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paintingwhiteceilings · 9 months

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❃Seventeen’s chances of surviving a zombie apocalypse❃

a/n: soooo I wrote this for EXO and thought, well, why not do the same for svt. Anyway, enjoy!

Scoups/Seungcheol: 8/10

❀ The fists are up and he is ready to fight anyone or anything that gets too close. His physical strength will definitely get him far. At the same time, this man is also a bit, just a bit, of a scaredy-cat when it comes to horror stuff (remember him and DK in the haunted house?). In this case, it might actually help him out, keeping him on his toes constantly.

❀ He is super competitive too. If anyone lets it slip that he might not survive the apocalypse, he will make it his sole goal in life to out-apocalypse everyone around him.

❀ Then again, as the members like to remind him, he is not the youngest and perhaps doesn’t have the best endurance any more. He needs to sit down every now and then, leaving him prone to zombies.

❀ He will definitely be complaining the entire time. Somehow, he manages to make his situation sound much worse than it really is.

Jeonghan: 9/10

❀ Nothing really phases him, I feel like Jeonghan has maxed out all his stats and has, consequently, become unstoppable. He is an absolute ace and makes everyone wonder whether he was born to be in a zombie apocalypse.

❀ The only reason I am docking a point is due to this man’s constant exhaustion and love for sleep. His main motto is “Better be lazy than tired” so I wouldn’t be surprised at Jeonghan trying to find ways to shortcut the most basic of tasks. There is a slight, very tiny, chance for his master-mind plans to go awry.

❀ Once he finds himself in a dangerous situation or on the brink of being eaten, he will simply give up. Maybe life is truly easier as a zombie. At least he won’t have to constantly be on the run.

❀ Still, Jeonghan will be going through this apocalypse in the most efficient way possible, trying to find any loopholes to make his life easier and preserving his energy for those moments when he truly needs it.

Joshua 5/10

❀ Honestly, Joshua is such a wild card. He would definitely try to employ the “they can’t predict what I am doing if I don’t know what I am doing” tactic. Joshua becomes the definition of “can’t let them know your next move.”

❀ It would work half of the time. Either the zombies get so confused that he catches them off guard, or all he did was inconvenience himself further.

❀ Like, what if, instead of running away from the zombies, he would run towards them? The zombies would definitely not be expecting it but it would make it easier for them to, you know, kill him.

❀ His ideas are borderline insane, and nobody can really tell whether it is due to the apocalypse or because he is Joshua, having always been slightly out of his mind. He will definitely get someone else accidentally killed by suggesting a crazy plan. My money is on Hoshi.

Jun 4/10

❀ The reason this man has any chance of survival is because Seventeen treats him like a maknae. I am pretty sure they would sacrifice anyone and anything to keep him alive, and he kind of needs it.

❀ Jun isn’t particularly known for his amazing talent at sports. He always gets picked last in any GoSe episode containing physical games which makes his odds of surviving not too great. Like yeah, sure, he is ripped and probably has amazing endurance, but ask him to throw anything and he will miss.

❀ He is also unpredictable and doesn’t really listen to the others. They will tell him not to touch the zombies and he will see it as a challenge, “I can touch a zombie if I want to!”

❀ 10000000% the type to try and communicate with the zombies. He is convinced that if he can learn Korean, he can also learn zombie and ask them if they can become friends.

❀ (Maybe slightly unrelated, but he would be an amazing person to have around for emotional support. He would be great at comforting those feeling pessimistic, scared or upset.)

Hoshi/Soonyoung: -100000/10 or 100000/10

❀ It can go two ways with Hoshi. Either he hides somewhere and vanishes from the universe until the apocalypse has ended or he gets himself killed within the first day.

❀ Hoshi has proven that if he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him. Somehow, this energetic mess of a Gemini is able to turn invisible when he wants to. Depending on how bored he gets, he might be able to stick it out until the apocalypse has ended.

❀ If he doesn’t hide, he is as good as dead. He has the dangerous combination of not being scared of zombies and zero impulse control. He will be trying something stupid without a second thought and would get himself killed.

❀ He growls at the zombies because surely, they would be intimidated by him. He is a tiger, after all.

❀ His members are seriously considering putting a leash on him so that he can’t constantly run off doing god knows what. He just really hates sitting still, let him go risk his life getting provisions.

❀ Honestly, the main reason why Hoshi won’t survive for long is because he would do another impression of Seungkwan, resulting in Seungkwan ‘accidentally’ kicking him into a hoard of zombies.

Wonwoo: 10/10

❀ He has played enough games and watched enough Netflix to know what to do in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Wonwoo is prepared, well-read and ready to go. He will be the smart one that tries to find out what makes the zombies tick, taking notes on their behaviours and potential weaknesses.

❀ Wonwoo is, furthermore, so incredibly athletic. He can outrun the zombies with ease, not even breaking a sweat when he does.

❀ He also seems to possess brain cells compared to some of the members and a dose of common sense. I know that there is no normal one in Seventeen but he seems to put a lot of thought in his decision-making and seems less inclined to listen to his intrusive thoughts.

❀ Wonwoo could survive on his own, his introverted side ensuring that he doesn’t really feel the need to seek out others and depend on them. The only reason he sticks around the other members is for the drama. He loves watching the others bicker for hours, eating his popcorn as he lurks in the nearby shadows.

Woozi/Jihoon: ∞/10

❀ He has no idea that there is a zombie apocalypse going on because he hasn’t really gone outside since it started. Yeah sure, the gym he frequents has been really quiet as of late, but that is an absolute win in his book and he is not to going to jinx it by mentioning it.

❀ The world could literally be ending on the other side of his window, and this man would think that the sirens would make for an awesome sample for his song. What do you mean, sirens mean that something is going on outside?

❀ It doesn’t even matter if the other members come to check up on him or try to convince him to leave the studio, informing him the world is ending. “What do you mean it is dangerous outside, it always is dangerous outside.”

❀ He will simply survive the entire apocalypse because he had no awareness of it and it had no awareness of him. Woozi is on another level entirely.

DK/Seokmin: -1000/10

❀ An absolute mess. Somewhere laying on the ground in the feudal position up for grabs.

❀ He has been screaming since it started. The joke is on him, though. His screaming is precisely what alerts the zombies to his location and he is completely unaware of it. He finds himself in a vicious cycle where he sees a zombie, screams, more zombies appear, screams more, etc.

❀ He is ruled by his fear, trying his hardest not to be scared, but is in dire need of a hug. He needs the other members to comfort him and take the initiative because he is too scared to really do anything. He will definitely get someone else to go first; what do you mean you want him to go into that dark alleyway???

❀ He would not be able to respond well to finding himself cornered by zombies. Rather than fighting back or trying to come up with a plan, DK would most definitely just scream at them to get back and freeze.

Mingyu 1/10

❀ Technically, Mingyu should be able to survive. He is an excellent cook and can whip up any dish as long as you give him some ingredients. Also, as we have all seen, this man is mostly muscle. He should be able to hold his own in a physical fight.

❀ Not to mention that Mingyu is ridiculously smart. He can come up with a decent plan and have it work out.

❀ But his downfall is, well, literally, him falling down. He is clumsy; he will either accidentally drop something that is important to their survival and break it, or run into a tree as he is trying to make his escape.

❀ He is also not the best when it comes to the scary stuff (though I feel like he did pretty well in GoSe Ego). What do you mean he has to jump down from that ledge in order to escape the zombies? No thank you. Go into that abandoned supermarket, potentially running into zombies because he has run out of food? He would rather starve.

❀ They kind of need to keep him alive to keep Seungkwan from murdering half of the group.

The8/Minghao: 10000/10

❀ He is not scared of the zombies, the zombies are scared of him. They have interrupted his meditation sessions and are now regretting awakening his anger issues. He hasn’t been chill since the apocalypse started, and is now on a path of vengeance against those who disrupted his meditation.

❀ I know that Vicious Mockery is a D&D spell and, you know, magic, but he would be the one to make it a reality. He is able to emotionally damage the zombies, giving him the ability to attack from afar. As an added bonus, they would become more and more reluctant to get close, afraid to get roasted.

❀ Considering that he is great at martial art, Minghao can beat them up physically if they make the poor decision to get up in his personal space. So yeah, the zombies have learned to avoid him at all costs.

❀ The only thing that could potentially stop his destruction of zombies is the ethics and morals of beating them up. He might get into a debate with Vernon about whether their remaining humanity makes it unethical to hurt them, and ultimately decides that it is bad for his karma to continue his act of wrath.

Seungkwan: 5/10

❀ Initially, Seungkwan is so scared of them, he won’t get close enough to get killed. He is constantly nagging the zombies from a safe distance, warning them to stay away. All it does is make the zombies more determined to kill him. He keeps asking them to stop, but apparently, the tone he uses is important or something because they keep getting offended.

❀ Honestly, without Seungkwan’s constant nagging, half of the group would be acting on their insane and idiotic ideas. Then again, he would also be the one to ‘accidentally’ sacrifice some of the members when they inevitably get on his nerves.

❀ He would be ready to throw hands if you get him mad enough, forgetting he was scared in the first place. However, where Minghao’s anger issues result in a skilled display of violence, Seungkwan is ready to attack without much thought, considering the consequences later, hence disregarding his own safety in a fight.

❀ Regardless, Seungkwan will go out in a fire of rage, taking an absurd amount of zombies with him as he goes. It is glorious and cinema worthy.

Vernon: ?/10

❀ He is a npc so he can’t die. That is definitely how that works. Vernon is simply a part of the environment, don’t mind him. The zombies don’t recognize him as someone they can eat because they somehow believe him to be a non-interactable object straight out of a game.

❀ That being said, similarly to Jun, he hasn’t been particularly blessed with amazing motoric skills. I don’t think I have ever seen Vernon properly run, I feel like rather than running he would try to out-speed walk the zombies. Do not expect him to fight, he will try the bare minimum, and even that is too much to ask.

❀ Then again, he has consumed so many films and tv shows that he does have a massive mental archive of everything that has been produced about zombies from which he can draw whenever he finds himself in a pickle. Is fiction reality? No. Is it useful regardless? Yes.

❀ Considering he is Seventeen’s other favourite child, they will try their best to keep him alive. He has them all wrapped around his finger. One little whine and they will bend over backwards to help him with whatever he needs/wants.

Dino/Chan: -1000000000/10

❀ He is trying his best. If it wasn’t for the others, he would have a decent chance at making it out alive. He is fit, motivated and confident about his own capabilities without being overconfident. On his own, he would be determined to see the apocalypse through.

❀ Pair him up with Wonwoo and nothing can get him killed. Wonwoo will keep his Dino alive even if it costs him his own life.

❀ That being said, the members would get him 1000% killed. They won’t let him breathe for a second and he has to constantly watch his back. They love him, sure, but they also think his shrieks of panic as they ‘accidentally’ lock him in a room with a zombie are hilarious.

❀ Against all of them, he truly doesn’t stand a chance. They don’t really want to get him killed but they make staying alive arguably much more difficult for him than it needs to be.

❀ At this point, he might simply give up and switch teams. He can get revenge on them by turning into a zombie, finally having the last laugh as he munches on their brains.

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fortheloveofwonderland · 5 months

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Rusty | Chapter 6 | S.R

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Chapter Summary - Spencer struggles with thoughts of his assault before giving you your first riding lesson. Just as things seem to be going well, you’re shocked to find Spencer in the midst of a dissociative break.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - mentions of sexual assault and use of “rape” several times, talk of therapy and a deep dive into Spencer’s therapy journey, stress inoculation therapy, prolonged exposure therapy, erectile dysfunction, graysexuality and demisexuality, mentions of male masturbation, blood, dissociation, self-harm.

WC - 6.3k

Chapter 6 - Tumbling Tumbleweeds

Spencer didn’t not wake with a start, nor did he wake slowly. His mind undulated long before he opened his eyes, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.

The thoughts were undiluted and raw, building worlds behind his eyelids whilst he was still barely semi-conscious.

He was cognisant of the hard shell beneath his back, pressing, prodding his aching spine. The lingering chlorine scent of bleach was attacking his nasal cavities, tickling, scratching.

He was aware yet he was not. He was asleep yet he was alert. Conscious sleep. It was a self preservation tactic he’d taught himself after his first sexual assault.

The ability to be aware of the self, but not of the body or surroundings during non-dream sleep. It was a form of deep meditation, requiring him to distance himself from his physical nature.

The hardest part was getting rid of the mental blockage clouding his mind to achieve such a state. It was the very psychological clutter he had to banish which was the cause for needing this coping mechanism in the first place.

It was a way to help him rest enough to replenish his energy supply but would keep him responsive enough to perceive a threat.

It hadn’t come easy to him at first but once he’d mastered it he often found himself falling into this state without meaning to.

He knew the signs upon awakening, how he would never feel quite as rested as if he’d slept properly, how he could recall various movements and noises during the night.

And this was how he found himself this morning, not quite asleep, yet not awake. He knew it for what it was and it would be easy for him to rouse himself completely. But once he allowed himself to reach that fully conscious state he would have to face reality and for that he wasn’t quite ready.

But it was inevitable. The bleach was starting to burn his nose, causing his stomach to turn violently. He knew it was unlikely he had anything left in him to vomit after last night but it didn’t stop him feeling nauseous.

His fingers of his right hand twitched against the floorboards, his mind starting to flicker, reality just within his grasp.

He was in an incredible amount of pain. He had pushed himself way too hard since his accident and every part of his body from the top of his head down to his toes growled in agony.

He didn’t wait to let himself adjust to the wakefulness, he forced himself to his feet before the pain grew any worse. He tried to ignore it and went to the bathroom for some Tylenol and his paroxetine.

He knew what needed to be done. Maybe it would be easier while his mind wasn’t yet fully with it.

Shuffling back to his bedroom he opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out a manilla folder and a few other items which he set in his lap.

His good hand trembled as his fingers brushed over them and he hoped to keep his brain in this foggy just woken state for a little while longer so he might be able to do this.

When he’d moved to Bandera he’d gone through two separate courses of therapy to try and help him process what he’d been through.

The first was Stress Inoculation Therapy, a psychotherapy technique intended to help patients prepare themselves in advance to handle stressful events successfully with minimal upset.

SIT was broken down into three stages - education, skill building and application. His manilla file was full of papers regarding the first two stages.

His therapist had given him information and encouraged him to do his own research on rape and sexual assault factors. Spencer didn’t need to do his own research as it was all already in his head.

It was supposed to teach cues that triggered the trauma within him but again, it wasn’t hard for him to understand what those were. Sexual contact. Alpha males. Loss of control.

During the skill building his therapist had tried to help control his fear reaction. He had been encouraged to use mental rehearsal and guided self talk. He opened the folder and flicked through the pages to find the small scrap of paper with his own scrawly handwriting on.

I was sexually assaulted, but I am not a victim. I was coerced but I am not weak. I am in control of my own body, of my own mind. I will not let them win, I will not let them ruin my life.

I didn’t deserve what happened to me. I am a good person. I am a strong person. I will move past this. I won't let them break me. I am still worthy of love and affection. I am still whole.

I am still whole.

He gripped the paper, his nails digging into the flimsy material as he read his own words over in his head. His chest heaved and he clenched his jaw tightly.

It was supposed to serve as a reminder to himself that this wasn’t the be all and end all of his life. He’d suffered something exponentially cruel, for which he didn’t deserve but it wasn’t the end of his life.

He was still whole, whether he believed that or not. This self penned affirmation was supposed to help him remember that.

He tucked the paper back between some other sheets so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be the end of his life but it damn near felt like it.

The application stage of SIT was the biggest bump in the road. His therapist encouraged him to use his new skills to engage in the fearful behaviour which in his case was sexual contact.

It had taken him weeks to even attempt this part. He’d told his therapist of a man named Grant who owned a nearby ranch and worked part time at a local BBQ joint. He was around Spencer’s age and undeniably handsome.

He’d caught Grant’s eye on occasion in town. The two often exchanged smiles in the general store or whilst passing on their respective steeds. Spencer knew well enough that Grant was interested in him.

At his therapist's encouragement, after weeks of her trying to prod him to take this next step, eventually Spencer had asked Grant to join him for a drink. Grant had readily accepted.

Spencer had been more nervous than he ever remembered being as he got ready for his date and rode Willow down to the 11th Street Bar.

But he never made it inside. And after standing Grant up, the man never even so much as made eye contact with him again.

His therapist explained, although Spencer already understood this, that due to the nature of his assault being carried out by men, it might be easier for him to ease himself back into the engagement of this behaviour with a woman.

Spencer shut this idea down. He’d always been slightly more interested in men, in the few sexual encounters he’d experienced with either gender, he always found being with men more fulfilling.

And thus she had suggested another form of therapy when he couldn’t move past the second stage. This time was Prolonged Exposure Therapy.

This somehow was more gruelling than SIT. It involved him having to recount, in intricate detail, his rape over and over again.

He had to recall the sounds, the smells, the feelings. He had to dive deep into what he experienced before, during and in the aftermath.

Again and again. Over and over. It was only on approximately the fiftieth recitation that he’d let slip that he’d gotten erect during the act.

It was a piece of information he’d decided early on into his therapy he was going to keep undisclosed. Obviously it was incredibly pertinent, but Spencer already felt vulnerable enough and didn’t want to admit this facet to his therapist or even himself truly.

His therapist had cut him off with a simple, “ah”. She went on to explain that this was a salient part of why he may not be able to let himself move past his assault and lightly chided him for not being more forthcoming with this earlier.

He’d reluctantly then had to explain in great detail his apparent erectile dysfunction and the guilt he suffered over getting aroused while they assaulted him. This had then led her to ask about his sexual history.

He’d been adverse at first, not thinking his past could bear any weight on what he was currently experiencing. But even geniuses were wrong sometimes.

He gave a brief rundown on his limited past experiences including - much to his embarrassment - his feelings towards self stimulation.

After going into too much detail for his liking, his therapist had offered him an explanation, able to give a name to what he was experiencing.

In her opinion, it sounded like graysexuality. People who identify as graysexual feel infrequent sexual attraction, less desire to engage in sexual activity. That’s not to say he never did, but his impulses were few and far between, even before his ordeal in prison.

It was on the same spectrum as asexuality, and stems from the idea that sexuality isn’t black or white and there is a gray area that many people fall into.

She didn’t believe it was anything to with libido after he’d reluctantly spoken in depth of his and Luke’s sex life. Prior to prison, they could barely keep their hands off of each other, often spending entire days off together in the throes of passion.

When she’d told him her understanding of the term, graysexuals don’t see sex as important, not in the way some others do. They do feel sexual attraction but not very often and only in certain circumstances.

She also believed he may fall somewhere on the demisexual spectrum as his most intense physical relationship had been Luke, someone he had a prior emotional bond with.

When Spencer had grown confused and questioned how he could be both she’d simply told him that orientation was constantly switching, sexuality was a spectrum and we are consistently roving up and down the scale.

Years later he would be sitting on his porch with you, a woman he barely knew and explaining his sexuality in much the same manner as his therapist had explained to him.

It made sense to him, he understood and it made him feel a little better to know that there were words that existed to describe what he was feeling. He made him feel less alone, knowing that he wasn’t the only person that was going through these things.

As was par for the course with Prolonged Exposure Therapy, his recital of his abuse was recorded. One of the items in his lap was the cassette tape of his own full admission of what he’d gone through at Milburn.

He’d never listened to it, he couldn’t bring himself to, no matter how much his therapist tried to encourage him to do so. It was supposed to help distance himself from it, listen to the confession from the sidelines as though he were a bystander.

“Doctor Reid, as an agent with the BAU I can only imagine how many times you had to listen to people recount the horrible things they’d gone through. Hearing your own retelling might allow you to be objective the way you might be with a victim interview.”

She was right and he knew it. But he couldn’t listen to it. He knew he never would.

Exhausting most of her options on a patient who often seemed as though he didn’t want to get better, her final instruction before Spencer stopped seeing her was for him to at the very least make a concerted effort to try masturbating more frequently.

After she’d dropped that frankly horrifying piece of advice, Spencer had never returned to her office.

He stuffed the folder and cassette away again, shaking his head at his own intrusive train of thoughts. Revisiting this was not going to make things better, he had to power on, accept the things he couldn’t change as his former drug rehabilitation taught him.

If only it were that easy.

He forced himself to shower despite the pain he was in, before dressing and eating a bowl of cereal in a thinly veiled attempt to energise himself for the day ahead.

***

When a gentle knock sounded at the door of the lodge you were sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around you after your shower.

You scrambled to quickly throw some clothes on but by the time you made it to the door, swinging it open, no one was there.

Brows furrowing you looked around and caught a glimpse of Spencer’s retreating form as he limped in the direction of the stables. He’d barely given you time to answer, what had he even bothered knocking for?

Shaking your head you went to recede back inside but noticed something on the floor in front of the door.

A red tray, the likes of which reminded you of high school, lay on the porch with an array of items on top.

You bent down and lifted the tray, careful not to drop anything while you stepped back in the cabin and nudged the door closed with your hip. You cautiously carried it to the kitchen counter and set it down.

A large mug in the shape of an octopus had steam rising from it and after a cursory sniff you knew it to be honey and lemon tea. Next to it, a small glass containing thick, pulpy orange juice.

The bowl in the centre of the tray housed cereal and there was another small glass filled with milk presumably to pour on it.

Wedged under the spoon was a small scrap of paper with almost completely illegible writing scrawled on it. It took several minutes to ascertain what it said.

I’m sorry about last night, I hope that things can remain amicable between us. I’ll be at the stable if you feel like joining me. I’d understand if you didn’t.

Spencer

A smile crept to your lips and you pocketed the paper. You downed the orange juice in one before pouring the milk upon the cereal and taking the bowl and mug of tea over to the couch.

It was almost impossible not to feel slightly scorned by his sudden change of demeanour last night. The way he’d changed so dramatically, like a light switch had been flicked had hurt and there was no other way around it.

But that’s not to say you didn’t understand.

It was startlingly apparent to you that Spencer had suffered some kind of psychological trauma, possibly even physical trauma. You wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’d endured some kind of sexual assault judging by the way he panicked at the simple act of your hand palming him through his slacks.

Or were you just drawing connections where there weren’t any? He’d said himself his sexuality wavered across the spectrum, perhaps when it came down to it, the possibility of being with a woman hadn’t appealed to him and he’d overreacted.

You didn’t intend to bring it up either way so you supposed you could either bother yourself worrying about it or just let it go.

You chose the latter.

You ate your cereal and drank the tea before brushing your teeth. You went to slip your sneakers on but before you reached the door, you had a change of heart.

***

“I only called because…no, no…you have to stop - please. No…I said…please just listen to me for a moment? Yes, I know…I get it I do. I-I…you’re not letting me speak. You have to…it’s been two years I…no. Please? I just want…need…to heal. Yes. No. Please can you…yes, yes I know. I need…space…more space. In time I might…I don’t kn - no, no. Okay. Thank you…I’ll try…you too.”

You told yourself you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop again on Spencer’s phone conversation. When you’d approached the stable you’d heard his voice and at first assumed he was talking to his horses.

But his feverish tone and staggered breaths gave you pause. You didn’t want to interrupt or interfere so you’d hung back.

When he hung up the phone you could only assume by his fractured expression and slightly trembling hand that he’d been talking to his ex - Luke you reminded yourself - the strangely familiar Luke.

He was sitting on a wooden chest in the far corner of the stable, opposite Willow’s paddock. He slotted the phone into his pocket and leaned forward, his casted arm cradled against his stomach while his other elbow rested on his thigh.

His hand scored up and down his face, kneading between his brows, pinching his nose, rubbing his scratchy facial hair, back up to the nose, the brows and so on.

You waited a little while longer to enter for two reasons. One, if you strolled in now he’d know you’d heard something and two, he clearly needed a moment.

You leaned against the side of the stable and counted slowly to one hundred in your head before you moved back toward the door and opened it.

The creaking of the hinges alerted Spencer to your presence and he immediately looked up, plastering a smile on his face you knew wasn’t genuine.

“Oh, uh, hi.” He cautiously pushed himself up, groaning a little as he did so. “I, uh…wasn’t sure you’d be…here.”

You offered him a smile in return, taking a few steps into the stable, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of the large black horse.

You felt an uneasy pang in your chest as you took him in. He wore a pair of black jeans which fit him so well it should have been illegal, paired with a dark green button up flannel shirt. His black stetson had been replaced by a beige one with a large brim.

His hair seemed to be perfectly curled beneath the hat as though he’d spent hours on it. The few days worth of stubble growth on his face made him appear rugged.

He looked delectable and it didn’t seem fair.

“Thanks for breakfast.” You spoke as you got a little closer.

“Oh it’s no problem, I uh…” his eyes wandered, downwards to the floor and he trailed off as he noticed the fire engine red boots on your feet. His eyes snapped back up to your face. “You’re wearing the riding boots.”

“I am.” You nodded. “You’re astute.”

“You’re willing to learn how to ride?” He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“I don’t feel as though I have a lot of choice in the matter, seeing as you can barely walk.” You chuckled lightly.

“Full disclosure, I have never taught someone to ride a horse before.”

“This is going to be fun then.” You started towards Willow’s paddock, placing your hands on the gate keeping her enclosed.

“Oh, uh, you won’t be riding her just yet.” Spencer’s voice stopped you before you could open it.

You looked at him over your shoulder with confusion.

“Why?”

“She’s more of a handful. You need to be a lot more experienced before you can handle her. But Franklin is a great horse for novices.” He moved down towards the black horse which was still giving you a stern look.

“Him? No way. He hates me.” You shook your head.

“He does not.” Spencer scoffed, unlatching the end gate.

“He looks at me funny.” You grumbled.

“Did you try giving him attention?” Spencer swung open the gate and stepped inside.

Franklin shuffled closer to him and bowed his head until it was resting on Spencer’s shoulder. In turn Spencer stroked his mane and cooed in his ear.

“He doesn’t like to be ignored.” Spencer cradled the stallion's head while you took a few cautious steps closer.

“He’s a horse.” You clucked somewhat indignantly.

“A horse with feelings and a personality.” Spencer laughed, fingers brushing to and fro in his mane. “Frank is sensitive. Willow gets most of the attention around here and he feels that deeply. Wilbur is aloof, doesn’t need the same level of attention. As long as he’s being fed and groomed he’s pretty content.

“Willow is my main companion and she goes everywhere with me and it does grate on Frank. He gets jealous I suppose. He would have seen you bringing Willow home and thought there’s someone else who prefers her over me. I’d bet you didn’t even try to engage him?”

“He scared me, I guess, the way he was looking at me. I didn’t want to get my hand bitten off.”

To this, Spencer laughed again, edging himself away from Franklin and closer to you. He held out his good hand palm side up, fingers spread.

“Put your hand in mine, back of the hand to my palm.” He looked at you encouragingly.

You swallowed thickly, tentatively stepping inside Frank’s paddock. You did as Spencer instructed and cradled the back of your hand against his palm.

Spencer’s fingers thread through yours and moved both your entwined hands closer to the horse's head.

Spencer didn’t have to do all the work as Franklin met you halfway, practically forcing the side of his face into your palm.

He made a soft sound of content by way of air rushing out of his large nostrils as he nuzzled against you. Spencer wiggled his fingers, which moved yours too, so you were scratching the horse's coarse head.

“See?” Spencer smiled at you. “He likes you already. Try taking your other hand and brushing it through his mane, he likes that.”

Rolling your lip between your teeth, you raised your other hand towards his hair. You curled your fingers and brushed your knuckles through his thick, dark mane.

Once again Franklin huffed out a breath of thanks. A soft giggle left your lips at the sound he made and Spencer was smiling to himself, unable to stop watching you.

Even when you started moving your hand of your own accord, Spencer kept his fingers laced with yours, allowing you to move his too.

“Maybe he’s not so bad.” You agreed, making quiet clicking sounds with your tongue against your teeth which Franklin seemed receptive to.

“Trust me when I say he’s the horse you want to practise on. Wilbur’s all about speed, Willow is tempermental unless you know her like I do. But Frank is as laid back as they come.” Reluctantly, Spencer let his hand slip from yours but you continued stroking him.

“Okay, so how does one ride a horse?” You asked without looking at him.

“One must first learn how to properly saddle a horse.” He chuckled, limping back over towards the wall where the saddle equipment hung.

Spencer had already fitted Franklin’s bridle which was tied to the fence in his paddock in anticipation of this. He grabbed one of the brushes off the wall and limped back over to you.

“First we’re gonna need to groom him.” He sidled around you, side stepping you and trying to ignore the pulsing in his knee as he trod precariously.

You heard the overt puff of air leave his lips and glanced at him, at the reddening in his ears and cheeks, his stiff jaw.

“You okay?” You removed one hand from Franklin and reached for him but he brushed you off.

“Fine, fine.” He shook it off. “Just, keep doing what you’re doing.”

His jaw remained clenched while he went about brushing down Franklin’s back and you remained stroking his face. Spencer gave attention to the horse's sides, his belly and rear before running the brush through his tail and then passing it to you to do the same to his mane.

Keeping one hand on Franklin’s snout you used the other to brush his knotty locks and he huffed again in appreciation.

Spencer hobbled around you, back to the wall and then returned with something for which swapped with you for the brush.

“This is a saddle pad. It helps protect his back and keep the saddle in place.” He guided you without touching you to Franklin’s left side. “It wants to sit just below his mane.”

You draped the slightly squishy fabric over Frank’s back, as instructed, letting it rest just beneath the stallion's mane.

“Is that okay?” You looked back at Spencer who was nodding.

“Perfect. Can you…” he nodded towards the wall. “Grab the saddle closest to us?”

He was bent over a little, massaging his knee between his fingers. You understood that he was struggling with the simple back and forth.

You slid past him and unhooked the saddle from its wall mounted position and carried it back into Frank’s paddock.

“So this is the saddle horn,” he pointed to one end which protruded from the leather saddle, almost looking like the top of a stick shift. “You want this at the front. Place the saddle on his back just like with the pad…yep that’s it. Toss the stirrup and the cinches up so they are out of the way.”

You did as he said before turning to him with a flourish of your hands.

“I’m a natural.” You joked.

Spencer simply rolled his eyes.

“Give it a little rock back and forth to make sure it’s sitting comfortably. Great, looks good and make sure the centre of the saddle is lined up with his spine.” Spencer inspected it himself. “The stirrups should be even on both sides and the saddle should be just below his shoulder blades.”

You fidgeted with the saddle a little, ensuring it was in the correct position. Spencer shuffled it down slightly before giving a nod of approval.

“Okay now we need to secure the front cinch, this is really important. So you’re going to pull the cinch under his belly, towards you, and slip the latigo strap down through the cinch buckle. Pull it all the way through and make sure neither the cinch nor the latigo strap are twisted.” He pointed out each new thing he explained.

“Like this?” You worked on following his instruction.

“Perfect. Now lift the latigo and slip it through the saddle’s D-ring, from outside-in and leaving the ring angled towards the left. Make the cinch snug, but not overly so. Do the same again a few times if there’s still a lot of length left in the latigo strap. Yeah, that’s great.” He nodded.

Spencer continued to talk you through the process and you followed each step. When confused you asked questions and he was quick to explain himself.

You then moved onto securing the rear cinch. Franklin remained still throughout the whole thing, clearly used to this procedure.

“Great, that looks great. Now if you were on your own you’d untie his reins from the fence before mounting him but in the interest of everyone’s safety I can untie it after you’re up.” Spencer took a step back.

“Okay, how does this part work then?” You gulped, a sudden flood of nerves washing over you.

“You’ll be fine,” Spencer tried to sooth you, sensing your fears. “Step up on that mounting block for me.”

You turned around and spotted the little wooden steps you assumed he meant and climbed up them. Spencer meanwhile clicked his tongue at Franklin and with a series of hand gestures the horse was moving into place next to you.

“What are you, the horse whisperer?” You scoffed.

Spencer placed his hand on the side of Franklin’s neck to keep him still although Franklin could usually be trusted he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Okay use your left hand to grip the saddle horn and your left foot in the stirrup. That’s it. Rest your weight on the ball of your foot, shift your body weight onto your mounting foot and swing your other leg over the top of the horse. One swift move.”

You sucked in a breath and before you could let the nerves get the better of you, you took the leap. Using your left foot to take most of your weight, you swung your right leg up and over his body, plopping down into the saddle and making Franklin jolt a little.

“Oof, careful. Next time try to slowly lower yourself down.” Spencer chuckled, giving Frank a pat. “You alright boy?”

“Sorry,” you baulked.

“It’s okay, he’s tough, he can handle it. Get your right foot in that stirrup.” Spencer rounded the horse, making quick work of untying the reins from the fence. “Right I’ll keep hold of these while we head up to the field. Once we’re in there I’ll give them to you and give you some pointers. You good to go Frank?”

With a light tug on the reins, Frank neighed at his owner before he jolted forward. You wobbled in the saddle, your right hand joining your left on the horn and holding on for dear life.

Spencer used the reins to guide Franklin out of the stable and briefly let them go so he could latch the door closed behind you.

Moving again and you wobbled once more, the ground beneath you not entirely level and you felt yourself swaying side to side.

“You sure this is safe?” You whined a little.

“Very, Frank knows what he’s doing, trust me.” Spencer chuckled.

“I, uh…whoa, Jesus.” You groaned as you wobbled to the left. “This does not feel natural.”

“Tell you the truth, I hated horse riding when I first moved out here.” Spencer told you as he led the horse up towards the field.

It was a slight incline and you felt yourself slipping back a little, hitting the raised back of the saddle and whining a little.

“You? Mister big tough cowboy?” You clucked but your voice gave way to your nerves.

“Not always the case. I had these crises of faith where I just thought, what the hell have I done? I don’t even like horses!” He chuckled. As if he understood, Franklin made a noise of frustration. “Calm down Frank, that was a long time ago.”

“What was it about this place for you? You wanted to get away, to escape your city life, I get that. But why here specifically?” You tried to hide the tremor in your voice as Franklin dipped while he walked.

“I wanted a simple life I guess.” Spencer shrugged, looking a little wistful. “My whole life people have depended on me, ever since I was a little kid. I’d been in the same job since I was twenty two years old and although I loved it, it took a toll on me, both mentally and physically. I couldn’t keep up with the demands and I’d always appreciated the idea of living off the grid with nothing but land and animals to rely on me. It’s…I suppose it’s rewarding in its own way and I still needed something to occupy me so I figured why not this.”

You mused over his words, your eyebrows furrowed whilst trying to ignore the way you bucked as Franklin moved.

“Spencer, you weren’t a psychology professor, were you?” You dared ask.

His back straightened a little as you reached the brow of the hill and he continued down as you had to brace yourself on the horn.

“No, I wasn’t. I mean, yeah I was for a while. I lectured from time to time. But no, it wasn’t my main profession.” He confessed, swallowing thickly.

“What did you do?”

“If it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about it. I spent fifteen years of my life being defined by my job and part of the appeal of this place is that no one knows who I was in my former life. I might tell you, one day, but for now I’d rather not be that person anymore.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You also favoured not being defined by your past. It didn’t matter where he’d come from, what he’d done for a living, the same way it didn’t matter where you’d been. All that mattered was the two of you were here now.

“Understood. I don’t mean to pry.” You replied and Spencer offered you a small smile in return. Still holding onto the saddle horn for dear life, the path started to flatten out but was still bumpy under Franklin’s hooves.

Soon you came across a large fenced off area with a ravine babbling just behind it. Spencer had to briefly drop the reins so he could open the gate before leading Frank inside.

You watched Spencer inquisitively. You did understand not wanting to reveal too much of your personal life but it didn’t stop you wanting to know more about him.

He was a mystery, you couldn’t work him out. But you wanted to. You wanted to know everything about him. Maybe one day he’d feel comfortable opening up to you, and perhaps you’d even return the favour.

But for now he remained an enigma.

***

After a fairly rocky first horse riding lesson in which you were convinced you were going to die at the hands of this horse, you helped Spencer clean the stables and feed his animals.

He made sandwiches for lunch as well as honey and lemon tea. After lunch he’d introduced you to his cattle.

When he noticed you wincing as you walked he offered you some hydrocortisone ointment, telling you it was normal for your thighs to chafe when you were learning to ride.

The ointment helped and it was a good job too as you had to walk into town to collect your car. Spencer tried to insist he could cope with the walk but you’d seen the way he’d been grimacing all day and you insisted he stay behind.

You found an ice pack in his freezer and forced him to sit down and ice his knee. It didn’t take a lot of convincing.

He’d called in an order at Busbee’s BBQ which you would collect while you were in town for dinner.

It was little under a two mile walk which you didn’t remember being so long in your drunken state yesterday. The sun was setting and thankfully the heat and humidity had died down but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.

You found the BBQ joint with relative ease, just a little way down the road from where you parked your car the previous day. A handsome man named Grant handed you your food with a dazzling smile. You tipped him generously.

You made quick work driving back to the ranch and carried the food up to Spencer’s lodge, your thighs rubbing from your walk and the horse. You headed up the stairs, the light from the living room illuminating your path.

Spencer wasn’t where you left him on the couch and the ice pack was discarded on the floor in a little puddle where it had started to melt. You weren’t sure why but the hairs on the back of your neck were standing to attention in an instant, your gut telling you something wasn’t right.

You put the bags of food on the kitchen counter and padded towards the closed bedroom door, taking quiet, even steps. You breathed silently, pressing your ear against the wood.

You didn’t hear much other than slightly ragged breaths, sharply inhaling and then exhaling with aggression. Your first thought was that Spencer was indulging in some alone time and you almost turned and left, not wanting to invade his privacy again.

But then you heard a sound which was more of a moan of pain than one of pleasure. He’d been struggling all day with his knee, that much was obvious. Maybe he needed some assistance.

You gently rapped on the door with your knuckles and called his name. No response. You tried again but still no reply.

You weighed up your options. On one hand you didn’t want to irritate him by just barging in, he might not be responding because he didn’t want to see you. But on the other hand he could be really hurt and would you be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t try to help?

You knocked again, spoke his name a little louder. You were met with no more than a grunt.

“Spencer?” You tried again, louder still. “Spencer, I’m going to need you to let me know you’re okay.”

Yet more silence.

“Spencer, if you don’t answer me I am going to come in. If you don’t want that then tell me now, otherwise I am opening this door.” You paused, held your breath. No answer. “Fine, I’m coming in.”

You gripped the handle, pushed open the door.

A cursory glance around the room and your heart tightened in your chest, your body momentarily going limp at the sight in front of you.

Spencer sat on the edge of his bed, naked from the waist up. At his feet on the floor were the smashed remains of his old cell phone. But that wasn’t what alarmed you.

In his limp right hand a silver piece of metal glistened as it caught the light. But it was his left bicep for which you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

His left bicep and the fresh open wound which was spitting with blood, caking his arm, dripping onto the bed sheets.

But the scariest part of all was how Spencer didn’t even seem to notice. He didn’t seem aware that you were even there.

His expressionless eyes were trained somewhere across the room, his chapped lips moving as though he were chanting.

“S-Spencer?” You croaked but he didn’t register you.

You swallowed, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cautiously approaching him. When you drew closer you could hear a haggard, monotone whisper of words leaving his lips.

You crouched in front of his eyeline to try and get his attention but even when he had nowhere else to look, his eyes bore through you like you weren’t even there.

And he continued to mutter under his breath, “I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.”

@kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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lavishlyleo · 8 months

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Tropical vs Sidereal Signs : How They Tie Into The Stereotypes

Hey guys! I've noticed that each zodiac sign has traits relating to the sign before it and I think this is what ties the two together and why our sidereal signs can feel so relatable/make more sense, and more importantly, why all of the zodiac signs have the stereotypes that they do.

If you really look at it, it feels like the signs are a lot like the signs before it but learning the core lessons of the sign before it.

Also if you're wondering, this applies to all your placements, but especially your top 3, mainly your Sun and Moon sign.

Aries (Pisces)

Aries has a lot of energy and many goals they plan to accomplish because Pisces is a dreamer and has many hopes and wishes, but rarely acts on them.

Taurus (Aries)

Taurus is very grounded, sure of themselves, and takes their time because Aries is direct and knows what they want, but rushes too quickly to complete things without a foolproof plan.

Gemini (Taurus)

Gemini is very flighty, cunning, and flexible because Taurus is rational and wants the best, but isn't willing to step out their comfort zone.

Cancer (Gemini)

Cancer is sympathetic and emotionally intelligent because Gemini is communicative, experimental and clever when in regards to other people but is too quick to move on.

Leo (Cancer)

Leo is charismatic, reactive, and bold because Cancer is sensitive and reads between the lines, but is burdened with their and others emotions, leading them to shelter their hearts.

Virgo (Leo)

Virgo is prestine, self preservative, and expects nothing short of perfection because Leo is lavish and expects the best but only when it relates to them personally.

Libra (Virgo)

Libra is diplomatic, charming and negotiable because Virgo is modest, down to earth and systematic but can be picky about other's methods or ideas.

Scorpio (Libra)

Scorpio is inquisitive and secretive yet persistant in their affairs because Libra is a chaser and likes to indulge in their desires but may lessen their resolve at the slighest inconvenience.

Sagittarius (Scorpio)

Sagittarius is open minded, adventurous and enterprising because Scorpio is punctual, intuitive and likes to investigate but holds on to negative feelings for a very long time.

Capricorn (Sagittarius)

Capricorn is ambitious and tactical in their work because Sagittarius is genuine and enterprising in their endeavors but doesn't usually finish what they start.

Aquarius (Capricorn)

Aquarius is a visionary and eccentric because Capricorn is a planner and completes their tasks with vigor but rarely thinks outside of the box.

Pisces (Aquarius)

Pisces is shrewd and serene, going with the flow of everything because Aquarius is a humanitarian and wants what's best for the people, but can be self righteous and bias in how they achieve this.

Heyy, I'M SORRYYY, I know I know, I was gone like forever! I've just been on a haitus for awhile because I just had burnout, I didn't have a lot of motivation but I'm coming back!

I'm taking it slow as I come back. I already have a couple drafts. I think you guys will really like what I have in store! :D

More art of my OC/Persona! Man, we need a new word for that 😭😭 Maybeeee, Ocsona? I dunno but he's literally both for me.

Check out @indorphyyn for more of my art

Anyways, stay tuned for my next post! If you guys have any ideas or anything you'd like to see more of in the future, let me know in the comments or asks. I'd love to hear your guys' ideas!

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random-iz-stuff · 1 year

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Invader Zim Deathmatch:

ROUND 2, FIGHT 2:

Number 2 vs Mimi!

The fight must be one on one so no outside help is allowed, but prep time is allowed.

The rule for prep time is that if one contestant gets prep time, the other contestant gets an equal amount of prep time as well.

[Masterpost]

Information about both contestants (who they are, powers and abilities, etc) can be found under the cut.

Contestant Stats:

Number 2:

“Second best (technically THE best) Zim in the Zimvoid”

Note: due to me doing a LOT of different analyses of Zim’s combat capabilities, intelligence, and competence in general, this section goes way further into detail than with any other contestant, to the point where I can say almost exactly HOW Zim/Number 2 fights along with his general abilities, which gets its own section.

Appearances:

Number 2 appears in the Zimvoid Arc of the comic that spans Issues 46-49

Tactics:

Zim is a very environmental fighter that uses his mind and the environment around him a lot in combat, quickly setting up traps, leading his opponents into bad positions and using anything he can get his hands on to gain an advantage.

Zim also uses his PAK a lot in combat, mostly for the extra maneuverability it provides. Leaping around and dodging attacks with it and using it to quickly climb and move around.

Zim also knows how and when to briefly get into his opponent’s head, confusing them by briefly putting on an act to seem dumber than he appears (Take his fights against Hobo 13 and Pilot Dib for very good examples). Once his opponent is distracted or thrown off, he strikes fast and hard.

Powers and abilities:

Irken physiology (Can lift over 3 times his body weight and is extremely durable. Also, Number 2’s rather tall size means that he weighs more and can therefore lift more than the average Zim)

PAK (PAK legs, PAK lasers, shield generator, all the things an Irken PAK can do)

Elite military training (Zim is an Invader, meaning that he went through irken military training and became an elite soldier before going through Invader training. This means that Number 2 has the combat skills of an elite soldier)

Invader training (as an Ex-Invader, Number 2 is trained in espionage, stealth, sabotage, and other invader-related things)

Deathmatch Skills (Number 2 has extensive experience in combat, as he got his title of Number 2 by fighting and defeating every other Zim in the Zimvoid Arena, along with presumably needing to fight multiple times to preserve his title)

Throwing Knife Mastery (Number 2 has a 99.4% accuracy rate with throwing knives, and it’s very likely that this accuracy rate also applies to other throwable things)

Superior Intelligence (Zim is the single smartest Irken we’ve ever seen and is a lot smarter than he appears, being able to build things in less than an hour that artificially enhanced irkens take days or even weeks to build. This significantly reduces or even removes the amount of prep time Number 2 needs to create something depending on how complicated that thing is. Zim is also capable of manipulating people by playing dumb, a tactic he sometimes uses in combat to throw his opponents off their rhythm (take his fights in Hobo 13 and the Pilot for example))

Shock Spear (as seen in Nickelodeon All Star Brawl of all places, Zim owns, knows how to use, and always has on his person: a unique Shock Spear. This Shock Spear can presumably do anything a regular Shock Spear can do, including shocking anyone hit by it and discharging energy from the blades for a ranged attack)

[Weakness] No common sense or impulse control [Averted] (Zim normally has little common sense or impulse control and seems to struggle with motivation, a fact that usually leads to him defeating himself. HOWEVER, in the right situation where Zim properly focuses on the task at hand (usually either when he wants revenge or when he thinks his life or his mission is in danger), Zim completely loses this weakness and not only becomes completely motivated, but also starts thinking things through, becoming far more dangerous. A fight to the death like this competition definitely fills those requirements, meaning that Number 2 in this situation would be completely focused at basically all times, and that’s assuming that Number 2 even has this weakness in the first place)

Fun Fact:

Number 2 claims that his divergent trait is that he’s slightly worse at throwing knives (99.4% accuracy instead of 99.7), but that claim seems rather suspicious when you take into account things like Number 2’s height, which a slightly worse accuracy rate would never affect. So it’s possible that he’s lying about his divergent trait. For simplicity in this competition, we’re going to assume he’s telling the truth.

Mimi:

“Built from trash, still works better than Gir”

Appearances:

Mimi only appears in “Tak; The Hideous New Girl”, although we would have seen them reappear in the unfinished episode “Top Of The Line”

Powers and abilities:

SIR Unit technology (a massive array of stored weapons, laser eyes, x-ray vision, analyzing equipment, etc)

Extreme strength (SIR Units can lift extremely heavy objects that are much larger than themselves, like a Megadoomer plug, with no issue. Mimi’s large claw arm also helps here)

Extreme speed (SIR Units can move extremely fast, with Gir moving fast enough to dodge missiles)

Flight (SIR Units also come equipped with foot-mounted rocket engines allowing them to fly)

Holographic technology (Mimi comes equipped with unique holographic technology, letting them disguise themselves as a regular cat. It’s possible that Mimi can turn invisible using this technology like Tak can, but we never actually see it happen)

[Weakness] Fragile (Despite being described as better than an average SIR Unit in every way, Mimi seems to be more fragile than other SIR Units. A single blast of soda was able to knock their extremely important memory drive clean out and it only takes Tak a few seconds to completely disassemble Mimi when they start getting in her way. Meanwhile, even defective SIR Units like Gir are shown to be so durable that they continue to operate even when missing their own heads, which Mimi is notably unable to do)

Fun Fact:

Mimi cannot speak, but we can hear Gir speaking through them once they get remotely controlled by him, meaning that Mimi does have the physical means to speak, but lacks a unique voice of their own to speak with.

#invader zim #invader zim deathmatch #polls #number 2 #Mimi #Zim #Tak

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jungleslang · 2 years

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I'm sorry but I just need to take a moment to scream about why Mu-deok / Naksu / Cho Yeong's character and the romance between her and Uk makes me go absolutely feral.

She's just so clever and calculating and determined. Like Uk has literally been trying for years and years to get his gate of energy open. When he finally meets Naksu, someone who's actually willing to open it for him, it's at a time where she's trapped in a weak body and doesn't have the power to do so. But she doesn't let that deter her. She's just like alright let's poison his ass instead, and it works. Just like that, she gets his gate open with minimal effort on her part (minus the torture lol).

Then there's the incident where she throws filthy water on the crown prince and pisses him off to the point that he's ready to fight them all. She gets everyone out of trouble by putting on a remorseful servant act and offering to drink the water. She also immediately clocks the prince as someone who is arrogant and therefore weak to flattery, and proceeds to follow him out and sweet talk him to death. And that works too. The prince ends up leaving that encounter being pleased and amused by her when just minutes ago he wanted to slice and dice her for daring to dirty him. She knew exactly how to act and what to say to get what she wanted.

When the crown prince threatens to destroy her birg egg charm, Naksu tricks him into thinking she doesn't care about it and causes him to throw it away, which ensures that she can get it back even if Uk loses his last duel. She is also the true mastermind behind the duel between Uk and the crown prince, which she arranged because Uk was demotivated due to Park Jin's usual bullshit. She also set up the ten duels between Uk and the other mages, which helped Uk improve by leaps and bounds since he was able to memorize and utilize his opponents tactics, which again is exactly what she wanted.

It's wild how so many pivotal events in the show were orchestrated by her. She's literally just so damn manipulative and I love it. Time and time again, she flawlessly manipulates both people and situations to achieve her desired outcome.

She's also extremely hardworking. It's clear how ruthlessly efficient she is by the way she absolutely dominates the Songrim servant test despite the fact that she's in a physically weak body. Her body is probably the weakest of all the other competitors, but she still completes every task faster and better than all of them. This is probably because she grew up on her own in a desolate place, and therefore had to develop the skills necessary to survive. Compared to Uk who's never had to cook, clean, do his own laundry, and even has people running his baths for him, Naksu is practically a survivalist.

And like you would think that someone with these traits would also have a healthy sense of self-preservation, right? WRONG.

Maybe I'm just watching the wrong shows and reading the wrong books, but usually when I see characters who are smart and cunning and know how to fend for themselves, their priorities tend to be their own safety. But Naksu literally does not give a flying fuck about her well-being. When she discovers that she can't draw her sword and thinks she'll be powerless forever, her first instinct is to just kill herself. She heads straight for the lake and jumps in. She also shrugs off being brutally tortured by Park Jin, saying she expected worse. When Jang Uk loses control during training and is about to impale her, she doesn't even try to move out of the way even though she could.

She's highly self-serving but also paradoxically has zero self-preservation, and that's why I find her character so fascinating. And it's demonstrated that the reason she's like this is that she's so goal-oriented. What Naksu cares about isn't her life, but her goals—which are getting her power back and avenging her family. If she has to lay down her life to do that, then so be it, because her safety isn't nearly as important to her as achieving her goals.

This is why the romance between her and Uk is so fucking immaculate, because he's like that too. Even though people see him as a helpless troublemaker, Uk is also very crafty and perceptive. All it took was Mudeok looking him in the eyes and swinging a crab leg at him for him to instantly figure out that she's a soul-shifter and that she's actually Naksu. He then immediately uses that knowledge to try and blackmail her into being his master. He got Heo Yeom drunk so that he could carry him and copy his breathing technique, and he even had the foresight to bribe Ju-wol in advance so that Mu-deok's identity would be protected if anyone came looking for her. He also knows how to use people's perception of him as weak to get himself out of trouble. Just like his master / maid, he's cunning, but he's also reckless and isn't all that concerned with his own safety. He literally wasn't the slightest bit upset when Naksu poisoned him. He could have easily died, and he didn't even care, he was just happy his gate of energy was finally open.

Both Naksu and Uk are people who are driven by their goals and will pursue them relentlessly without really caring if it costs them their lives. And those same people people who were once willing to do anything for the sake of their own ambitions, gave up on their goals for each other. For almost the entire show, Naksu and Uk risked so much and schemed their hearts out to get what they wanted, only for both of them to choose to be powerless in the end. The most powerful, notorious assassin in Daeho and the literal King's Star who's supposed to have a great destiny gave up their power to run away and live a simple life with each other. How can I not lose my mind over them!!!

And it's like not only did they give up their powers for each other, they also did it for the sake of the people around them. Uk wanted to save everyone that was trapped in the ice stone, and despite the fact that Naksu kept on telling herself she could let them all die, she wanted to save them too. Episode 19 Uk and Naksu are nowhere near as self-seeking as they were in episode 1, and it's partly because of each other. The way they were both instrumental to the other's growth is just 😫😫😫

And also the way that they understand and support each other. Like when Uk first tells Naksu his plan to take the barrier down, she's immediately like wtf no you could literally die, lets think of something else. Of course she wouldn't want to watch the love of her life possibly kill himself right in front of her, but that's exactly what she does. Even though she's scared that what he's about to do could cost him his life and the thought of that is so unbearable to her that she even gave up her power, she still ends up encouraging him to do it. Because she understands his "its better to die than do nothing" mentality because that's also her mentality. And Uk also understands her and the impact her upbringing has had on her. He's so considerate of her and showers her with affection without crossing any lines because he knows she's not used to it.

And let's not even talk about that moment after the barrier is destroyed and both of them have well and truly lost their chance at power, and Naksu literally fucking smiles and says it's fine because they're together. The ruthless, cold-hearted assassin who was willing to kill them both to get her power back is content being totally powerless and trapped in a weak body because Uk is with her. She once said that she'd rather die than live that way, but now she actively chooses to live that way because she loves Uk and desires him more than power 😭😭😭😭😭

December needs to come quick because I'm losing my mind over here

(Also I'm so sorry this ended up being so long I didn't mean to write this much lmaooooo)

#alchemy of souls #jang uk #naksu #mu deok #as you guys can see im obsessed

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bringina · 2 years

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So Owl House Season 2 Finale Aired And Now You Need A New Hyperfixation To Occupy Your Time: Why You Should Read Witch Hat Atelier Manga

Hi! So that Owl House season finale ey :´> how we all holding up. Here's the thing; you can either process your feelings and deal with the show inevitably inching closer to its early ending (now and always, why are you determined to be like this Disney) in a sensible manner OR you can swerve your car into the direction of a new media to fill out the void. I'm here to give ya a tip!

(in reality I'm just hoping to drag more people into this fandom, but I digress). So without further ado let´s gooooooooooooo

Witch Hat Atelier by Kamome Shirahama: The Seal Drawing Witch Kids And Their Disaster Dads

First, let me give you a brief overview of the premise; Coco is a young girl living in a world where only a few can perform magic, and though she has been fascinated by witches for a long time, she cannot cast magic herself. That is, until she meets a witch named Qifrey, who takes her under his wing to teach her after a series of unfortunate events. Coco joins the atelier, meets three other apprentices Agott, Tetia and Richeh, as well as Olruggio, who is Qifrey's.... well, everyone ships these two and its very hard not to because they truly are made for each other. White and Black. Water and Fire. Angst and Angst. Forever pining husbands-for-decades-in-everything-but-official-capacity vibes through the roof. You get the picture. Found family and shenanigans ensue.

The characters are all phenomenal. We have: caring if chaotic mentor/father figure with a penchant for revenge and a "please just talk to people" "haha, nope" avoidance tactic; his very tired workaholic husband trying to keep chaotic energy at bay (Olruggio is totally part of main cast, can't change my mind); your upbeat starry eyed protagonist with no sense of self preservation about to learn the harshness of reality and figuring where she stands; Sasuke but as an actually well written girl (THE best character dont at me) and also the one name where NO ONE can agree on spelling (I've seen no less than six different spellings of Agott's name and three versions of her surname, can we PLEASE figure this out); the one who's seemingly cold and disinterested but will not hesitate to fight you for what she believes in; and sunshine incarnate that will so break my heart when we learn her sad backstory (because I refuse to believe there isn't a sad backstory lurking in future chapters given the series' track record). Also I'm doing them all injustice by summarizing like this; they're all deeper characters than they appear, but I assume you don't want to read additional sixty pages of me gushing on this already long post. Not to mention the delightful side characters. Moving on.

Something that Owl House fans will notice near immediately is the magic system; WHA has a remarkably similar idea of magic that is cast through drawing just like glyphs, only “seals” are more complex.

This leads to almost endless possibilities as long as you have needed imagination and skill to execute the spell properly: and you bet the characters show real ingenuity time and time again. Seeing all the spells you never would have thought of truly is a, hah, magical experience.

Of course, endless possibilities mean disasterous consequences in wrong hands, and the world suffers as a result. Even the best of intentions can lead to ruin, and not everyone has those. Rest assured, the system WHA witches operate under to try and prevent the repeat of past mistakes is far from perfect, and the story doesn't shy away from exploring how it affects the people who "fall through the cracks" so to speak, along with other 'heavier' topics like disability and the responsibility adults have towards children to name a few (some of these adults are! Actually competent and try their best! Can you imagine!). Needless to say all of the characters have trauma, angst ahoy.

Witch Hat Atelier is unique in its absolutely breathtaking artstyle, and especially the way it plays with the manga media itself. My words cannot do it justice, but this youtube video from someone way more knowledgeable may give you a glimpse at understanding one part of its charm. Suffice to say, it sure is a pretty read in addition to being engaging.

And well, that's about all i can say without going on an even longer, more spoilery tangent. As of the time of this post, there is 59 chapters total with 57 of them translated in English. I hope i was able to at least pique your curiousity enough to give it a shot, and I hope you have a good time reading it :>

#witch hat atelier #the owl house #wha #toh #(chanting in your ear) oooooh you wanna read wha so baaaad #seriously though please please give it a chance in any of this sounds appealing to you. the manga truly deserves more attention #i tried very hard to give my best salesman pitch please just read this manga you wont regret it #bringie talks

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ambiguouspuzuma · 1 month

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The Horologist

The HRS Azimuth was doomed on the eighteenth of August. It had lost its bearings early in the morning, at exactly a quarter past three, and thus began its sombre journey across the Styx - for all souls aboard were lost when it was finally found again. A ghost ship, run into a sheer cliff face as if on purpose; scuttled, like the crabs which now roamed freely across its decks.

Maritime calamities are rarely recorded with such precision. This is inevitable, despite the best efforts of their attendant historians, due to the way that wood decays, or salt preserves; meaning that whilst corpses may be examined, in order to determine a general time of death, there is no knowing how slow and drawn out the wait for it had been.

There are too many variables: one crew might have saved more rations, or doled them out more carefully, and hence postponed starvation for at least a few more tortured days. The end was set, but they could take their time in getting there. In this case, however, Arturo knew the moment of the struck ship's doom for certain. After all, he had planned it all out in advance.

Of course, it could be argued that the ship had been doomed all along - dead in the water from the moment that she left her berth, the crew's fate having been sealed long before that fateful night. If he had been pressed on that point, Arturo might have pointed to an evening some months hence, the minutes following a dinner which had been too rich for his tastes; digesting his own first taste of crab, but struggling to stomach his dining companions most of all.

"And have you ever worn a beard yourself?" asked Lord Gastan, seated to his right. He stroked his own forked number as he spoke, consciously or not, in a way that shed stray hairs across the tablecloth. Arturo moved his glass a few inches to the left.

"I am afraid not, my lord," he replied, without a question of his own. He saw that topic opening up like a chasm before them, a long-winded conversation about nothing of interest, and did his best to close it down. "I must confess that I have never seen the appeal."

"Ah, but perhaps you are right." Those taciturn tactics seemed not to have worked; Lord Gastan only nodded sagely, as if prompted into deeper thought. "They are such work to care for! The lotions, the oils, the constant tending - oh, like a Persian cat, or a pedigree Afghan hound!"

He bore the air of a man who had neglected to shave one morning and, rather than apologise for such slovenliness, decided to make it his entire personality. Such men always spoke of wearing their facial hair, an accessory to be consciously donned or discarded at will, rather than a disordered growth which freely sprouted from untended skin.

Arturo kept his bat straight. "I have never kept pets either, my lord."

"My God, man! Whatever do you do?"

That roused his attention. I work, Arturo wanted to say: both to sap more energy from the conversation, and to emphasise the difference between them. But he had to make the effort of civility. These Guild dinners were a chore, but they were all part of that work, an important investment in his career.

The city's Makers were often self-made men, but there was a limit to how far that path could take them. Even the greatest artificers could only make so many sales directly from their crooked shops, largely surrounded by competitors and peers. To truly reach their potential, they required a degree of patronage - investment in the latest apparatus, commissions, introductions, renown - and that meant being patronised from time to time.

The Guild arranged these dinners so that those two worlds could meet, to mutual gain; playing matchmaker between aristocrats and artificers, between money-men and, well, matchmakers. The likes of Lord Gastan could invest in Arturo's work - purchasing a stake in the future, anxious not to be left in the past. They would make a tidy profit, increasing their wealth and forestalling that irrelevance, whilst helping him up to the first rung of a ladder they had never had to climb themselves.

"I am a horologist," he replied instead. "A crafter of pillars and plates, balances and barrels, caps and cases. A maker of fusees and escapements. A cutter of wheels, a painter of dials, an engraver, a piercer, a finisher. That is what I do, and that is what I am."

"Ah... very good." After bearing with his babbling for three courses, Arturo was pleased to leave Lord Gastan lost for words. "And these, ah, escapements..."

"I make watches and clocks."

"Right. Yes. Such valuable work! Why, I myself was saying just the other day - to none other than the Admiral, you understand - that we have such a wealth of talent in the city, we really must be able to solve the issues his chaps have been having in the fleet."

"Issues?" For the first time, in over eighty minutes - according to Arturo's watch, which was never wrong - their conversation threatened to become interesting.

"Oh, yes! The search for new chronometers, of course - just as vital as the hunt for new uncharted lands, to hear the Admiral tell it, and of course crucial to their success. The current batch of instruments are just not up to snuff, and his office has decreed a new Trials to muster up some alternatives."

"They need... clocks?" The colonial machine had always seemed, well, imperious. Arturo couldn't think of it running on clockwork, let alone struggling to do so.

"Something to do with co-ordinates, as I understand it," Lord Gastan said. "Mariners have no way of telling longitude at sea, and there have been some terrible disasters as a result. I always thought they used the stars, but apparently they're not up to anything but latitude."

He stroked those luxurious moustaches when thinking, as if hoping to turn the conversation back to his subject of choice. Arturo resented them, knowing just what a luxury they were: he had answered honestly about his lack of facial foliage, but it was not a matter of never having seen the appeal, rather needing to retain his appeal to others.

As a newcomer in this city, he'd had to appear clean and clean-shaven at all times in order to be invited to Guild dinners in the first place. Arturo was a watchmaker by birth, but an Armestadter by trade. Upon arrival, he'd made it his vocation to steep himself in the city's stereotypes and culture: first to earn his residence, and then to earn a living. Flowing locks might be accepted on imported cats and hounds, but the city's great and good would only brush shoulders with a certain kind of immigrant.

He wore his curls cropped-close, his brown cheeks bare, and a simple, pressed white shirt - always tailoring his personality to match, keeping within the box they'd made for men like him. People wanted to do business with young Arturo, the neat and tidy islander whose impeccable service always came with a bow and a smile. He'd had to dispense with his traditional dress, his long, braided hair, and his pride most of all. They would not take him as he'd come, independent and free, so he'd suffered in subservience - and found pride in his work instead.

"Disasters?" That had his attention, even more than the talk of keeping time.

"Without a bearing, ships can be lost. Have been, in fact - and more than a few. Small wonder that the Admiral is making this a priority."

"Of course." The gears in his own mind were still turning. "Do you mind explaining how it works? I have a professional interest, you see."

"Well, from what I was able to grasp - and I am far from an expert, you understand - if a clock is set at its home port, and well-maintained, the navigator can simply check the time wherever he is and compare the two. The difference is his longitude: the number of degrees east or west."

"How would he know the local time?"

"Why, by observing the heavens!" Lord Gastan spoke as if it was obvious, the numbers plastered across the sky. "Again, I am hardly a mariner myself, but I gather that this is what sextants and such are for."

He talked as a man who often gathered, but rarely sowed. Lord Gastan was not the type to work the field himself. Arturo doubted he'd ever held a sextant, or any other tool more complex than the oyster fork he waved to make his point. It was his liberty to talk about such things as matters-of-fact, another man's life's work distilled into an anecdote, enjoying the fruits of a knowledge he had never had to earn.

Arturo eyed his shabby, ill-fitting clothes with contempt. Not for the style - having grown up on hand-me-downs himself, he had no right nor inclination to prejudge a book by its jacket - but that he was able to carry it off, due to the vest of privilege worn underneath. A chainmail forged from silver spoons. How much had he saved for his Guild dinner clothes, fretting each time over starching them enough? All when Lord Gastan could roll into this grand hall as if it was his drawing room. The nouveau riche could afford to dress well, but only old money could afford not to.

"That does sound useful." Arturo was an expert in the detail of his craft, but he hadn't considered such far-reaching applications. "But we have perfectly well-functioning clocks. I work on them every day. Forgive me, but I fail to see the problem."

"Well, this is your profession, not mine." Lord Gastan didn't try to hide his exhaustion with this line of questioning, but Arturo let the sigh go without comment. He was glad to be the bore for a moment. "But it is all to do with the pendulum. A reliable timekeeper on land, yes, but it simply cannot abide life at sea. The temperature, motion, corrosion, friction, lubrication..."

"I see." Arturo smiled. The pendulum. He would simply have to make a clock without its central part. "Well, I could certainly take a stab at that."

"If you wish to add your name, any and all attempt are welcome," Lord Gastan said, both magnanimous and patronising. "The two-hundred arum reward has attracted many young hopefuls. Of course, only the Masters have succeeded at a Trials before."

"Of course," Arturo echoed. He was not a capital letters Master, nor had much prospect of becoming one, though it was not for want of skill. In its lower case, he had achieved mastery within months of arrival; after years to hone consistency, he now produced a masterpiece every other week. But ability was not enough. Even Armestadt, that great beacon of talent, was far from a meritocracy.

The rank could only be bestowed by invitation from the Guild, and the Guild was comprised of Masters. They had grown old and rich on the backs of imported genius, young minds to be apprenticed and bound to their brands, shackled to their workshops with a distant promise of inheritance. They saw no reason to end that careful balance; the gate they kept barely ajar, so that they alone could mete out the proceeds of their work. They had no reason to promote him from inferior to equal; from underdog to competitor.

Arturo had forged his own path, but it had been a narrow, winding one, and it could only take him so far. He was a man who preferred his own company, to be left to - and with - his own devices, but he needed these dinners, the charity of patrons, in place of a Master to serve and suckle from. Then there was the prospect of these Trials: two-hundred arums would fund his work for months, or reduce his reliance on sponsors like Lord Gastan. For an independent Maker, it was a tempting reward all its own. But Arturo had another prize set in his sights, and it was worth far more to him than gold.

After dinner he retired to his workshop, the place where he'd strived to retire so many of his competitors. Arturo had never lacked for motivation, but now he was charged with a new focus: Lord Gaston had sold him the vision of a clock that could go anywhere in the world, and still dance to his beat with perfect rhythm. At least, Arturo thought, he had a project worthy of his talent. After years toiling in the shadows of the greats, this would be his masterpiece.

Armestadt was the city of the future. There were others with more prestige, certainly, more intellectual pedigree - and the Guild might have chosen the university towns of Tornfut and Roelm to seed its roots, if it had wanted thirsty minds and bright ideas, or the market capital of Hasanbout, if it was in need of golden arums most of all, raw materials and hefty coffers to buy them.

But it had settled here. Not for knowledge of the past, or the riches of the present, but the promise of the future. Armestadt was a city of Makers, most of all. Its bustling streets were crowded with all manner of artisans who had dedicated lives to their particular professions: polymaths who expounded genius with their hands rather than words, alchemists who created things from iron worth far more than their weight in gold.

It was Makers who crafted the specific, delicate pieces required for the advancement of Science - lenses for refracting light, intricate pulley mechanisms - and thus kept the wheels of progress moving on. Since his arrival in this foreign land, it was all Arturo had ever wanted to be. He had been powerless, impoverished, and knew that he could never gain the wealth or power lords like Gastan had been born with. But he could have knowledge, and talent, and graft. As a Maker, he could make himself their equal.

His workshop was nestled in the crook between Candlewick Lane and Creechurch Street, a thin building whose bulging bow windows gave the impression of being squeezed by its neighbours. It was an expensive part of town, with space at a premium, but convenient for his clients and potential benefactors. A twenty-minute walk from the Guildhall, if he made good time - and Arturo always did.

It was also his temple. He did most of his work in a narrow room, cluttered with all sorts of contraptions, half-finished, half-begun. It was a house of clockwork faces ticking in step, as Arturo did himself: he heard the music of the passing time, and knew how to play it on almost any instrument. His lungs breathed with the second hand, his heart beat with the pendulum.

Or not. He would have to find another way.

It wouldn't be the first attempt. There had been experiments with springs, for pocket-watches and carriage-clocks, but so far they'd lacked the precision of his more traditional work. Portable clocks were a novelty - some found them for short-term use, but they lacked the perfect accuracy Arturo had always craved. Still, if the Admiralty demanded it, he would have to see what he could do. He had long laboured at perfection; now he set his sights higher still.

It could be said that the HRS Azimuth was doomed that night: the moment the crew's fate was sealed behind glass, wound up and set to run. But their end might have been foretold even earlier, on another ship, bringing Arturo to their shores - or perhaps on the ships of the past, heading to conquer the land where he'd been born. He was the fruit of those seeds; the reaper their ancestors had sowed. The enemy who'd grown here in their midst. The cuckoo who now emerged from amongst his clocks.

Armistadt was the city of the future, as all of its local nobles loved to boast. Unfortunately for them, Arturo hailed from one of the nations of the past. His homeland was a once-mighty kingdom, brought low by the greed of its own rulers, and dragged lower by the greed of their new ones: imperialists who'd arrived to trade their sovereignty for a handful of magic beans, trinkets such as those he now made for their approval. When one man can be bribed to sell his kingdom, even the likes of Lord Gastan were rich enough to buy a crown.

Conquest had been a matter of business. They'd taken over the local mines, replaced their textiles, all industries now run from Hasanbout, native owners paid off for a fraction of their worth. With no opportunity at home, Arturo's peers had fled the sinking ship: their best minds flocked to Tornfut and Roelm, to learn how to supplant their mother tongue, to memorise the approved version of history. So it was that the ship continued to sink, with no-one left who knew how to right it again.

Arturo had arrived in Armestadt no better, but with little other choice: there were no Makers at home, no patrons, no Guild. If he wanted to master his craft, as he so sorely did, he would have to do it here. Armestadt was the city of the future, and it drew it in from miles around, leaving other places with little future left. This city was oft described as a melting pot, but Arturo had worked with furnaces, and knew that raw materials rarely arrived willingly. They were wheeled in as tributes to the flames; a sacrifice to something greater than themselves.

All four cities were a distortion that sat low across the landscape, a drain that drank in a hemisphere. Armestadt drew in talent as Hasanbout did cobalt, gold and iron ore, as Tornfut and Roelm did raw intelligence, and they all thrived like ticks upon their host. But such asset stripping was not without its costs. Trading routes were slung like grappling hooks across a vast and hostile continent, harpoons buried in the belly of a great whale, forgetting that roads run in two direction - and, once hitched, could be boarded from the other side. They exported resentment, and imported revenge.

Arturo made for an unassuming architect of destruction, stooped over his workbench: bow spectacles perched upon his nose, bow window allowing in the first glimpse of dawn to filter through. He worked delicately, as if wiring the clock to explode - his nimble touch dictating hands more graceful still, its calamity calibrated to the minute and minutest detail. He'd always taken care over his work, but this device might be his only chance to call an empire's time of death. Moreso than ever, he had to make it count.

Time was of the essence, with the Trials so soon. He worked around the clock, and then again, tinkering with every aspect to perfection, and then adding his imperfection back in. The trap would need to be intricate, to avoid detection by the judges, or those who oversaw the final installation. But nobody saw him now. The political philosophers loved to ask who watched the watchman, whilst the watchmaker entirely slipped their lofty gaze.

Arturo toiled for sleepless nights and restless days, counting down the seconds, one lined face above another. Time danced for him, allowing him to fit a month's work in a week, and he aged a year in exchange. But all that sacrifice was worth it. When the day of the Trials arrived, the device was finally ready: a carriage clock to fit a ship, more and less accurate than any that had come before. Arturo had cut his teeth on grandfather clocks, and now he'd created a clock worthy of his unborn grandchildren. Time had danced for him, and he'd plucked this dial straight out of the next century.

As promised, the Trials were flush with Masters. Arturo knew most of them by reputation, or past encounters, all of them disappointing. Lord Gastan had also shown up for the big event, along with some other high-rolling patrons of the Guild, as had the top brass of the admiralty. It was as if his whole world had been condescend into the docks for the day - or at least the ceiling that had always kept it contained. These were the limits of his present, and the pathway to his future.

As a late entry, and the lowest in seniority, Arturo's was the last scheduled attempt. He liked it that way. He was able to sit back and watch the so-called Masters expose each others' flaws, failing and falling one-by-one, before he took to the floor and exposed them all again. He needn't have worried so much before; or perhaps his fears had been well-placed, and driven him to resolve each and every one. Either way, there were no worries on the day. It all went like clockwork.

Going last, and coming first, meant that his coronation was easily lined up. Arturo stood clear as the most successful applicant, and there could be no doubt that his work had improved on all those who had come before. The device had worked just as intended; meaning that it worked well, for now, and didn't reveal the secret at its heart. Many of the Masters hadn't stayed past their own failed attempts, and Arturo thought it was the shame the whole Guild couldn't see his coronation - but it was sweet enough to be crowned by none other than the Admiral himself.

"I must congratulate you," he said, clasping his arm with a presumptuous hand. "Master...?"

"Arturo," he said, not bothering to make the correction. There was no stolen valour there. The rank was a formality he'd more than earnt in practice. "I am new to the Guild, but rising fast."

"As I see." The Admiral had seen what little he had permitted, but was the sort of man who liked to feel in charge. "Yours was an unexpected entry, as I understand, but the admiralty is fortunate that you decided to compete. You have your people's gratitude."

Arturo did not doubt it; though he suspected the Admiral was mistaken as to whom his people were. He was grateful now for the onerous Guild dinners, all of the practice with the likes of Lord Gastan, which had been rehearsal for this main event. He smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled. He was a metalworker, amongst everything else, and he knew how to manipulate the highest brass.

"It is my honour to serve," he said; a poor facsimile of patriotism, his mouth dry in the salt air. He was a far better liar with his hands. It was fortunate that these men heard only what they wanted to hear. "The fortune is all mine. But I have to thank Lord Gastan for his patronage. It was he who inspired me to stand before you here today."

He waved to his beloved patron, who seized this invitation to come and stand there with them. Lord Gastan had derived such pride from his previous conversation with the Admiral - none other, you understand - and Arturo knew he wouldn't resist a chance to bask in this reflected glory.

"Well, I can't quite take all of the credit," he said, as one who still felt tempted to give it a try. "But yes, it was my suggestion, I confess. I have always believed in the promise of Arturo here, and thought that this might be just the project for his keen and brilliant young mind."

Lord Gastan was hubris as always, but Arturo did not begrudge him the idea. It was true that, had they never spoken, he might well not be here today. He had planted the seeds of this ambition: the device, the Trials, the Admiralty's hour of need. There had been much about dogs and moustaches besides, but Arturo supposed that not everything the man said could be waffle. What was it they said about broken clocks?

"In fact," he said, "His Lordship deserves to enjoy the fruits of his inspiration. I have other commissions which keep me here, alas, rather than accompany my device on its grand voyage, but please, let him set sail in my place. If there is bounty, let him claim a share of it, in compensation for his generous patronage. If there is glory, doubly so."

"On uncharted seas? At my time of life?" Lord Gastan was as full of bluster as the dockside wind. "Oh, come now. In my youth, perhaps; but my seafaring days are long since past. I leave such adventures to the courage of younger men."

The Admiral coughed, perhaps to indicate that the pair were of an age; Arturo took the opening. "Oh but my lord, surely you do not doubt that the Admiral can keep you safe and secure? On his own flagship, no less? I am but a humble Makers, but surely our fleet are the power upon any waters they so choose to sail. Can you really question that?"

"I cannot," he conceded, although his eyes said otherwise.

"It won't be as frightful as it seems," the Admiral moved to assure him. "Ours is only an expeditionary voyage: to see and then return, with no drawn out engagements. We are simply to observe the unobserved; wonders never seen before by civilised man. I can offer you every comfort. Of course, it goes without saying that you can share my personal quarters."

Lord Gastan brightened at that prospect; a captive audience for his tedium. "You honour me, Lord Admiral."

"The honour will be mine, I am sure, to have such an esteemed guest upon our maiden voyage."

Arturo let them carry on the dance. He had learnt some of the steps, some of the words, across his early Guild dinners, but only aristocrats truly had the gift of it: like the food served, the language of diplomacy was too rich for an artificer's palate, and sickening in any but the merest quantities. Only those born to wealth, having been raised on its receiving end, actually had the stomach to enjoy it.

If Lord Gastan suspected a trap, he no longer shied away. He might recognise Arturo's insincerity, but think his motive plain: favour, patronage, influence with the Guild. He would be accustomed to such flattery, after all: the efforts of ambitious Makers to curry favour with whatever they had to offer as a bribe, compliments and complimentary mechanisms. All bare-faced manipulation, but all in good taste. He had courted such courtship himself, in attending Guild events. It he did not enjoy it, he would not have been there.

Arturo smothered the inner protests of his own anaemic pride. Against all odds, he had acquired two champions of the highest rank; with their support, should he continue, he would surely now make Master within the year. With a foot in that door, his path would be cleared for the next decade: to greater recognition, arums more than he could need, commissions to the greatest in the land. But he was himself a champion to others, from before he had arrived at these docks, and his first duty was to them.

At 3:15 on 18 August, the crew of the HRS Azimuth could feel that something was wrong.

They knew no fear upon these waters. Theirs was the flagship of the expeditionary fleet, the apex of the admiralty's ambition, the quill which would better divide the globe from Hasanbout. With sister ships to starboard and port, fore and aft, they'd set a course over the edges of the map, afraid of no peril or piracy that might assail them. They were the cutting edge that pierced the veil of ignorance: the Masters had crafted a sharper deadrise for speed, more powerful cannon for strength. Every plank of their ship was state-of-the-art.

Of course, that was where they were undone. Arturo's art had served a different state, a different muse. Following the successful Trials, he had been commission to outfit the whole fleet with his perfected chronometers, each set to the same exact time. He decked them out and cabined them in, a device wherever one might fit, and the Admiral was pleased to stand upon the future's gleaming prow: a line of shining clockwork galleons, a dozen cogs filled with a thousand gears and pinions.

It was a fortnight out to sea before the fear made itself known to them. For some, having grown used to the rhythm over the past weeks, it was simply a silence they couldn't place: a hole in the air, a lacuna in the melody of lashing surf and ocean gales. Amongst the music of the far side of the world, they'd been soothed by the ticking of a shell held to their ears, a clockwork conch that held the sound of home.

Some officers, with devices in their quarters, their every hour, minute and second tolled away, had found themselves attuned to that metronome: their breathing subconsciously aligned, their heartbeat keeping pace. It had become a crutch, taken for granted, until it fell out from underneath them; at 3.15 they found themselves stumbling, awoken gasping from their sleep without knowing why, before their assorted organs remembered how they'd functioned before.

For the navigators, it was an even graver problem. The night shift were already a skeleton crew, and they didn't notice when their bearings disappeared: the clocks simply stopped, frozen at a quarter past, and it was several minutes before they realised it had been a few. They tried to keep track, but there was no hope of counting on their own. From that point on, their hours were already numbered.

The next bearing was wrong. Days of ocean in every direction, not a glimpse of land in sight. As ever, Arturo had timed it to perfection. Stripped of its ability to navigate, the ship had been forsaken on the open sea: at the mercy of the winds and the tides and the twinkling mockery of the stars above, tracing a map that none on board had ever learnt to read. Such was the price of progress. Each advance in understanding covered over its own foundations.

Arturo knew all about that. Armestadt was the city of the future, and it built atop whatever past it came across, diverse cultures buried underneath its steel grey perfection. The progress of this expedition had a price that he had deemed too great to pay - and so he buried them instead. There were no bells to toll their death, nor the salvation of the lands which would go unrobbed, unmolested by the hunger of their endless tomorrow. The sand in the hourglass simply ran out, as the HRS Azimuth was quietly lost to time.

#writing #short story #writeblr #creative writing #original writing

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linddzz · 2 years

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Tell me about corals?

Many tropical coral species are colorful because of a single cellular algae that live in their tissue called zooxanthellae. The algae photosynthesizes and provide coral with the majority of their energy via the extra sugars the algae produce in this process, but corals also can absorb nutrients directly from the water and ALSO capture and eat small prey. Which means they were given a list of ways to gain energy and hit "all of the above".

Whenever you hear about coral bleaching, it refers to a stress response that causes the coral to reject their zooxanthellae. There are multiple reasons this can happen but heat and pollution are the most common. (The heat is why coral bleaching events often happen in the hottest months of the region).

Bleaching isn't the same as death, but they can look similar. A bleached coral does not have the pigment from the algae so you can see the white aragonite skeleton through the now translucent tissue. While not a death sentence it does make the coral extremely vulnerable to diseases and they can eventually starve without their symbiont photosynthesizing.

A dead coral has lost all of the tissue that covers the aragonite, and over time algae grow on the leftover skeleton until it resembles the rest of the reef rock. Diseases that cause tissue loss often affect parts of the coral so there can be patches of missing tissue until it spreads through the colony and finally kills it. Stress from pollution and changes in environment hurt coral immune systems to disease outbreaks are becoming more severe and lasting longer (the tissue loss disease hitting the East Atlantic reefs has been going and spreading since starting in Florida in 2014.) A big hurdle is coral disease is insanely complicated due to well...these brainless sessile rock animals also being stupidly complicated when it comes to their microbiome.

Most coral diseases are described as a bunch of symptoms, with a primary pathogen difficult to impossible to isolate with current knowledge. The good news is the world of coral conservation is expanding rapidly with way more minds on it from different fids. There's a lot of collaboration taking off between field work, pathologists, ocean nurseries, and closed system aquarists sharing information. Lots of places are doing lots of different things with the understanding that the more angles of attack and more things being tried, the better. Some cool stuff happening include:

-Ark projects taking corals from healthy areas of reefs to house in aquariums to preserve a gene bank that can be used for future repopulation. This is done for other animals in zoos and aquariums but doing it for coral is new.

-Asexual reproduction nurseries breaking off pieces of coral to grow either in an aquarium nursery or in nurseries on reefs to then be replanted. While it doesn't preserve genetic diversity as much this keeps coral cover in vulnerable areas to keep the reef going. Many of these places will also remove corals from regions that are under threat from development to move them to a healthier region or build new reefs to protect shorelines.

-"Jump-start" programs for genetic diversity. A big problem with sexual reproduction is as reefs die corals may be too far apart for spawnings to be successful. Field researchers teamed up with aquarists almost a decade ago for the first time to go out and collect eggs and sperm from yearly spawns of selected sites. These are taken to a nearby place to fertilize the eggs, raise larva until they settle onto specialized substrate which can then be "seeded" onto a reef. This exponentially ups the survival rate of coral larvae through that first step that typically only one in a million would survive. Currently the project is working on making the process as cheap and streamline as possible and working more with island populations so people won't need an expensive facility or man hours to do this.

-Induced captive spawning. One of the newer tactics and VERY COOL. Captive corals are kept in specialized systems to recreate a year on the reef. To spawn the corals need to have a year of seasonal changes in daylight PLUS the light from the monthly lunar cycle. Facilities in warm enough areas can keep corals in greenhouses allowing natural light to do this, but new tech (mostly from the home hobby side of aquarium keeping, just to add more complicated nuance) allows places to program specialized lights, pumps, heaters and chillers together to artificially recreate all these conditions.

Downside is it takes a ton of money and manpower. A TON. STUPID AMOUNTS. The plus side is a few places have successfully gotten spawnings multiple years in a row that happen at the same time as the wild spawnings happen, and baby corals born and raised completely in captivity outplanted on reefs show promising results! This also allows much more fine tuning and control for targeted breeding of especially healthy and resilient coral.

A lot of coral conservation is in this state I've heard described as "throwing tracks down in front of the runaway train because we don't know how the train works yet." But the promising news is that there are a LOT of minds throwing those tracks down and working on the train.

#coral reefs #reef conservation #a big takeaway is for any conservation work there is never One Golden Solution #long post #text post

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solinarimoon · 2 years

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Seeds We Sow - Undergrowth

AN: Get ready to glimpse our sweet lost boy who I adore with my whole heart

Warnings: PTSD fueled dreams, orphans, mentions of previous sexual violence/rape

Word Count: 3484

Fields of Wildflowers Masterlist

Seeds We Sow Masterlist

My Full Masterlist

AO3 if you prefer

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

“Cwen, enough,” Aethelstan groaned, “I know my letters. Fluently, I might add. I knew them prior to being in your charge. And I know the noble houses, the lords and ladies and their estates and histories. I know my grandfather’s legacy remains unfulfilled.”

The young man - Cwen could no longer think of him as a mere boy - was pleading with her to end his studies for the time being so he could focus his energy away from sharpening his mind to sharpening his swordcraft. In the months since he had begun his training, she was astonished to see the change in Aethelstan. It had taken some time to bring out his more offensive side, his upbringing to this point having taught self-defense and preservation. But after a few good wallops from Uhtred and the men, the lessons began to take hold.

Cwen regularly visited the training grounds to bring the men lunch or to have a glance at her husband’s skill. Sihtric’s prowess on the battlefield would always bring about a primal and base reaction from her. He, along with his fellow warrior brothers could move with the graceful and efficient ease of a wolf overtaking their prey. But it was not without their continual practice and exercise. And witnessing the gradual but steady emergence of confidence and skill in Aethelstan was a testament to their tutelage as well.

The long months before, when Cwen had been anxious to allow Aethelstan to step onto the training grounds felt like a lifetime ago. In that time, her belly had expanded to accommodate the growing child she carried. Sihtric’s hair had continued to grow out from the style he sported when they were residing in Saltwic. And Aethelstan continued to grow. He had reached Cwen’s eye level last winter and now, as summer approached, she had to crane her neck upward to look at him. And his muscles were catching up to him as well.

Before, he was tall and lanky with the ganglyness of a youth. Now, after the months spent sweating and sparring, his arms showed the definition of his hard work. His chest and shoulders had grown broad. And when he joined them for meals, he ate as much as Sihtric, a fully grown man with the appetite to match.

“You still have not shown me you have a head for numbers and their logic, Aethelstan. It is a skill that can be invaluable for a leader,” she replied while they walked along the stalls of the market, “Or simply in the managing of a household,” she finished while passing a smile and some coin to a trader for a bolt of cloth. “Now this should be enough for me to get yet another pair of pants made for you,” she laughed mildly in reference to his continued growth.

Midweek market day was the busiest day of the week for Rumcofa. Traders along the river regularly stopped and set up stalls along the main street and bartered with the residents who in turn traded their own coin or supplies. It was a strong cornerstone of the burg, showcasing the nature and attitude and success of its people, forging a future of unity and understanding. A harmony between Saxon and Dane.

“Oh very well,” she relented, laughing at the smile that flooded Aethelstan’s face, “we can relax our lessons some. I will speak with Uhtred about it. A working tactical understanding of numbers and math can save you and your fellow soldiers when it comes to battle or when mapping out strategies. That is something Uhtred can instruct you on, I am sure.

And I will never stop teaching you things. It is in my nature, Aethelstan. I will always push you to learn and make yourself better.”

As they walked, Cwen continued on explaining herself. Secretly, she was enjoying making the young man squirm having to listen to her just another minute longer. She could feel the anxious energy radiating off him as they strolled. He was like a puppy waiting on its master to toss a stick. Ready to take action but not able to do so without her leave.

“I have learned to expect nothing less, Cwen. Thank you,” he paused, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He glanced around the corner of the stall, clearly distracted. “Would you like me to help you carry your purchases home before I go?”

“No, dear boy, go on. You are clearly chomping at the bit,” she had barely finished her words before she jumped, startled at how quickly he heeded her permission. He turned on his heel and sped back the way they had come. As she watched him retreat, another figure emerged from beside a stall to fall in step with him, quickly making their way away from the hustle and bustle of the street. The other young man appeared a bit taller than Aethelstan but with a thinner frame and hair tied back with rough braids. Clearly, Aethelstan knew him and had been keen to meet up with him. She watched as Aethelstan clapped his friend on the shoulder, a large grin on his face as they greeted one another.

Rumcofa was still a relatively small burg. There were a few small homesteads in the surrounding countryside and for the most part everyone knew one another. But when the other boy cast a quick glance back over his shoulder as they jogged out of sight, Cwen frowned. She did not know his face.

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

Later that evening, Cwen sighed and leaned her head back to rest against Sihtric’s chest. He slid his arms around her, laying his hands gently against her firm, round bump and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Have you been on your feet all day, love?” His mustache whiskers tickled her as he nibbled on her earlobe and kissed her neck. She laughed at the sensation and squirmed her shoulder up in reaction but did not pull away.

“Practically,” she replied once her laughter had subsided. “After I gave Aethelstan leave to go train with you all this morning, I took care of the chickens,”

“I remembered the eggs this morning!” He protested interrupting her.

“I know, thank you dear husband,” she laughed heartily before continuing, “then I spent some time at The Fireside helping Neel.”

Cwen moved out of his arms and continued moving their dinner from warming on the hearth to the small table. Sihtric scooped up the bread from the stones by the fireside and pulled out Cwen’s chair.

“Then rest your feet, my lady. Let us eat,” he kissed her temple as she sat before seating himself across from her.

Cwen rested her hand across her stomach, feeling the child shift themselves as she settled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply a moment, weariness settling in now that she was still.

“Is my child kicking you again,” Sihtric asked, causing Cwen to open her eyes and glance across the table. Sihtric smirked at her before taking another bite of their stew. When she had first begun to feel the child move, those small butterfly wing flutters, it had caused him some amount of jealousy that they were too faint for him to begin feeling right away. But soon enough the child had begun regularly disrupting Cwen’s sleep with their shifting and kicking. And the first time Sihtric was able to feel a tiny foot swipe across Cwen’s stomach, his jaw dropped in shock and awe. He continued to be fascinated at how his wife’s body grew and adapted to bring their child into the world.

“Yes, your child does not like me to be still. They’re content to let me be about my business during my waking hours and while I am up and moving. It’s quiet times when they are at their most active. But I am so tired today, I hope I sleep easily.”

Sihtric nodded his head and hummed in reply, before furrowing his brow slightly.

“You said you gave Aethelstan leave to come train with us this morning?” he asked, pausing with his spoon midway from his bowl to his mouth.

“I did,” Cwen replied, glancing up from her own bowl.

“We did not see him this morning.”

“No,” she asked, “where…” she trailed off thinking back to the stranger who had joined Aethelstan that morning in his haste to leave.

Sihtric watched his wife for any clue what she may be thinking, before her continued, “No, he did eventually show up but it was well into the afternoon, once we’d broken for lunch and rounds to check on the guards. Nothing seemed amiss. And he trained hard. The boy is improving.”

Cwen smiled sadly, “I fear we can no longer call him a boy. He is far from the child he was when we first arrived here. He is taller than me now!” She glanced over at the bundle of fabric she’d brought home from the market for his new pants, the thoughts about Aethelstan’s unknown companion slipping from her mind.

They finished up their dinner and soon slipped into bed, both exhausted from the day's activities. Sihtric gently weaved his fingers in and out of Cwen’s hair soothingly as she drifted off to sleep.

But her sleep was not restful.

Her dreams were haunted with images and feelings of emptiness.

The muscles of her jaw strained and the relaxed tone of her shoulders was erased. Replaced with tension and tremors.

It was dark. Only a stray shaft of moonlight here and there littered the forest floor as she ran barefoot across the moss. Something pursued her.

No noises. No movement gave away a presence. But she knew it was there. A prickle of the hairs standing on end along the curve of her neck. The feel of the air against her skin as she ran. It felt wrong. Tainted.

Empty.

Suddenly, a vast…. Nothingness expanded across the forest towards her right. Her steps faltered and she turned to look at the blank, empty void. Cwen felt it reaching, searching. Slinking tendrils of the eerie emptiness reached outwards towards her.

Turning on her toes, Cwen sped away from the blankness. Her voice caught in her throat as she tried to call out. After only a few steps, her feet and legs slowed against her will. And then the void was on her, twining underneath her feet and grasping at her ankles.

She fell to the forest floor, heavily. Flat on her stomach. She tasted the metallic burst of blood from where she bit into her tongue at the impact of her chin. Instinctively, Cwen curled in on herself, cradling her arms against her abdomen. Her flat abdomen.

Panic clutched at her. Smothering her. Suffocating her.

The baby. Where is my baby?

She fanned her fingers out across the flesh of her stomach. Where there should have been the bump of her child growing in her womb, it was just flat flesh. She lifted herself up onto her knees, kneeling over onto herself and dug her fingers into the damp earth, feeling the dirt lodge underneath her fingernails. She felt the life and movement in the soil, the earth’s life blood. But nothing of her child. She could not feel the child.

Bending over on herself, she cried out. This time a choking, strangled sob managed to escape her lips. Tears tracked long dirt stained trails down her face. They dripped to the forest floor and landed with an echoing thud. Heavy and unnatural.

“Missing something, Cwen?”

His voice froze her. The tension in her body intensified and she lifted her head to watch as the void retreated. Replaced by the silhouette of a man. Arrogance and greed dripped from him as he stepped closer to her. She could feel his malice radiate and land on her. A spectral chain charming forward and dragging her down.

“How does it feel, Cwen?” He continued walking towards her. The length of his strides changing as he walked. One step bringing him near, one step shoving him backwards. One step the length of 3 normal strides. One step barely bringing any movement at all. Cwen shook her head and tried to force sense into the disorienting flow of this scene.

“I asked you a question, Cwen.”

His voice was quiet now, coming at her from all sides.

“How does the emptiness feel? I told you then. I told you before all this. My life would not be one left empty. I would find my due. For my family name to be restored.”

Cwen’s mind whirred in panic. These were words she heard before. In angered thrusts and violence as he used her. As he found a place to exert power when so much of his life’s power lay at others feet. But he could overpower her. And he had.

“You thought you could save yourself from me. That you could fill yourself with life after what you did to me.”

Cwen dug her fingers deeper into the soil and felt the pain of grit and dirt edging beneath her nails. Eardwulf had stopped moving. He now stood, his eyes transfixed on her. But frozen as if there was an invisible barrier he dared not approach.

“Cwen!” A voice called for her in the distance. It sounded thick and slow. Like she was hearing it through mud.

“Sihtric!” Her mouth formed his name but no amount of screaming produced a sound. And her eyes never left him. She was frozen as he was. Too terrified to take her eyes off of him.

“Cwen!” Closer but still hazy and unclear.

Again, she was aware of the acrid taste of blood along her tongue. She had bitten down on it again, swallowing her fear.

She closed her eyes shut tight, on instinct as Eardwulf shifted his stance, raising on the balls of his feet.

Then she jolted upright, gasping out and shoving their blankets off and away from her.

“Cwen, it’s alright,” Sihtric tried to place his hands on her shoulders, his voice low, and soothing. He had done this before. Been her support after dreams plagued her sleep.

But this time felt different.

She still heard him as if from a distance and fear still gripped her. Her breaths still came in shallow gasps and she pushed him away, while crawling back against their headboard and pushing herself into the corner. She felt pain on one side of her tongue. Her eyes scanned their tiny home, looking for monsters in the shadows.

She missed the shift in his face from worry and concern to pain. Hurt that she would recoil from him, from his touch.

He held his hands up, his palms facing her and stood up and back from the bed. Moving the threat away from her. Because at that moment, she was seeing a threat. She wasn’t seeing him. She was still trapped in whatever nightmare was tormenting her.

“Cwen, settle down, please. The baby…”

His words broke through and she looked at his face, meeting his eye and feeling the tears spill past the brim of her lashes. He saw her eyes flash with recognition as her mind caught up to being awake. In panic, she cupped her arms around herself and felt the firm bulge of her abdomen.

“Sihtric,” she choked out his name, stifled by the wracking sob that was overcoming her. It was a call. A call for help. A call to him, now that her world was awake once more.

At once, he was at her side, cradling her against his chest and enveloping her in his arms. Encasing her in his shelter and safety.

He murmured the words that he knew helped bring her back to him. Helped quiet the terror that her nightmares awoke in her.

He told her she was safe. He told her to feel his arms around her and his heart beating for her. He told her to feel her breath, in and out. She was safe. Eardwulf can never harm her again.

After many more minutes, Cwen felt the tension of her shoulders relax, felt her fists balled into Sihtric’s tunic unclench. Her breaths were still ragged, still carrying pain. But they had evened out and were slowing down. She tried to focus on Sihtric’s fingers, running through her hair and along the arch of her back, slow and gentle. But firm. Solid. Grounding. He was there with her and her child was safe.

She slid one of her arms away from herself and around him to nestle closer. To bring him into her.

“This time was different, wasn’t it?” His words were calm and gentle. Not prying or demanding.

She nodded her head against his chest, sniffling.

“I’m sorry, I know it has been so long. Since before we were expecting the child. I haven't had a dream about him I’m so long.”

“Do not apologize. Not to me or to anyone else, darling.”

He paused, continuing to stroke her hair and rub smooth, soothing lines along her arms.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He felt her body still slightly, only for a moment before her breathing started back and her shoulders eased down again.

“It was him and it was not him. It was more than him. This time.” She paused in between her words. Feeling the thoughts on her tongue. True, the dream had been very different than the others that would occasionally invade her sleep. This one was more than just the remnants of her past traumas. It was… foreboding. It was odd. It had a feel of dread. For the future. Instead of the pain of the past.

“This time there was this…” she struggled to find a word that felt right. “It was a nothingness. A vast emptiness that just flowed out of and around him.”

She pulled herself tighter into him. Awkward with the roundness of her belly, but still he molded his body to the curves of her.

“And he kept mentioning it. Emptiness. And something about filling an emptiness with life.”

Cwen could feel her fear rising again as she remembered her hands on her stomach. At the knowledge that she should have felt life there but instead there was nothing.

“And the child was gone. In the dream, I was not pregnant. But I was still searching for the babe. For our child. Like I knew there was a child, our child that needed me, but I could not see it. I could not find it.”

“Hush now, shhhh,” he cooed. He placed his hand along her lower ridge of her stomach, just as the child growing inside her shifted.

“Feel that,” he smiled at her as the both found themselves chuckling lightly, the precious movement under his hand breaking the spell of pain that wrenched at their hearts. “That is our child, full of life already. It is just a dream, my love. Your past and your worry for the future mingling together to cause you grief when you should be resting. But it is not real. This babe moving inside your womb and my love for you. Me holding you. That is real. Feel that, Cwen. Feel that.”

Cwen sighed, leaning her head back to rest against Sihtric’s shoulder and look up at him. “I know you are probably right, Sihtric. Worry about the future is likely the culprit in this dream feeling so odd. I miss Eadith and would have loved to have her with me for the birth. And that boy with Aethelstan, in the market today. I am curious about him. I suppose all of it can mingle in one's brain and do strange things to dreams.”

“What boy in the market? You didn’t mention anyone with Aethelstan before.” Cwen could feel his words gently guiding her mind in another direction. She was thankful for it.

“Did I not? As he left the market, another boy joined up with him and they clearly knew one another. I felt sure he was another village boy who was joining you all to train but I did not know his face,” Cwen trailed off, tiredly. The rush of emotions and trauma leaving her feeling weak and full of exhaustion.

The little one shifted themselves once more and Cwen smiled through a slight gasp. Once again, her mind was shifted away from the events of the morning and back to the present.

“This child of yours is strong.”

She looked down at her hand, resting flat atop Sihtrics on her stomach. “Don’t worry, little one. I know you’re there.”

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

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#the last kingdom #sihtric #tlk #fanfiction #tlk fan fic #sihtric x ofc #sihtric x oc #seeds we sow #fields of wildflowers #sihtric x cwen

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danpuff-ao3 · 1 year

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Hello DPuff!! I totally love your writing and have been following your astrology readings!! What can you make of me....and please be gentle..🙃 sun, mercury, Venus, Jupiter, Uranus and pluto...oh yeah and my ascendant are all in Virgo. Moon and Neptune - Scorpio. Mars - Leo. Mars - Leo. Saturn - Aries

Hello there, friend! I'd be glad to! :)

Let's see...

Sun - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Moon - Scorpio - water - Slytherin

Rising - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Mercury - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Venus - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Mars - Leo - fire - Gryffindor

Jupiter - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Saturn - Aries - fire - Gryffindor

Uranus - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

Neptune - Scorpio - water - Slytherin

Pluto - Virgo - earth - Hufflepuff

If you're not a Hufflepuff, I'll eat my hat. And the Sorting Hat. But let's looksy.

I don't really see a need to dive into the outer planets, but even looking at the outer planets as a whole...the interpersonal and generational planets sort of tally up to Hufflepuff altogether. Jupiter, Uranus, and Pluto in Virgo? A single fire and a single water out there. And only a single water and a single fire in the personal planets, too!

You have big Virgo energy, friend, and I respect it.

So for the sake of it, I'll start with your non-Virgo planets.

Mars, planet of drive and action, in Leo the fixed (stubborn) fire sign (energy, spirit.) So here we see a person driven by Leonine values. Creativity, attention/acknowledgement, generosity and loyalty. Someone moved to create, to be seen (either for the sake of adulation/praise/popularity, or just for the sake of being known.) Leo is a very warm, bright, lively energy. So we see that energy coloring how those actions are taken. With playfulness, with childlike enthusiasm, with passion, with kindness. There is also a sense of righteousness here, and arrogance, especially driven to great heights and prompted by Mars' more aggressive side. Very Gryffindor, with a healthy dollop of Hufflepuff on top.

Then we see the Moon (emotion, subconscious) in Scorpio the fixed (stubborn) water sign (emotion, intuition.) Scorpio is quite reserved, skeptical, tactical, intense. The moon is in fall in Scorpio, meaning the Moon's abilities don't work at best capacity in Scorpio energy. It's not bad, per se, just difficult. We see the same issue in Capricorn Moon, which is detriment. So in Scorpio there's this sense of...perhaps Scorpio being too emotional, too intense, too passionate, and that sense of fear I often see in water signs worsened here. Such an intensity of emotions that makes being really settled with one's emotions, or feeling fully internally settled and comforted can be difficult. There is also Scorpio's link to the dark and taboo; an ability to accept and understand darker truths about the self and others that aids in this stress. There is a strong fear of betrayal, and a strong sense of loyalty. Scorpio also represents shared possessions (inheritances), and desire intimate connection. Scorpio can be possessive. So I think this all sort of amplifies the fear, because there's this deep internal need to connect emotionally, and to share all of those uncomfortable realities with someone who can be trusted, and who Scorpio Moon can be safe with.

Very Slytherin in that sense of self-preservation, cleverness, resourcefulness all inherent to both Slytherin and Scorpio. Normally Scorpio gives me secondary Gryffindor vibes, but here this feels pretty strongly Slytherin, so I won't give it a secondary as of now.

And since we have so much Virgo elsewhere, let me explore a bit more here.

The moon is in Scorpio. Scorpio is ruled by Pluto modernly, which is in Virgo and giving us more Virgo vibes. But Scorpio is also ruled traditionally by Mars, which is in Leo. The ruler of the moon sign becomes the moon's dispositor. So with this, we see more of that Martian energy in the moon, and thus more of that specific Leonine Mars energy.

So we sort of amp up that Scorpio intensity with that Leo vibrancy. We can see this as a light source in a dark place. More Leonine creativity in that Scorpionic cleverness, more Leonine need to shine and be seen entwined with that Scorpionic need to connect. They don't fully blend, but there's a shade of Leo there perhaps lightening the room a bit.

Now...Virgo, my beloved. The mutable (changeable, adaptable) earth sign (stability, security.) Virgo is the Maiden and is ruled by Mercury. Virgo is service-oriented, and has a need for security. The need for security, the ability to adapt, and the Mercurial sense of knowledge, all blend together to make Virgo: practical, perfectionistic, critical, analytical, reliable, practical, skillful, smart, and humble. Virgo's need for security is based on the idea of "if things are perfect, I am safe. If things are correct, we'll be okay. If I make sure things are good and up to standard, then we won't have to worry."

So we see all of that in a lot of places. But especially among the personal planets: Sun, Ascendant, Mercury, and Venus? My goodness!

The sun is our core and ego. The Ascendant is how we react to the world, and how the world perceives us. Mercury is information; how we receive it (learning, thinking) and how we share it (communication, correspondence, travel.) Venus is love; love of others (romance, friendships) and the self (hobbies, interests.)

So Virgo sun is motivated by the urge to have practical skills, and to be useful. There is a need to be able to take care of oneself and others. A great inner need for security and stability. Its own drive to be reliable and work hard. To be prepared.

The Ascendant means that this is how people see you. As you go about life and throughout the world outside of yourself, there is this very Virgoan practicality and humbleness. Perhaps a put-together, or even fussy air. And to have Virgo Rising, means that Mercury is the chart ruler. Not only that, but Mercury is the dispositor of the sun. So that Virgo Sun is sort of amplified by having the dispositor in the same sign.

So...Virgo Mercury! Mercury is domicile in Virgo, meaning it can achieve its aims very well with Virgoan energy. So this gives a very practical sense to how one learns, and perhaps a focus on skills and subjects that are useful. Math (for taxes!), cooking (for sustenance!), etcetera. This gives a very analytical, meticulous way of thinking, too. A sharp mind with an attention to detail. Very focused and witty. Very intentional and thoughtful when communicating, very decisive, perhaps quite serious in nature. Dry, sarcastic humor, maybe.

And finally...Virgo Venus! The ultimate place for acts of service as a love language. A very quiet, subtle sort of love. A real sense of making sure the needs of loved ones are taken care of. One to check in on people, fuss over them a bit. Sort of mother hen in a way. Since Venus also covers hobbies and interests, we can see this as a lean towards practical interests, but also...as earth tends to be more of the physical, material world...especially interested in what is tangible. So perhaps crafty. Knitting, crocheting, maybe DIY projects. Useful and hands on might mean cooking, baking, organizing. The Mercurial mean might imply enjoyment of puzzles, word games, number games, etc. And a very "let's learn the rules, and stick to the rules. Let's make things happen! Let's do this, and do it right!" sort of approach to those things.

So...all of that...is heavy Hufflepuff vibes. That hard-working nature. The need to look after, care for others. Kindness and loyalty. Virgo can often have a Ravenclaw lean, too, for that focus on knowledge. Though the thirst for knowledge is more based in what that knowledge can provide. Virgo Mercury and the Sun have stronger Ravenclaw leanings, but I think the Virgo Venus is too strongly Hufflepuff to lean too far any other way.

So...yeah. Gotta for sure be:

HUFFLEPUFF!!!!

With me!!!! :D

#hp astro #astrology #hogwarts

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secretariatess · 1 year

Text

Kylin 2something

Marwick left earlier in the morning, headed to the villages to visit with Glae before the Elves had to return to their own kingdom. In his parting, he had left a renewed sense of an energy, an uplifting of spirits for both Amelia and Kylin.

When Marwick had vanished from view of Ameila’s cottage, Kylin decided it was time to start on the mare that he had been sent. On his way out to the pasture, he snatched one of the surviving apples from the preservation process.

The piebald mare was right in the middle of the pasture. Her head snapped up immediately when she saw him approaching the fence. Every muscle her body indicated she was ready to run should Kylin approach too close. Kylin slipped himself through the gap, eyeing a tree not too far from the horse, but reasonably a comfortable distance away to avoid from her. He headed over to it as casually as possible.

But moving anywhere near her direction was apparently enough. She whipped around and took off, tail and head high in the air. Kylin continued to his targeted spot, not giving her even a glance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stop and look back to see if he was giving chase. When he settled himself at the base of the tree, she turned in his direction, ears flicking all directions as she tried to make what she could of it.

He pulled out his journal and began to pretend that he was more interested in it than her. Like how Marta used her journal to record her experiences with different flora of the Veil, he primarily documented his encounters with inhabitants of the Veil. He had not written down all the events surrounding the carnivorous flower yet. During his time of healing at the headquarters, he had avoided doing so because he was not yet ready to have it written down as a permanent reminder. He continued putting it off while at Amelia’s, in part hoping that he would conveniently forget to do so. However, with the arrival of the mare, and Marwick’s visit, he now was given the resolve and opportunity to do it.

Perhaps not full resolve, he admitted to himself. It was much easier to let himself get distracted by the piebald who believed herself to be sneaky while approaching him than it was figuring out the first sentence he wanted to put down.

As he started putting words down, he was aware of the mare getting close enough to peer over his shoulder. Still thinking that he had no clue she was as close as she was, her breath could now be felt on his neck.

After he finished a paragraph, he asked her, “Is there something you’re looking for?”

This was very obviously a threat. She snorted hard and took off, tail high in the air. She only stopped when she realized he hadn’t moved from his place. Confused, she watched him for a few moments before sneaking back over to inspect what he was doing.

She did this several times, taking off every he spoke to her. Kylin wasn’t concerned about it. He knew eventually she would chill enough that she would stick around when he talked to her. His goal was only to get her used to him, and familiar with him, before he started any of the physical work.

Finally, she reached a point where the sound of his voice did not scare her off. Instead, she remained where she was, reaching her nose out in curiosity. He felt her muzzle touch his shoulder. He resisted the urge to touch her just then. Just a few more minutes, after she realized that he meant no harm.

Well, he certainly didn’t mean harm.

For an reason unbeknownst to him, the mare opened her jaws and clamped down on his shoulder. He jerked back out of her mouth and she took off again, tossing her head and bucking in pure glee. He held his shoulder as he stared after her, not sure what to do next. This was certainly a new tactic he had seen from a horse. With the hand not clutching his shoulder, he felt around for the journal that he had dropped.

“You’re just vicious, aren’t you?” he called after the still gleefully bucking horse. It was then that he remembered the message from the horse master that Numier had given him: Good luck.

Grumbling under his breath, he settled himself back into his original position as he pondered what to do next.

The mare noticed that he had taken his attention off her, and began to sneak back towards him.

He saw her muzzle reaching out for his shoulder again. He shifted himself out of her reach and quickly shoved her head away. She flicked her ears back, annoyed, and attempted again. He responded in the same way.

Once again, she flicked her ears and tried again.

It was a tiring game, and Kylin had no chance to return to his journal. However, the encouraging thought was that she was not going for whatever was in her reach. Her target was solely his shoulder. Which meant she truly saw this as a game and was not going after him out of malice.

The time between her attempts began spacing out more noticeably. He took advantage of the increasing seconds of peace, using that time to pick up the apple beside him and slice it up. It was a slow process, as she usually didn’t wait until he was finished with cutting out a slice. After the apple was cut up, and there was considerable time with the next gap, he offered her a slice.

Her ears instantly pricked up. She greedily took the slice from the palm of his hand, staring at him as she chewed. When he didn’t immediately offer her more, she tried nosing his hand -without using her teeth this time- to indicate she was ready for more.

“When I’m good and ready,” he informed her.

She kept her nose where it was, like a hunting dog pointing out prey. He went back to his journal, making sure that her teeth remained covered.

When he felt enough time had passed, he gave her another slice and rubbed her nose, then made her wait again. She had earned a few slices before she decided to return to her game. A decision, she found, that did not get her more slices.

By the time the apple was gone, Kylin felt assured that he had curbed the worst of her little biting game. He might have to start the process over again the next day, but maybe she would pick up quicker what was expected of her then.

To his surprise, she came right up to him when she him slip through the fence. She immediately pointed her nose, locating the apple he had hidden away. He decided to make her wait for it. He headed back over to the tree, with the mare following close behind, nose still outstretched.

After he settled down and she still didn’t get a slice of apple, she opted for revenge. She lunged for the same shoulder she targeted the day previously. Kylin was prepared, however, and knocked her head out of the way. She flicked her ears, debating how far she wanted to go with this. After a few seconds of deliberation, she snorted and took off, throwing her hooves in the air to show her displeasure.

When it didn’t garner the attention she was looking for, she returned to Kylin’s side. Her head hung down meekly, giving him side glances to see if he had noticed her being oh so patience.

Kylin suppressed the chuckle that rose to his throat. She looked so pitiable in that moment that if it weren’t for the marks she left in his shoulder, he might have felt a little more sympathetic.

All the same, when he felt that she had waited long enough, he gave her another slice. Her ears pricked up and she stared at him with expectant hope while chewing.

He had gotten through half of the apple when the mare decided waiting there was too much for her. She bolted off, tossing herself about. She then dropped the ground and rolled around, making her white spots a nice, dusty gray. Pleased with herself, she trotted back to Kylin and resumed giving him the pitiful look.

Perhaps this meant she was learning, Kylin surmised, pleased. If she behaved well the next day, he could possibly move to actually doing some work with her.

The next few days produced similar results, settling the matter in Kylin’s head. She did try to be sneaky and take another nab at him, but was quickly deterred by him raising his hand to push her head out of the way. He did take note that she was highly energetic, and would have to take off running when she got bored of waiting for him to produce the next apple slice.

For the next session, he brought out a halter and lead line. And there he found himself back at square one. The mare took one look at the equipment and dashed to the other side of the fence, pawing the ground and daring him to come closer. So Kylin draped the halter on the fence and pulled the journal out again.

He heard someone step out of the cottage behind him.

“How is it going?” he heard Amelia call out.

“It’s . . .going,” Kylin replied with hesitation as Amelia stepped closer to him.

Amelia leaned over the fence, watching the piebald inform them of her displeasure.

“She being a handful?”

“She’s vicious,” Kylin said. “It might be just me, but she likes going for the shoulder.”

“So she will be good in fighting,” Amelia said encouragingly.

Kylin gave her a look. “I think she’s a ways off before she gets to a level where I could comfortable bring her into a fight. She first has to figure out who’s on her side.”

The mare noticed that their attention was slipping, and neither were approaching her. She pricked up her ears, confused.

“Do you know how much training she’s received already?” Amelia asked. “I know Numier said she’s been ridden, but . . .”

“She’s likely been taught the whistle command,” Kylin said, reflecting on what he knew of the basic training Ranger horses received. “And the command to stand still. But she’s very energetic. Patience does not seem to be her strong point.”

As though to prove his point, the mare started walking over, determined to get the attention she felt she was owed.

“Do you think you’ll have her ready by the time Rei stops by?”

“Ready to ride? Most definitely. As ready as Wylett was?” He took a deep breath, blocking out any emotional association with memories of Wylett in order to continue carrying out the conversation. “Absolutely not. I would have to be careful with where I took her.”

Now that he thought of it, he realized that it was probably by Rei’s design that he got such a difficult horse. Previously, he had thought that the horsemaster had faith in his skills with working with a new horse, but now he suspected that Rei had requested the horsemaster give him a horse that would force him to slowly return to the heftier expectations of Rangers.

Rather clever of him, Kylin thought, if his theory was correct.

The mare had reached the other side of the fence and was now snaking her head out towards Amelia.

Kylin quickly smacked the mare’s head away. She snorted in offense and took off bucking.

“It’s like she’s throwing a temper tantrum,” Amelia noted with amusement.

“She is,” he muttered.

The mare finished her bucking and looked over at the two, curious to know if they were actually going to do anything about her. When she saw that they hadn’t moved even an inch closer, she trotted with purpose back to them. This time, she didn’t try biting either of them. Instead, she stood in front of them, head high and ears pricked, waiting for them to acknowledge her.

When Kylin felt she had stood there long enough, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple slice from the stash he had slipped into his pocket. He held it out on the palm of his hand and the mare quickly snatched it up, snapping her head back into position. She was still long enough for two more slices before running off and expelling the pent up energy she gathered by just standing there.

“Well, the good news is that Marwick and Numier did manage to get her up here somehow,” Amelia said in a cheerful tone. “So she can’t be too bad to handle.” She turned to give him a bright smile. “Best of luck. I should get back to my chores.”

Kylin gave a small grunt of acknowledgement as she patted his shoulder and walked away.

When the mare was finished, she trotted back to him, head and tail held high. She settled enough for another apple slice. While she was occupied with the apple slice, he tried his luck with getting a halter on her. She stood quite still as he looped the lead line around her neck behind the ears to ensure she didn’t run off. She even bent her head down so he could more easily slip the halter on. But as soon as she heard it snap in place, she jumped back and bolted, lead line streaming behind her.

He swore she was laughing as she threw her heels back into the air.

As was now her habit, she did come back, standing still as she patiently waited for that delicious slice of apple. To her disappointment, Kylin did not reward her, even after she had waited longer than any other time. Reminding him that she was being a good girl, she reached for his pockets. Kylin pulled her head away. She snorted and stamped a foot. He waited until he was certain that she wasn’t going to take off again before attempting to lead her.

The setting sun found both Ranger and horse exhausted. The mare only cooperated sporadically, and when she did, she would make attempts to bite his shoulder again. At the end, he did manage to get down one side of the pasture without her kicking up a fuss, biting, or even straight up balking. He did not reward her for her good work until the halter was off. As soon as she got her prize, she was off, reaching the other side of the pasture before finishing her snack and dropping her head to graze.

Over the course of the week, he continued to work with the halter, as well as testing to see how well she responded to the whistle to come. He found that she had good days, and then other days when she wanted to do anything but focus. For those such days, he learned to pay close to his shoulders- the mare’s favorite target.

Still, by the middle of the next week, she showed improvement, which gave him some hope for her. On one of her particularly good days, he felt confident that she would stand still long enough for a grooming session. By the end of it, she gleamed so beautifully, Kylin couldn’t help but feel very proud in his work and in the fact that she was his horse. The moment lasted only until he took her halter off and let her loose. The mare found the dirtiest patch of ground, dropped to her knees, then rolled around so vigorously that her black and white coat faded into a dusty brown. Her mane and tail picked up several objects off the ground and became tangled. It was this slovenly horse that Amelia saw when she came out to see how Kylin’s work had gone. To top it off, she cantered over to Amelia to giving her a nip of greeting.

By the end of the week, Kylin tested her out with being tacked up. Suspiciously, she was very good for him as he put on the saddle. He found that he had to tighten the girth not once, not twice, but multiple times as she had filled herself with air and slowly let it all out in hopes that he wouldn’t realize her variation of the age old horse trick.

She was all too ready to fight him on accepting the bit. However, he was already a step ahead of her and had rubbed it with some honey. The moment she realized that it was sweetened was the moment she gave in, happily chewing the bit and forgetting to give Kylin anymore grief.

Such was her contentedness that she even allowed herself to be led around the pasture. After doing this exercise for a while, he tried putting some of his weight on her, in hopes of getting her used to it. The moment she felt him lean across her back, she stopped chewing and perked up her head. Every muscle in her body tensed, waiting for him to fully mount. Kylin remained where he was, watching her carefully for signs that she was about to buck. She slowly turned her head, as though to look at him curiously. However, she gave herself away when she began to open her mouth. He pushed her head away, making her flatten her ears and stamp her foot in protest. He then pushed himself and continued walking her around, waiting for her to relax enough to try putting weight on her again.

By the end of the day, she had given in to the exercise and only stamped her foot once when he leaned on her. After he had untacked her and given her her reward, she took off, displaying her impressive leaps.

After several days of this, he attempted to actually ride her. He was fully expecting her to buck, or even attempt to reach back and bite his feet. To his surprise, she was relatively calm about the new situation and followed instruction rather well. Pleased with her obedience, he decided not to push his luck and stick with the simple work he had been hoping to do.

As though she had read his mind, she came to an abrupt stop. She waited until he gave her a gentle prompting to move forward. Kylin felt her move forward, then he felt himself make contact with the ground, the mare gleefully dancing off on the far side of the pasture. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, he whistled her back. As if to mock him, she immediately stopped her dancing and happily trotted back to him.

“Yeah, not next time,” he informed her. He swung himself back in the saddle, and he could have sworn that she had a disappointed look on her face.

She tried her little trick again, but he was ready for it. She did several laps around the pasture, and when she discovered he was still there, she begrudgingly followed instruction for the rest of the ride.

The next two following weeks, she tried new tricks to get him to give up riding her. From ignoring commands to outright bucking, each time she was surprised and disappointed to find that he hadn’t given up. The times when she was cooperative, Kylin found that she had a very smooth gait and very light touches were all that were needed to direct her. The biggest thing holding her back was her unpredictability. And her tendency to bite.

Amelia came out to watch one afternoon, and to Kylin’s delight, the mare did not act up at all. It was as though the mare wanted to show off to Amelia. Kylin pulled the mare to a stop in front of Amelia at the end. She tossed her head and arched her neck, waiting for some kind of praise.

“She’s actually behaving!” Amelia remarked, cautiously holding a hand out to the mare’s neck. The mare snorted happily at Amelia’s petting.

“She’s behaving right now,” Kylin corrected her. “Tomorrow, I guarantee you she’s going to be in a mood. I have yet to have two good days in a row with her.”

“Have you named her yet?” Amelia asked.

Kylin’s narrowed into a glare as he answered darkly, “Vicious.”

His sister stared at him in shock. ‘You would actually give her that name?”

“I’m sorry, how many bruises and bite marks did you get because of her?” Kylin shot back. “If you’re expecting me to name her something like Sunshine or Rainbows, you’ll be severely disappointed.”

Vicious lifted her head, ears pricked. She stared down the direction of the path to the cottage. Kylin and Amelia turned to see what she was looking at.

Captain Rei was coming down the path.

#between the veil and crown #rough draft #kylin #this is a very rough chapter but it's done

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