for Indian Food in Cambridge:

Brook Indian Gastro Pub is redefining Indian food in Cambridge with its creative menu and dedication to quality. Brook provides an exciting and fulfilling dining experience for everyone. Whether they are fans of classic Indian food or seeking something new. Kulfi, Dragon Chicken, Mushroom and Cashew Nut Curry, Brook Special Fried Rice, Veg Manchurian Fried Rice, and Szechuan Paneer Bao are a few of the new dishes that showcase the pub's commitment to creativity and excellence.

Conclusion:

Brook Indian Gastro Pub isn't a restaurant; it's a gathering spot for gourmets and others who value good cooking. With a wide variety of dishes that pay homage to several cultures' culinary traditions, the new menu is sure to please any palate. No matter how hungry you are, Brook is the place to go in Cambridge for the finest Indian food, whether you're looking for a quick snack or a dinner. Visit Brook Indian Gastro Pub the next time you're nearby to feel the enchantment yourself.

[gumnut-logic]

Talk No. 1 (Bit 1)

Alexander Sweetapple series | Talk - No. 1 - Bit 1

This is the beginning of something for @idontknowreallywhy who asked for it :D

Sorry to post just this little bit, but I wanted to share this first scene because I enjoyed writing it. I have more, but the fic is not complete yet. So really just a tidbit :D

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight for the readthrough. And to the wonderful people who continue to give my fanboy engineer life :D

This is M/M, so if that isn't your thing, this isn't your fic.

I hope you enjoy this little bit.

-o-o-o-

“Alex baby, Mr Tracy wants to see you.”

Okay, if he balanced the reaction by adding more stabiliser earlier and slower, the result might give him the flexibility he needed in the final polymer.

“Yo, Alex!”

It was a bit of a stretch, pun intended, but it might just work. He calculated the time and volume of-

“Alex!”

He jumped and his stylus flipped out of his fingers, flying across the room to hit the pinboard full of notes he had been scribbling on earlier.

There was an crash as a pin, holding up far more than physics should allow, gave way and let its stack of flimsies explode to the floor.

“Oops.” Erica held a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”

Alex stared at the mess scattered like artificial autumn leaves and just sighed. It had been one of those mornings. His current project had hit a bit of snag and he’d had to dive deep to find a solution.

Erica stood in the light from the windows of the portable building they were currently calling their labs. Her hair had shifted to more of a purple since the earthquake. Alex figured it was to offset the bright fluro yellow of her cast. Why her broken arm had a fluro yellow cast had been explained but Alex had yet to understand it. As always with Erica, colour choices were a mystery. Purple hair, pig tails with bobbly yellow ties, bright red lipstick and eyeshadow sparkly yellow with a touch of green.

She was just Erica.

She frowned at him. “Tia said Mr Tracy needs to see you.” She thumbed a hand in the direction of the door.

“Virgil? Virgil’s here?” Great he would love to hear about this solution.

“No, not Virgil, THE Mr Tracy.”

Alex blinked. “Mr Jeff Tracy?”

Erica let out a breath and rolled her eyes. “No, Mr SCOTT Tracy. Really, they need codenames or something. There are just too many Mr Tracys. The bird one, Alex. The Eagle has landed.”

“Mr Tracy?” Oh shit. “Where?”

“Tia’s office. Apparently he was ‘in the area’.” She put a finger to her lips in thought. “Gordon could be the Fish. He’d like that, I think.” She started counting fingers. “There are three space guys, though. Youngest flies the Rocket, so we can call him that. Middle one…” She eyed Alex. “…assuming he does actually exist, could be Spaceman. Their Dad is The Astronaut. That leaves just Virgil.” She smiled and walked towards her desk, past Alex, trailing a blood red fingernail across his shoulder. “We all know he’s the ‘Lover Boy’.”

“Erica!”

But she only laughed. “You better get moving, Sweet Pie. The Big Bird’s a-waiting.”

He grunted, grabbed his tablet, and fishing his stylus off the floor, fled out the door.

TBC

[familyvideostevie]

Okay what about James and reader who doesn’t like physical touch normally but likes being close to James and he’s surprised cause she doesn’t normally like it but he loves it anyway (Also Happy New Year <3 🎊)

my first james fic!! i hope you like this, my dear. happy new year! | fem!reader, fluff, 1k

James has been infatuated with you from the start, of course. Not that he'd tell you that. He's barely maintaining his composure around you as it is, and now you're his girlfriend. He supposes that he's got nothing to be embarrassed about, really. He's managed to keep it together long enough for you to figure out that you, for some reason, like him enough to date him. He liked being friends with you but he loves this. 

Before, he always tried to be very carful with your boundaries -- he still is, obviously. You don't like to be touched with familiarity without warning, and he sees how even a casual hand on your back can make you tense. It's no trouble at all for him to let you dictate when you want hugs or an extra hand or anything at all, even if he's normally quite tactile. Everyone abides by your comfort level, no problem.

In hindsight, he should have realized much sooner that you liked him because you've always let him touch you more than anyone else. His elbow is the one you go for when you need to be steadied, his side the one you tuck into in a crowd, his cheek the one you kiss goodbye. 

And now that you're dating? Well, the boundary has shifted, for sure, but he's not entirely sure to what degree. He really needs to ask you about it. Because, as it is, you're touching him much more. So much that he feels dizzy with it sometimes, which is a little embarrassing considering you're sleeping together these days. An arm around his waist shouldn't make him feel so...much.

You're walking home from the pub one night in the middle of the street when he decides to ask you.

"And then Remus said that the bird had not only gotten into the pantry, but it got into Sirius' weird collection of --" You look at him and frown when you find that he's already staring at you, looking lovesick as anything. "James, are you listening to me?"

"Not really," he says. "You're so pretty that I think my ears stopped working." You blow a raspberry at him and tighten your hold. Your arms are linked together and you've got one hand on his bicep, fingertips gently stroking the denim of his jacket. His hands flex in his pockets. 

"Darling, can I ask you something?" he says. He hopes the pet name will offset the next bit. "I don't want you to take it the wrong way, though."

You laugh and it makes his stomach turn over. "Great way to start." You reach out and push a loose lock of hair back from his forehead, careful not to knock his glasses. 

"Just listen, alright?" He can feel every point of contact between you like a live wire. Maybe he can convince you to take a shower with him tonight just to feel your fingertips on his scalp. "You aren't very, uh, touchy," he says. "I know that. We all know that."

You hum and squeeze his arm a little. Good sign, he thinks. "But I..." His face feels hot. Why is this embarrassing? He's got you in his bed, hasn't he? "You don't seem to mind when I do it?" His voice goes up at the end and he feels a bit like a schoolboy talking to his first crush. You must know that you're the only one who can get him like this.

You tug him to a stop and turn in the middle of the street to look at him, eyebrows high on your forehead. Fuck, he thinks. You really are pretty. Your mouth opens and what comes out is a peal of laughter. Your hands unwind from his arm and settle loosely at his collar as you laugh with your entire body. James wonders if he should be offended. 

"Hey, now," he says. "I'm just checking. I'm five seconds way from shoving my cold hands up your shirt to see if you like it then--"

"I wouldn't mind," you interrupt him, giggles fading. "James, I don't mind when it's you. I thought it was obvious that I've never minded. I mean, you're my boyfriend now." You look at little shy as you clarify the end bit. He tries not to smile too wide so you don't get embarrassed, instead squeezing your hip with one hand. 

"I sure am," he says softly. "But, why? Why don't you mind with me, I mean?"

You shrug. "I don't know," you say, smoothing down his collar. "It's just different with you. Because it's you. I don't know how to explain it." 

He softens even more. What is he supposed to do with all of the affection he has for you? If you didn't want him to touch you as much, he'd figure it out, but he's glad that you allow it. "Okay," he says. He runs a hand up and down your side and you lean into his chest more heavily. "I like touching you, is all. I like having you close. But tell me if you ever don't want it, alright?"

You nod. He knows that you know this, but it's good to remind you that he's not trying to take you for granted in any way. "James Potter," you say. He shivers a little. "You're such a sap." Before he can tease you back you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him right there in the middle of the street. It's more smile than kiss but he doesn't mind. "Is this close enough for you?" you say against his mouth. He pinches your ribs before he circles your waist with his arms and gently walks you backwards a few steps, lips trailing up your cheek. 

"I'd like to touch you at home now, please," he says. You wiggle out of his hold and jog ahead of him, spinning on your heel.

"Race you!" you call. The breath is knocked out of him at your smile. He's absolutely pathetic for you and he doesn't care one bit. 

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!

[crooked-wasteland]

There are several underhanded tactics Medrano has used in regards to her merch. Such as advertising items as "Limited Stock" which gives the impression of limited availability when that is wholly not the case. I had a scrapped post deconstructing Medrano's Shark Robot store, so it's interesting this is becoming a topic currently.

Limited Stock does not mean limited edition. It means it is a staple item that they create in small quantities to drive the fear of losing out. There is a lot of FOMO in her style of advertising, which I personally find unethical, but so are most selling tactics. The other side of Limited Stock is that if the item doesn't sell well, they will drop the item once inventory they already have is gone. That side of things isn't unethical in the least, so it has some value to consumers, but it is still very misleading.

You can give the health of a storefront by how secure they feel in their buyer base and what items they carry on hand. A store that carries a solid inventory of items like pins and keychains are middling. These items are cheaper to make in bulk and they expect to sell them all for a larger profit than they have been made for.

Using this manufacturer as an example, note how the prices decrease as volume increases. To make 19 pins at the largest size would cost $221, whereas 100 pins at the same size only costs $264. Because of this, pins are often the most abundant items on any merch storefront and they are where most money comes in recuperating costs.

You would need to sell every single pin at the lower quantity for just over manufacturing price to make back the money on the pins alone. Most people are not too keen on spending $15-25 per pin. High prices make inventory harder to sell, most likely resulting in the venture being a net loss. Whereas with 100 pins, you could sell each pin at a compatibly low price, say $10, and you would make back your money by selling as little as 30 pins. Meaning 70% of your inventory is profit. Additionally the lower cost per pin makes them attractive to buyers, making them more likely to be purchased and the inventory to be depleted.

When in a situation like Medrano, big ticket items like clothing, game pads and sketchbooks are only really going to sell to high interest groups. People who really love the show, wish to find it on principle, or they just really like that particular design. Additionally, the cost is prohibiting certain demographics (children) from really buying the volume needed to balance out the business. Whereas pins are less expensive and easier to ship. Kids and collectors alike value them and they are extremely cheap to make. I'm sure that the costs of other items like shirts and books are offset by pin sales.

So with all that in mind, how bad does your financial situation have to be for you to be pre-selling pins. As in only ordering as many as you sell, meaning you risk manufacturing the pins at a loss if you even bother to fulfill the orders at all. Which would probably explain the need for a cheaper manufacturer who will make individual pins at steep discounts that are thin and easily broken. Which would dissuade new buyers as word of mouth spreads of the poor quality merch, resulting in more lost sales and a larger deficit for the overall business. All because the security in one's market is simply just not there.

There are some serious issues behind the scenes in regards to the merch. This really is just the tip of the iceberg.

Do you believe with how low the views are getting for Helluva Boss that it's also beginning to show through the quality of their new merch that's been recently launched?

I mean quality is better than quantity and the quantity is getting a little insane. But I don’t see any correlation with views. Given that the rest of the series is about the “Goetic Society” and stolas taking all of the story focus, these views are just gonna get lower and lower.

I don’t have firsthand experience myself but I’ve heard people say the colours are off, things break easy, the shipping is very expensive, among other issues. For me I just can’t commit to those prices.

Also screenshots as merch? Really?

[velidewrites]

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

@elucienweekofficial

Chapter 1 - They Don’t Understand You

Despite the cushions imported from Sangravah, Elain Archeron was supremely uncomfortable.

She’d always been particularly skilled at hosting, but then again—it had always taken place at her own house, and her guests…well, for starters, they’d never had the nerve to show up uninvited.

Eris Vanserra had no such qualms, it seemed.

“Tea?” she asked him tightly, trying her best not to squirm at those watchful, amber eyes. Even with the spring in full bloom, the male still somehow managed to look pale, his freckled skin resembling frost dotting the autumn leaves. It made him look even more out of place in her sister’s home, the sunlight almost skitting from his presence as it poured through the open windows.

Where was her sister, anyway? Elain would have uttered a mental call for help had it not been for the shields she’d spent so much time hardening over the past few months—and now she was not entirely sure how to lower them enough for a daemati to comfortably slip in. Not that she’d ever truly want that to happen, though.

Eris’s lip curled into a smile. “How very kind of you.”

Elain reached for the pot, silently thanking the forgotten Gods for keeping her hands from shaking. Her eyes fixed on the pink roses painted atop the porcelain as she poured him some of the golden liquid, the colour very much resembling something—someone—she decidedly did not want to think about right now.

She blamed Eris for this—it had been months since she’d last seen a Vanserra at the River House. She could only hope the Autumn heir would be on his way as quickly as he’d appeared.

The sun offset the auburn of his hair nicely where it reached him, though, and Elain supposed Eris was handsome if she opted to forgo that cruel smile twisting his mouth. There was no denying the male occupying the couch opposite from her was no friend—no matter how much he’d claimed to be one. Even if she hadn’t heard the stories—from Feyre, from Rhysand, or even the Morrigan herself—Elain liked to think her own judgement was sharp enough to set her instincts on alert. Right now, as her gaze lifted to meet Eris’s, drawn towards him as though by some magnet, they screamed one word and one word only:

Run.

But Elain continued sitting on her billowy, sky-blue couch, her whole body rigid enough that she might as well have turned into a statue. Eris simply sipped from his cup, lazily leaned back in his seat as his arm settled on the dark, wooden armrest.

Something flitted outside the window behind him, something large enough that Elain had no doubt it was not one of the chirping sparrows that liked to frequent the gardens. No, this was an owl that landed on a nearby apple tree, its tawny feathers unmistakable no matter how strange it was for one to appear in the middle of the day. Elain stiffened even further, her spine nearly a straight line now that her shoulders rolled back in discomfort.

His red brows knitting over those cunning eyes, Eris looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Elain, seemingly finding nothing out of the ordinary that could have led her to such a reaction. His lips eased back into a smile as he asked, “Something wrong, Lady Archeron?”

“Forgive me if I’m not entirely content with a Vanserra in my living room.”

Eris chuckled, looking more amused than offended as he noted, "How terribly your mate would take to such words, I wonder.”

“Stop calling him that,” Elain snapped, the words leaving her throat before she could really think them through.

The winning flash of his amber gaze told her she should have. “Ah,” Eris hummed, his pale features twisting into curiosity. “So you have not yet accepted.” His long, slender fingers drummed on the polished wood. “The High Lord will be...pleased to hear this.”

The High Lord. Not Father, not even Beron—the High Lord.

“He will hear nothing,” a deep, booming voice sounded behind her.

Elain’s shoulders nearly fell with relief.

“Rhysand,” Eris crooned, his free hand lifting to sketch a mocking bow. “How kind of you to join us at last.”

Her brother in law circled the couch, moving to take his seat beside Elain, his power thrumming around him like blood pulsing thickly in one’s veins. Elain guessed his neglect to conceal that dark magic was purposeful, even if the way he sat gave none of his tension away.

“I’m not in the habit of entertaining unwanted guests,” Rhysand merely said, his own cup of tea appearing beside him with a half-wave of his hand. Elain shifted slightly.

Eris continued as though Rhysand had not spoken at all. “I jest, of course. Lovely Elain has been such pleasant company that I find myself, ah…unwilling to discuss her predicament with my High Lord.”

Elain frowned. “My predicament? I don’t—” she started, though the question died on her lips as she noticed darkness coiling around them like snakes, ready to strike.

Rhysand tapped a finger on the armrest, the sound scraping as a sharp, dark talon replaced his usually immaculate nails. “Horrible Eris seems to be under the impression that your mating bond means you fall under the jurisdiction of the Autumn Court.” Elain’s eyes widened, but before she could gasp out in protest, Rhysand added smoothly, “Though perhaps he needs a reminder that so far, it remains unaccepted.”

Eris let out a dramatic sigh, the sound lingering on the already heavy air. “So I hear,” he said, utterly unbothered by the living night slithering at his feet. “Such a shame,” he mused. “After all, we could all be one, happy family.”

Elain’s own magic stirred in her veins as though in protest. “You could never be my family.”

She hopelessly wished for the words to deal enough of a blow that Eris would simply get up and leave—but instead, his mouth curved into a smirk as he remarked, “How terribly sad.”

Beside her, Rhysand sneered. “We’ll send you a Solstice invitation, if it makes you feel better.”

But Eris’s amber eyes remained fixed on Elain, the Autumn prince seemingly deigning the High Lord’s jab to be unworthy of his time. Whether the obvious dismissal had bothered Rhysand at all, he did not show—still, Elain had managed to catch a flash of annoyance in her brother in law’s gaze, there and gone like the flicker of a star.

“How terribly sad,” Eris repeated simply, “that, just like your captivating sister, you, too, are wasted in Rhysand’s pretty little court.” He shrugged. “I suppose at least lovely Feyre has found her purpose here.”

“Get my mate’s name out of your lying mouth,” Rhysand spat, darkness now openly simmering around him.

Eris’s expression shifted into that of triumph. “I always forget what a pleasure it is to visit the Night Court.”

The comment seemed to cut through Rhysand’s rising anger—the small wrinkle between his brows smoothed out, and his talons slowly retracted as he leaned back in his seat, though the watchful darkness remained. “Just say whatever you came here to say, Eris,” he told him, his aloof composure back as though he never lost it in the first place.

Eris clicked his tongue. “I thought news of my dear father’s dealings would’ve piqued more of your interest,” he wondered.

“I seem to have no time for your games today.”

“Ah.” Another smile. “Of course. And how is the little prince doing? Forgive me, Rhysand, but I never took you for a particularly fatherly figure.”

Rhysand sipped his tea. "That means little to me considering your basis for comparison. Now get on with it.”

Eris rolled his eyes. “Fine.” But his eyes darted back to Elain, a silent question in his stare.

“I keep no secrets from my Inner Circle,” Rhysand said. Elain’s grimace vanished as quickly as it appeared, her face expressionless before her brother in law returned his attention to her. “Unless you’d like to leave, Elain?”

You’ll always have a choice here, Feyre had once told her. Elain had nearly scoffed then.

Her choice had been taken away a long time ago.

She had no intention of letting herself be dismissed, though—especially now that she'd learned the purpose of Eris’s visit revolved around the same court that felt entitled to her person more than she’d ever want it.

Elain would rather be dead than step foot in that wretched place, really.

In some way, she already was. 

“I want to hear this,” Elain simply stated, and Rhysand nodded for Eris to continue.

The male sighed again. “Very well, then.” He crossed an ankle over a knee as he studied some invisible flaw on right thumbnail. “Beron has left for the Continent.”

The room shrank, all the air knocked out through the window without warning. Her chest tight, Elain watched as Rhysand’s eyes flashed, then melted back into their usual, dark pools of violet, and suddenly the fresh garden breeze flowed into her lungs again. She released a shuddering breath.

“I’m sending Azriel.” The words were indisputable.

Eris set back his tea. “No.”

“Your opinion means very little to me right now, Eris.”

“When has it ever? If Beron has truly allied himself with Koschei after the human queen’s downfall, going to the Continent is a risk we cannot take. All I know is that a formal invitation from Rask arrived last night and this morning, Beron was already gone.”

Rhysand’s fingers tapped on wood again, no talons in sight this time. “Then it was likely feigned.”

“Obviously. But, to the knowledge of my court and anyone else concerned, the High Lord is on a diplomatic visit to discuss Autumn’s lumber exports to the Continent, and anyone else’s presence there would only put them—and this alliance—in danger.”

“Azriel can stay hidden well enough.”

Eris scowled, perhaps the first true emotion Elain had seen from him since he arrived. “From Beron—perhaps. But even your spymaster’s shadows cannot keep him from Koschei’s dark magic.” He angled his head, auburn hair catching the faintest glint of sunlight. “Surely you would not risk your court’s safety like this.”

Rhysand wouldn’t—Elain was sure of it. That did not mean Azriel would share such sentiment.

She dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived. Taking it upon herself to stop him would be a…mistake.

Rhysand said, “So you would rather have us sit idly, then. Do nothing.”

To Elain’s surprise, Eris nodded. “If you still care about our shared goal, you will trust that I am doing everything in my power to see it through until the very end. In the meantime, I suggest you make use of what resources you have now to find out how to eliminate Koschei before Beron closes whatever deal he’d offered him.”

Outside, the tawny owl flapped its wings.

“I’m afraid the Troves do not hold the answers you’re hoping for,” Rhysand said coldly, his mind no doubt drifting to the last time they’d been used.

Elain tore her eyes off the window to look at him again. “We do not need the Troves,” Elain spoke, the two males’ attention snapping to her immediately. “We need Vassa.”

Eris’s smile became lupine. “Not just a pretty face, after all.”

Rhysand snarled.

Eris held up a hand. “Lady Archeron is right—the firebird queen knows more of Koschei than any of us do.”

“You’ve already spoken to her—months ago,” Rhysand pointed out. “Cassian and Lucien have, too.”

Eris shrugged. “That was a different time. Koschei no longer has Briallyn and her Crown, and Vassa is the only link to him we have left. Perhaps it is one worth…exploring.”

Rhysand considered. “Vassa is a fragile ally, but an ally nonetheless.” He stood, the matter seemingly too pressing to continue the conversation any longer. “I will consult this with my High Lady.”

Eris drained his tea, the quiet clank of porcelain being set atop its plate sounding his agreement. “Contact me when Feyre Archeron makes up her mind.”

And with that, he winnowed away.

So had the owl, a lone apple resting in its place.

______

Nyx was a peaceful sleeper, thank the Mother.

Smoothing a tattooed hand over her son’s blanket, Feyre smiled lightly, watching his tiny, rosy lips part in a gentle dream. Nyx’s mind was like a soft cloud, casting shadows of images and sounds toward her mind before she even managed to stop them. He’d be a powerful daemati—some day.

The baby dreamed of his father’s face—of a blue so deep it was almost violet, stars twinkling among it with a quiet, silvery glow. The dream then shifted into swirls of dark—into floating tendrils of the night, caressing his tiny form as he took breath after breath.

He was perfect, and alive—they all were, Feyre reminded herself with tears lining at her eyes. They’d made it, and now…now they could finally be a family. She swallowed thickly at the thought, her own mouth parting to mirror her son’s little smile.

“You are so beautiful,” Rhys whispered, and Feyre’s smile widened before she looked up to meet her mate’s gaze. A tendril brushed against the steel gate to her mind, and Feyre invited it in, the picture of herself leaning over Nyx safely tucked in his bassinet appearing in her mind. “Will you paint it?”

Feyre nodded, then reached out a hand. “Of course.”

Rhys moved from the doorway he’d been leaning on, at her side in two quiet steps. His hand captured her own as he brought it to his lips, placing a small kiss atop her knuckles. Feyre tugged for him to stand beside her, until Nyx’s both parents stood over him, two guardians watching a precious gift.

She rested her head on his arm—his shoulder being out of her reach did not come without advantages, since she got to revel in the feel of his muscles beneath the fine, midnight jacket. Rhys chuckled, and she buried her nose further in the dark fabric. “I missed you,” he told her softly.

“You saw me half an hour ago,” she reminded him, earning a kiss atop her head.

“Far too long a time,” Rhys said, then sighed, as if some invisible weight had suddenly returned to his shoulders at the thought. “Eris was here.”

“I know.”

Rhys hummed. “You heard?”

“About half of it.” She jerked her chin playfully towards their son. “I’m afraid this one kept me occupied for the latter part of the conversation.”

The smile returned to Rhys’s full lips. “He takes after his mother in mischief.” Feyre’s eyes narrowed.

“Hmmm.”

Quietly, the two of them moved outside of the nursery, the door clicking lightly behind them as Rhys led them toward the bedroom. “Elain seemed to be holding her ground, though,” Feyre pointed out.

Rhys nodded. “I had no doubt that she would,” he said, and Feyre sighed.

“It’s not that I doubted her—I just…wish it wasn’t her Eris bumped into.”

Rhysand squeezed her hand. “Your sisters are adults, Feyre. You cannot protect them forever—though I know you would, if you could only have your way.”

Feyre sighed. “If there’s anything I learned from Nesta, it’s that my sisters are well capable of protecting themselves.”

“Elain did show some claws today,” Rhys agreed.

“Oh?”

Her mate’s power grazed her mind again, and Feyre let him in as Rhys filled in the blanks of the discussion she’d missed. She watched the conversation and wordlessly listened to Eris’s refusal to let them engage—though, as much as she hated to admit, she partly agreed with the Autumn male about the gravity of the risk.

Azriel will want to go, Rhys’s voice slid into her mind.

Too bad, Feyre responded.

A twinkling laugh sounded in her head. So commanding, my High Lady.

Feyre rolled her eyes. Prick.

She laid on their soft bed, sinking into the plush mattress, letting the first hints of sleep sting her eyes despite it still being the early hours of dusk. So what would Eris have us do? she asked Rhys. We are not using the Troves to try and kill Koschei—we don’t even know if that would work.

No, Rhys agreed. But your sister suggested that we speak to Vassa.

Feyre’s eyes shot open. “Vassa?” she asked. “Why?”

Rhys took his seat beside her legs, wings unfolding to stretch over her form. “Eris thinks we can make good use of the link between her and Koschei. I do not know how.”

Feyre considered. “I promised Vassa I would find a way to break her curse.”

Rhys’s expression shifted into that of concern. “You promised you would try.” He skimmed his knuckles over her arm. “I doubt she blames you for failing the first time.”

Because she had—less than two months ago, when Helion Spell-Cleaver wistfully told her that not even her power—the powers of seven High Lords combined—could cleave an ancient magic woven into blood. And though Vassa had tried to hide her disappointment in her letters, it took no daemati to know the firebird queen’s despair burned more and more each day.

There had to be a way, Feyre knew it, someplace deep down that she was too blind to discover. If she could only see…

Feyre jolted up.

“What is it?” Rhys frowned, his wing brushing protectively against her back.

Feyre half-turned to face him. “Elain.”

Rhys’s eyes flashed. “Is something wrong with her?”

“What? No—we use Elain to investigate that link.” She crossed her legs over the mattress. “Elain’s a Seer, Rhys��what if exposing her to Vassa’s magic triggers some kind of vision? Some kind of…answer?”

Rhys chewed on his lip. “Elain has met Vassa before, Feyre.”

“Not directly,” she countered. “And, what if…what if we could somehow kill two birds with one stone?” Rhys’s brows rose, and Feyre rolled her eyes. “Alright, that’s a bad analogy—I mean, what if the answer to killing Koschei—without all of us dying in the process—is the same answer to breaking Vassa’s curse?”

“You think killing Koschei would break Vassa’s curse?”

Feyre sighed. “I don’t know anything, Rhys—which means no matter what we learn, we’ll be all the smarter for it.”

Rhys leaned in to plant a kiss on her shoulder. “Resourceful as always, Feyre darling.”

The words made her grin. “You love me for it.”

“I do,” came the reply. “And for everything else.”

______

The house was falling apart.

Lucien gave it two years at best. The War had ravaged it so thoroughly that the paint peeling off brick by brick was truly the last of his problems. The upstairs bedrooms, thankfully, were still somewhat intact—though he could probably do without the moths in his closet, taking up permanent residence in the sleeves of one of his finest jackets.

His finest jacket was long gone. Lucien wondered if she’d kept it.

He smothered the thought instantly, his day already miserable enough that adding more onto the pile would likely lead him to some entirely unreasonable choices—like winnowing straight to Night, which was a choice he could not afford to make at this particular time.

Lucien had very little reason inside of him left, actually, which meant going to Night was definitely out of the question. He’d been keeping himself occupied well enough, from the more bearable tasks like being Jurian’s errand boy (for some reason, the Mad General’s presence in the village created more unease than Lucien’s scarred face and metal eye ever had), to those like visiting Spring, which was another thing Lucien decidedly did not want to think about right now.

The truth, as adamant as he first had been to admit it, was that being in the human lands had proven to be exactly the escape Lucien needed. There was nothing in Prythian for him left—he hadn’t stepped foot in Autumn since that fateful, Cauldron-damned trip with Feyre just before the War, and frankly, Lucien did not think he’d ever see its orange-gold woods again. Spring, like an ever-present thorn in the back of his mind, was another court that used to feel like home until it hadn’t, and though it was a land he hadn’t exactly been exiled from—Tamlin sure didn’t care enough to bother with issuing an official order—Lucien had slowly begun to wish he had, so that Rhysand would finally stop sending him there. Tamlin is not a threat, Lucien had told him about two months ago, Not to Prythian, anyway. Rhysand seemed to understand, because Lucien had not visited Spring since then—but still, the possibility of ever returning for some calamity-related reason loomed over him like a dark cloud.

So Lucien stayed at the human lands, patiently without ever truly knowing what he was being patient for, negotiating whatever peace talks Feyre asked of him and whatever ridiculous errand Jurian would find a way of asking for. There were only two times Lucien had refused him—the first one, which was entirely unselfish, was when the mortal man had fallen ill in the last month of winter. Lucien had forgotten that human healing prolonged over almost outrageous amounts of time, with Jurian’s relentless coughing for two weeks straight nearly having driven Lucien out of his mind. A broth of sorts had originally seemed like a reasonable request—but when the general had requested his favourite wolf stew, Lucien took perhaps more satisfaction than it had been appropriate in telling him the meal had been outlawed nearly a century ago.

His chest clenched as he remembered an entirely different kind of wolf—yet another thing he would never see again.

The second time Lucien had refused Jurian was when his friend had announced he required a new weapon—and had specifically requested Illyrian steel, a metal unachievable during his time.

Lucien had denied him immediately, feeling terrible afterwards for slamming the door in his face.

He had not visited the Night Court since the Winter Solstice.

Lucien had awoken less than an hour after he’d finally fallen asleep—after his racing mind had finally come to terms with the fact that another year had passed and nothing changed at all. He’d shoved the disappointment, the primal longing he’d failed to tame on more than one occasion, deep into the place in his heart that he’d locked away when he’d been first chased out of Autumn. Sleep had come somewhat peacefully after that, knowing that, the next morning, he would be back at the manor, ready for Jurian’s latest whim that he naturally could not get done himself since the frightened the “other humans” for reasons unbeknownst to the general himself. He hadn’t had the heart to tell him that, while Lucien could easily glamour his own scars and golden eye, there was no magic in the world that could mask the haunted look in Jurian’s stare, ever-present since he’d been put back together by the Cauldron. It had startled the humans enough to close their shops and clear the streets an hour early when they’d seen Jurian wander the market square for the first (and last) time.

As he’d drifted away into a dreamless slumber, something had surged through him so powerfully Lucien had found himself struggling to find a breath. Its tug on his rib had been so familiar it ached, the source of the feeling practically impossible to deny. It had set every single one of his nerves on high alert, like a fox perking up its ears after having sensed a danger of some kind, his blood running molten like a liquid flame. There had been no danger, but the godsdamned tug had been more than enough to make Lucien worry—it translated into something restless, something like…anticipation.

He’d shot out of bed, not bothering to throw a shirt on—he ran hot even in winters—and exited his room, listening for any sounds from the room across the corridor he knew was hers.

Except that she had not been in her room—he’d heard her downstairs.

“…on me?” her quiet question reached him, so small he might not have even heard it had it not been hers.

Lucien had never moved more quietly in his life, stopping only at the top of the curved staircase, hidden from those downstairs but having enough view to watch the back of their silhouettes through the gaps in the balustrade. He knew it was probably not right to listen in—hell, he might have even scolded Feyre for eavesdropping a lifetime ago—but, somehow, his body had frozen into place, as though that very tug had commanded him not to make a move.

It was needless to say that what he’d seen next made him not want to step foot in the Night Court again. But there she was, his mate, the one he had never even asked for but the Cauldron had somehow deemed him worthy of one anyway, leaning in for a kiss from another male. It had been then that Lucien realised that perhaps Elain Archeron was not a gift from the Cauldron—but a punishment.

Lucien had not stayed until morning to say his goodbyes. He hadn’t even gathered his things when he’d winnowed away straight from the upstairs corridor—he hadn’t cared if their lips had met in the end or not, if anyone had cared enough to stop them, if Lucien himself had cared anymore. He was simply…gone.

He still thanked the Mother for finding Jurian and Vassa in the living room that night. His friends had drunk themselves into oblivion and immediately invited him in. Lucien had spent the rest of that Winter Solstice listening to Jurian sing some old marching hymn from before Lucien’s time before they all fell asleep at last.

Yes—there would be no visiting the Night Court for Lucien.

He felt somewhat guilty, though. It had been two months, and he still hadn’t met Feyre’s son—though she’d promised to visit him once their healer declared Nyx to be strong enough to be winnowed. Feyre had made no comments on his decision to stay away in her letter, though there was a hint of question hiding behind her words. Lucien, to this day, had not answered it.

The old wood squeaked beneath his feet as Lucien made his way toward the study. The door was already-half open, which meant that either Jurian had fallen asleep behind the desk again, or that Vassa was back.

He found the female—woman, he mentally corrected himself—utterly consumed by a piece of parchment in her hands, her cerulean eyes tired as though draped over by a fog.

“Rough day?” Lucien asked, and her head snapped up in surprise. It was another adjustment Lucien hadn’t exactly gotten used to yet—after centuries in Prythian with the Wall separating their two worlds, there were still more than a few things about human instincts and behaviours Lucien needed to learn about.

Her features eased into a crooked smile. “Something like that,” Vassa said, then motioned for him to sit.

Lucien shook his head. “You deserve some time alone.”

Vassa scoffed. “Please. I spent the entire day alone—and the day before that, and the day before that, too. Now sit, Lucien.”

He chuckled. “Alright.” The bottle-green armchair groaned under his weight as he settled, a small giggle ripping free from Vassa’s throat. “I hate this house,” Lucien complained.

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine, I don’t. But we could do with some improvements.”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies, Lord,” Vassa mocked. “Shall I fetch you some hot stones to put under your blankets before bed, too?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re a queen, you know. You can’t fool me—the only one of us who seems to enjoy these conditions is Jurian.”

Vassa rolled her eyes. “Okay, you got me.” She tossed the parchment to the side. “I take it your day hasn’t been particularly joyful, then?”

He had been sulking more than ever recently. “What’s that?” he asked instead, gesturing toward what seemed like a letter.

Vassa bit her lip. “It’s a letter,” she confirmed, averting his questioning gaze. “From the Night Court, the ah…the spymaster delivered it about twenty minutes ago.”

So much for avoiding the subject.

“Did something…happen? Lucien began carefully, taking note of Vassa’s leg bouncing anxiously as she mulled over her next words.

“I…” Vassa sighed. “Well, no. Not yet, anyway.”

Lucien grunted in frustration. “Vassa, will you just tell me what is going on?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Alright, Lord Lucien. Feyre Cursebreaker is coming to the manor tomorrow evening—and she’s bringing her sister.”

Lucien frowned. “What the hell would Nesta Archeron want from any of us here?” He couldn’t possibly imagine the viper herself gracing his doorstep for any reason other than to snap his neck in half. Perhaps that really was why Nesta was coming, he thought with no real amount of sarcasm.

Vassa’s lips thinned into a line. “Not Nesta.”

Oh. Oh.

“Yeah,” Vassa said, seemingly reading the words simply by looking at Lucien’s face. “I can’t exactly tell them not to come, can I? Should I?” And she would—if Lucien asked, she’d send a letter to reschedule, though by the time it reached Velaris, Elain and Feyre would have probably managed to travel here and back ten times at least.

“No,” Lucien said. “Why—why are they coming?” Why was she coming? As far as Lucien had been made aware, Elain was starting to feel like her old self again—the female she had been long before Lucien even knew of her existence—settling into the Night Court and, within its borders, making a home for herself. Feyre had spoken of her volunteering to help the citizens of Velaris rebuild—to regrow the lands the War had plundered in whatever way she could.

He’d made the mistake of asking if she’d worn the gloves. She hadn’t.

Lucien hadn’t asked Feyre anything about his mate again.

His mate—as though their bond was not as good as rejected at this point. Perhaps he’d use tomorrow as an opportunity to ask her to end this torment, though that persistent tug in his chest roared at the very thought. It was the truth, though—it had been two years. Elain wanted nothing to do with him. Elain already had a home.

Even thinking her name made his stomach twist.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Vassa’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “The Cursebreaker said the matter was too delicate to be trusted over a letter.”

“I thought you said the shadowsinger delivered it personally.”

Vassa shrugged. “Perhaps they didn’t want him to know, either.”

Lucien seriously doubted that. If there was anyone well-versed in whatever threat was sure to be approaching, it was the Night Court’s own spymaster. Lucien supposed he didn’t have to actually like the male to give him that credit—Azriel would have been trusted by Feyre and Rhysand with the matter, which meant it was serious enough that this whole ordeal was necessary.

Vassa’s head cocked to the side as she surveyed him, her tired eyes sharpening as she asked, “Will you be there?”

Would he? Since the letter had been delivered right into Vassa’s hands, Lucien was fairly certain Elain was not coming to see him, specifically—rather, there had to have been something requiring her particular skillset badly enough for her to come along. He’d seen it done enough times over his tenure as courtier to know how to read between the lines. If Elain Archeron herself was returning to the human lands, she was not coming as Elain Archeron, but as a Seer.

He told Vassa as much. “She will not want me there.”

Vassa hummed. “You don’t know that. Perhaps—”

“No perhaps,” Lucien cut in, earning another sigh from Vassa. “Will you fill me in on what happened after they’re gone?”

Her brows knotted into a frown. “Where will you be while they’re here?”

Lucien grimaced. “Jurian needs a jacket.”

______

If there was one thing Nesta Archeron knew about herself, it was that she never backed down from a fight.

“I’m going,” she pressed as their small group exited Rhysand’s study, “and I don’t care if you plan to stop me. You can certainly try, anyway.”

Feyre looked to Cassian, who merely offered a one-shouldered shrug—Nesta would kiss him for it later. Her sister sighed. “Nesta—”

But Nesta cut in, “If the threat is as dangerous as you say—”

“The threat is not in the human lands,” Feyre countered, the tone of her voice leaving no room for argument.

Too bad.

“I don’t care,” Nesta repeated. “I am going in her stead. If Elain—”

“Elain wants to go, Nesta,” Feyre sighed, her inky-black markings swirling as she ran a hand through her long hair. “It was her idea and she wants to—she wants to see it through.”

Nesta scowled. “It was her idea?” Surely whatever Elain had said to Feyre earlier, her younger sister had misinterpreted it. Perhaps Elain suggested that someone should go to the old Nolan manor, with little relation to that ugly house and the people currently occupying it.

Nesta had no reservation to voice her doubts. “You must be mistaken, Feyre. Why on earth would Elain want as much as set foot there?”

Feyre cut her a knowing look. “Perhaps she feels that she has something to prove.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened. “She needs to prove nothing.”

“I know that,” Feyre sighed again, “but I don’t know if Elain would agree. She cannot be tending to her gardens forever—she said as much herself.”

Nesta remembered that conversation very well.

“Lucien will likely be there,” Feyre offered, no doubt thinking she was being helpful. 

She bit back a snarl. “I do not want that male anywhere near Elain.”

“He is a good male, Nesta,” her sister told her, and not for the very first time. “You may not like the fact that he’s her mate, but you know better than most that he’d die before he let anything bad happen to her.”

Nesta looked to her own mate, standing by her side as always, who in turn gave her a small smile. A silent understanding passed between them—through the bridge connecting their souls—and Nesta realised that she did know, as much as Cassian did, that they both would be damned if they allowed for any danger to get near the other.

Cassian placed a warm, broad hand on her lower back, his thumb swiping lightly over her black dress, the touch grounding her and settling something restless within her, replacing it with a soft, golden light.

Nesta said calmly, “At least let me go with her.”

Feyre’s expression turned incredulous. “Walk with me?”

“I’ll see you back home,” Cassian told Nesta without missing a beat. She squeezed his hand and followed Feyre down the hallway.

They pivoted left to a sunlit room, nearly every inch of the space splattered in a vivid colour—Feyre’s private painting studio seemed to grow messier every time Nesta visited. The back wall tapestry, previously featuring fading ivy leaves, was now almost entirely covered by a mural of Velaris. The Sidra snaked through it, the silver-blue paint somehow gleaming a quiet light, leading her gaze from the River House itself to the small picture of the townhouse, one among many, then the bright colours of the Rainbow, then finally the House of Wind—Nesta smiled at the sight of her home, towering over the city like a watchful guard. Feyre took her seat on a small, wooden chair by the easel displaying a white canvas, empty aside from a single, brown streak across its centre.

“What are you painting?” Nesta asked her, taking her own seat on the couch behind her.

Feyre glanced at the canvas, something like exasperation twisting her features. “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned to Nesta again. “Elain wanted to go alone.”

Nesta stilled. “No chance.”

“Obviously,” Feyre agreed. “But it took a lot of convincing for her to let me go with her, and I worry that if I ask for you to join us as well, she’ll turn back on her word and this whole plan will go to hell.”

“Why should you go with her, then, and not me?” There was no malice in her question as she asked it—whatever reasons Feyre had, they must have been serious if she’d asked for this conversation to be had in private.

“For starters, it was me who promised Vassa to break her curse. We’ve been,” she hesitated, “corresponding. It’ll be good for her to see a somewhat familiar face if we are to seek her aid.” Feyre leaned forward an inch. “Nesta, I worry about Elain.”

Nesta smirked. “She would hate hearing you say that.”

“I know. Which is why I asked to speak with you here—I don’t know where Elain is.”

Nesta frowned. “I thought she was at the house.”

“She might be,” Feyre said, “or she might be out. She comes and goes every day—and I’m glad, truly glad to see her eager to help the people and rebuild what was lost in the War. But this is no life, Nesta—she lives for everyone but herself.”

“Perhaps that is the kind of life she needs right now.”

“Perhaps,” Feyre agreed. “But this—Elain asking to be part of this task, to leave Velaris, to use the powers that she’d once wanted no part of—it could be a sign of something bigger for her. Don’t you think she deserves to try?”

“Of course I do,” Nesta said. “Of course I do. I just…I worry.”

Feyre chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

Nesta sighed. “Tell me what you learn as soon as you get back.”

Feyre nodded. “If there is anything to learn at all.”

______

Elain despised the manor.

The Nolan family had a number of estates in the human lands, but this one Elain was perhaps the most familiar with. There had been a time when she found its ambiance charming, with its squeaky wooden floors and aged carpets—it felt like the foundations of the house carried years of history, history Elain had once hoped to become a part of.

Did you think you could come back here? the words roared in her head. Live with me as this…lie?

It was exactly what Elain was.

A lie. A mistake.

Elain smiled brightly. “Thank you for having us on such short notice.” She took a quick glance to her left, yet another half-empty room revealed to her sight. She’d counted four of them on the ground floor, exactly as she’d remembered—though, under its previous occupants, there had been considerably more clutter, now most of the furniture draped over by large, white cloths. Elain wondered just how many possessions the manor’s current residents truly owned—far less than what she would expect from the likes of royalty.

The tall figure walking in front of her grunted in what Elain could only assume was an answer. Seeing the Mad General in person after so many months and only two steps away from her made her more squeamish than she would’ve liked to admit—he was imposing in a manner akin to that of Cassian’s, though their powerful frames and a sword strapped across their backs was where their similarities ended. Elain couldn’t pin it down at first until Jurian’s brown gaze had finally landed on her and held. Though his face appeared indifferent, there was no denying the torment hiding behind his stare, holding the corners of his mouth stiffly in place.

At least Cassian smiled sometimes—often, actually, now that his bond with Nesta was sealed and a silver band was wrapped around both his and Nesta’s ring fingers. Elain quickly let go of the memory, the very thought of rings in this place causing her breath to fall flat.

Jurian led them down the hallway, and Elain began to notice things she hadn’t spotted before. The house was old and stuffy, and way too dark, with hardly any windows carved into the space except the few out front. The one thing she had at the River House, or even the wretched House of Wind before that, was the unobstructed access to sunlight—cold and somewhat faint with Velaris’s mountainous climate, but sunlight nonetheless. Feeling it kiss her skin settled the dread that would often build in her heart, the heart that always expected to be submerged in an ancient, icy darkness—and clear the fog that so often descended upon her vision without warning.

She was apparently now expected to summon that fog, though from Feyre’s look as she explained the nature of Elain’s role in this assignment, Elain suspected the Night Court had little hope in her Seer abilities producing any fruitful results. She supposed they could all only wait and see.

A small window miraculously appeared as they passed what seemed to be a study, and Elain cast it another glance—she didn’t realise dusk had already passed, the greyish light darkening into a deep, star-flecked blue. Somehow, the human lands seemed to host a lot less stars than the Night Court sky, their light dimmer, too, as though not entirely comfortable enough to display their full glory. It was not how Elain remembered things—the sky she used to lie beneath merely two years ago was a thing of spectacular beauty. The chance unnerved her, but she forced herself to look away—back to the dark, dusty corridor.

“Has Vassa returned yet?” Feyre asked beside her, the question making Elain’s thoughts scatter until her attention was back on the matter at hand.

Jurian stopped in front of a large, wooden door that Elain recognised as the entrance to an old drawing room. “Yes,” he said, his eyes sliding to Elain then back to Feyre again. Her sister reached for the iron handle, but Jurian’s hand on metal stopped her in her tracks. “Feyre,” he began, his voice dipping into a softer tone, so at odds with his gruff expression and haunted eyes. “I don’t know how much more disappointment she can take.”

Feyre stiffened beside her. “I am only trying to help.”

Jurian looked at Elain. “And what is your stance on this?”

Elain opened her mouth, but Feyre held up a hand. “My sister is not your enemy.”

Jurian hummed. “That remains to be seen,” he said, then opened the door.

Unlike most of the house, the drawing room was nearly exactly as Elain remembered it—a floor of splintered, chestnut wood with bookshelves of the same fashion climbing the back wall, a worn-out tapestry displaying rather graphic scenes of a hunt, and—rather ridiculous—pink couch, half-eaten by moths, waiting opposite two armchairs at the very centre.

Elain looked around the room and found only one person waiting for them—Vassa stood near the windowsill, she, too, looking out to the night sky. Elain loosed a breath.

“Vassa,” Feyre began in a manner of greeting, “it is good to see you again.”

Elain had forgotten just how beautiful the human queen truly was, her reddish-blonde hair offsetting the golden brown of her immaculate skin. She was only two years older than Elain, from what Elain had been told, her eyes of cerulean blue sharp with youth and grace. Still, there was a weariness in her gaze—a sense of fatigue Elain could only guess stemmed from an endless flight as she roamed the skies at the first break of dawn. Elain had seen it—the vision came to her in her sleep.

“Cursebreaker.” Vassa turned, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” A glance at Jurian. “I trust the general has not been bothering you too much in my absence.”

Jurian’s gaze narrowed on her, though his lips curled up at the challenge.

Feyre said, “We only just arrived.”

“I see.” Vassa gestured toward the middle, where a teapot and four cups had already been set on the low, round table. Four, which could only mean one thing.

Feyre seemed to notice this, too. “Is Lucien joining us tonight?”

Vassa settled on the couch, Jurian following closely behind her as Elain and Feyre took their seats opposite the pair. “I’m afraid—”

“He’s busy,” Jurian finished for her, Vassa looking at him with reprimand.

Whatever Feyre thought of her friend’s absence, her eyes did not betray a thing of it. “I see,” the High Lady simply said, then turned to her left. “My sister Elain.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Elain said, letting another smile grace her features.

Jurian said nothing, his knuckles white as he poured himself a cup of tea.

Vassa sipped from her own. “I was under the impression you found no solution to breaking my curse.”

Feyre met Vassa’s gaze, her blue-grey eyes sincere. “If there is one thing I’ve learned since being Made, Your Majesty, it’s that hope is not a thing to be given up quickly.”

Indeed, Elain thought to herself, her own eyes trailing toward the window as though with a mind of their own.

The only sight that met her was the overgrown garden, mishandled so neglectfully Elain was practically itching to go outside and bring life back into the land. Unfortunately, she had another task at hand, one far too pressing to dare another look at the tall, dying grass.

 Feyre asked, “I was wondering if…if you could tell us how you got cursed.”

Jurian’s brows flicked up. “What good will that do?”

Vassa placed a hand on his broad arm. “Jurian, it’s fine.” She looked at Feyre again. “Though I’m afraid I was unconscious for the most of it. Briallyn’s soldiers had taken me from my bed in the midst of the night, and I sustained an injury to the head,” she explained, Jurian’s body going rigid beside her. “When I woke up, I realised I’d been laid atop a dark, murky lake with blood dripping down my palms.”

The image pushed into Elain’s mind, and she shifted in her seat.

Vassa’s smile was strained. “I don’t know much about magic,” she said honestly, “but after my blood had touched the water’s surface, I felt a searing pain in my veins. The sun rose, and I was transformed.”

“A curse woven into blood,” Feyre muttered, Vassa nodding her head in agreement.

“Unbreakable, from what I hear. I don’t think even Koschei himself would be able to undo it.”

“Perhaps killing Koschei is the only act we need to break your curse,” Elain supplied, repeating Feyre’s words from earlier this morning as they’d gone over the assignment.

Vassa barked a laugh. “If only it were that easy.” 

“I don’t mind fighting yet another war,” Jurian declared. The added “for you” lingered in the air.

The human queen’s gaze softened. “I do. This world—both of our worlds—have endured enough wars already.”

Feyre looked inclined to agree. Elain pressed, “Nobody is speaking of war, Vassa. I’ve seen things—in my visions—flashes of onyx. A box he possesses that could put and end to…to all of it.”

Both Jurian and Vassa stiffened, neither of them uttering as much as a word.

Then, “The box is indestructible,” Vassa said quietly. “I’ve tried.”

Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing. “When?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jurian said, cutting Feyre a sharp look as though she were responsible for the behaviour of her sister. Elain swallowed her anger, building like a lump in her throat. “There must be another way.”

Feyre said calmly, “That is precisely why Elain is here today.”

Vassa’s gaze swept over them both. “I thought your visions could not be controlled.”

Who had told her that? “That does not mean I can’t try,” Elain said, then forced a smile back onto her lips. “I have recently grown stronger in my abilities.”

A flicker of surprise reached her from Feyre’s side, the question like a tendril brushing against her mind. “The shields,” Elain explained out loud, and Feyre frowned, seemingly not expecting her sister to keep her away from her mind for as little as a conversation.

But Elain continued, “Let me do this—let me at least try to help you.” Feyre’s expression softened.

“Koschei poses a grave threat,” her sister added as she turned back to Jurian and Vassa. “The rumours of his alliance with Beron are resurfacing.”

Vassa drew in a long, long breath.

To everyone’s surprise, Jurian snickered and looked to Vassa again. “I told you war would catch up with us even in this godsdamned house.”

Vassa rolled her eyes, but her shoulders seemed to loosen slightly. “Sounds to me like we can kill two birds with one stone.”

For some reason, Feyre smiled at that. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“How do you propose we do this?” asked Jurian, his gaze surveying Elain closely.

Elain studied the table. “You will not like it.”

“You haven’t been able to induce a vision before,” he pointed out, leaving no more doubt in Elain’s mind that a certain someone had spoken to them about her abilities. She smothered her frustration deep where it could not be seen—especially by a daemati. “What makes you think you can do it now?”

Elain said, “My visions are triggered in two ways: either by sleep or my senses. Sometimes, it can be the taste of whatever I’m eating that appears again in the future, or the scent of a room—or the feel of an object as I touch it.” Elain looked at Feyre. “If only the box was here,” she sighed, “I could perhaps hold it and see if anything comes to mind.”

“The box isn’t here,” Jurian snapped, “so tell us whatever else you had in mind.”

“Jurian,” Feyre warned, but the general did not take his eyes off Elain.

Elain cleared her throat. “The curse is woven into blood.”

There was a beat of silence before Jurian said, “No.”

“Jurian—” Vassa began.

“No,” he repeated. “What she’s suggesting—you want to—what—taste Vassa’s blood?”

Even Feyre seemed concerned at the very idea.

“Of course not,” Elain said calmly. “The scent should be enough.”

“No.”

“Jurian,” Vassa interjected, squeezing his arm again. “I am willing to try this. It’s only a cut.”

“I will heal her right after it’s done,” Feyre assured them. Jurian gritted his teeth loud enough the sound nearly echoed through the room.

“Give me your knife,” Vassa ordered, Elain recognising her voice as that of a Queen’s.

He only sighed deeply before reaching for his boot, a knife appearing in his large hand as the steel caught a golden glimpse of the chandelier above.

Vassa took it from him and placed the blade to her palm.

“Maybe I should—” he started, but Vassa only rolled her eyes. “Ready?” she asked, that cerulean stare settling on Elain once more. Elain nodded.

She was far more than ready.

Elain blinked as the blade slashed across Vassa’s palm, a trail of blood immediately staining her golden brown skin. A tangy, metallic scent filled the space between them—and something else, like withering moss mixed with raw, pungent earth. The musky scent overpowered the iron quickly, its stench somehow dry and humid at the same time, bringing tears into Elain’s eyes as it filled her nostrils.

Tears and nothing more.

Feyre frowned.

Disappointment filled Vassa’s eyes, still fixed on the crimson liquid now dripping down her waist and onto the old, green carpet. “I don’t think—”

Jurian’s tone was smug. “It seems that the magic demands a sacrifice in return.”

Elain snapped her head to him. “You can’t possibly think—”

His mouth curled. “Afraid of a little cut, Seer?”

Elain’s eyes narrowed. “Give me the knife.” And, with a single, sharp breath, she sliced through her own palm.

Her blood, its shade the same deep red as Vassa’s, was slightly thicker as it began pooling in her open palm. She could feel three pairs of eyes fixed wholly on her, but Elain only looked at Vassa. “Your hand, please,” she asked, praying the others’ attention would keep them from asking how, exactly, Elain had figured out this was the only way.

The prayer was shoved to the back of her mind as Vassa placed her hand in hers, Elain’s vision flashing a blinding light.

She searched through it frantically, chased by a white-hot flame that seemed intent on keeping her from seeing whatever it guarded, but Elain was resilient. She let her mind be flooded with images and sounds and scents until they all blurred into one. Elain squinted, looking for the answer she so badly needed, the answer she’d come here for, but, as the final picture cleared into view…

Elain yanked her hand away, and the vision was over as soon as it began.

She blinked—once, then twice, then three times as her eyes readjusted to her surroundings—she saw the pink couch first, vibrant and infuriating as she took in the woman sitting on it, her leg bouncing in anticipation, then the man beside her, then finally the stars behind.

“Well?” Jurian’s sharp voice pulled her back into reality. “What did you see?”

“Elain!” Feyre exclaimed, and Elain flinched, following her sister’s gaze.

The cut on her palm had been replaced—with a bright, scalding burn.

“Oh,” Elain said a shade pathetically. “I’m sorry, I…” she started, looking up from her hand to meet Vassa’s eyes once more.

Looking into them, she found nothing but pure, unrestrained fear—there and gone before anyone could prove it was there in the first place.

Vassa blinked, too.

“You’re hurt,” Jurian said, reaching for her wrist where, just in her palm above, a burn mark of the same shape gleamed furiously, demanding attention.

“It’s…alright,” Vassa said, not tearing her gaze from Elain for a moment. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Jurian snarled. Feyre stood. “Let me help you with that,” her sister said, leaning over Vassa, a gentle light soon shimmering from her tattooed hand.

Elain’s chest felt tight as she examined her own wound. “I have to stay,” she whispered.

“What?” Jurian growled as Feyre turned to face her again.

“I have to stay,” Elain repeated, daring a quick look outside the window again, as though looking for the stars’ reassurance. “We need to try again.”

Feyre sighed. “Elain, it’s alright if—”

But, to her surprise, Vassa started, “She’s right. You—you’re welcome to stay here. As long as you’d like.” She blinked a final time, as if waking up from a daze.

“What did you see?” Jurian asked—herself or Vassa, she was no longer sure.

“I saw the sun,” Vassa said quietly. “I saw myself standing beneath it.”

“And you?” Feyre asked Elain.

She lied, “The same thing.”

Vassa only looked at her again.

Elain continued, “We need to keep trying until the picture becomes more clear.”

Feyre hesitated. “Alright…how long do you need to stay?”

Elain took a long, deep breath. “Until we get the answers.”

Until she found what she’d truly come here for.

And before Vassa figured out the light burning her to ash was not the sun, but Elain Archeron herself.

_____

Lucien returned just before daylight broke over the sky again. He’d spent hours wandering the cobblestone streets, fighting every last one of his instincts compelling him to drop everything and just—show up.

Somehow, though, he’d managed to keep his distance, even the moment he’d felt her arrival, wrapping the air in that sweet scent of jasmine and honey he’d known once and had not forgotten it since. It was a test of his patience, which had already been hanging on by a thread since yesterday—since Vassa had announced his mate would be coming.

He’d caught her just in time, the question leaving his lips before he’d even entered the house. “How was—”

“Lucien,” Vassa breathed. “She’s still here.”

Lucien stilled. “What?”

“Elain is staying,” she repeated, but she must have been teasing him for some cruel reason, because there was simply no way his mate had willingly decided to remain at his home with Lucien present. 

The two, slender hands gripping his arms in near-desperation told him this was no lie—that Elain’s scent still lingering in the air was no remnant of her presence, but a painful reminder of her closeness. Lucien’s breath fell flat, a thousand questions and more flooding his mind one by one until he was no longer sure where to start. Had she asked about him, had she mentioned him at all? Was she under the impression he wouldn’t be returning for a while? What happened over there that made Vassa practically lunge for him as he showed up on the manor’s doorstep?

Something told him his questions would have to wait as a familiar, burning flame sizzled in Vassa’s eyes. Lucien straightened, recognising it in a heartbeat as the final shadows of the night began fading away. She had a minute left at best.

“Go,” Lucien told her, hating that his confusion ended up prolonging her pain. “Go now. We’ll talk about this later—I’ll ask Jurian to fill me in—”

But Vassa was already shaking her head, “He won’t know—Lucien, he doesn’t understand—” Her shoulders shook, a tremor passing through her body as she loosed a final, shaky breath. “Lucien,” the queen repeated before the creature took over at last. “Something is very, very wrong.”

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[daisychainsandbowties]

ooohoho taking prompts? don’t mind if i do

avatrice and ocean vuong:

“This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning

into a tongue.”

this got long, so here's the start & the rest is on Ao3

and yet i will make a home here

you wake up covered in blood, and that is normal. easier, even, than waking up next to her, in the muzzy half-light when you cannot reliably tell the difference between her body and yours.

limb tangled into limb and the blush of sunlight over her skin. those times she is, miraculously, still asleep when you lurch into consciousness out of bad dreams. charcoal landscapes sketched onto your skin, of endless days, harsh hands and the antiseptic-and-cabbage scent of the orphanage.

sometimes, when you alight back into your body with a soft gasp, you find her curled towards you. a question mark with one hand pressed delicately and accidentally onto your bicep, as if some part of her reached out to you in the middle of the night. you like, especially, when she takes a bright breath, one that means awake and here and softly, softly nearby, and does not immediately flinch away from that touch. you think, maybe, she hates the longing in her hands but she doesn’t hate you, at all, so no part of her can act as if touching you burns her.

(though it does, you think)

she is crying when you come back, tears muddling the dust of dark freckles on her cheeks – refracting them, offsetting them. upsetting you, because she has hauled your body halfway off the ground, and you know that she is strong but it takes something else entirely to hold a person when they are full of their own broken bones. the uneasy shifting beneath the skin, rumbling through fluid and inflammation and the brackish tinge of burst organs.

for reasons you don’t understand this touch is astonishing. it reminds you of how beatrice sat on the bed in the dingy hotel you rented on day three after the Vatican, somewhere outside of Milan. that was the day you begged her to drive to the Matterhorn and she looked at you sadly.

there, with a black duffel on the bed beside her, she reached into the drawer of the bedside table and took out a neat Bible dressed in brown.

you were in the midst of brushing your teeth, reveling at the mercy of a sink and a mirror after spending two nights spitting toothpaste and bottled water onto the side of the road. looking over, you saw beatrice glide her fingers across the silver-embossed Holy Bible and a word lunged out at you. reverent.

and yes, you wanted her to touch you like that, but you only spat into the sink and wiped your mouth on the hand-towel, and changed into a soft t-shirt you think might once have belonged to Lilith. you feel lost inside it, somehow aggrieved by the coffee stain on the hem and the worn-out texture of the cotton. it must belong to her because it makes you feel short, and weak, and unprepared.

Lilith lingers.

also, in the duffel that is now your duffel, you found an old, chipped set of rosary beads, a magazine about different kinds of axes, and five different flavours of protein bar. this old t-shirt, too, which just has a faded Pepsi logo on the front. you try to imagine Lilith wearing it and cannot, which is what, in the end, convinces you that this used to be her duffel bag.

she handed it to you on the outskirts of Rome, fingers twitching at her sides like wild birds, and she said, beatrice will take care of you.

the hard line of her jaw as she looked away and your impotent mouth. you wanted to tell her that you understood what it felt like to come back from the dead, but you didn’t. not what it must be like for her, to come back and be mourned twice. once for the girl who died, bloody-mouthed and on the edge of flight – lifted high and let down – and a second time for the girl who might have come back, but didn’t. to be mourned again because you are something else.

beatrice muttered something, once, not intending to be heard but staring at Lilith through all the slants of sunlight in the dingy warehouse where the van stood, stashed.

non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, she said, and fully across the warehouse Lilith’s shoulders tensed, and half-turned, and then she tore through the world again. disappearing in a flash of red light and ozone and mismatched flesh.

you had always thought of her as wildfire. at first reaching for you, roaring after you across that spanish city, consuming the ferry as you ran down the docks. you wanted to take beatrice by the hand and tell her that nothing had changed. she was still fire, still wild, only now you understood that she was also the forest.

like prometheus you have woken up many times in a bed of blood. Diego loved Greek myth and it was mostly because of the Percy Jackson books, which he read to you by flashlight, sometimes stumbling over the words and turning the books towards you. only for both of you to laugh – quietly, cautiously – in the secret white light; you were no better at reading than him, but he carried you along, holding the book so that you could follow his voice and learn the timbre of each word.

the timbers of them like the beams that hold a house together. you felt a little homeless in your body – because most of the time you half-forgot what it looked like except from one particular angle, but the words brought you back.

diego read to you about prometheus and you were supposed to think something about how you were not very unlike him. lying on a rock, bound by a legion of unbreakable chains.

but, actually, you envied him. you suspected he had hours each night when the eagle sat wet-beaked beside him, blood lapping at his lap from the cavern of his abdomen. the stars would come out and wink at him, dribbled across the sky, and him with no words for the Milky Way but possessing – as you did not – an open sky.

that would be bearable. you would be eaten alive each day if you could do it under an open sky, watching clouds crest towards you, the shine of your insides on an eagle’s beak.

it’s not that you don’t believe in accidents – you are the subject, after all, of so many of them – but a foolish part of you wanted to believe that the halo sought you out because you were dead. the world, as it always did, presented a platter of girls, and it would be easy to say that the halo is a hungry object, but you disagree. it just wants a home, or a hiding place, and when it slipped inside your body it did not find you inhospitable. or, perhaps, it walked inside a house with the roof tiles worn away and the beams sagging from the ceiling. a house in the shape of unkind hands and shattered glass and sirens lighting up – again and again and again – the spread-eagled shape of a woman who passed through a windshield on the way to death.

maybe it saw your broken house and said, speechless, and yet I will make a home here.

continue on ao3

[fknmoonmoon]

Make it Ours

Warnings: smut - fingering, swears

A/N part of the Come In From The Storm universe (we use the term loosely), aka an excuse to write more Rhett Abbott smut

___________________________________

You move in with Rhett almost as soon as the sale goes through, and at first it’s a little weird. So much of him is the same - the same kindness, the same shy little smile when he sees you at the end of a long day. He still fits his hand around yours the same way he did the first time he ever held it. He’s just rougher around the edges. His voice is harsher when he’s annoyed with something, he drinks more after hard days. He’s harder, but he’s softer, too. 

There are moments you turn to him and he’s so gooey eyed it makes you stop what you’re doing and smother him in affection, til he’s laughing and peeling you off of him to finish the task at hand. You’re doing a near-total remodel of the house, and you’re doing it yourselves. It’s a decision Rhett made the first time you tried to have sex in your bed, in the master bedroom… your parents’ old room. “This is fucking weird,” he’d muttered, and started tearing down walls the next day.

You’re painting in the living room. The new big bay windows looking out towards the mountains let in so much light, and you’ve picked a darker color for the walls to offset the brightness. You and Rhett have yet to agree on the pink velvet sofa that’s arriving next week, but he’ll come around. 

You hear him bang through the kitchen door, the one that needs replacing because it’s older than the both of you and he’s going to break it one day. “Easy tiger,” you call out to him, setting the paint roller down in the tray and capping the paint can. You toe off your painting shoes and stroll towards where he’s leaned against the counter, arms extended for you to join him. “That door has to last another month.”

“I like the dark,” he says quietly, looking through the kitchen door at your work. “S’nice with the sunshine.”

You smile up at him, chin resting on his chest. “Did you have a good day?”

His hum is noncommittal. His eyes shift around the room, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. “Wanna try somethin’.” 

“What?” He pushes the two of you away from the counter, moves you in front of the sink and spins you to face the window. It occurs to you again how much stronger he is, how easily he handles you, and there’s a pull in the pit of your belly. “Rhett…”

“First time I ever got myself off,” he says into the curve of your neck. “Was thinkin’ about you bent over this sink.”

You can’t hold back the laugh. “Shutup.”

“Dead serious,” he chuckles, kissing that spot below your earlobe. “And it’s my kitchen now.” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your shorts to shove them down your legs, panties too. 

You inhale sharply when he cups you, thighs tightening instinctively around his hand. His name becomes a drawn out, quiet moan when his slender middle finger finds your clit, focused pressure making you press back against him, the fabric of his jeans rough against the bare skin of your ass and thighs.

“S’my girl,” he coos. “Gonna mark every room of this house with you and me, make it ours.” Your knees weaken at his quiet voice against your skin, and when he pulls his fingers through the slick gathering between your legs they nearly give out. “Easy,” he laughs, but he exhales a whimper right along with you when he pushes a finger inside, your body tightening against him as he starts to work it in and out of you.

“More,” you breathe. The pull in your stomach is stronger, aching. He bites down on you when he adds a second finger, the sharp sting of his teeth at your neck and the easy strokes of his fingers over that spot that making you tremble and struggling to support yourself against the counter.

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs, slipping an arm around your waist. You start to rock back against him, the ache rising higher as he works you towards your peak.

“Rhett,” you whine, and he finds your clit again with his thumb, stroking it in tandem with the plunge of his fingers. Your breathing gets faster, quiet little pants matching his rhythm and when you come your cry catches in your throat, hands slipping on the ledge when you push yourself harder back against him.

“S’my girl,” he repeats, slowing the thrusts of his fingers as you come down with a whine, the gentlest kisses against your neck accompanied by soft, sweet praise. He’s hard as a rock against your ass, but he’s focused on you. “Y’ok?” You nod, breathless and suddenly aware of the soreness where your hip bones pressed against the counter. “Good,” he says quietly, sweeping an arm under your knees to carry you through the house. “I’m not done with you.”