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halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

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LITTLE DEATHS (IX)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER X

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body image issues, food issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, hurt/comfort, soft!Nikto, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wake up the next morning in the silk sheets of your hotel bedroom, in nothing but an oversized shirt and underwear. Your mind is sluggish and, between flashes of electricity up your thighs, the entire night comes back in slow images as you groan into the pillow.

A quick rush of a coat to cover ripped laces, the scream of sirens, Nikto arguing with authorities before you’re both released.

It was a play of luck that you explained away the snapped wrist as a simple instance of Nikto being some white knight—he’d kept you safe, you’d said. The host had been forcing himself on you; it could be seen on the cameras. Paired with his service record and a call from your investigators, they’d let you go without any further trouble.

Today, the small headache from the champagne was only a dull sting in the back of your skull; you hadn’t been drunk—hadn’t gotten to that point, anyway.

Eyes starting at the far wall, a heat builds and builds on your face as the minutes pass.

“Did we really…” you trail off in a whisper, hand coming up to your face as you roll onto your back and stifle a loud sound of exasperation, lips mouthing out, “Fuck.”

Nikto had left you shaking on his fingers in a damn storage room. Twice.

Your lips thin, legs caught in the sheets. You weren’t even awake enough to understand the potential consequences—not only the intimate encounter, but the repercussions of not sleeping with Oriel would be swift and fierce.

Never mind the broken bone.

The sharp knife of that moment is a deadly thing, it digs deep into you until your eyes are watering. That desperation in the storage room—the things you said were true. You’d silenced your phone last night because you knew the reaction would be instant; undeniable. Even now, you shift over and slide your hand over it on the side table, only to pause and take a deep breath before turning it on.

A sudden barrage of missed calls and texts slam into your ears before you slap the device back down and turn it off with fast fingers.

Your eyes close tightly, flopping back down and covering your eyes. It was instinctual the way your heart started running from you—the fear seeping back in.

They’re going to fire me, you think, hands shaking. They’re going to throw me out.

Through the heavy understanding, through the ideas you have to try and salvage this, you pause only when something makes your nose twitch. Hesitating, your hands slip from your face slowly, eyelids peeling back a millimeter at a time. Staring at the gray ceiling, your brows pull back to their normal resting point as your face goes blank.

What is that? Palms going to the mattress, you sit up slowly and sniff. It was dough, maybe? Something sweet and toasted.

Shifting, your feet connect with the cold floor, and you stand with a grunt, a tiny ache in the middle of your abdomen that makes your face heat and your hands rub at the back of your neck. A part of you was nervous more about what was outside of your door than what was in your phone—Nikto.

How would this go? Would he ignore the entire thing? Ignore you?

“He doesn’t run from things,” you mutter aloud, walking and stepping on the torn laces of your dress at the foot of the bed. Your hands grasp one of the bags in your room, not caring to check the rest of the contents before you sift through and drag out a pair of dark sweatpants.

Moving into them, the waistband is large, just as the legs are, but you’re too preoccupied to understand the way you’ve slipped into Nikto’s pants before you’re already at the door. Hands shaking over the handle, your fingers run the smooth metal before you shake your head and huff.

Walking out, the scent of fresh pancakes makes itself known as you blink at the scene in front of you. Trying to understand if you were actually awake, or if this was still some dream in the airyness of your mind. The stuttering of your heart feels real.

Nikto was shirtless.

Shirtless, making breakfast.

Your mouth is somewhat agape as you stare, struck down to a statue in the doorway as your eyelids flutter. Again, that bear tattoo writhes as the expansive muscle moves and twitches with work—Nikto’s front facing the pan that he works a spatula through. All of the ingredients are left on the counter, bought by him or already in the luxurious cabinets for your pleasure, you don’t know; flour, milk, among the others. Jams and honey.

You don’t know how long you stand there, fighting between your desire to run your hands over his bare skin and the respectful sense you know you need to keep. It’s enough time for him to slap one more scoop of dough into the sizzling pan and pass the done pancake to the side where one more rests, steaming.

You hadn’t thought your words meant that much to him.

Clearing your throat in shock, you see him glance over his shoulder swiftly. A bead of silence.

“Come. Eat,” is what he says—no emotion heard in the voice, though you didn’t expect anything less. His pale eyes dart down you, and after a small break in the air, he chuckles. “Thief, yes?”

“What?” Your brows crease. “I didn’t…” You look down and pause. It was fairly obvious that the pants didn’t belong to you. Your lips flattened, and your eyes flinched closed in embarrassment. “I must have gone through the wrong bag.”

Turning back, you hear a call from the Russian before you can disappear like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I don’t wear them. I do not mind.” There's low electricity in the air. He doesn’t know how to go about this either.

Sighing, you shrug and nod, shifting back so you can walk to the kitchen counter and stuff your hands into your pockets. Leaning your hip to the corner, you fight the clamminess of your hands. The sweatpants pool at your ankles as your mouth opens.

“Pancakes?” You ask lowly, glancing at him.

He’s still in that balaclava, and his cargos are loose around his hips before being stuffed into dark boots that you’d never see him without.

“With jam,” Nikto grunts. “You will like them.”

You push out a tiny laugh. “I’ve had pancakes before, Nikto. I’m pretty sure most people have.”

“How would we know, hm?” Pale eyes narrow on yours, but it isn’t hostile. Nikto grumbles, moving the pan before he motions with a finger. “Those are done.”

You glance over at the pile and sigh, taking the plate with the two already done pancakes on it and padding over to grab the jam. Your eyes move down the label to find out which one it exactly is—gray isn’t exactly a large help—and open the sealed top with a tiny release of pressure.

Getting fat.

You pause, one hand holding the top and the other the glass jar; eyes blank, you stare at the plate with a steadily sinking heart. Clearing your throat, you move a hand and twist the top back on, placing the jam down and shifting to grab a fork instead.

“Do you think that the investigators will call with any updates—”

“Eat,” Nikto interrupts firmly from behind, back to back.

Your face is tight, fingers tapping the counter. There’s a tension of something between you two, but you can’t name it. Not yet. But it’s there, like a blade cutting through a corset, it’s there. It’s what got you out of bed today, it’s what got Nikto to push himself to sleep shirtless for the first time in years. The possibility of…something. Unseen, you nod and take the food—moving away from the kitchen and sitting down on the couch, you carefully dig into breakfast and shift a dry forkful into your mouth.

Eyes closed, your head slightly bows forward as you chew.

It was no secret that you were quiet today, and Nikto didn’t have to be as sharp-eyed as he was to notice. By now you would have teased him about the effort for the food, or even spoken about the mattress you slept on, Nikto had hypothesized. But it was just…silent.

Nothing.

In the kitchen, the Russian’s brows crease, lips pulling. He huffs, rolling his shoulders as his bones crack.

He’d been up last night—for a long while—doing all the things he said he would until he had the clarity to understand hours later, that everything was a million times more complicated now that he knew the truth about this ‘trip’.

And he had to know all of it.

Nikto, truth be told, was a bit quiet himself; more than he usually was. He continued with breakfast in silence, listening to the sound of your fork tapping the plate as his brain fought with itself. The Russian’s mind told him to act like that hadn’t happened between the two of you—it was unprofessional, wrong down to the core. You were his charge, and he hadn’t hesitated for more than a second before he’d ripped open your dress and played with you like you were his own.

Why? Why was he so enamored by you? It didn’t make any sense. No one had ever mattered this much to him—it was absurd.

But whatever dead part of his heart that had come back to beat again said that ignoring this would be cruel to you; if all others in your life were, that was one thing he would not be. At least to you.

Nikto grunts under his breath and grabs his plate, stacked with six pancakes, before turning, grasping the jam with firm fingers, and heaping it on top. Blinking across to you, he pauses at your closed eyes—the dip of your head. Not only was there still food on your plate but it was set down on the coffee table, resting stationary.

You couldn’t possibly be done already.

“Not good?” He asks, voice gruff.

You shake your head. “No, Nikto, they were perfect. I’m just not that hungry this morning.” Pale blue eyes stare, blinking slowly.

He didn’t know what to do.

Looking down at his breakfast, Nikto clenches his jaw. Grasping his plate and his utensil he walks over before he sits beside you, sinking the cushions and shuffling aside the blanket he’d had last night. When you look over at him, confused, he doesn’t utter a word, before his free hand sneaks up and hooks under his balaclava.

It’s a moment, he knows, a moment of hesitation that instinctually tightens his muscles, stopping him with a shake of his fingers. And then, as he usually does, he forces himself through it.

Slipping the fabric up to his nose, you stare openly at the strong jaw that comes to light, as well as the unspoken horror of scars. It isn’t even a minute before the Russian leans back with a grunt, and spreads his feet until his knee knocks yours before he shoves the first of his pancakes into his mouth with muffled chewing.

Eyes darting away, you stare at your own feet tightly.

Silence settles.

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“Да,” his words are grumbled, even if you can’t see it, his face is beginning to burn. Heavy memories coming back. He won’t stay long like this—he can’t. It hurts. “I do not.”

You sigh, hands moving up to rub along your face, cupping at it until all the whiteness of the hotel is hidden from your gaze. It wasn’t hard to feel him passing glances.

Shaking your head, your hands fall, and you move to mirror his own position—back leaning and legs kicking out, except yours go to rest on the table next to your plate.

“I think a part of me didn’t expect you to actually be here,” you say, not looking at him. “I’m not used to having to deal with…” your lips halt themselves, looking for words. “After.”

No one ever stayed. Not anyone that mattered.

Nikto’s clinking fork pauses, stuttering on its course. He licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of jam. He continues to watch you as you continue on beside him, bare skin brushing—those large biceps caressing yours.

“I don’t want things to be awkward. If you can’t do your job without something feeling off anymore, I would understand if you wanted to leave. I’m sure my mother can get another operator from KorTac to take me on, she already had two from before that might still be available. I know last night was a lot. I don’t want you to feel…pressured, I guess. That was never my intention.”

He lets you finish, sensing you need to get some things off of your chest. When had he become so soft to this? To you? He was losing his backbone here—losing that edge that kept him…him.

Or was that ever him in the first place?

“I will not leave,” Nikto speaks slowly, lips moving every scar that lives there. “We are not ‘feeling off’. No one will look after you like us, and so no one will take our place until this stalker is either taken away or in ground.”

“And the awkward part?” You ask, glancing over, getting caught by long cuts and fissures.

“We will deal,” Nikto’s chest rumbles, and you believe falling asleep to that sound would stop your nightmares altogether. “There are worse things than that, yes?”

You huff a laugh. “I guess.” A second later, you lightly bump your elbow into his side. “You’re better at this kind of stuff than I’d thought you’d be.”

Dark brows furrow.

“I am speaking truth. Nothing more.”

“Mhm,” your lips carefully peel in a tiny smile. “Sure, Big Guy.”

Nikto scoffs, rolling his eyes before he takes down more of his breakfast. He glances over to see you peeking at his old insignia tattoo—the one on his shoulder. It was strange to him, how you took so much more interest in his ink than the scars; he’d been thinking about it last night.

It was against your nature to not ask about them, and yet…you had. No one had ever not asked about the scars. But, hm, Nikto’s eyes shimmer, it only made his chest swell when you chose not to. As if you understood the sanctity of them—the importance.

That was something that he just wasn’t ready to speak about yet.

“You like it?” He speaks.

You blink quickly, looking back up in an instant. There was no use hiding it.

“What is it?” You ask him, glancing back down at the tattoo and tilting your head at it.

The image was of some sort of crest—a two-headed bird wearing crowns; holding items in their claws with a, smaller, image set into the middle. A man on horseback, spearing a dragon.

“FSB crest.” Nikto’s voice goes lower, more under the breath than previously. “Reminder of service.”

“Oh,” you mutter. “What are the colors?”

He hums. “Red, gold. Little silver. Mine is just black ink, though. Did not go back for second session.”

“I’ve thought of getting tattoos before,” you confess, moving out a slow hand to trace the outline in his flesh. You notice him still somewhat at your dragging nails, lips parting softly. “AMA would never go for it, but I’ve still wondered what it would be like.”

Nikto licks his lips, letting you feel him as he side-eyes you. His muscles soften as your heat seeps in, tingling blood under his epidermis.

“What kind?”

“A bird, I suppose,” you hum. “I think they’re lovely.”

Nikto tilts his head, but the questions can no longer sit in the back of his throat. “You continue to be their pawn. Why? I can make no sense of it, Seraph. You speak of yourself as if you are nothing.”

“I might not be anymore after last night,” you whisper, dropping your hand from Nikto’s flesh. Your eyes close; a heavy sigh on your lips. “I know it isn’t healthy, I know that. I know it’s wrong, and vile, and disgusting—but you have to hear me out when I tell you that the only thing I have is my looks—”

“That is a lie.” Nikto snarls, glaring over at your face as his plate hits the table. “Why do you say that? You are smart, Seraph, anyone with sense can see it. You are kind; good.” The Russian curses, repeating. “You are good.”

“AMA needs investments,” your voice is muffled. “I’m not the only one that has to do things like this. I’m not special.”

The man grinds out, “It does not matter if a million go through it—you are here with us. It is our job to keep you safe now. It is special to me.”

“From a stalker,” you argue, body starting to go rigid at the intensity of the conversation. You didn’t like talking about this.

“From any threat,” Nikto barks. Face close to yours and his hard, crooked nose brushing skin. “Is this not a threat to you?”

You stare into his eyes, and it’s an expression he can’t recall you having. It makes him nervous—nervous for you in a way that was similar to when you’d disappeared from his sight. It was dead. Dead how his eyes would get on the bad days—when he couldn’t differentiate between himself and his body; what had really happened and what hadn’t.

You were exhausted, and you didn’t even see it.

“You need sleep,” he drops the hard tone immediately, eyes snapping over your face in fast jerks. “You need rest. Now.”

“I’m not tired.” Pale eyes bore through you, and you relent softly. “...I don’t want any more nightmares.” Your lips open and close. “They scare me because I can’t remember them, but I know something bad happened.”

Fingers come up and brush your cheek, leaving your lips flattening before the tears can make themselves known to him.

There was just so much going on.

The stalker, now AMA and potential repercussions? You thought if you had one thing, you had your job—trials and exploitations all, but you still had that. You still had something. Now you might not even have a home to go back to.

Bare arms shift, looping around you. With a roaming of skin on skin, Nikto bundles you in his arms and lifts, legs taking your weight. He moves you as your head rests burrowed into his neck—forehead to the long cut that loops around the side of his throat to the front. That one really made you shiver; the thought of it—the error he must have felt. Without thinking, you lay a tiny kiss on the skin, and Nikto’s legs only stutter once before he pushes open the bedroom door.

Setting you down on the bed, he mumbles into your scalp before he pulls away, moving his balaclava back down with firm fingers. “What can I do?”

Your body shifts, clothed in borrowed pants and the weight of a million realities. You wished you could see the color of his eyes—those creased things that watch you so closely; the marring of the different shades of his scars.

You wished you could pick up the courage to ask him if you were his soulmate, at the very least. The hunch was dimming, taking a backburner the longer it stayed in your mind. Surely he would say something by now? Right? With how he was, you expected Nikto to be reserved about it, but now…

Now your hope was drowning itself.

You wished you weren’t damaged goods.

“Sit with me?” Your weak voice quivers, but no tears fall.

Nikto stares, head tilting slowly as his now re-hidden face is a mystery. “Да. Yes.” It’s so tiny that the words are almost lost.

So, he shifts into bed after placing his boots neatly near the bedframe, letting you scoot over as he grasps the end of the covers and moves to have his back connected to the headboard. With a large pull, the fabric slides over your body and levels at his abdomen, your head slightly above it, until scarred fingers grasp and push it down a bit.

For a bit, a heavy silence settles between the two of you. You don’t touch, you don’t talk. It’s the sound of beating hearts and rabid minds, thinking over thoughts that only serve to make things worse the longer their dark fingers are around both of your throats.

“Come,” Nikto murmurs.

Your body instantly connects to his, hands grasping into his pants and head nuzzling his thigh. His grip finds your head, running itself over it until it ends at your shoulder and pulls you tighter to him.

“Sleep. No nightmares, hm?” He glances down, trying to push a fractured joke. “We will scare them off.”

Your broken chuckle makes his chest tighten, and pale eyes avoid looking down at you for fear he’ll realize how addictive it is to have your flesh on his—the sensation of touch that was becoming a need. When was the last time he’d been relied on like this? Never, he thinks.

To be protection in the barest sense.

A boy keeping away nightmares for a girl that lays in his lap.

No weapons, no orders. Only hands and sagging bodies, and a care that was infecting him like venom—injected into his bloodstream by white fangs. It leveled out, coating him. He wanted you to be safe, and it wasn’t just because it was his job. It was because he couldn’t imagine seeing you in pain like this—in a slow death of the mind until the body rotted away with it.

It wasn’t right to him, and he couldn’t describe it as anything other than blasphemy. Sacrilege. Nikto didn’t have the words; maybe he never would. All that he knew was that he would kill millions to never see you harmed. He would rot in the deepest part of hell willingly, go through darkness and fire—but none of it could touch you. Not a wisp of flame; not an idea of torture.

You were good.

“Why do you care so much,” you whisper before you fall asleep, curious even as your eyelids are fighting to stay down.

Nikto has not taken his eyes off you. He was always honest, but this truth scares him more than any other. The nagging in the back of his skull.

“I…do not know.”

You were too good for this.

So even when he gets that text message on his phone when you’re fully sleeping, even when he shifts it out of his pocket and sees the unknown number, Nikto is not going to wake you. He’s not going to shake your head as he massages the scar that lives there, his thumb taking in the familiar bumps and dips—the trauma it caused so similar to his own.

Nikto will not tell you of the sinking in his chest.

The guard accepts that little death in his heart when he sees that image of the both of you in the storage room. He accepts the little death when he sees your tightly closed eyes from over his own shoulder, hands digging into his one-size-too-small suit. The obvious actions taking place that are still seared into his mind hours later.

He accepts the little death of the caption, all in Russian but never more vile in his mind.

‘I know what you did.’

And he accepts that this stranger's death will not be so little if he ever gets his hands on him.

TAGS:

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penguin-tank · 2 years

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#domestic water storage tank #Fully Automatic water level controller #auto pump controller.#water level control device

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padawansuggest · 8 months

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Obi-Wan in his natural habitat in the temple sleeps in a loft bed (it was supposed to be storage he said cat instinct and turned it into a loft bed they’re shockingly common with Jedi tbh tho) and under 17 fluffy blankets with a pregnancy pillow (he’s not pregnant he just can’t sleep off his stomach if he don’t got one and sometimes autism requires squishing to keep it all down) and three more fluffy blankets on top of him. He has an optional Padawan or pet (not really a pet, just whomever followed him how from the gardens today) in bed with him also. And he’s got a projector on the wall and has a night stand with water and gaming devices so he can survive up there forever.

The clones, who have learned to sleep with full kute coverings and usually without blankets or pillows cause they just pass out on each other, most of whom identified with their Jedi for having similar sleeping types if they weren’t human, realize they are quite horrified by his Stewjoni nesting instinct. And he’s offended and refuses to sleep with any of them till they apologize to his favorite stuffed animal for insulting his HOUSE. Fuck you bitches he and Master Sparkle Bantha deserve better.

Cody is groveling while Alpha is still trying to negotiate a less intense number of blankets and Anakin is just shaking his head like ‘it’s not worth it Bro’ and Alpha is like ‘shut up ur an omega too you brat’ and that’s the last straw, you called them omegas now Cody is asking what an omega is and Alpha is trying to figure out how to keep his AO3 account hidden from his vod’e and nvm he’ll sleep in the barracks forever-

Obi-Wan holds this info over his head like a guillotine and convinced him to get in the damn nest right this second and cuddle him better.

If you don’t sleep with at least two comforters and a queen sized fuzzy blanket then I don’t trust you. Yes I refuse to trust my sister and wife okay. Everything in the world has a downside and that’s theirs. My bed is half dragon hoard of yarn and squishmallows. I’m not changing for anyone.

Anakin’s bed is 90% pillow and squishmallow and 10% blanket. Padme uses a thin cotton blanket and lets him burrito wrap himself and uses him like a body pillow while he’s captive in the blankies.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #clone wars #commander cody #alpha 17 #codywan #alphaobi #anakin skywalker #anidala #alpha got an obsession with soap operas and now he writes fics for them #no he’s not giving anyone his account info #Ahsoka sleeps in a puppy pile of padawans and vod’e tho she fits right in #aayla and Bly sleep on the same bed with completely different comforters and rarely cuddle if ever lmao #luminara is actually prego and using a maternity pillow for normal reasons #gree sleeps on his back snoring like a chainsaw but also an uncaring teenager on his chest the whole time lol Barriss sleeps like a toddler #which means a mixture of starfishing and octopus limbs #clone empire #post clone wars

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sk-lumen · 4 months

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How to declutter for a fresh New Year 🫧

The very first time I got into the spirit of minimalism and decluttering physically, mentally and emotionally, it was challenging as I still had a lot of resistance and attachment to things.

I started this during winter many years back, and it's becoming easier and easier. Not just as a great practice before the new year, but also as a habit throughout the year or whenever I feel like it.

When I started seeing how the mental load, the brain fog and distraction and worry... shifted into peace, relief, joy and mental clarity every time I let go of things, I understood why it's important to not be a hoarder. Physically or otherwise. (Of course this has nuance to it and it can be a privilege to be able to do it, but that's for a different topic.)

Here are ways you can start the new year fresh (or just clear the energy any time you need):

Online / social media

delete old files or photos you don't need from your devices or cloud

unfollow accounts on social media that don't inspire/uplift you

delete old messages

archive or delete conversations you no longer want to see

block or delete numbers that are affecting your mental health

Home

throw away things that are broken or falling apart (clothes, items, lingerie, etc)

donate or sell clothes you no longer use or want

sell items you don't use anymore but which are perfectly functional (hair straightener, lamp, etc)

throw away or repurpose gift bags, bags, cards

put away items you still need but are not using in this particular season - ie. put away into storage any winter clothing during summer, it's just cluttering your hangers

reorganize your home, your room, your bathroom, move furniture around or replace decor to give it a fresh exciting new feel and remove any stale energies

Physically

salt bath with essential oils to release any tension or toxins

lemon water, ginger and turmeric shots for cleansing

drink plenty of water or green tea or mint tea for improved digestion

Mentally

dedicate a journal to write down tasks, lists, to vent any negativity, or just thought-dump at the end of the day in order to feel lighter and clear-headed

have a calendar or agenda to note any important things, to lighten the mental load

say things that keep bothering you for days/weeks, do things you've been antsy to get done for days/weeks

Emotionally

journaling is an amazing way to offload emotionally

going to therapy

talking to a friend or family

cultivating healthy boundaries and communicating your needs

Spiritually

do a guided meditation to clear your head

spend time in nature, in the forest, by the sea, away from noise and crowds to clear your energy

you can also use crystals like crystal quartz to cleanse your aura

#new year #girblogging #becoming that girl #that girl #pink pilates princess #clean girl #growth mindset #new year resolutions #articles #writings #self improvement #mental health

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comicaurora · 8 months

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Slowly making my way through the TOTK B roll stream, had a few thoughts on the emptiness of the sky islands. In a way, would it not be more surprising if there were more remains to be seen? Ignoring the whole 'it's a game, decisions were made by the developers' bit, nature can take over surprisingly quickly in the right circumstances. In a way, it's more surprising so much survived in BOTW (like the bomb hut ruins. Fire damaged wood? Should be gone in a decade or two anyway). (contd)

So the thing about the Sky Islands in Tears of the Kingdom is that, not only are the ruins fairly well-preserved - presumably due to having been in the Sacred Realm for the last 10,000+ years - but even with them damaged and tumbledown, it's fairly clear from the layout of the islands and their structures that they were not residences. That's not something that would've been lost to erosion and time, that's something foundational to the architecture of the place.

When the game designers want to show a place people live on the surface of Hyrule, they hit a few key points: distinct-looking homes with beds, places that make food, and an inn for travelers. The buildings are different sizes, decorated or personalized by the residents. They're laid out relative to one another in a way that allows for easy, convenient traversal. It's intentional design that makes the villages feel lived-in, cozy, and worth protecting.

Inside the buildings, little details show the presence of living people, even if the building is empty at the time. Table settings, notebooks, pictures on the walls. They feel like they've been shaped by the influence of people, living and working and customizing their environment.

These are all, to be fair, things that we wouldn't expect to last very long if the town fell to ruin. When we explore the sky islands, we aren't expecting to find well-preserved paper maps or notebooks or anything. But if they were lived-in - if they were Zonai population centers rather than temples, ritual centers and factories - that would still be reflected in the basic layout of the structure itself. A residence is designed to accommodate for every basic need, meaning we'd expect the buildings to have places for them to sleep, to eat, and to relax. On the Sky Islands, we find none of these things.

The most common buildings on the sky islands are these isolated stone one-room ruins. They look and feel like storehouses - a few pots, some crumbled masonry. No doors or interior rooms for privacy, no comforts, no sign of a place to sleep, no adjoining buildings. These things were never homes.

The Great Sky Island is the only really plausible candidate for a place the Zonai might've actually lived, being about town-sized with several buildings, but it's not laid out like one. The buildings are either small one-room storage sheds or the massive Temple of Time, and there's no sign of other specialized buildings that could have been used for things like food, rest or other necessities. The Great Sky Island feels like a large, beautiful public park built grafted onto the Temple of Time.

The larger dungeons are more internally complicated, but not in the way that residences are complicated. The water dungeon looks like some kind of huge open park - wide avenues, plazas, devices built for mobility. It feels like a place meant to be traversed and admired, not stayed in.

The wind dungeon is more clearly built as a weapon platform, nowhere we expect people to live. It makes sense that it feels sterile and lifeless.

The larger, more complicated sky islands are also designed for clear utility. The spheres are some sort of celestial observatories, featuring a control system, a treasure chest, and nothing else.

Wildcards like Lightcast Island were clearly built to serve a single purpose - in this case, a lighthouse and attached microdungeon - but contain no signs of life. Zonai came here for a reason, but they didn't stay.

The glide challenge islands are visually impressive, but ultimately the rings are empty - they don't even have structures on them. They exist for the dive challenge and nothing else.

Same deal with the labyrinths, which exist explicitly as puzzles and challenges.

The mines in the depths are also clearly structured for utility - storerooms, construct part repositories and a lot of conveyer belts for moving zoanite. The purpose of the building is very clear just from the layout, and these are not places where anyone was supposed to be staying outside of work hours.

This, along with the layout of towns on the surface, shows that the designers are very good at constructing architecture that reflects the in-story utility of a place, which means the lack of signs of life in the sky islands is not a limitation of the console or the imagination of the artists - it's an intentional design choice.

The end result of all of this? The Sky Islands feel like somewhere that the Zonai built and visited, but not where they lived. They feel cold and unwelcoming and liminal. There's no sense of loss or tragedy, just a feeling of emptiness - people used to come here, but they don't anymore. There's none of the poignancy of an empty dining table's unused place settings or an abandoned child's toy. None of the Sky Islands that descended during the Upheaval were places where the Zonai lived. At the peak of their power they were mistaken for gods, a massively thriving technologically advanced civilization - I'd expect their homes to be cities, towers of jade and marble bustling with the activity of a post-scarcity utopia. None of the Sky Islands show us anything like that, and given how well the designers can portray a lived-in place even without any people in it, this is assuredly intentional. The Zonai built and visited and used the Sky Islands we can explore, but as a whole they lived somewhere else.

But throughout it all, there's this pervading unease - the fact that there's no obvious tragedy makes the sky islands feel more unnerving. We know just enough of the story to infer that something happened to the Zonai - something bad, if we read into Rauru and Mineru's reaction - but whatever it was left no scars. The Zonai constructs don't even realize anything's amiss. The buildings have been damaged only by time and gravity; the forges and mines and observatories and temples are silent and abandoned, like the Zonai all went home one night for dinner and just never came back.

The Sky Islands don't feel dead, they feel lifeless. A place people passed through but didn't leave their mark on. When Link traverses the islands, he isn't just alone - he doesn't even have the comfort of signs of life. The only evidence he has that anyone ever came to these islands are the fact that somebody built them in the first place. They left no marks, no art, no notes, no diaries, no toys, no graffiti. They're just gone.

#asks #not aurora #tears of the kingdom

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shepherds-of-haven · 10 months

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Unsolicited Writing Advice

Completely random reminder to back up your work, especially if you're a writer, IF or game developer, coder, or creator of any kind. People sometimes ask me what my advice for other writers is, and I always forget to include this one, but it's one of the most important things, especially if your career, livelihood, or long-form projects hinge on writing in any way! Take it from someone who just had two backup methods fail unexpectedly and only the third backup prevented me from losing a solid month of work, you need to back up your work in as many ways as you possibly can. It may seem like a pain in the ass at the time, but I've seen a lot of games or stories stall or fail completely due to a catastrophic loss of data that utterly kills any drive to keep going with the project because of the need to start over. I'M BEGGING YOU, BACK UP YOUR DATA.

I recommend having at least 2, ideally 3 methods of backup:

Automatic cloud storage. I personally prefer working with Dropbox, where every change I save is automatically synced and backed up to a cloud server as well as natively saved on my own device. It also has robust version history, so if you figure out you've done something horrific and unknowingly saved over something important or rewritten a section you weren't supposed to, you can rewind everything in a folder down to a specific minute (over the last 30 days): a feature that has saved my hide just a few too many times for comfort. A free Dropbox account gives you 2 GB of storage to work with. Working within Google Drive works just as well, and the free version gives you 15 GB of storage (though that's shared between your email account and other Google apps, as well)! However, I don't believe it provides automatic syncing and backup the same way Dropbox does: you either have to work directly within a Google doc for your work to be automatically saved to the server, or you have to manually upload the files to your Google Drive to back them up each time.

Physical storage. Every few weeks or months, I also take the time to back up my important files to an external hard drive or thumb drive. Again, it's kind of a hassle, but if the day ever comes that you lose your passwords or find that they've been changed, a company's servers go down or they go bankrupt, they decide to start charging you to access your data, or whatever crazy circumstance you can think of, it's always good to have a physical backup somewhere. A basic 1 TB thumb drive is somewhere around 20$ USD (though it can be slower at that price point if you're transferring a large amount of data each time), and it's even less if you don't need that much storage. A 1 TB external hard drive (which has a much quicker transfer rate) is around 40-50$.

If all else fails, email. If you can't get access to physical storage devices and cloud storage services don't work for you, consider setting up a free Gmail or what-have-you account specifically for backup purposes, then email a copy of your most important files to it every time you make a significant change to them. This may seem sort of primitive and simplistic, but it works, and you can even use it as a little journal or diary of your progress!

Again, you may think this is overkill, but I am convinced that writers are especially prone to proving Murphy's Law and have seen way too many projects, friends, and colleagues fall prey to this oft-overlooked issue. I can count at least half a dozen times where -> my primary device like my laptop broke, failed, became corrupted, had water spilled on it, etc. -> I then turned to my secondary device (hard drive or thumb drive) only to find something was wrong with THAT (broken, outdated, incompatible with currently-owned tech, corrupted, not up-to-date backups) OR I turned to my cloud storage and found something wrong with THAT (unknowingly saved over data and didn't realize it until 3 months later, meaning not even version history could save me) -> and it was only the THIRD method of backing up that saved my ass.

Anyway, this is just your friendly neighborhood writer reminding you to back your work up! It's a necessary part of the job! Thanks for coming to my TEDtalk!

#Shepherds of Haven #writing #writing tips #writing advice

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theladyofbloodshed · 3 months

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SJM Romance Week - Day 1 - First Date

@sjmromanceweek

With a fear of flying gripping her tight, Nesta just wants to be left alone to spiral in her panic - that is until a swaggering man holds her hand during take off.

The sweating had begun the second she reached the security line which was never a good sign. Nesta tried to act calm, tried not to keep glancing over her shoulders at the security agents as they scanned bags and bodies. Every damn time she made the machine bleep despite ensuring she had no metal on her, as if the machine knew she was panicking and wanted to enhance her worry. True to history, the machine went off and she stepped onto the painted feet for a guard to wave their wand over her. She didn’t know why she was so worried about the security part; Nesta wasn’t smuggling drugs.

Two hours of agony followed.

The duty-free shops didn’t hold her appeal although she’d toyed with buying alcohol to take the edge off things. She’d taken a Xanax already and mixing wouldn’t go well. A book. A new book to keep her occupied, that would do. She checked her gate, double checked it then triple checked it. Lurked near it way before it was boarding time with her new book clutched in her clammy hands. Nesta mentally catalogued her day. She’d watered the plants, Gwyn already had the spare key to water them when needed, she’d turned everything off, locked the door because she’d checked multiple times, had her travel documents on her phone and printed, had only taken hand luggage so it wouldn’t be lost. Everything would be fine. Of course it would be. She was a planner. But she couldn’t plan who was piloting the plane. Couldn’t plan the weather. Couldn’t plan if a freak bolt of lightning struck the plane and zapped them off the face of the earth. Nesta swigged down mouthfuls of sparkling water. She hated it but it made her burp and that alleviated her churning stomach.

When the agents called for boarding, Nesta was first in the queue. Priority boarding had been purchased so she could panic in her seat. Her legs trembled up the metal stairs to board the plane. Planes flew every day. Hundreds of them. All crisscrossing across the sky. And she’d be on the unlucky anomaly. Because of course she would. Nothing ever ran smoothly in her life.

With an eye mask on and a mindfulness podcast blaring in her ears, Nesta tried to block out the rest of the boarding. She was vaguely aware of bodies moving down the aisle or slipping into seats behind or in front of hers, the judder of chairs or slam of the overhead storage. When an elbow knocked into her to take the seat, she didn’t react, just kept listening to the soothing voice telling her to focus on her breathing.

Fingers tapped on her arm repeatedly until she peeled off her mask.

A man with dark-hair tugged into a loose bun at the nape of his neck was gesturing to her headphones. An air steward was watching, life jacket held aloft for the display. ‘Switch to airplane mode or turn off your devices for take off please.’

Nesta fumbled with her phone, hands trembling to change it. She listened to the safety warnings, terror soaking in.

‘Can we swap seats? I don’t want to look out of the window.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart, but I need to leg room in the aisle.’ The man gestured to his broad thighs and long, muscled legs.

Nesta knew well enough that if she even dreamed of closing the hatch on the window, a flight attendant would snap it back up so she could see just how high they were. Once the safety demo had finished, Nesta plugged back into her bubble. Her belt was on but what use was that against a plane crash?

As soon as she felt motion, Nesta was gripping her seat belt as if clinging onto it might save her. Her hands trembled, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth in her fear as the plane approached the runway.

Then a hand reached for hers. Calloused fingers slid against her own.

Nesta ripped her mask and headphones away in one fell swoop.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘You seemed nervous. Thought you’d want a hand to hold.’

The man’s hazel eyes fell to their hands, still entwined then Nesta yanked that away too.

And then the plane was barrelling along the runway, the force pinning her to her seat so she grasped for that hand again. He gave a low chuckle and cradled hers with both of his. Nesta screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to glimpse the moment they took flight or the way the land below would become more and more distant. At Emerie’s encouragement, she’d watched take offs on YouTube, had even tried to play a flight simulator but both of them had freaked her out just as much.

‘Is it just take off or landing too?’

Her words wouldn’t come out. The whole thing was traumatic. The only reason she was flying was because her sister was due to a drop a baby boy any day and Nesta had agreed to be there for the delivery and first couple of weeks of his life. Without a maternal figure, Feyre had decided that Nesta was the closest thing – ignoring the fact neither of them had a clue about babies.

‘What does that beeping mean?’ she hissed.

The man just brushed his thumb in a circle against the back of her hand. ‘It means we can take our seat belts off, sweetheart.’

Reluctantly, she forced open her eyes. People were already releasing their belts and heading to the bathroom. She had held her own urination on every flight. Only poor planners didn’t go before take-off. It would be just her luck that a plane would meet a fiery end whilst she was sat on the toilet.

He leaned over to slide the hatch down, hiding the outside world from view then his fingers headed towards her lap. Nesta was too stunned to react even as he undid her belt.

‘And what happens if this plane starts to plummet from the sky?’

‘I’m sure you can figure out how to put your belt back on,’ he replied, an easy grin on his face. At her terse look, he added, ‘Relax. This plane has never crashed before.’

Nesta busied herself with her book despite the undercurrent of fear threatening to drown her every time she thought too deeply about how the plane remained airborne. The man next to her read the in-flight magazine then began drumming on the fold-out table.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Have you got a request?’

Nesta’s brows drew together. ‘Stop drumming. It’s irritating.’

When the trolley of beverages was a few rows away, he turned to her. ‘What are you having?’

‘Nothing. If I drink, I will need the bathroom. I am not getting up or going there and tempting fate.’

He gave a bellow of a laugh. ‘You’ve thought of everything. You know if the plane crashes, it will make no difference if you’re sat by me or on the toilet.’

Her face must have paled because he added, ‘But it will fly safely to our destination.’

A handsome, swaggering smile was offered to the air stewardess when she approached. ‘Two coffees, chips, M&Ms and whatever drink has the most sugar.’

There was a veritable feast laid out in front of him, but a coffee was placed on the little table that he unfolded at her seat. The M&M pouch was torn open and shook in front of her face.

‘Go on, treat yourself.’

‘Do you just fly around the country and trap women in airline seats so they can’t get away?’

He ran a hand against his black hair. ‘Should I have gotten the peanut ones?’

Nesta took a few and tipped them into her mouth.

‘Careful, sweetheart, you don’t want to choke while the plane is crashing.’

‘You are not funny,’ she complained.

‘When they need to identify your body, what name will go with it?’

This time, she nearly did choke on her handful of M&Ms. ‘Are you serious? Is that how you’re asking my name?’

He spread out his hands, evidently pleased with that terrible line, awaiting her answer.

‘Nesta.’

‘Cassian.’

They chatted as the plane continued on its journey, drinking their coffee and eating his snacks. They shared the can of coke, her inhabitations well and truly lowered by the Xanax if she was willing to swap saliva and drink from the same can as a stranger. At the first signs of turbulence, Cassian was there to hold her hands and murmur embarrassing stories about his friends to stop fear paralysing her.

Once the cabin crew had swept through to collect the final few items of rubbish on the short flight, Nesta was clamming up again. She knew what was to follow.

‘Cabin crew, prepare for landing.’

Clouds streamed past the window, adding to the turbulence. Nesta was too scared to even reach for her mask which had fallen on the floor.

Cassian wound his fingers into hers. ‘I’ve got you, sweetheart. It will be okay.’

Every bump had her gritting her teeth so hard, it was a wonder that one of her molars didn’t crack. Cassian just kept talking in a low voice about inane topics to try and shave the edges off of her fear. His arm wound around her shoulders, forehead touching her temple, whilst his other hand still held hers.

‘This is the nicest first date I’ve ever had.’

That snapped something in her. ‘This is not a date.’

The nose of the plane dipped and her stomach lurched from the motion.

‘We’ve had coffee and snacks. We’re holding hands. You’ve shared your deepest fears of dying in a blazing crash. To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.’

Nesta ground out, ‘I hate the Smiths.’

‘Everybody does,’ he said.

With a bump that made her squeeze Cassian tighter, the plane landed. It sped down the runway and Nesta kept her eyes firmly shut for the entire duration until Cassian murmured that they had stopped.

‘You see, a safe flight after all.’

‘Fortune was cruel enough to put me next to you. A crash would have really tipped it over the edge.’

Cassian lifted her bag down for her, his black t-shirt rising to expose a strip of his taut muscled stomach. His own was a well-used duffle which he slung over his shoulder.

They walked together towards the airport building.

‘Do I get your number then?’

Nesta cocked a brow at his boldness. ‘Absolutely not. I’d rather be the one that got away.’

‘Every flight I’ll think of you, wondering if you’re stealing another man’s snacks.’

Nesta pressed her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss as they parted into two different lines at security.

The man had to be mad, she decided as she passed through passport control. No sane man would just start holding a stranger’s hand – and she was an idiot for reciprocating that touch. But it did sting a bit that he’d accepted her refusal so easily. After how tactile and caring he’d been, she thought maybe Cassian would have pestered her again for her number or her socials. Whatever. His loss.

Her fear of flying meant that she’d sweated through her deodorant so she hurried into the bathroom to change her top, clean her arm pits with a baby wipe then slather on more deodorant to appear a little less dishevelled. Nesta spotted Cassian waiting at the baggage carousal for more belongings to come rolling around so she scurried past, avoiding his attention. Fantasy was more fun than reality. Maybe he’d be her one that got away.

After passing through anything to declare, Feyre was waiting for her. The huge belly wasn’t a surprise but it was still a shock to see her little sister so heavily pregnant.

‘Wow, look at you!’

‘I am peeing every ten minutes,’ she replied, holding up her belly.

‘Hi, Rhys.’

‘Nesta,’ he said, swooping to press a kiss on her cheek.

They’d met once. And it had been awkward as hell when Nesta realised he was eight years older than her. He wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever choose, but Feyre seemed happy. They were on “Christmas Card closeness” usually so Feyre’s call asking her to come and be close for the birth had meant a lot. Meant enough that she was willing to fly two days later.

‘Where’s the rest of your luggage?’

‘I had it sent ahead.’

Feyre patted Rhys on the arm. ‘Nesta hates flying. Everything is planned to an inch of its life. No detours, no unnecessary waiting. On the plane, off the plane.’

Even being in an airport, with its constant business, had Nesta itchy. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Do you want to head to the car, ladies? I’m worried about you standing for so long, darling.’

Feyre shook her head, golden hair cascading from the motion. ‘I’m fine. Cassian won’t take that long.’

‘Cassian?’

Nesta could practically hear the alarm bells ringing in her head.

‘My brother,’ said Rhys.

‘He works on an oil rig but he’s home for a couple of months now so you two can argue over who is the best uncle or auntie,’ teased Feyre.

There he was, striding through the doors, duffle bag slung over one shoulder while pushing a cart loaded with three more bags. His eyes snapped straight to her, a slow grin spreading over his face.

They said their greetings, Nesta and Cassian pretending that she hadn’t just been clinging to him in terror on the flight here then they fell into step together, walking slightly behind Rhysand and Feyre.

‘Fortune favours you,’ he murmured.

‘Did you know who I am?’

Cassian gave a hearty laugh that had Rhys glancing his shoulder at them. ‘Not at first. You looked familiar then you said your name and I realised you were Feyre’s sister.’

‘Lucky me,’ she grumbled.

With one hand pushing the trolley, he slung the other arm around her shoulders. ‘So, about that second date.’

#nessian #sjmromanceweek #sjmromanceweek2024

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starwrighter · 8 months

Text

I am not a baby!! (Yes you are)

(Ao3) (Masterpost) (Previous) (Next)

(Part seven lmao)

Sometimes Danny hated being right. Mentally he cursed himself as he clamored into his lifepod. The Aurora was spilling radiation into the water just like predicted it would. A damaged drive core... That didn't bode well for him or the local wildlife. He was a Fenton! He knew the terminology for "This might blow up," in every language, no matter how needlessly complicated you said it.

A radiation suit would be helpful when the ship blew up, if not for him, then for the other survivors. Danny grew up surrounded by radioactive material, he was about as fucked up as one could get, but there was still time left for the other survivors. If there even were any left.

Shaking his head, Danny opened the storage plucking out the remaining Creepvine clusters, and started fabricating. It was hypnotic, Creepvine clusters to lubricant, copper and mushrooms to a battery and copper wire all that and a piece of titanium gave Danny a functioning Seaglide. The device was heavy, the PDA altering the blueprint so it was usable for him.

Opening the hatch up, eager to test his new toy out, Danny dove back into the water faster than ever before. Propellers spun at speeds that would chop his finger clean off if he touched them. A glowing map at the top and a flashlight he could turn off by squeezing the handles. Quick enough to keep up with the peepers while still being able to make quick sharp turns.

The Device whirled as he swam in circles, up, down, left, right, zigzag! Through coral tubes, around stone arches till he got dizzy, divebombing fish and kicking up sand.

"Congratulations, survivor. you have exceeded your weekly exercise quotient by 500 percent. Data indicates that swimming was your favorite activity,"

Heck yeah it was! Swimming is great! He's fast as hell man, radiation could eat shit! Stalkers wouldn't stand a chance, he'd just outpace them! Swimming around, breaking outcrops, and taking samples of table coral for a computer chip. Danny was having a blast!

In time he would have the materials to fabricate a habitat builder and in turn a super cool sea base! A home away from home while he's stuck outside federation space. Currently, the seabase blueprints he had were...limited, but he could work with that!

Rushing to his fabricator the blue lights felt agonizingly slow as he bounced on the heels of his feet, flippers squeaking against the floor. A habitat builder fell into Danny's impatient hands.

Back in the water, Danny scoped out the area. Access to an abundance of resources, food, and water was a necessity. Along with awareness of local predators. The shallows are a perfect place for him to build right now. A temp base to rest and store stuff before moving somewhere more convenient as he explored and met up with any of the other survivors.

Deciding to test out his new tool, Danny placed down a basic compartment. A tiny little tube that would've been big enough if he only needed a place to sleep. Yeah, that wasn't going to work. How was he supposed to pace aimlessly while he wrote notes? How was he supposed to work and live in a high-tech pool noodle? Disassembling the pathetic tube, Danny swam through the shallows plucking up the quartz needed for glass. More materials would be needed to build his base. Thankfully, he’d crashed in a ship made from and carrying the materials he needed. Danny saw no moral issue with “borrowing” titanium from supply crates light enough to lift, but the PDA seemed to have a small issue with it. With a few minutes of tinkering, it was easy to change the machine’s artificial mind.

A loop, he was going to make a base shaped like a zero because that’s how many fucks he gave about Alterra’s dumb rule. Placed upon foundations was the start of his perfect space base. The sides of the Zero became glass compartments, a perfect place to observe the local wildlife. Solar panels mounted jumpstarted the oxygen production, lights blinding when they snapped on. Fish drifted by his base, some ducking underneath his foundations settling comfortably in the shade provided. Maybe if he was here long enough, he’d grow some plants for fish to nibble on?

A hatch was placed on the front of the Zero, finally giving him access to his new base. Cold air punched him in the face as he stepped inside, but it was a welcome attack. Air conditioning at last! Throwing himself to the floor, Danny giggled, noise bouncing against barren walls. A sterile smell cycled through the base with the air filtered in. Like his parent's lab or a hospital room freshly sanitized. Familiar, it smelled like home.

Peeling off his flippers, Danny propped them against the wall. Bare feet against metal floors, Danny took to running through the loop. Brushing his hands against empty walls, he ran laps like it was gym class. The only difference was this wasn't gym class, so it didn't feel like hell. Several laps ran throughout his base until his breath ran out, and he collapsed to the floor.

Winded and panting, he glanced around his base mentally, planning where everything would go. Blueprints were limited, but brainpower wasn't. Making new blueprints for shelving units or a bed should be easy enough. The hard part would be finding the space for it. If he tinkered with the PDA, he could fabricate some blankets and pillows that he could sleep on and store away when he was awake.

First things first, he needed to get a fabricator and some storage set up. A few wall lockers on each side of the fabricator made his little crafting station. His base still felt bare. White walls would get boring real fast. No paint or paper he could use to decorate. No stickers or wallpaper to paint his base to match the stars. Untapped Potential, something to add to his to-do list. If he couldn't decorate anything else, changing the locker's text font would have to do.

Walking in a loop, Danny muttered, his brain working better than his mouth. Words failed, coming out jumbled if they were more than one or two easy syllables. Fangs created a lisp that'd get him verbally castrated if he was back at Casper. That was if he didn't maul them with his newfound face knives. Like a piranha, he was dangerous! Fierce!

Tap...Tap...Tap

Feet freezing, Danny turned to the window, heart jumping to his throat. Several glowing eyes stared back at him, burning a hole into his soul. Stripes of colors ranging from blue, purple, and forest green ran along its massive scaly body and dragon-like head. Two razor-sharp fangs poked out of a closed mouth. Arms glowing blue that faded to pitch black when reaching its four-fingered hands, each claw sharper than a sword. Hands, oh ancients, why does this one have hands? The other one didn't have hands! Curled up, it would be the same size as his base. Danny pointed his scanner at the guy, the results striking terror into the deepest depths of his core...

What the fuck do you mean this guy's a juvenile!?!

@ashoutinthedarkness @avelnfear @meira-3919 @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @hugsandchaos @blep-23 @zeldomnyo @bytheoldwillowtree @justwannabecat @shepherdsheart @starlightcat04 @stargazing-bookwyrm @pupstim

#Danny the moment he gets a seaglide: I'm fast as fuck boii #Danny upon seeing Damian: I'm scared as fuck boii #Imagine playing Subnautica and you're chilling in the shallows and you see a ghost gargantuan hybrid leviathan at your door #I'd simply perish at that point #subnautica au #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dp x dc #DPXDC #DCXDP #All the tags so people can filter

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monsoon-of-art · 24 days

Note

I know a bit about computers so heres how some of the specs work:

-RAM: 8 GB is good for most things, but if you have anything real intensive (High definiton games or rendering) you should get more (and you can probably add more later depending on how many slots there are for that)

-CPU: how many cores is how many different threads (think of each computer process as an embroidery and each thread as a thread) can be processed at once and GHZ is the speed at which threads are processed. I'm not quite sure about how many cores and how much speed you need, but you should definitely get a CPU with multiple cores

-long-term storage: more storage is better, especially if you're going to be creating and saving a bunch of files (I reccomend 1 TB), also SSDs (Solid State Drives) are better than HDDs (Hard Disk Drives) in terms of data integrity (magnets dont destroy data) and data retrieval but im not sure about how long each type lasts. HDDs have mechanical parts that can wear down or break, but SSDs technically have a limited amount of uses of each tiny place where data is written

-graphics card/GPU: a seperate processor (sometimes even some RAM too) for rendering images on the screen, make sure that the computer you're getting does NOT have "integrated graphics" (or at least has a graphics card in addition to integrated graphics) because that is a tiny card that isn't very powerful at all

-cooling: water cooling is better than fan cooling, but you probably won't need it

-make sure the computer comes with all the ports and drives you want for it (CD/DVD drive if you want it, legacy ports if you want those for older devices, enough USB ports for the USB devices you want to attach to it)

Hope I helped! Good luck with computer stuff

thank you anon I could kiss you

I know im not gonna get the best computer on the market with my mediocre budget, but this is definitely gonna help narrow things down!

#im looking at some ibuypower and yeyian builds because they appear decent from my research

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imyourbratzdoll · 1 year

Note

If you're not currently doing requests, skip this one darling! ( ◜‿◝ )♡

Stalker!Sweet!Soft!Chris Evans x reader is my request :) Chris is obsessed with the reader and has made himself known that he is stalking her but not really revealing who he is like he has put sticky notes on paper she wrote on reminding her to drink her water and to please eat a quick snack if you don't feel like having anything before you go to work - stuff like that ❤️ (she could work as a writer for magazines or something lol) Chris Evans wouldn't let her ever know that he is the stalker, not when they start talking,not when they start to date nor when they marry, she won't ever know (~according to Evans,yes they will get married! ....she just doesn't know it yet~) He takes pictures of her,he has multiple phones and cameras just in case he looses one or one runs out of storage....he also has a Polaroid camera to stick the pictures into notebooks specifically for you. He also has been trying to manifest you to be at least his friend at some point and has written down his hopes and dreams in the book he uses to map out and manifest you life together! <3

hi! I hope you like it, and I apologise for it being so short!

summary - all he wanted was you and he’d do anything to get what he wants.

warning - stalkers behaviour.

the gifs I use aren't mine, divider by @newlips

Chris has never been obsessed with anyone, every female that’s tried to get his attention never succeeded. Not until he saw you wearing that cute little pastel yellow sundress. The way it fits your body perfectly, with a matching ribbon in your hair. It made his mouth water. He had never seen someone so beautiful. So he did the most rational thing he thought of– he stalked you.

He started by finding your name and where you worked. Happy to know you were also in the industry, so it wouldn’t be hard to stalk you. His family and friends knew nothing about his obsession, and they had no clue that he owned multiple electronic devices with photos and videos of you. He purchased a polaroid camera to place those photos in a secret journal.

Chris learnt about manifestation, learnt that he could get everything he wanted just by writing it down, having a clear mind and picturing you in his life. Tucked away under his pillow is his journal, full of his manifestations and polaroids of you. He’s even gone as far as taking slightly inappropriate photos of you and taping them down.

He’s sent flowers and chocolates to your work, sticking notes with little poems inside, with added side notes reminding you to eat and drink. To take care of yourself and not overwork yourself, he’s managed to sneak into your small office and connect small cameras and tiny bugs. Chris watches you cautiously read his notes, smiling to himself when you don’t throw them away.

Chris nearly had a heart attack when you spoke to him. He was at your favourite coffee shop. Knowing what times you go there and where you sit, Chris was sitting in a secluded corner, mapped out to watch you perfectly. But he didn’t expect you to approach him. The sound of your soft voice entering his ears caused his heart to beat fast.

He looked over, his mouth dropping open at seeing you in a tiny light blue sundress. Drool began to gather as he couldn’t take his eyes off you when you politely asked if you could sit in the spare seat across from him as your usual spot was taken, and the coffee shop was packed. Chris thought he was dreaming, and he had hope that his manifestations were finally working. Of course, he agreed. He wasn’t going to miss his opportunity.

He didn’t stop stalking you when you kept talking, nor did he when you became good friends. Hell, it became worse when you guys became official. He wouldn’t let you out of his sight even if you didn’t know he was there. Chris would follow you, track your phone and even go as far as connecting it to something so he could go through it.

When you moved in, Chris found a hidden spot in the cupboard to hide any evidence he knew you beforehand. Chris felt like he was on cloud nine with everything he dreamt of coming true.

For Chris, though, the best day was when you said yes to his proposal and then the wedding day. He convinced you to have the wedding immediately as he couldn’t wait any longer. You had to have his last name, or else he’d rip his hair out.

You would never know that this was Chris’s plan all along, and he doesn’t plan on ever letting you go.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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whencyclopedia · 19 days

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Roman Naval Warfare

Military supremacy of the seas could be a crucial factor in the success of any land campaign, and the Romans well knew that a powerful naval fleet could supply troops and equipment to where they were most needed in as short a time as possible. Naval vessels could also supply beleaguered ports under enemy attack and, in turn, blockade ports under enemy control. A powerful navy was also indispensable to deal with pirates, who wreaked havoc with commercial sea-traders and even, on occasion, blockaded ports. Naval warfare had its own unique dangers, though, with adverse weather being the biggest threat to success, which is why naval campaigns were largely limited to between April and November.

Ships & Weapons

Ancient naval vessels were made of wood, water-proofed using pitch and paint, and propelled by both sail and oars. Ships with multiple levels of rowers, such as the trireme, were fast and manoeuvrable enough to attack enemy vessels by ramming. The largest ships were the quinqueremes, with three banks of rowers, two each for the upper two oars and one rower on the lower oar (around 300 in total). Ships could also be fitted with a platform via which marines could easily board enemy vessels - a device known as the corvus (raven). Built for speed, most warships were lightweight, cramped, and without room for storage or even a large body of troops. Such logistical purposes were better achieved using troop carrier vessels and supply ships under sail.

Aside from the bronze-covered battering ram below the waterline on the ship's prow, other weapons included artillery ballista which could be mounted on ships to provide lethal salvoes on enemy land positions from an unexpected and less protected flank or also against other vessels. Fireballs (pots of burning pitch) could also be launched at the enemy vessel to destroy it by fire rather than ramming.

#History #BattleofActium #CarthaginianNavalWarfare #FirstPunicWar #WHE #[#]

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passingnotions · 1 year

Text

Dublur | Dahyun

smut, trigger warning for noncon/dubcon—Dubucon? I'll stop with the name puns when I stop writing Dahyun. Disciplinary Action Pt. 2 btw. 1200~ words A/N: Huge thank you to @capslocked for all the help editing; I'd lowkey call it a collab thanks to his input.

The secluded door at the end of the hall is intimidating. Overseer Kim D. You take a breath before the two knocks.

“You may come in.”

It’s a sterile environment: every piece of furniture and storage is neatly placed within measured ranges, properly squaring off Kim Dahyun’s desk in center stage. Two chairs face the ensemble and the Overseer herself, who stands prim at your arrival.

“I was beginning to doubt your return. Was our first session not compelling enough to warrant another—in this case apparent—mishap?”

You stand behind both guest seats, matching Dahyun in posture. “My apologies, Overseer. I feared that making another mistake in such a short period of time might attract unnecessary attention. I’m not prone to slip-ups.”

“Something you should be proud of, yet here you are: willing to sacrifice that perfect student record for another meeting with yours truly. Sit.”

You obey.

“What will it be this time?” Excitement gets the better of you.

“Now now.” The Overseer steps around her desk, over to the front, where she leans back and sits herself on the edge. “No rushing.” She reaches behind her and slides a glass of water towards you. “Thirsty?”

The glass sits at the edge beside her, fingers trailing the rim as she awaits your response—you’ll have to reach out, not her. “I—yes. Thank you.” You lean in and extend your arm. Her hand never leaves the glass and your eyes stray to find her plump ass spilling onto the desk, at odds with the tight dress that wraps way too short around her pale thighs.

Another glass is revealed as you pick up yours and you both drink the room temperature water in unison.

“So, why come back?” Her voice blunt and direct.

“Um.” You ponder. It seems like an obvious answer: the basic pleasure of it all, how it has you crawling back. But Overseer Kim is not that simple. Regardless—”I wondered… about the methodology.” you give the answer a shot despite your unsure voice. “Why… uh… that, out of all things?”

“It’s simple, really.” A satisfactory smile surfaces. “This academy primarily focuses on science—as you know—and students are to learn through testing within realistic conditions.”

“Of course, our primary focus is to learn with real tools, chemicals, and subjects. We—” You trail off, unable to finish your sentence. A bout of confusion follows and you don’t understand how—

“Exactly.” Dahyun picks up your trail. She’s somehow behind her desk now—when did she—searching through one of the open drawers. “You’ll be surprised to know that, as faculty, we are encouraged to do the same.” Her last words feel a world away, and the final image before blackout is Dahyun, blurred, with an object you can’t make out in hand.

You slowly come to. The bright light overhead burns into your eyes and there’s the realization that your neck cranes backwards. With slight pain you level out, sight still adjusting. There’s a sound, a wet sound, and you manage to feel the source before spotting it.

“What’s—ngh—going on?” You barely manage to speak.

“You’re being reprimanded, remember? Keep still.” The order is accompanied by fingernails that pierce into your thigh and prevent you from shuffling about your seat.

When the sight is finally made clear, you notice the Overseer; she holds a device of rubber, plastic—both? It grips your erect cock with gratifying pressure, sliding up and down with the consistent rhythm of Dahyun’s hand. “You—” the glass of water you once held is fixed on the desk behind the Overseer. “What did you put in that?!” You would stop her stroking, but your hands and feet are bound, constrained, fucked.

Her grip on your thigh tightens. “I said still.” The rhythm slows to a crawl and Dahyun looks up from her kneeling position at your still-dazed face. She observes your lubricated length, the veins that shape it firm, and how it throbs with each miniscule motion. “It’s an aphrodisiac, to answer your question, with a very convenient side-effect.”

“Fuck. I would’ve—hng—I would’ve undressed anyway. That’s why I’m here—” She picks up the pace and you’re tense all around. You never thought being tied up would be this enticing.

“To answer your other question.” Dahyun begins to twist the device on every upstroke, sending waves through your restrained body. “The one about methodology.” She pauses her train of thought to feel your cock ache, watching each pulse make the device move and shift. “It’s about control.” And with the words, she bottoms out on your length, having it completely covered by the rubber interior. “You’re mine, and you’ll do as I say.”

“Mmm—fffuck.”

Dahyun begins to stroke once more. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” The aphrodisiac is surely having its effect—you’ve barely woken up and you’re as sensitive as one can get. You feel how your cock pulsates, nearing its threshold.

“How close?” She asks plainly.

“So fucking close.”

The grip she had on your leg turns gentle; it caresses your inner thigh, stimulating the area around your extremely sensitive length. Dahyun is examining you, appreciating you: her live subject to do as she pleases. In the passing minutes, her eyes liven up as your chest quickens its breaths; she finds amusement in the way sweat builds up on your forehead and brows; and how your wrists fight against the tight grip of their restriction? She revels in it.

The buildup feels like an eternity—you don’t want it to end—but Dahyun’s pace hastens as she notices your tells. Your hips jolt up and you hiss: “I’m going to cum.”

As your breaths become moans, Dahyun releases you and chucks the device to the floor. “Don’t think we’re done yet.” She lets you pump your seed for about three throbs before grabbing your cock with her own hand, lubricating it with both oil and cum.

Your moans become grunts; pain—more so pleasure—enraptures your now burning cockhead as Dahyun continues to stroke through the dying grasps of your orgasm. “Cum for me. Again.”

“Fuck Dahyun, it’s so—fffuck—it’s so sensitive.” She doesn’t care. Her hand is a completely different sensation: it’s soft, silky, and in contrast to what she used on you before, you can feel each finger press down on your length as opposed to the encompassing yet inanimate pressure of the rubber.

It’s a struggle—on one hand, your cock begs for her to stop, each nerve crying out on how it reached its utter limit, yet on the other, her hand strokes your length with such delicacy; it’s downright skillful.

You decide to succumb to the ravishing sensations—perhaps whatever she gave you is also working its magic—and your cock reaches climax within the minute. It’s a staggering volume of pleasure, all at once, out of nowhere. This time, Dahyun decides to drain you herself, not letting a single throb go to waste, and strokes each and every drop into the air, onto her hands, as the trails of oil mixed with white cover her hand entirely.

You sit there, tied, spent, as Dahyun cleans herself and the device; it's not until after she's done that she even thinks to release you. Your wrists and ankles are marked and chafed, but the most worn-out feeling stems from your cock.

“Control?” You ask and break the silence.

She stores the device back in its drawer. “Yes, control.”

“You tied me up.” You accuse.

“As if you didn’t like it.” She deflects. “You would’ve tied yourself up if I ordered, but you’re more agreeable this way. Simpler”

Something stirs in you. You don’t disagree; her assured gaze knows this.

“You’ll be back before long,” Dahyun speaks before you manage to retort. “Off you go.”

#kpop smut #twice smut #dahyun smut #male reader #reader insert

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