#adapter pattern in c

[noctilionoidea]

crochet and sewing are very different but alike enough that both me and my sister know the pain of adapting a pattern for our massive fucking hoohas. Truly the sibling bond ever

[crossstitchpatterns]

[horsescary]

oop brainrot is real

[theambitiouswoman]

How to heal your nervous system after a lifetime of abandonment

If you’ve only ever experienced abandonment—whether emotional or physical—your nervous system has likely been in survival mode for most of your life. This means your body and mind have adapted to expect instability, making safety feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Healing isn’t just about “thinking positively” or “moving on” but about rewiring your nervous system to feel safe in connection, in stillness & within yourself

When abandonment becomes a pattern, your body learns to stay hyper vigilant, always scanning for signs that people will leave. It will emotionally shut down to avoid further pain. You will attach yourself quickly to people because you are scared that if you don't, you will lose them. You will feel unsafe in healthy relationships and sabotage them

This isn’t a mindset issue—it’s a nervous system issue. Your body is conditioned to see abandonment as inevitable, which is why true healing must happen on a physiological level

So to take control, you have to teach your body that safety exists (even if you don't believe it). And since you probably don't know why that is, you have to start small

I have spoken about these things before, but I am going to explain what they actually do, so that you see that even though they seem silly and pointless, they are very important. You thinking everything has to be a struggle and difficult is just you thinking from a place of survival

Grounding exercises - Grounding actually engages your sense to bring you back to the present moment and help reduce anxiety. Walking barefoot, holding something warm, or pressing your feet into the floor sends signals to your brain that you are physically here and safe. It activates the prefrontal cortex (the rational part of your brain) and quiets the amygdala (the fear center) helping you feel more in control

Weighted blankets- Trigger the release of serotonin (the "feel-good" neurotransmitter) and reduces cortisol (the stress hormone). Deep pressure mimics the calming effect of a hug, which lowers heart rate and blood pressure. It helps regulate the autonomic nervous system, shifting you from fight or flight mode to a state of rest and relaxation

Breathing exercises - They activate the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS), which counteracts stress and signals safety to the brain. Inhaling for 4 seconds, holding for 4 and exhaling for 6 stimulates the vagus nerve, which lowers cortisol and increases feelings of calm. Longer exhales specifically slow your heart rate, reinforcing a sense of control and relaxation

These small habits may feel insignificant at first, but over time, they help retrain your brain and body to recognize safety—not as something foreign, but as your new normal

Abandonment leaves deep emotional wounds, often from childhood. If no one ever soothed you, you must learn to soothe yourself

Affirmations for safety: Instead of just saying “I am worthy”, try “I am safe in this moment” or “I do not have to earn love”

Inner child work: Imagine speaking to your younger self. What would they need to hear? Start telling yourself those things daily

If you’ve only known unpredictable or inconsistent love, you may chase people or push them away before they can leave. Start practicing security within yourself first by keeping small promises to yourself. Surrounding yourself with emotionally safe people, even if it's just online or even books at first. Something that feels SAFE to you

Your nervous system might be wired to assume people will leave, so you either cling or detach first. Instead, start training yourself to trust in small ways by watching for people who are consistent, emotionally available and respect your boundaries. You are taking back control by paying attention to their actions and deciding if you want them in your life. When something feels safe, let it last as long as it should, don't sabotage it just because you are expecting the worst. You are worthy of good connections

Teach your nervous system that love doesn’t have to be earned. That you don’t have to fight for people who are meant to stay. You are not broken—you are healing

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to the Death of Monarchs

(no, unfortunately this is not a how to guide. Special Branch can now unhitch from outside my house)

To quote The Lion King... The Circle of Life. Monarchs are born, they live, they die. But what exactly happens when a monarch dies?

Dying

The monarch is on their deathbed. Their family, their friends, their advisers (their bit on the side sometimes) are lingering in the room or in the corridor. But of course, death isn't always expected. Usually, if the death is sudden, such as during a military campaign or an assassination, there is a scramble to preserve the news of the death for a time in order to make the necessary arrangements.

Causes of Death

"... Let us sit upon the ground. And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd," - William Shakespeare, Richard II.

Monarchs die like everybody else. They can die from anything. Disease (Alexander the Great), death at war (Richard I), assassination (Philip III of Macedonia), old age (Elizabeth II), starvation (Richard II), misuse of a hot poker (Edward II), murder at the hands of family (Edward V), childbirth (Jadwiga of Poland), accident (William of Orange... Pussy) , poison (Emperor Claudius) or on the toilet (George II). The death of a monarch is something at will be contested sometimes. If the body is not seen, there may be a belief that they live on. If the monarch dies suddenly, there may be rumours of foul play. No matter how a monarch dies, it will lead to uneasiness.

After Death

The steps after the monarch dies, usually include securing the next heir, proclaiming them to the people, and then working toward a clean succession. This time is delicate, it can be the breeding ground of coups and treacheries. Any claim other than the designated heir must be silenced by the proclaimation of the next sovereign as soon as possible. Child monarchs are extremely at risk during this period as the adults around them will seek to take custody of them. They who hold the monarch hold the power. It is imperative that the heir be notified at once so the stability of the kingdom can be assured.

The X is dead, Long Live the Next Guy

Once they breathe their last, all attention will turn to the next monarch or the scramble to find one. Be it by succession by blood or an election, the designated successor will immediately (even in the absence of a coronation) become the next monarch. Likely they will have been near their predecessor, either at their bedside or at least in shouting distance. But if they are away, they will quickly return to claim their throne. Without delay. Elizabeth II was actually on royal tour when she recieved news her father had died, leading to a hasty scramble back home.

When things don't go according to plan

The monarch passes away. There are tears. Sometimes. There are sometimes coups as I mentioned. Young would be monarchs could be kidnapped, eg. Edward V. Another heir claims the throne instead of the designated heir, eg Lady Jane Grey and King Stephen. Monarchs who die on battlefields can have their bodies stolen (James IV of Scotland) or thrown into a ditch with their crown snatched (Richard III). The death of a monarch is a delicate time and dangerous for all royal family members. In some instances, it would lead to murder. If a son of a previous Ottoman Sultan wished to be the next Sultan, they would order the mass murder of their brothers upon their father's death - usually death by strangulation.

Funeral

The funeral of the monarch is something that is usually planned from day one. There would be some sort of plan in place for the funeral, the when, the where and the how. The monarch might know these plans but the upper rank of courtier and aides would know. Funerals would follow a certain pattern, likely adapting from previous funerals. They would be a public, a lavish ceremony that would see to the closure of businesses, entertainment venues, the arrival of foreign dignitaries and a long procession of the body surrounded by military forces, watched over by the grieving public. If they actually liked the monarch. Some deaths of Kings were met without any sadness such as George IV. There might also be lavish games thrown in the monarch's honour.

Mourning

Mourning is the period of time that the country, the court and royal family grieves publicly. It can last a week or so, like today. Or up to a year. In China, sometimes mourning lasted 3 years or more. Mourning period often came with strict rules about what one could do or dress in. In Edwardian times, there were stages in mourning. Full mourning could last up to a year, with women wearing black with very little ornament and widows covering their hair with bonnets of veils. Second mourning (6-9 months), women's clothes could be adorned with trimming and finally half mourning is the 3-6 month period where colour started to be reintroduced, restricted at first to greys and mauves. There would be no balls, no parties, no sporting during the deepest part of mourning.

[nottogetpoliticalbutwtfisoatmeal]

ok guys guys hear me out:

robloxians adapt to their environment quicker than humans. so for each area discovered, the locals have different traits and physical appearance.

BizvIlle:

as close to humans as you can get

green meadows and plenty of sun means not a lot of danger to adapt to

regular sleeping habits

the most human-looking body types you'll find. Sometimes hair matches skin color.

Omnivorous and fairly diurnal.

One of the most welcoming and friendly communities, like an animal with no natural predators.

David Buszuki

Notable characters from Bizville: Player (not including Noobador's family b/c i hc them to be imps native to somewhere else.)

Roadtown:

despite the fact it says it's 'the sunniest town in roblox' im just gonna say this place is like Scandinavia. cmon if they weren't adapted to the cold why is there snowflake rugs and log cabins

robloxians native to here have hairs all over their body, even their skin. It's thin and short, but definitely there.

Their hands and feet have sort of paw pads on them to help them grab things and keep traction in the snow. Between these paw pads thick fur keeps their extremities warm

Their eyes go from reflecting blue light in the winter to thickening their corneas to avoid snow blindness in the summer. Their eyes change color during the seasons to show this.

Their coats change as well, many light-blonde and white-haired characters dawning brunette and ginger colors in the spring.

Combing one's fur is a tedious habit that robloxians do themselves. If someone else does it, it's usually a loved one.

Hibernation is real. Incredibly real. If you come into Roadtown during December, expect no one to be awake, let alone outside.

Robloxians need extra fat to weather the winter. A Roadtownian has more subcutaneous fat than any other robloxian. It's just biology.

Families and friends usually spend hibernations curled together in a giant cuddle pile in one of the rooms to conserve the most warmth possible. Hugs are not only fun but tactical.

Notable characters from Roadtown: Mayor Monty, Accountant Jim, Banished Knight, Cruel King

Turitolopis:

turitpolis is in the jungles of africa and you can rip that headcanon from my cold dead hands.

Due to the hot, humid temperatures, sweat glands are bigger and skin is more permeable. Turitopolians are always covered in a thin sheen of sweat and grease. Think of a tree frog.

Due to this permeability, if a turitopolian's skin dries out they can get very sick. This isn't usually an issue unless they go somewhere less humid.

Love of water and cooling liquids. During summer it is not uncommon for the entire village to enter a lake or mud puddle.

There's so much vegetation in the way. But instead of try an eliminate these stray branches and vines, turotopolians have a natural talent for brachiation. It's rare for a long travel to consist entirely on the jungle floor.

This also means you can find a turitopolian lounging on a tree branch taking a nap. They don't find anything weird about it.

Their skin can be a variety of colors, but usually their skin has some sort of pattern on it to camouflage them. Think tiger stripes and butterfly swirls.

Some turitopolians have venomous fangs. This is supposedly only a trait the mayor's family has. The venom is more to endure physical pain than to stop prey from moving.

Loud. Everyone is loud. Dancing, eating, talking, crying, singing, arguing, laughing, even sleeping. They're just naturally loud, and can stand out when put in more quiet civilizations

Notable characters from Turitopolis: Mayor Thaniyel, Griefer, Bigfoot, Komodo Dragon

below is demo 4

Vermillion Village:

Hot, hot, hot! Vermillion is inspired by the vast deserts of egypt and the middle east

With the land made of sand, vermillions have padded feet to keep them from scorching on hot rocks.

Feet are long and wide compared to skinny legs, keeping them afloat on the sand.

Long, thick eyelashes help keep sand out of the eyes during windy days and sandstorms.

They have small, camel-esque tails that help swat at bugs.

Vermillions actually have fat reserves in parts of their body. This seems counter-intuitive, but actually helps them go long amounts of time without food and keeps them warm during freezing desert nights.

Very small sweat glands to conserve as much water as possible.

Black markings on their eyes reduces sun glare and helps them see on sunny days.

Tough stomachs have a multitude of bacteria that can digest rotting matter like carrion or wilted vegetation.

Some houses have underground compartments where vermillions can burrow down into to warm up in the night.

Notable characters from Vermillion Village: all those fucking camels, The Great Flocci, Temple Guardian, The Ancients, Finn McCool

[bonefall]

I've seen your discourse about holstein.

Pun not intended, but is there any other cow races you've beef with ? And what do you think of the limousine, if you've any opinion on it.

The Limousine is mid.

Solid-colored cow that used to be a great working breed that could also be good meat at the end of its life, but has been intensively bred for the past century to be nothing but food.

They're a really common meat breed in the modern day, but they're only "good" because of modern fertilizers and grain feeding. France is actually the most nature-depleted country in Europe, and the """improvement""" of breeds like the Limousine is one of the reasons why it's so bad there.

My cow endorsements are for hardy, environmentally low-impact breeds which are well adapted to the regions they live in. I also personally give points for unique traits and genes, interesting patterning, and intelligence. Limousines have none of these.

I can't hate them like I do some other breeds, though. They're healthy, grow fast, and they produce good meat. I simply don't have many good things to say about them. Lame.

A different breed I DO have beef with though? Belgian Blues.

They took a perfectly good cow with a gorgeous blue coat and turned it into something out of Akira. Through INTENSE inbreeding, a gene for double muscling has been forced into this breed, turning them into these stomach-churning FurAffinity rejects.

You may have seen them called "super cows," but I think they're more like Frankenstein's Monster. They were literally created in a lab, in the 1950s, at an artificial insemination center. Their "myostatin" gene is broken, so their skeletal muscles grow to double the size that they should be.

The good news is that, thankfully, these animals don't seem to be in any chronic pain. Myostatin-related muscle hypertrophy in humans does not hurt, nor lead to secondary health problems. It's been studied in lots of animals, too, and they seem to be able to live healthy lives.

The bad news is;

They are UNABLE to give birth on their own and need c-sections to have calves.

Their necks are so stiff that bulls can have a hard time turning their heads.

Some calves are born with tongues so large they can't suckle.

The myostatin gene prevents them from developing good fat distribution, so they freeze to death easily.

Their skin is thinner than usual, too, so they're susceptible to parasites

They're bad grazers and need supplemental feed, so they have a larger impact on the environment.

Btw, as a comparison, here is what the original dual purpose Belgian Blue is supposed to look like.

We had a GOOD COW going, BELGIUM! It was BLUE! We had all the MILK AND MEAT WE NEEDED. And you just had to go and BLOW IT UP. YOU AND YOUR PRIDE AND YOUR EGO.

Luckily, modern Belgian Blues are not economically viable. The fact they need so much medical care and maintenance makes them more of a "status symbol" breed than one that will actually get adopted on a wide scale. THANKFULLY we're not working against market forces for this one.

But I think we need to go further. I think people who breed or advocate for modern Belgian Blues should have tomatoes thrown at them. I yearn for a world where every time one of those double-muscled beasts is shown at a livestock event, the audience loudly cringes.

I am pro-bullying but ONLY for Belgian Blue breeders. That is my beef.

[tribbetherium]

The abundance of coral reefs in the tropical oceans of the Middle Temperocene are conducive to the diversity of all sorts of organisms, all specialized and centered around the calcified skeletons of billions upon billions of tiny polyps. Unsurprisingly, where there is coral, there are plenty of coral-eaters: for where there is a food source left unexploited, a niche will, sooner or later, come to emerge to take advantage of the resource and benefit off of ot to survive.

One of the oldest lineages are the clawrrals: an ancient clade of small shrarks that, rather than using their rostrum and pincer pseudo-jaws for seizing and dismembering active prey, instead specialized upon durophagy, crunching up coral with their powerful tripartite "beak" and feeding on the soft parts within. So successful is this clade that they have endured since the days of the Middle Rodentocene, over 130 million years ago. This is, however, not to say that their survival had been stable throughout, as their diversity have been devastated twice, first in the dawn of the Glaciocene when changing water climates led to a significant die-off of clawrral species due to significant levels of coral bleaching in the regions that became suddenly much colder, and another more recent one in the Early Temperocene, when warming seas devastated those that had adapted to the cold: yet, by luck, some species managed to survive and flourish once more.

The genus Chromatocarcharocaris is one of the most successful of these to survive, and today in the Middle Temperocene number in hundreds of species all across the tropical oceans. These brightly-colored reef species come in all sorts of patterns, colors and shapes, with some species radiating out from coral-eating to other forms of generalized durophagy, including bivalves, quillnobs, and even scavenged bones and shells of deceased marine organisms. The harlequin clawrral (C. crayolae) is a typical member of its genus, ranging across Mesoterra's coast. Like many of its genus, it sports bright colors as a warning to predators thanks to its diet of coral polyps with defensive toxins, which it is immune to and even sequesters in its body to make it highly distateful to predators. Some coral polyps, like other cnidarians, have developed stinging cells as defenses, but the clawrrals in turn have developed a high resistance to them, allowing them to consume a dangerous meal few other competition wants to touch.

A specialization to feeding on the abundant corals of the reefs, however, is no longer the monopoly of the clawrrals. As gastropods became ever more successful in the seas, gradually competing more with the crustaceans, several highly specialized ones also emerged to feed on this abundant, rarely-exploited resource. Violet prickpillas (Echinolimax xanthospinum), a member of a group of shell-less marine gastropods known as the slugworms, similar to the Earth nudibranchs. This species in particular is notable for developing defensive spines in place of a hard shell, allowing it to chew away at coral reefs with little concern. Pre-chewed coral with the softer centers exposed are of particular favor to them, causing them to frequent areas clawrrals inhabit and, preferring different parts of the same food, are able to coexist with minimal competition.

An even more unsual gastropod coexists with these: asterisks, six-armed bottom-feeders vaguely similar to starfish. Yet even that passing resemblance has been lost in the peculiar pinball armarisk (Rotundocochleus globulus), which, while still retaining the six-sided shape has now evolved a hard covering on each side, forming a round, orb-like body with its mouth and foot protruding from the bottom, anchoring it to its feeding surface while its radula scrapes away attached algae and other attached microorganisms onto the coral surfaces. When threatened, it retracts its soft parts inward and closes its six plates to form a near-impenetrable spheroid, dropping to the ocean floor as it does so. Once danger is passed, it begins its slow journey back up to reef to resume its feeding.

As destructive as these organisms may sound, feasting upon the very foundation of the reef ecosystem itself, they are, in fact, now very important to the well-being of the tropical coral reefs themselves. Countless millennia of being fed on relentlessly have caused their favored coral species to grow at a much faster rate, and develop chemical defenses that make them less-ideal homes for other small organisms. By keeping these aggressive, poisonous or even venomous stinging species constantly trimmed, they prevent them from overgrowing the reef and crowding out other, more-amicable kinds that are vital homes and nesting grounds to the other species of the shallow seas.

------

[herpsandbirds]

Figure 1. Distribution of Kingsnakes in the Lampropeltis getula Complex in North America

Kingsnakes in the Lampropeltis getula complex are widespread across North America and show a remarkable variety of color patterns and regional forms. This figure highlights their geographic distribution and visual differences among subspecies and closely related species.

• (A) Lampropeltis californiae (banded) – Common in the western U.S., especially California, known for its bold black-and-white or black-and-cream banding.

• (B) Lampropeltis holbrooki – Found in the central U.S., often called the speckled kingsnake due to its dark body covered with tiny light specks.

• (C) Lampropeltis nigra – The eastern black kingsnake, found in the southeastern U.S., features smooth black scales with small white or yellowish speckling.

• (D) Lampropeltis getula getula – The eastern kingsnake, known for its wide black and white bands, ranges across the eastern seaboard.

• (E) “Sticticeps” – A debated form found in the Carolinas with somewhat variable patterns.

• (F) Lampropeltis floridana – Native to Florida, often dark with reduced patterning.

• (G–I) Lampropeltis meansi – The Apalachicola kingsnake of the Florida Panhandle, showing patternless (G), striped (H), and wide-banded (I) forms.

• (J) Lampropeltis splendida – The desert kingsnake of the Southwest, often black with yellow speckles or crossbands.

• (K) Lampropeltis nigrita – A dark Mexican kingsnake, often jet black.

• (L) Lampropeltis californiae (striped) – A striped variation of the California kingsnake found in isolated populations.

Each form reflects local adaptations, and together, they showcase the kingsnake’s incredible diversity and widespread success.

via: Phylogenetics of Kingsnakes, Lampropeltis getula Complex (Serpentes: Colubridae), in Eastern North America | Journal of Heredity | Oxford Academic

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ Camisado ── part 2

'can't take the kid from the fight, take the fight from the kid, just sit back, just sit back'

[Part 1] | Part 2

cw: Spencer Reid x GN!reader. Talks of drugs, withdrawal, overdose. Angst, with some comfort and fluff this time!! a/n: part twooo!! Better communication from them this time!! I hope you enjoy my character study that isn't actually a character study <3 w/c: 5.1k

It’s impossible to measure absence.

You can be “over” something for a hundred days, only for everything to collapse on the 101st. You can convince yourself you’ve moved on, only to find you’re right back where you started – raw and unravelling, lost in the abyss of what used to be. Compartmentalization only gets you so far.

Maybe that’s why you began thinking of the breakup in patterns. Because grief felt easier when it was charted. Linear. Predictable. You told yourself if you could soften the blow if you saw the pain coming. Bracing yourself for the inevitable, pre-empting the bad days so they lose their power to surprise you. As if you could measure your sorrow, contain it in neat little boxes. As if emotions could be quantified, tamed.

There’s no formula for missing someone. You can count the days, track texts that aren’t sent or received. Mark the mornings you wake up alone. You can make lists: the things left unsaid, the items he forgot to back, the faint scent of his cologne still on your pillows. The little details ambush you when you least expect them: humming coffee machines, songs on the radio, a street corner you’d once walked together.

Still, you try to map it anyway. Attempt to organize the loss as if it were another mug on the shelf, a simple thing with a discrete place to sit. This day is anger. The next, numbness. Tuesdays, apparently, are always reserved for bargaining.

But the mapping rarely works. There are no controlled conditions for heartbreak. Sadness isn’t an exact science. And love? Love might be the only thing less predictable than relapse.

In the early days, the sharpness was unbearable, lingering like glass beneath your skin. Now, it’s dulled. You can’t pinpoint the exact day missing him stopped hurting and just settled into quiet. Day fifty, maybe? It was around that time that the silence no longer felt like a punishment, but a fact of life. He was simply gone, and you were learning how to live in the spaces he left behind.

Mornings have changed, but the routine remains familiar.

You wake when the sun breaks through the blind. The bed is cold, even with the covers pulled tight around you. Not more tossing or turning from him. No more tug of the blankets pulled down because he ran hot in his sleep. Just empty sheets where the absence has its own presence.

You brush your teeth in silence. Shower under the steady rush of water. Drink coffee from a plain white mug.

Every corner of your world carries an echo of him, but you’ve adapted to ignore it. Mostly.

The guilt is one thing that never leaves. It clings to you, a constant companion who shows up in the quietest moments. It taunts you.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve reenacted conversations in your head, each one with a different ending. Maybe if you’d said something else. Maybe if you’d noticed the signs earlier. Maybe if you’d fought harder, loved smarter. Could you have stopped this? Could you have prevented the fallout?

Derek Morgan insists not.

Calling him was difficult. Not because you feared judgement, but because you had to admit, out loud, that you hadn’t been able to help Spencer. That you’d failed, in some way. The call was vague; you never spoke of the Dilaudid directly, but he understood. He knew. And since then, he’d kept you updated. Quietly. He spoke with the steady kindness of someone who knew better than to offer false hope, bit still believed in good news.

Every so often, you’d get a message:

Still clean.

Case went well today.

He mentioned your name.

The texts cracked you open and held you together at the same time.

You wanted to know what the others had done that you couldn’t. How did they reach him when your words fell flat? Was it you? Were you the problems?

You never asked.

Instead, you learned to sit with the weight of lost love without letting it consume you.

Because maybe it was never just about love. Maybe it was about timing. About pain. About the parts of yourselves that broke apart in the pursuit of staying together.

There’s a quiet dignity in finally understanding that.

This morning, your phone buzzes with another update from Derek:

Still clean and case over! Returning from Vermont today.

You smile. Soft and small. Relieved.  You make a mental note to call Derek sometime this week. Maybe just to say thank you. Maybe to hear him say it again, out loud. Spencer’s okay.

The knowledge that Spencer is still standing, still trying, settles something within you. It’s enough to get through the day.

And so you do. Laundry in the morning. Work meetings that blur together. A solo lunch at a coffee shop that spells your name comically wrong on the cup. The afternoon drags. More work. Emails. Deadlines. An uncomfortable chair that’s most definitely giving you back issues.

Dinner is cold left overs. Risotto, from three nights ago. You eat it standing up at the counter, because setting the table for one still feels a little hollow.

Then your phone rings. Area code’s local, but the contact is unknown. Your first instinct is to ignore it. Probably spam. Or a wrong number. You let it ring through.

Not even sixty seconds later, it rings again.

Something about the second call makes you pause. There’s a weight to it. A pull you can’t explain. You answer, hesitantly but politely.

‘Hello?’

Silence. Except for breathing – shallow and uneven. You sit up straighter, instinct flickering on.

‘Hello?’ you repeat, voice firmer.

And then finally, a whisper. Soft. Fragile.

‘Hi.’

Your entire body goes still.

It’s a single syllable, but your brain – your heart – doesn’t need more than hat. You’d know that voice anywhere, even when swallowed by static and shame.

Your grip around the phone tightens. Your breath catches in your throat.

‘…Spencer?’

Another silence. Then a breath which trembles and frays at the edges. You strain your ears, trying to hear for ambient sound that’ll determine his location.

‘Are you okay?’ you ask gently. You keep your voice low and calm.

There’s a laugh. Kind off. But it’s bitter and it wavers too much. ‘No,’ he admits. ‘Not really.’

He inhales, shaky, and the sound is a little tearful.

‘I—um—I really need to talk to someone,’ he says, voice nearly cracking. ‘I want to use. I want to use badly, and I don’t know what to do.’

The world narrows. Your vision doesn’t blur, but your focus does. It gets drawn to this one moment, this one voice, your heart thudding loudly in the background.

You don’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

‘Where are you?’ you ask, calm but urgent. Not panicking – you can’t afford to panic – just trying to anchor him to the conversation.

‘Home,’ he says. And then, feeling the need to explain himself: ‘I was fine earlier. I really thought I was okay. But the second I got back from the case everything got loud. Too loud.’

You hear him swallow. You can hear the spiral in his breathing, the frantic edge in his voice as he unravels. ‘I thought it would pass. I waited. I thought it would go if I got through a few minutes. But it hasn’t. It’s been forty-seven minutes, and I’m really panicking.’

His voice breaks on the number like it’s sacred. He’s been timing it, watching the minutes tick by with his pulse in his throat.

‘Okay,’ you say softly, speaking before you’ve even thought. ‘Okay. I’m coming over.’

‘No—’ he says, quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. I just… I didn’t know who else—the case was bad and I didn’t want to make Morgan feel worse. He tries so hard to be strong for everyone.’

‘Spencer, it’s okay. I’m already on my way.’

There’s no resistance from him. Just the silence of disbelief. He whispers a thank you as you grab your keys, shoes already shoved on.

The drive is short. Your fingers are white-knuckled around the steering wheel. You try not to think about what it’ll feel like to see him. What kind of shape he’ll be in. Whether his apartment will still smell the same.

When you arrive, the building is quiet. His windows are dark, no lights visible from the outside. The hallway feels cold, your footsteps soft against the wood.

When you reach his door, there's no light bleeding out from underneath. You hesitate. Chew on your lip. Then, gently, you knock.

No answer.

Your heart climbs into your throat.

You press your hand to the doorknob, more out of desperation than expectation — and it gives. Clicks open without resistance, the door swinging inward with a soft creak.

The apartment is dim and heavy with the stillness. The blinds are drawn tight and the air feels unmoving, as if it’s been left untouched for hours.

Then the smell hits you. Immediate. Familiar. Spencer.

Old books. Wool. Mint toothpaste. A hint of something warm and faded – maybe his cologne. It feels like stepping into a warm hug, returning to a memory. It’s almost enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Your eyes adjust to the low light, and you spot him instantly. Curled up on the living room floor, back pressed against the couch and knees drawn tightly to his chest. There’s a tremble in his limbs – faint but constant. You recognize it instantly. The same tremble you saw in the final months of your relationship.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

And your heart simply breaks.

His eyes reflect so much – guilt, anxiety, terror, all hollowed out by exhaustion. His mind is carrying too much weight, too many thoughts, and none of them are kind. Beneath it all, delicate and flickering, is something dangerously close to hope.

He looks like someone who hasn’t slept in days, and maybe he hasn’t. His hair is longer now, curling at the ends, damp at the temples. Strands cling to his forehead, matted there by sweat. His clothes are rumpled, his hands clenched into tight fists.

You don’t say his name. Don’t ask if he’s okay. Just kneels down slowly until you’re beside him on the floor.

‘Hey,’ you say softly.

His eyes close like the sound hurts.

‘Hi,’ he whispers back.

And then he breaks.

It doesn’t start with a single tear, but with total collapse. His body folds inward, as if he’s trying to stop himself from falling apart. His shoulders quake. Hands reach up to cover his face. He’s sobbing before he can stop it. Not loudly at first – it’s the type of crying that steals your breath. The quiet is raw and full of agony.

You don’t reach for him immediately. Just shift a little closer so he can feel your presence. Make sure he knows he’s not alone. Let him unravel without asking him to explain.

‘It’s okay,’ you murmur. ‘You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.’

It takes a long time. So long that the minutes become meaningless. Eventually, his sobs slow. His breathing shifts into something more even, though it still comes in shaky, uneven bursts. Not completely calm, but not completely spiralling. He hides his face against his knees, ashamed.

‘I was so close,’ he chokes out. It sounds like it hurts to speak.

Your heart tightens, but you stay quiet. Let him keep going.

‘I thought… just one more hit. Just one. Just shut up everything in my head. I told myself I could handle it.’

He sniffles and lifts the edge of his sleeve to wipe at his eyes like a child.

‘I was on the floor for forty minutes,’ he whispers. ‘Trying to talk myself down. But the thoughts, they just wouldn’t stop. It felt like they were screaming at me.’

You reach out carefully, gently taking one of his hands in yours. It’s clammy, and shaking, and you rub your thumb along his knuckles.

‘But you didn’t do it,’ you say quietly. ‘You didn’t use.’

He breathes in sharply, trying to prevent himself from falling apart again.

‘But I wanted to.’ His voice cracks at the admission. ‘I wanted to so badly. I was prepared to go out and get more—’

He buries his face against his knees again, muttering into his trousers so the words get half-lost. His rambles get muffled until he lifts his head again.

‘—so stupid. I kept telling myself it wasn’t that bad. That I was stronger now, I mean. I’ve been counting the days. Like, if I could get to a specific number it would mean something… I don’t know. Like, if I hit thirty or sixty or a hundred, the cravings would stop. But they don’t stop. They just get sneakier.’

His words falter. Long stretches of silence fill the room. Each pause is a chance for him to take a breath, as if gathering the strength to continue. You let him speak when he’s ready.

‘And I know what will happen,’ he says after a long pause, his voice thin. ‘That’s the worst part. I know the odds, the damage, the risk of overdosing. I know everything about it.’

He makes a tight, high-pitched sound of disbelief.

‘But sometimes it still feels like the only thing that will help. Isn’t that messed up?’

‘No,’ you say softly, meeting his eyes. ‘It’s not messed up. It’s human. And it’s hard.’

He lets out a broken breath. A laugh that isn’t really a laugh.

‘I thought I could beat it with logic,’ he murmurs. ‘Like, if I understood it well enough, it would lose its grip on me. I can quote every paper written on substance relapse in the las twenty years – I could write one – but none of it helps when this feeling sets in.

‘And part of me…’ his voice drops lower. ‘Part of me still wants it. And that really, really scares me.’

He’s tense beside you. Suspended. Almost like one wrong word will send him over the edge again.

You shift beside him, folding your legs beneath you to mirror his posture. Parallel. Close. You don’t rush in with advice, don’t ask him to promise anything. You just hold his hand and let your presence fill the gaps of his mid.

After a moment, you ask softly, ‘Have you told anyone else?’

He shakes his head immediately. When he answers, his voice is thick with emotion.

‘I couldn’t. Not after the case. I didn’t want to put that weight on Morgan, or JJ.’

A beat, his voice faltering.

‘…And Gideon’s gone.’ There’s an ache behind those words. Another open wound that never quite healed. ‘I just… you were the only person I could think of. The only number that came to mind. I thought you’d understand.’

‘I do,’ you say. The honesty seems to take him off guard. ‘I do understand.’

And you mean it.

Not just the addiction, or the spiral, or the fear. You understand him. The guilt. The complexity of grief. The parts of him that break, and how he hides it so well that no one else sees.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You give him time to calm, letting the silence settle gently between you. It carries weight, but not judgement. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s honest.

He leans into you eventually, the side of his head pressing against your shoulder with a tired heaviness. You shift to accommodate his weight, turning enough to let him rest there. His breathing continues to slow, and at one point, you think he might have fallen asleep – until he speaks again, voice barely audible.

‘I really missed you.’

The words land with force, reminding you how close the pain sits beneath the surface of your skin. You breathe in sharply, blinking back the sting at the back of your eyes.

‘I missed you too,’ you reply.

He shifts again, curling closer into your side. There’s such a fragile vulnerability in his posture and voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says next, voice thick with regret.

You squeeze his hand again. ‘It’s okay.’

‘I don’t know if I’m ever going to be okay,’ he admits.

Your grip on his hand tightens. Just enough for him to feel it. ‘That’s not something you have to solve tonight.’

He lets out a soft breath, clearing his throat.

‘I really wanted to see you again,’ he says. ‘But when I was better, or stable. Not like this. I wanted to be the version of me you fell in love with.’

The sting of tears grows and your heart tugs sharply. You look at him then. Brush away dampened hair from his forehead. His face looks washed-out, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes.

‘I didn’t love you because you were perfect,’ you say. ‘I loved you because you let me in. Because you were you.’

‘I was scared I’d lose you if you knew how bad it really was.’

‘I did know,’ you reply, steady despite the ache in your chest. Your jaw trembles slightly with the effort to keep your composure. ‘I knew. And I still wasn’t going to leave. I wanted to be there for you.’

He swallows and then, as if it’s something he has to get off his chest now, he says, ‘I almost died, you know.’

The words hit with the force of a punch. The pain is stabbing. Your body doesn’t have time to react as he continues. He needs o tell it.

‘It was a few weeks after I left. I’d been clean for two weeks, maybe. I was trying so hard. But then one night it hit me out of nowhere. I thought… just this once. Just a little. But I misjudged it. Took more than I meant to. I hadn’t eaten. I was dehydrated. I collapsed. Right there—' He gestures vaguely to the space where the coffee table now sits. ‘I woke up hours later on the floor, not even sure how much time had passed.’

His voice feels more distant the further he gets into the story. It’s like he’s recounting something that happened to someone else, reading from a report, instead of detailing something he lived through.

You close your eyes. Not because you don’t want to hear it, but because you do. You want to hear it all. You want to understand the full weight of what he went through, because he had to carry it alone.

‘I remember thinking,’ he continues, ‘what if I hadn’t woken up? Who would’ve found me? What would you have thought?’

Your cheeks are damp now, though you don’t remember shedding the tears.

‘No,’ you whisper. ‘No, Spencer.’

‘It was scary,’ he confesses. ‘Knowing that could’ve been it. That maybe that was all I was ever going to be.’

‘You’re still here. That means something.’

He exhales shakily. ‘I’m worried. That I’ll mess up again. That I’ll lose everything I’m trying to rebuild.’

You don’t try to offer empty promises. You don’t say you won’t, or it’s going to be okay, because you don’t know that. None of this is linear. None of it is guaranteed.

Instead, you just stay beside him. A steady presence. Your arm wraps around his shoulder, fingers moving tentatively through his hair in a lame gesture of comfort. The contact is light, but he seems to appreciate it. He leans into you more fully, resting his head against you and allowing his eyes to close.

For now, no more words. You’re here. He’s here. And that’s enough.

He dozes eventually, though fitfully. He shifts restlessly against you, caught in a shallow sleep. Each breath that borders on a snore becomes a small comfort, each movement a reminder that he’s still here, still okay.

It’s sometime past midnight when he stirs again. The sweating has stopped, and the shaking has subsided, but the hair at the base of his neck remains matted and messy.

‘I think I might take a shower,’ he mumbles.

You nod, offering him space.

You remain seated for a long moment before moving to the kitchen. You’ve stood here a hundred times before, and the familiarity hurts a little.

You boil water. Locate the decaf coffee at the back of his cupboard because it’s too late for caffeine but you know he finds the taste of coffee comforting. The kettle hisses as you pull two mugs from the cupboard. One white, the other yellow – the matching pair of the one he kept in your apartment. This one is less faded, though chipped on the rim. You smile softly.

You brew the coffee and carry it to the coffee table, setting them down just as the bathroom door opens again.

He returns from the shower; eyes instantly tracked to the coffee like a moth drawn to a flame. His hair Is damp, clean clothes covering his body – plaid pajama pants and a faded Caltech t-shirt.

He sits beside you wordlessly. Picks up his mug. Takes a sip.

He closes his eyes, and you watch the tension ease from his face with that one moment of comfort. He looks so small, so soft.

‘I’m really sorry,’ you say. The apology slips out with no warning.

His head turns slightly, eyes remaining downcast at his mug. ‘For what?’

You sigh, do the same: stare into the dark liquid like it’ll provide the answers.

‘I think I made you the villain, in my mind – for a while, anyway. After everything… it was easier to be angry. To try and hate you. I don’t know… it wasn’t fair for me to think of you that way, is all.’

His silence encourages you to continue.

‘I couldn’t hate you though. Not really. I was exhausted and really scared, but I still couldn’t hate you. I cared too much for that.’

He’s very still beside you. You glance at him and find him listening—shoulders tense, mug unmoving.

‘I went to therapy, actually,’ you say after a moment. ‘Not because of you. Or… not just because of you. I think I was carrying a lot. The guilt. Wondering if I’d given up too soon.’

‘You didn’t,’ he says immediately. Decisive.

‘You don’t have to say that—’

‘You didn’t,’ he repeats, gentler. ‘I know you stayed connected through Morgan. That’s not giving up. And I—I’m grateful for that.’

You blink, caught off guard. ‘You knew?’

‘I figured it out eventually. It was obvious he was texting you. It helped, actually – knowing that you were keeping tabs. Knowing that you cared, even if it was from a distance.

‘I think… I think I wanted you to know things, even if I didn’t tell you myself. So I’d bring you up in conversations. I’d tell him how you used to do this or that, or how you’d make me feel better. . I didn’t want to be too obvious, but yeah, I just needed some excuse for him to message you. So you knew that I was trying.’

You try to smile. ‘I didn’t want to overstep by talking to him.’

‘You weren’t,’ he says, now looking at you openly.

He finishes his drink and gently sets the mug down, hands lingering on the rim. He closes his eyes. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. Weak. But real.

‘I used to talk to your side of the bed,’ he admits quietly, cracking one eye open to watch for your reaction. ‘I’d lay in the dark and say things I should’ve said when you were still here. Felt a bit like an idiot.’

‘What did you say.’

He rubs his hand against the back of his neck, embarrassed. ‘Apologies, mostly,’ he confesses. ‘That I was sorry. That I’d messed up. That I didn’t blame you. That I missed you.’ He breathes out slowly. ‘Figured you were better off without me.’

‘I wasn’t,’ you respond, the words simple and final.

He seems almost startled by your certainty.

 ‘I was surviving. There’s a difference.’

He doesn’t respond, but the way he lowers his gaze tells you he heard them. The silence stretches again, more companionable now, as if you’ve both run out of things to confess for the moment.

‘I’ll stay here tonight,’ you say.

You rise and take the empty mugs to the kitchen. That’s how you’d let him know decisions were made, when you were together. Walk from the room so he knew there was no room for argument. The clock on the microwave reads 2:56 a.m. by the time you’ve washed and dried the mugs, set them back within the cupboard.

Spencer is glancing toward the hallway when you return to the living room, surrendering to the fact you’ll be sleeping here tonight. He’s rubbing his hands over his forearms like he’s trying to warm himself.

‘You can take the bed,’ he offers. ‘I’ll stay out here.’

You don’t even entertain the idea, shaking your head almost instantly. ‘I can take the couch.’

‘It’s not comfortable.’

‘Neither is a heartbreak.’ There’s no bite behind it.

He recognizes it as a joke and his lips twitch – just barely. Not a laugh, but something.

He opens his mouth like he might argue further, then thinks better of it. Wordlessly, he reaches over to the hall closet and pulls out a blanket, tossing it in your direction. You catch it easily, the way you used to catch his keys or rogue socks during laundry days.

He lingers awkwardly for a second, then walks over and starts helping you unfold the blanket. Together, you arrange the cushions into something resembling a bed. It’s not luxury, but it looks comfortable. He talks – easier than before – as you work.

‘Garcia made me reenact our breakup with the little trinkets on her desk.’

You stifle a laugh, glance at him mid cushion plump. ‘She what?’

The corner of his mouth curves up again. ‘Yeah. I was this purple owl. You were a goldfish. And she said “emotional constipation is not cute, Doctor Reid,” and made me talk the whole thing out. Dialogue and everything.’

Your laugh breaks out now before you can stop it—sudden, sharp, and genuine. The kind that escapes before logic catches up. You cover your mouth for a second, trying to compose yourself, but it’s no use. The image is too vivid, too absurd.

‘She really said that?’ you ask, grinning behind your hand.

He nods. ‘Verbatim.’

‘That tracks, actually.’ Sweet Penelope. Good intentions, unconventional methods.

When the bed is made, he watches as you settle against the cushions and pull the blanket up to your chin.

‘You really don’t have to stay, you know?’ he says, voice low.

‘I know.’

‘But you are.’

‘For tonight, at least.’

He nods slowly, absorbing the weight of those words. For tonight. Not forever. But enough.

He hesitates in the doorway, like he wants to say something else. Like there’s more sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he just meets your eyes.

‘Goodnight,’ he says softly.

‘Night, Spencer.’

You give him a gentle smile.

He disappears into the bedroom, leaving only gentle silence behind.

The morning is gray, but not cold. Pale. Muted – like a blank page, or the quiet inhale before a decision is made. It feels neither sad, nor hopeful. Just open and undefined.

Spencer walks you to your car in silence, because nothing else needs to be said. The night said enough. The words hang in the air, fragile and tentative, trembling under the weight of something new. Or, something very old.

You pause at the curb. The keys in your hand glint dully in the dim light as you press the button. The car unlocks with a familiar click. The world feels oddly still, as if even the city is holding its breath.

Spencer doesn’t quite meet your eyes. He tracks the edge of the sidewalk instead, like it’s a line he doesn’t quite know how to cross. His fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for something they’re not sure their allowed to touch.

‘Thank you,’ he says. It sounds so soft, like it could blow away in the morning breeze.

‘You don’t have to thank me.’

‘I do,’ he insists, looking into your eyes. There’s no shame or embarrassment, just honesty and an aching kind of reverence. ‘I don’t think I would’ve made it through the night alone.’

You nod. ‘You can always call me.’

You don’t say “anytime.” You don’t promise forever or imply a future you’re not ready to define. But you offer truth, and truth matters more. You offer the kind of steady, quiet reassurance that can be leaned on. Steadiness.

The fear is still in his eyes, but there’s something else beside it now. A hint of peace. Not joy, not quite hope, but something calmer than despair. A quiet willingness to keep going.

The space between you hums. The air feels charged, not with tension but with meaning. With memory. With everything said and unsaid.

He moves first. Or maybe you do. The intentions are unclear, but it doesn’t matter. The distance closes, and somehow your foreheads are touching – just barely. Not quite an embrace, on the verge of a kiss. Proximity and breath and a shared recognition for what once was. What could still be.

You both stay there, eyes closed, suspended in something quiet and sacred.

Eventually, you pull apart. Gently. A slow return to the world. You smile at him, a little melancholy, and slide into the driver’s seat.

He closes the door for you. Steps back onto the sidewalk.

Your hand lingers on the gearshift before you start the engine. The car hums to life, and as you begin to pull away, you catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. He raises his hand in a silent farewell.

There’s no promises. No declarations. Just an understated goodbye.

The car moves forward. Not quickly, but forward nonetheless. You realize, suddenly, that you’re not afraid anymore. For him, or for yourself. You exhale. Not sad, not elated. Just still, but with a steady beating pulse beneath.

Its unclear whether this is the beginning of something new, or just a clean end to something that matters. But whatever it is, you’re not scared.

And for now, that’s enough. The knowledge that you love him is enough.

You’d attempted to measure your grief like a science. But perhaps it is something different entirely.

Love is more like faith, you decide. Delicate and irrational, but enduring.

You can’t measure absence, but you can feel what still remains.

heyyy!! if you made it through this part, then thank you for reading!! I'm well aware this isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

i tried to add loads of parallels between this and part one, but honestly my brain got sort of fried. i also love an open ending, so it's up to you what happens to Spencer and reader after this little fic!!

I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here.

taglist: @abbyy54 @curatedbylucy @cynbx @enchantedtomeetcoffee @goobbug @inkydelusions @internallysalad @jeuj @leparoleontanee @mrs-cactus69 @readbyreid @redorquid @santinstar @shortmelol @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06

[whencyclopedia]

Etruscan Pottery

Etruscan Pottery, produced over five centuries, was nothing if not varied. Indigenous wares such as the glossy black bucchero were made alongside red- and black-figure pottery imitating, yet modifying those produced in the Greek world. Geometric, floral, figure, and narrative decorations were appreciated and adapted from the Near East and Ionia, with even foreign potters and artists themselves settling in the cities of Etruria, such was the demand from the Etruscans for fine pottery for everyday use, at special banquets, and as offerings to their gods and dead. Pottery was also the material of choice for figure sculpture, best seen on the lids of large funerary urns, and as decoration for buildings in the form of statues and decorative plaques. Besides what they have left us of their own work, the Etruscans, great collectors of fine pottery that they were, have secured for posterity some of the finest Greek vases ever made and which now star in the collections of museums worldwide.

Villanovan Pottery

The Villanovan culture was a precursor to the more developed Etruscan civilization during the Iron Age in central Italy from c. 1000 to c. 750 BCE. In this period pottery was made by hand, not on the wheel, and used clay containing impurities of mica or stone which was fired at a low temperature producing relatively primitive wares. This type of pottery, known as impasto, was used to make bowls, storage jars, cooking pots, cups, and braziers. By the end of the 8th century BCE, potters had managed to improve the quality of impasto through long practice and refinement of technique.

Villanovan cemeteries contain burials of cremated remains in urns which are biconical (two vases with one smaller one acting as a lid for the other) and often carry simple incised decoration of geometric patterns, whirls, and swastikas, or even simple human 'stick' figures. Some urns have metal strips applied as decoration using lead or tin. One rarer type of urn, instead of a ceramic lid, has a bronze helmet on top with an impressive angular crest and embossed decoration.

Another common form where terracotta was used was the production of small models of houses, made to contain the ashes of the deceased. Perhaps imitating real architecture, these have decoration on the exterior walls of geometric patterns and an aperture above the door for releasing smoke. They also have roof decorations, probably imitating the terracotta additions which became so typical in later Etruscan architecture.

Continue reading...

[vibratingskull]

Hello ☺️

I love your work, your stories. They are absolutely amazing. 🤍

Could I request a story with Samakro x reader (female)? Something about the way he falls in love with her.

Thank you my dear, have some Samakro the ride or die man ❤️

art by @jun-c

Samakro x F!reader

“You are a human, you are feeble, you are weak.” Samakro hisses. 

“I am... not weak.” You respond back, completely out of breath, sweaty, and hands on your knees. 

“You are weak. You cannot even last a training session.” 

You straigthen your back and crack your neck, getting back into position. 

“I am not weak!” You repeat with more force and anger in your human eyes. 

“Prove it to me.” 

You launch yourself on Samakro again, punching and kicking his gloved hands as he showed you too. 

“Harder!” He orders. 

You increase your strength, hitting away as hard as you can, as fast as possible. 

“Keep going.” He demands, “Harder!” 

You feel your lungs burning and your muscles screaming in pain. You are not used to such intensive exercises. You are a civilian, not a military member. But the rules are simple: adapt or get debarked on the first planet you come by. 

You don’t know why Captain Thrawn is imposing such rules on you, but since they found you wounded and drifting in space he dictates your life and you have no choice but to abide by his rules. Mid-Captain Samakro is now your new tutor on the Springhawk, spying on what you do at all hours of the day and night. He is merciless, imposing the strict Chiss military lifestyle no matter how tired you appear. 

“Again!” He hisses. 

You give him two powerful punches and a spin kick right into the targets he’s holding. He seems taken aback for a split second before recovering his hard expression. 

“Better. Give me more of that human.” 

You throw your last strength into it until you hear the liberating timer.  

“Time out.” Samakro announces to your relief. 

You fall to your knees, drenched in sweat and without any more breath. You cough painfully, feeling on the verge of passing out after such intense exercises.  

“Hey!” Samakro calls for you. 

You raise your head towards him only to receive a towel in the face. 

“Do not stop like that, it is recovery time. Go on the treadmill.” 

You groan, painfully raising on your feet and leaving the ring to hop on the treadmill. You feel your pounding heart pumping blood furiously and painfully. You hold the two bars on the side so as not to fall as Samakro hops on the treadmill beside you. 

“You did a good job today.” He lets you know after five full minutes of complete silence. 

“Thank you, sir.” You nod. 

“Do not forget to take out the electrodes and the monitor once you’re done.”  

You nod again. You jump off the treadmill and take off the monitor's electrodes off your chest and stomach. You turn to Samakro for further instructions. 

“You have the rest of your day.” He simply announces not even looking at you as he keeps walking on the mill. 

“Oh... Thank you sir!” You answer joyfull and heads toward the communal showers. 

Samakro keeps walking rapidly on the treadmill until he hears Thrawn’s steps pattern entering the gym of the Springhawk. 

“What are the results today?” Captain Thrawn asks evenly. 

“Let’s discover it.” Samakro responds. 

The two men approach the laying monitor and plug it into a questis, running the data on the screen. 

“This is her results on her first session and here is her progression’s curb.” He explains to his Captain. 

Thrawn remains mute, observing the data on the screen, detailing every high and low, the picks and the depressions. 

“Fascinating.” He finally lets out, “Almost the same as a Civilian Chiss curb.” 

“Indeed, the results are uncanny.” Samakro adds, scrubbing his face with a towel. 

“And what of her mental? Her dispositions?”   

“She did not understand the necessity of the exercises at first, and I think she still does but she submits to it.” 

“Do you push her to her limits?” 

“Yes. She doesn’t like to be looked down upon, it gives good results.” 

“Do not destroy her mentally. I have more tests to run on her.” Thrawn advises. 

“I am careful, she seems to hold on well.” 

Thrawn looks back at the results with interest in his inquisitive red eyes. 

“Humans... Fascinating.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Samakro silently looks at you over his questis. You are fully focused on your test on your own questis. 

Obviously, you don’t know Cheuhn, but you are proficient in several trade languages and writing systems the Chiss use outside of their realm and displayed your polyglot talents early on. He concocted a series of tests to measure your mental plasticity and  I.Q. And you’ve been going at it since 6 am. 

Some maths and logic problems with dissertations in different languages, a philosophical question, and a moral dilemma. 

It is actually an IQ test that the entire Springhawk crew had to take at some point in their career, he simply translated it into a trade language and script and took the liberty to take out the General Knowledge questions about Chiss culture and literature for obvious reasons. 

He is already checking your responses from this morning, comparing them to the average Chiss responses. 

Your I.Q. is average, nothing really special to note, but your way to the responses is truly... alien. You are coming from a completely different thought system and it shows, you are creative in your responses in a way that the Chiss test has difficulty measuring. Your responses to the philosophical and moral dilemmas are completely misaligned with Chiss values but are terribly interesting if they are standard for your human species. 

When he thinks back Chiss and Humans used to trade and exchange millennia ago and everything stopped after the supernova explosions, erasing all hyperspace lanes of the Chaos and cutting all communications.  

How did humans evolve deprived of the wisdom of the Chiss? 

“Five minutes left.” He announces. 

You grumble, taking your forehead in your hand, he can almost see the smoke of focus escaping your ears. He should compare your responses to the archives about humans they have, Captain Thrawn will also be interested. 

Samakro wonders for a second what was his results for those tests, they never communicated them to the candidates. If he reached the rank of Captain it means he must have done good. 

You would never reach the rank of Captain. You are not made for war, neither in body nor in mind. You would surely be a good historian or archivist, a scholar career where you classify data seems perfect for you. 

But on a Chiss warship, you have little to no value. The only civilian job in it is caregiver for the skywalker and they surely won’t let an alien approach their precious little girl any time soon.  

He keeps looking at you discreetly. He remembers lying to you, telling you that if you didn’t obey they would debark you on the first wild planet they found and leave you to die there. 

Which is obviously false for several reasons. They are not barbaric monsters and mostly Captain Thrawn and the UAG are terribly interested in meeting a Human after so many millennia. All your test results are sent to the UAG  for them to get a foretaste of what they will work on once they send you there. 

But you refused to obey and sit down and he had to resort to menace to force you to submit. Are all humans that rebellious? Do you all have problems with authority? A Chiss would have never posed such problems... 

If the current mission wasn’t capital for Chiss security, Thrawn would have ordered the Springhawk to go back to Csilla to offer you to the lab as his new catch. But fortunately for you, they must keep going, you escaped the rat lab existence. 

But for this time only. 

The scientists of the UAG are drooling at the idea of studying a human after so much time and they keep sending them new tests and procedures to experiment on you. Samakro doesn’t understand this fascination for aliens, for him they are all the same: 

Not worth his time and attention. 

But Thrawn thinks differently and locks himself with you in his office for long discussions every day. He is learning the maximum he can on this “new” species, evaluating the level of threat you will pose or not. He is less invasive in his questions and remains courteous with you but you shouldn’t get used to it. 

“Time is over.” Samakro says. 

You sigh and fall back in your chair with a defeated look. Visibly maths is a serious adversary for you.  

“May I go now?” You ask, visibly tired. 

“No. Remain.” He orders sternly. 

He looks at your new results while you are forced to wait in silence. It is obviously another test, how well do you do when things don’t go your way?  

He takes is sweet time comparing the results with the archive and while he isn’t a scientist something is very clear to him. 

You’re going to be a problem. All humans will. 

You are unruly and disorganized, messy and libertarian, prone to rebellion. 

He hardly sees what good would come up for the Chiss to align themself with humans.  

You’re just going to be a pain in more ways than one. 

He now knows how humans evolved without Chiss’ wisdom... 

“Senior Captain Samakro? (Y/n) (L/n)?” Thrawn enters the little conference room, “I need you.” 

Samakro jumps on his feet, ready for action while you look put out, only wanting to enter your bed for a good night’s sleep. 

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Samakro inquires. 

“We crossed paths with new aliens. I would like to have a word with them to test the water.” 

Samakro frowns turning his head to give you a look. 

“Is her presence necessary?” He asks in Cheuhn, earning a bad look from you. 

“Indeed. She is more fluent in their language than I am and I would like to observe their reaction to a near-Chiss individual.” Thrawn responds in the same language, “Who knows, maybe humans already are in contact with this species.” 

Samakro nods obediently. 

“Follow us (F/n)” He orders you. 

You sigh but obey. 

“I need your talents in a specific language.” Thrawn lets you know in a trade language. 

“Other humans?” You ask, accelerating your pace to place yourself next to Thrawn. 

Samakro fights the urge to grab your shoulder and yank you backward. Nobody walks alongside a Captain, even his bodyguards remain two steps behind. But Thrawn doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.  

So Samakro remains silent but mentally adds “Impertinent” and “unable to follow protocols” to his list of cons about humans. 

“Unfortunately no. A group of alien nomads of whom our archives are incomplete.” 

“Nomad? Are they numerous in the region?” You inquire curious. 

“Indeed there are a few clans. Most of them are bounty hunters and mercenaries, selling their services to the most generous.” 

 “Oh... I mean... Should I really be here?” You worry. 

“Everything is going to be fine. I simply need you as a translator no harm will come to you.” 

Samakro remains silent. A group of mercenaries with whom the alien they happened to have rescued and helped can speak with? The timing is a bit suspicious. He received the orders to tutor you but he also had to honor his duties as Mid-Captain, who knows how efficient the officers he gave you to were in their surveillance? 

Did they invite a snake in? 

Thrawn must also have these suspicions and take the opportunity to test you. 

You all enter the new conference room where the Aliens are waiting. Samakro remembers reading some archives about them but they are quite obscure, but he remembers them being known to undergo heavy surgical operations to make their entire bodies a weapon.  

And evidently, Thrawn lied to you. He mastered this language years ago, Samakro heard him use it so many times as he is himself quite fluent in this one. It allows them both to fact-check what you are translating to them and to the Aliens. 

Hum... 

Up until now, you have diligently reported the correct info, not trying to subtly twist Thrawn’s words or veil info from the aliens... But that is not enough to erase suspicion. 

As for the aliens’ pretense as to why they are on Chiss territory, it is clearly a lie. Those have something behind their minds. Samakro subtly caresses his charric at his hips. They took out the Aliens’ weapon but something in his mind was telling him to be cautious. 

“They ask if you could draw them a safe route for their travel. Their navigator died.” You explain. 

Bullsh... 

But Thrawn takes out his questis where a map of the Chaos appears. He hands it to Samakro to give it to the Aliens that are on the other side of the room, a long table separating them from the Chiss. Samakro takes it and heads toward the group.  

Suddenly, when he is mid-way through and away from Thrawn the aliens jump on their feet with their hands in their mouths, dislocating their jaws in an impressive fashion, to take out hidden miniguns off their throats. 

And fires. 

And in a flash, it is over. When Samakro recovers his senses he has his fuming Charric pointed at the now-dead aliens, the questis now exploded on the floor. 

A suicide commando. Surely the Grysks. 

A good chance Samakro and Thrawn’s bodyguards are fast. 

He spins towards Thrawn to see if he is all right. He discovers him kneeling with you in his arms. 

“What happened?” He asks kneeling next to his superior. 

You have been hit, the smell of burning flesh rising to Samakro’s nose. It is not pretty. They both lay you down on the ground, Thrawn taking his comm to call for the medics while Samakro applies pressure on your bleeding wound. 

Warrior, if they lose the UAG’s new toy... 

If they lose you... 

“She took the fire for me.” Thrawn explains. 

Samakro freeze. 

You what? 

He raises his eyes to his Captain, incredulous. 

“An alien did that?” 

“Apparently. Keep applying pressure Mid-Captain.” 

Quickly the medics comes to take you away in the medbay, leaving Thrawn and Samakro to investigate the scene. 

But Samakro’s mind keeps coming back to you. 

Why did you do that? 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

Why would an alien risk its life to save somebody else? He wouldn't have taken a fire for an alien. 

“Mid Captain, you are not listening.” Thrawn’s voice calls Samakro back to reality. 

Samakro shakes himself. 

“Sorry Sir, you were saying?” 

Thrawn lets go of the alien’s shoulder he was holding to get a closer look at their face. 

“Go to her.” He simply orders. 

Samakro raises an eyebrow. 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because you are evidently disturbed and unfocused on your task.” 

“I am mostly disturbed I wasn’t able to protect you.” 

“You shot them. You did your job.” 

“An alien had to protect you and this is a failure.” 

This time it is Thrawn who raises an eyebrow. 

“After all this time you are still calling her an ‘alien’?” 

“This is what she is.” Samakro responds, not understanding his superior puzzled expression. 

Thrawn tilts his head. 

“Is she now?” 

Samakro opens his mouth to close it back immediately. Where is Thrawn going with all of this? 

“How curious... I thought your relation deepened after all this time.” Thrawn ponders. 

“She hasn’t been here long.” Samakro argues. 

“She has been with us for 8 months.” Thrawn informs him. 

8 months?! 

No. 

Impossible. He feels like they discovered your ship three weeks ago, how has it been already 8 months? 

Samakro remains mute in shock, taking the info in. 

“Time flies in charming company, does it not?” Thrawn notes with a tight smile. 

Samakro exhales though his nose. Ridicule! 

Absolutely ri-di-cule! 

“She is a task you gave me, nothing more.” 

“I asked you to look over her not send me an extensive list of her food’s likes and dislikes.” Thrawn says almost mockingly. 

Almost. 

“I thought you would have appreciated to learn humans’ nutritional habits.” Samakro defends himself. 

“I would have simply asked her, Mid-Captain.” The Captain tries to gently guide him to the obvious conclusion. “I also heard you kept deterring colleagues from her.” 

“I was not going to let them defile themself with an alien sir!” Samakro explains like his outrage made sense. 

“Why immediately assume they had a romantic or sexual interest in her?” Thrawn asks more and more amused. 

This is a new side of his Mid-Captain he is discovering, and he is terribly curious. 

“Because she....! Because...” Samakro tries again to justify himself only to have no sound arguments. 

Indeed, why his first fear was that his Chiss colleagues would be interested in her? For what possible reason? Why did it displeased him so much he had to push everyone, male and female, away from you? 

Samakro stretches his lips in a thin line at that bomb, trying to make sense of all the moments he had with you.  

Could he...? 

“Go see her Mid-Captain. I can investigate the scene by myself.” Thrawn finally says, turning his back to Samakro signaling him that his words are final. 

Samakro bows and leaves the room. 

He entered confident and exited it in shambles. 

Obediently, he goes to you, trying to silence that little voice bugging his mind. Of course, he isn’t smitten! That’s ridiculous! What does Thrawn even know about love anyway?! 

He enters the med bay ready to chastise you for merely existing and being in his way but he looses all of his energy seeing you in this state. 

You are dressed in bandages, lying on a bed with a painful expression on your face. 

Maybe... this is not the right time for chastising. Later. Yes... later. 

Surely... 

You wave at him forcing you to smile through the pain. He comes close, sitting on a stool next to you. 

“Why?” He asks. 

“Why what?” 

“Why protect him? Why not let him die?” 

You look at him confused. 

“Isn’t it your job too to protect him? Why are you mad at me?” 

“I am not mad. I am trying to ... Understand.” 

You shrug like he isn’t making any sense. That’s the second person looking at him like that today and one was already enough... 

“Do I truly need a reason to save someone in danger?” You ask him, genuinely confused. 

“We are not the same species. You had no interest in protecting one of us.” 

“I don’t need to be part of the same species to empathize. Captain Thrawn is an honorable man, it would pain me if he died.” 

“Really? Would you have done the same for any of us?”  

“Why not?” 

“Even... me?” 

“Yes. Every life deserves to be protected, alien or not. Do you not think the same?” You look at him with a clear gaze. 

He purses his lips. No, he doesn’t think the same, he is a warrior, a cannot fodder meant to die in battle, Thrawn too.  

But you’re a civilian.  

You’re what they die for. So why put your own life on the line for them? The roles are reversed. 

Does he have to add ‘selfless’ to his list of pros for humans now? 

“We are soldiers. Dying is our job.” 

“Your job is to protect, not die.” You counter with a soft voice. 

“Easy for you to say.” He grumbles. 

You take his hand in yours and gently squeeze it with a contrite smile. 

“Yes, I would take a hit for you, Mid-Captain Samakor.” You repeat. 

He snarls a scoff, incredulous. 

Why would you do that? Since the first day he had the bad role, ordering you around, forcing you to obey him, imposing you a lifestyle different than yours, prevented you from forming meaningful relationships with others. He is a jailor, your torturer. 

You must hate him. And he is fine with that, Thrawn ordered him to look over you and he will do it even if you despise him. 

And then... 

Your hand releases his to cup his cheek gently, inviting him to raise his head and look at you. 

“Come on now. This is not you Mid-Captain Samkro.” This time your smile is wide and franck, “Where is your Chiss attitude?” 

He can’t help but chuckle before quickly hidding  his mouth. 

“You call that an attitude? I call this honor.” 

“Meh. I’m not big on the military things. Call it what you prefer.”  

He should push your hand away, not tolerating a single act of promiscuity or even friendliness. 

But he likes the warmth of your palm... It is incredibly soft and smooth. 

When was the last caress he received, and when was the last tender act toward him? Long ago in his childhood. 

Maybe he will not add “selfless” to the pros human list, but yours. 

And this one is longer... 

@bluechiss @Thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @elise2174 @debonaire-princess @twilekchiss @pencil_urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay @obbicrystaleo @germie2037 @leo4242564 @davesrightshoe 

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

Today's fish of the day is the guppy, by special request of @guppiesareamazing !

The guppy, also known as millions in some English dialects, and scientific name Poecilia reticulata, is a well known freshwater fish. Common across every continent but Antartica, the natural range of the guppy stretches across the warm and tropical waters of South America and the Caribbean, from as far North as Venezuela, far South as Bolivia, and stretching Pacific to Atlantic oceans. Living in smaller streams or ponds due to poor swimming skills in faster waters, these fish are known for their ability to withstand brackish and slightly salty freshwaters, with an ability to be acclimated to saltwater (similar to their close relatives, mollies). Although, saltwater guppies have far fewer offspring. These fish are benthic, living on the river bed, but require water temperatures around 23-24 °C to survive. They can live in any elevation, with some restriction on increased pressure, and due to their highly adaptable way, are incredibly common in the aquarium trade!

The reason for the widespread populations across the globe is due to their habit of eating mosquito larvae, meaning they were often intentionally imported in an effort to control malaria. Although current studies show this was ineffective at best as a control method. However, these populations have caused issues worldwide. Since they are highly adaptable, guppies tend to kill out local species, bringing both competition for food, and disease. In particular, guppies are known for carrying: a parasitic flatworm species known as Gyrodactylus turnbulli which causes the host to swim erratically before dying, waiting for other fish to feed on the corpse so it can infect another host. Along with fin rot, ich, swim bladder disease, and columnaris bacteria, all of which is infectious to other fishes. In the United States, guppies are known particularly for being a problem along the Southwest, and Southeast, driving out cyprinids and killifishes, and damaging damselfly populations.

As discussed earlier, the diet of the guppy is made up of algae, zooplankton, insects/larvae, and surrounding detritus. Foraging for sustenance is common, and they travel in shaling groups as large as 30 individuals. These foraging groups help keep the fish calm, and spending less energy on anti predatory behaviours, leading to guppies that are less aggressive and less competitive, the same reason they need to be kept with multiple of their species in hobby tanks and captivity. In both wild and captivity, this fish is often predated on, especially considering they only grow to an adult size of 4-7cm in length.

However, guppies have several tactics for avoiding predation. Considering the bright colors of male guppies, the schools help populations of guppies under high predations, as sholes band together to make antipredator decisions. In these groups, some guppies act as inspectors, approaching predators to assess the danger, and are thought to report back to the larger group, although research is still being conducted. Other tactics, such as the ability to darken the iris of the eyes from silver to black, draws predator attention toward the head of the animal, giving the fish an easier time pivoting out of the way of a strike than if the predator aims for the center of mass. All these abilities to avoid predators only aid the guppies ability to adapt to new areas, making them such an issue as an invasive species.

The lifecycle of the guppy is like that of many other small fish. There are two generations per year, as male fish mature at the ripe age of 2 months and females mature at 3 months, with maturity causing males to exhibit sexul dimorphism dependent on the amount of a certain thyroid hormone that influences color patterns, as female guppies are attracted to brighter colors. Many of these bright colored males are bred specifically for different bright and flashy colors in the freshwater trade, leading to the many different variants of them in the hobby aquarium market. Their total lifespan is only around 2 years, and most fish will survive to see 3 breeding seasons total throughout their lifespan.

Female guppies give birth to live young, who can swim immediately and are often eaten by the parents soon after birth. In mating itself, females will take on multiple male mates a season, despite being incredibly picky about which they choose. This is thought to be in an effort to avoid inbreeding. Most of the choices that female fish make are based on the number and prevalence of orange spots on the flank and caudal tail of the fish. The orange spots are made up of a pigment that the guppies can not synthesize, and must be obtained in the diet. These spots show how healthy the male is, and is a good show for the presence of parasites. After a show of courtship behaviour and an acceptance, the female fish will gestate for 21-30 days, before giving birth to anywhere from 30-200 fry over the course of several hours. Although common, female guppies do not always eat their fry, and this can be prevented entirely by keeping the adult guppies happy and full of live prey, such as brine shrimp, well raising fry.

That's the guppy, everybody! Hope everyone has a wonderful day!

[trishmishtree]

Another year, another recap: a list of things I sewed in 2024

So...I kicked off the year by not doing any sewing in January or February.

In my defense, I was starting a new job and doing paperwork and moving across the state at the time, and most of my sewing things were still in cardboard boxes in my parents' guest room. Figured I'd start small when I finally moved and unpacked all my worldly possessions, so I revisited the cape I made for Capetember 2022 and added slits so that I can still use my arms without letting cold air in. I also added pockets for my phone and keys. Photo not included because, well, it looks the same as it did in 2022, just with arm slits.

Then I made this hand-embroidered Regency reticule. It's based on the one in the Rijksmuseum. It's cute, it's functional, and I made it as true to the original as I could, thanks to video footage from Sewstine on Youtube, who actually got to study the extant reticule and see the hidden side panels.

Then I got sick of back-lacing myself into Regency stays that never seem to fit my scoliotic torso correctly, so I made the c0rset a la parasseuse. They take like 30 seconds to put on and actually give the correct shape, and now I finally have regency stays that work for me. I'm not including pictures of myself wearing them, but here they are laid flat:

Then in April, I finished my red and white floral 1780s Italian gown ensemble. Technically, I'd made the overdress in 2023, but at the time I hadn't added the hooks and eyes that would allow the skirt to be bustled up in the back, and I still needed to make the contrasting striped petticoat. It's not a true HA recreation because I put all the structure directly into the bodice lining, instead of making a separate pair of stays to wear underneath, but all the other under layers are period correct, including the split rump I made to go with it. I also made an attempt at the American Duchess 18th century cap, but I made it out of limp, flimsy cotton batiste instead of linen, and it doesn't look right, so I'm going to have to revisit that once I make a proper 18th century linen shift and see how much leftover fabric I have after that. Oh, and I hand-embroidered some garters for my 18th century stockings but never bothered to take pictures because I don't like how they turned out.

In May, I also made this generic 18th century petticoat to go under my Italian gown ensemble, because the visible striped petticoat kept grabbing to my stockings and the fabric of my shift.

Also in May, I made the blue Regency pelisse. Base pattern for the bodice part is Black Snail’s #0323 regency spencer c. 1810-1815. I just altered the sleeves and added the long skirt. The oak leaf rouleaux pattern on the front of the bodice is from this pelisse from the Cincinnati Art Museum, though I wasn't going for a direct reproduction.

Then came the Edwardian nightgown, based on an actual pattern from the era. I wish I had had more fabric to work with because the final hem is less full than I would prefer, and the sleeves could use maybe 2-3 inches of ruffle to length them.

I forget why I didn't sew anything in June or July. Maybe I had gone back to fix a fit issue with the regency pelisse? I don't know. But in August, I hammered out three more projects.

I've been working on creating a series of body blocks/slopers for myself so that I can then use them to draft whatever patterns I want. I currently have a basic modern princess seam bodice block, a sloper for a generic blouse (which I've used to adapt multiple Edwardian shirtwaists, because I really just need it to fit the neck and shoulder region), a basic regency bodice block, an 18th century conical bodice block, and a bunch of circle skirt templates. I've been meaning to make a new set of Edwardian combinations (because I totally used the wrong weight of fabric on my first attempt), but I wanted to test out my drawers pattern first, so I made a pair of basic drawstring shorts to wear under my skirts for work, just for a bit of extra coverage. They function okay, but they're going to need more fullness in the legs to work for Edwardian costuming, so I didn't take any pictures, and there will probably be several more rounds of wearable mockups in my future.

My second sewing project in August was to revisit my old gathered-front regency partially-bodiced petticoat. Now that I had a functional regency bodice block pattern, I basically installed an entirely new bodice, reduced the amount of fullness in the front gathering, and also added about an extra yard and a quarter of fabric to the back of the skirt, since the original skirt hem was a little too narrow for walking comfortably. Regency skirts may look slim, but they should have at least 2 yd (preferably more) in the hem circumference in order to look and function correctly. The new and improved petticoat could basically be a dress on its own, minus sleeves.

And finally in August, I made the historybounding princess skirt. I've already detailed my grievances with this skirt in my original post, but it was basically an attempt to have a warm skirt to wear to work in the winter, but it requires a c0rset (and undershirt and c0rset cover and petticoat) to look correct, so I basically only use it for casual cosplay/Halloween costumes now.

Moving on from that dud, in September, I went back to regency and altered my new and improve bodiced petticoat pattern into an actual evening gown pattern. This dress came out exactly how I wanted. It would probably be my favorite thing I've made this year, except that it has a 2-foot train that is very unwieldy.

I had quite a bit of large scraps leftover from the gown project. My friend from residency was expecting a baby around September, so I used some fabric scraps and made her a ruffly baby dress. Since baby was due in September and I wasn't sure whether the weather would still be warm enough for white frilly summer dresses, I decided to make the dress in a 6-9 month old size so that baby would be able to grow into it come spring/summer. (Spoiler: baby came in mid-September while it was still reasonably warm. Oh well. At least she'll get to wear it in the spring. And now I have a birthday twin.)

In October, I embarked on my most ambitious project of the year and made my first pair of 18th century stays. This fabric is 100% not HA, and I did a combination of hand-stitched and machine-stitched channels, but everything else about the stays is historically...adequate. It's boned with zip ties because I didn't want to waste a whole roll of $$$ynthetic baleen on my first pair of (fully boned) stays when there was a 95% chance I'd screw something up. Pattern is self-drafted, and my only gripe is that I made my mockup half-boned and it fit perfectly, but I switched to fully boned for the final stays, and that affected the fabric's bias stretch, and I had to add a stomacher to give myself more room.

Then Halloween was approaching, so I made a witch hat from scrap wool coating fabric from my cape and wool skirt projects. Wish I had made the brim wider and the crown taller (it's just a little too small proportionally all around), but I didn't have a stiff enough interlining material, and the whole thing was floppy enough as it was. I'm just going to have to get more fabric and proper millinery buckram for next year's Halloween project.

Speaking of Halloween, I ended up not using the witch hat at all. Instead, I made what I'm calling the Anne Shirley blouse. It's another Edwardian shirtwaist I self-drafted from my basic blouse pattern. It's not an exact match to the blouse she wears at the end of Anne of Green Gables (1985), but I couldn't find a narrow-striped black and gray cotton shirting-weight fabric. Trust me, I looked for months. The final blouse is pretty, but the ruffle needs to be redone because it makes my shoulders look too wide for the wool historybounding princess skirt I wore it with, and the collar needs to be taken in a couple inches because it's too loose right now. And I need to make a proper ankle-length Vicwardian walking skirt some time in the future before I can put this project to rest.

November was another slow month for me, between the results of the you-know-what and our impending doom and I just couldn't find the time or motivation to do stuff for fun. I did have a 2-yard length of deadstock burgundy polyester chiffon in my stash that I had been holding onto for about a year without a clear project in mind for it, so I used it to make a Greek chiton. No pictures included because I'm probably only going to wear it as an accessory with my regency gown (because those white regency gowns are basically OG historybounding).

December was another weird month. I had just seen the Wicked movie and was drooling over all the costumes (designed by THE Paul Tazewell), so instead of sewing clothing to wear for myself, I went back to my roots and made a modular origami doll of Glinda, then sewed her bubble dress from actual fabric. It was a lot like draping a dress, except with a miniature dress form.

Then, because the doll is like 6 inches tall and I had a bunch of fabric leftover (I only got a quarter yard of each and even that was too much for a 6" tall doll), I used as much of the scraps as I could to make another Glinda bubble skirt but big enough to fit my brother's cat. (Neither of our cats likes to dress up, but my cat is too big for the skirt to fit, and his cat is pure black so a black Elphaba dress wouldn't show up on her). I don't think I took a picture of the skirt when I finished it, and now I don't have it because I gave it to him for Christmas. We'll just have to see if his cat lets him put the skirt on her long enough to get photos.

It looks like I accomplished even less sewing this year than I did last year, and 2023 was a down year too, but I don't feel that unproductive. This list was something like 21 projects, so I'm still averaging about one project every 2-3 weeks, which is reasonable since I'm working a Big Girl Job now. I do have more days off per week since starting this job, but my free time is now clustered into 2-3 day periods (during which I also need to remember to cook, eat, clean my living space, do laundry, shower, sleep, prep for the work week, etc.), instead of being spread out more evenly throughout the week like when I was in residency, so that probably has something to do with my productivity level.

Or maybe it's because my projects in 2024 are more intricate and involved than, say, making a batch of small things like baby bibs and tailoring hams, or so I'm spending more time on each project. There were also several other projects I started in 2024 that are currently still in my Unfinished pile, and I'm slowly working my way through them in the hopes that they'll make it onto next year's list of things I sewed in 2025.

Oh, and in other news, my sewing machine broke on 01/01/2025, and it broke even more when I tried to fix it FML, so I'm either going to have to take the thing in for repairs (if anyone even still fixes this old crappy cheap model) or buy a new slightly less crappy one secondhand. So expect to see even more hand sewing from me. I might even take up Stephanie Canada's Butterick walkaway dress challenge 2025 but do it by hand just to see how long it takes.

[samaelzdraws]

Transmechanicus Xenologis Field Report

Study Log Entry: 961.M41

Subject: Planetary Survey of Nullius-57, Orkoid designation “Og”

By: Magos Xenologis Xanthor Vell (Excommunicated)

Location: Segmentum Obscurus, Uncharted Subsector

I. PLANETARY CLASSIFICATION

Imperial Registry: Nullius-57 (Unofficial)

Orkoid Designation: Og — interpreted as “Owned by / Property of” in local feral Ork dialect

Segmentum: Obscurus

Planetary Type: Oceanic-Terranic hybrid

Size: Approximately 108% of Terra’s equatorial diameter

Water Composition: ~80% of the planetary surface

Orbital Characteristics: One sun (G-class), two moons in stable orbit

(I gave up, I don’t know shit about how to draw ocean currents)

II. TIDAL AND CELESTIAL DYNAMICS

The gravitational interplay between Nullius-57’s two moons creates unusually complex tidal patterns across the planet’s oceanic surface. These include:

• Multi-directional tidal surges

• Semi-diurnal hyperwaves in coastal and archipelagic zones

• Periodic tidal inversions recorded every 31 standard cycles, potentially responsible for cyclic mass migrations among aquatic fauna.

The planet lies within an uncharted zone of Segmentum Obscurus, likely masked from long-range Imperial auspex by stellar anomalies and warp turbulence—an ideal breeding ground for unrecorded evolutionary branches.

III. ATMOSPHERIC CONDITIONS

Atmospheric Density: ~1.3 atm (approx. 30% denser than Terra)

Primary Composition:

• Oxygen: 25–27%

• Carbon Dioxide: 3–4%

• Nitrogen, argon, and trace exotic gases

The thick, oxygen-rich atmosphere contributes to:

• Enhanced metabolic efficiency among local xenos species

• Higher combustion rates and volatile respiration thresholds

• Amplified fungal spore propagation due to sustained humidity and pressure

IV. PLANETARY GRAVITY AND FAUNAL ADAPTATION

Gravity: Approx. 0.38g (similar to Mars)

Despite the low gravity, native organisms have adapted in ways that defy standard models:

• Most fauna exhibit eight-limbed arthropodal symmetry, maximizing traction and momentum in low gravity

• Chitinous exoskeletons are dense and layered, likely evolved to compensate for the reduced structural strain

• Muscle fibers in larger fauna (e.g., Gargantuan Hammerfist Champignat) are hypertrophied and heavily vascularized, allowing for sudden explosive bursts of movement uncommon in similar gravity environments

The most significant observation remains the presence of Orkoid species as the only vertebrates. Whether artificially introduced or the result of a rare fungal-vertebrate divergence is still unknown, but their survival and dominance suggest a biome unusually hospitable to Ork physiognomy.

V. GEOLOGICAL STRUCTURE

Tectonics: Mildly active. Continental plates are fragmented but remain in proximity, indicating a prior supercontinent stage reminiscent of Terra’s Permian Pangaea.

Seismic scans reveal:

• Major fault lines still align radially around a central continental cluster

• Shallow subduction zones suggest ongoing but non-catastrophic geological drift

• Volcanic vents support a thriving thermophilic fungal biome, primarily near the equator

VI. CLIMATIC ZONES

Overall Climate: Humid and warm with minimal axial tilt, resulting in very limited seasonal fluctuation

• Equatorial Regions: Tropical with intense fungal overgrowth, average temperatures exceeding 34°C

• Polar Regions: Only moderately cooler, sustaining dense fungal tundra variants

• Rainfall: Near-constant in some biomes due to atmospheric pressure and oceanic evaporation patterns

VII. PLANGUS FLORAL BIOME (FUNGAL-PLANT EQUIVALENT)

Termed “Plangus” by my own designation—a portmanteau of planta and fungus—this fungal flora fulfills all major ecological roles of photosynthetic plant life.

Photosynthesis-analog Process:

• Utilizes green and blue pigmentation in chlorophyll-analog proteins (tentatively classified as Mycophytochrome-X)

• Plangus spore sacs open during peak solar periods to engage in gas exchange and UV absorption

• Bioluminescent varieties assist in nocturnal photosynthesis via energy storage in phosphorescent organelles

Color Morphology by Region:

• Highlands: Deep green and violet Plangus carpets, heavily mossed

• Lowlands: Amber, red, and orange fungal caps with wide lamellae for water retention

• Equatorial Swamps: Translucent white and yellow luminescent fungal towers, growing up to 40 meters

These fungal flora are crucial to nutrient cycling, oxygen production, and even psychotropic symbiosis observed in some mollusk-xenos.

VIII. LOCAL FAUNA

The dominant faunal archetypes fall into two categories:

• Arachnid/Insectoid Xenos: Eight-legged, armored, ranging from micro-scale scavengers to titanic apex predators such as the Gargantuan Hammerfist Champignat

• Molluscoid Xenos: Ambulatory, highly adaptive, semi-amphibious; many exhibit Plangus symbiosis for healing and camouflage

Orks:

The only vertebrate genus present, suggesting:

• Exogenic seeding (possibly via crashed hulk or rogue Sporeship)

• Exceptional fungal adaptation due to their own mycoid origin

Local tribes of feral Orks claim sole ownership of the planet, hence the name Og. This linguistic possessiveness hints at a deep instinctual bond between Orks and this fungal-rich environment, perhaps even more intense than typically observed on Ork-held worlds.

CONCLUSION

Nullius-57, or Og, is a world defined by a dense atmosphere, low gravity, and a unique fungal biosphere whose adaptive extremity borders on the miraculous. Its faunal and floral life appear to have evolved in tight biological concert, and the complete lack of vertebrate diversity—barring the Orks—raises fascinating evolutionary and possibly technogenic questions.

I suspect the planet may have once served as an ancient fungal cradle world, or perhaps even a lost Ork spawning ground from millennia past. In either case, Og is not merely owned by the Orks—it thrives because of them, and perhaps they because of it.

End of Entry

Magos Biologis Xanthor Vell

In Defiance of the Omnissiah, In Pursuit of the Green Truth

[orphiclovers]

DKOS has cracks all over his body right? What... (can't believe I'm typing this sentence like this) what do you think is the crack distribution on his body like?

Is it cracks growing from his back? If he was shirtless would it look like he just had a shirt of cracks on?? But it's on his clothes too so I can't even imagine it... maybe its not cracks and its a secret other thing

Is it cracks? I thought it was veins, at least on his face and hands.

You can see his clothes have a subtly different pattern than his hand, more crack-like.

But then we see his veins in a different panel and the black stuff doesn't follow them so I don't know. Whatever it is, yes, it probably covers his whole body, since we get an ankle shot and it's on there too. Though it looks a lot more like cracks there...

But that's all webtoon adaptational choices. In the novel it's like this.

He's also described as 'corrupted'. How exactly do you draw 'demonic energy imprinted on the skin like a stigma'? Sleepy-C did a good job with what they've got imo.

Also. Anime logic. Don't think about it too hard ¯\_(ツ)_/¯