#and it's not even the drawing itself that i need to factor

[mufos-photo-album]

(Transcript at bottom of post.)

Dark plants are a relatively new addition to the Kingdom of Sky, appearing some decades after the disaster at Eden. Like other plants, dark plants need light to grow. However, their leaves are too dark and thick to perform photosynthesis, and too much light delivered directly can cause the plants to burn and shrivel. Instead, dark plants absorb the light captured by dark water — water which has been contaminated by dark sediment, the byproduct of darkstone production.

[ID: A diagram showing the flow of light from creature to dark plant. When creatures of light come into contact with dark sediment, the sediment drains their light. The sediment, now charged with light, is dispersed through the water and soil, which is then absorbed by dark plants.]

In most cases, dark plants pose no direct harm to beings of light. In areas like the Hidden Forest, where dark rain commonly pours, dark plants take on indirect predatory behaviors. Especially in wet environments, dark plants will produce a sticky dew from their leaves that tends to attract butterflies. This dew contains trace amount of dark sediment which dulls one's senses when consumed. This leads to butterflies resting in the rain for longer than they usually would, leading to death in some cases. Dark plants have also been seen ensnaring mantas. This happens when mantas, exhausted by the dark rain or other factors, fly into the brambles of a dark plant, holding them in place as the dark rain saps their light.

[ID: A drawing of a manta caught in the brambles of a dark plant. It is raining.]

Fully getting rid of a dark plant can be difficult. They can be burned down using fire or a candle spell, but even if all the stems and leaves are burned, the plant will begin to regrow some time later. To truly destroy a dark plant, it needs to be uprooted, and the roots burned with the rest of the plant. Dark plants can also spread fairly easily, as they can reproduce asexually.

[ID: A diagram showing the 3 ways dark plants can spread -- via their roots, via cuttings, and via seed nodules. Mufotsuki is standing in front of the diagram, holding a seed nodule. She states: "The seeds are the easiest part of a dark plant to break off. Never leave them unattended for too long! Sometimes I collect them for my sister. She does experiments on them."]

Despite their mutual association with darkness, not many, if any, dark plants grow in Eden itself. Although Eden is abundant in dark sediment, the weather conditions are too violent and destoys most varieties before they can properly root.

Speaking of dark plant varieties...

Tree: Common variety which tends to grow tall and wide. Known for trapping mantas.

Bush: Another common variety of dark plant which tends to grow wide, but not very tall.

Moss: Uncommon variety which sprawls over flat surfaces. Difficult to truly get rid of since moss can grow into hard-to-reach places. Can cause man-made mechanisms to seize up.

Urchin: Uncommon variety that tends to show up in saltwater environments. They have many spines tipped with dark sediment to absorb ambient light in the water, but also to absorb the light produced by other plants.

Lilypad: Uncommon to rare variety that tends to show up in polluted freshwater environments. Problematic for other plants since they can blot out sunlight.

Floater: Rare variety of plant that comes from Eden. They take advantage of the terrible weather to spread their seeds across the realm, but mature specimens are rarely found in Eden.

[ID: Various drawings depicting each of the dark plant varieties, one for each.]

[insipid-drivel]

Warhorses: Which horses are actually good candidates, anyway?

This post is in honor of @warrioreowynofrohan, who asked the question in the comments under my guide, "Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap". Their question, "Given what you said about too much weight breaking a horse’s spine, how did that work with knights in plate armour?" is one I'm going to try to answer here, since the answer can be very nuanced depending on where and when you're talking about.

Also, while I was a stable hand for years as well as a rider, I never had the opportunity to directly learn more ancient styles of tacking, horse training, and combat, so I don't have any direct experience to draw from with regard to horses used for military purposes. I'm still gonna do my best here with what I know, and research what I don't.

As I've covered in the past, large horses (draft horses) make less-than-ideal warhorses, and so do carriage horses like the elegant and dramatic Friesians.

Let's begin by addressing this from the perspective of creative writing. For you writers and content creators out there, an essential part to the continuity of any historically-themed work you do involving horses will be depicting breeds of horses that didn't exist before a certain time in history. I'm going to approach this question from the stance of, "Medieval-type era warhorses". Horses were used in warfare as late was World War II, but actual horses you ride into battle with knights and archers and bannermen? We actually have to drop the subject of specific modern breeds altogether aside from using them for comparisons.

When discussing warhorses, various cultures have approached them differently. Some cultures will value a specific type of horse above all others, such as the Mongolian Steppe Horse or the American Mustang. Other cultures, which may be from biomes and territories where multiple types of horses are needed for different forms of warfare and tactics, value whichever horses can get their jobs done without their riders getting killed.

Carrying vs. Pulling:

Horses have been used in warfare since as far back as 4000 BC, but their first applications were more as chariot horses. Humans have been riding and working with horses since before we even had stirrups to more easily ride them with! As archaeologists and anthropologists make more discoveries, the more we learn that we humans have been working closely with horses since before we had specialized tools to ride them with. The very first warhorses pulled chariots or carts, which is much easier for a horse's anatomy to handle compared to carrying a heavy weight like an armored rider on their backs, which puts stress directly on their spines where they have very little supporting muscle for supporting a lot of heavy downward weight.

Warhorse Size Categories:

Really, any breed of horse can apply to a niche in warfare if it's needed enough. Even very small, delicate horses have had their place in the history of human combat! Before I continue, it's important to know that there's a unique unit of measuring a horse's height. Rather than measuring a horse's height in centimeters or inches, they're measured in units called "hands". A single "hand" = ~4 inches/10.16cm, and a horse's height is measured based upon the distance between the bottom of their hoof to the tallest part of their shoulders, just at the base of the back of their necks. We don't actually include neck length/head height in a horse's measurements with traditional measuring.

Another rule of thumb: The average horse cannot safely carry anything heavier than about 30% of their total body weight. This is a serious factor to take into mind when deciding on a type of or breed of horse for a mounted warrior of any kind: You need to factor in the OC's starting body weight, and then add on the weight of armor, weapons, and any armor the horse itself may wear along with the weight of its tack.

Light-Weight Horses:

A few examples of lightweight horse breeds whose ancestors have historically been used in combat are Arabians, Barber Horses, and the magnificent Akhal-Teke. Lightweight and delicately-boned horses like those are best applied for military maneuvers that require precision, speed, and endurance, and the rider themselves should specialize in some form of combat or reconnaissance that doesn't require them to wear heavy metal or laminated armors. Archers are good candidates for riding smaller horses, or lightly-armored swordsmen like an Ottoman Janissary.

Central-Asian and North African horses also benefit from having a higher tolerance for hot climates. They can absolutely suffer from heatstroke and cardiac arrest from being forced to run and work in extreme temperatures and should always be provided with the same protective measures in a heatwave as any other horse, but they have a little bit of an edge over horses descended from freezing and temperate climates.

Medium-Weight Horses:

Medium-weight horses started showing up in the archaeological record around about the Iron Age, where chariot warfare was becoming an increasingly utilized form of mobile combat, and people needed bigger, stronger horses capable of pulling heavier loads - such as a chariot with two passengers rather than just one. As cultures began to develop heavier-duty armors made of metals and laminated materials, it also became important to breed horses that were tall and stocky (muscular and with relatively short spines compared to their height), and therefore more capable of carrying riders in increasingly heavy armor. Medium-weight horses were also essential at the dawn of the gunpowder age when the cannon came into use in siege warfare for pulling the heavy, iron cannons into position.

Medium-weight horses are really where we see the beginnings of knights and other warrior classes on horseback come into the forefront of warfare. When you have a horse that's big and strong enough to carry heavier armor and heavier weapons along with a rider wielding them, you have a much deadlier force at your disposal. Strikes from a sword or spear from the back of a galloping horse basically results in a sword capable of cutting through enemy soldiers like a hot knife through butter.

Important Note: Traditionally, cavalrymen wield blunt swords when attacking from a charging horse's back. When a horse is charging at full speed, the sharpness of a blade becomes less important than the blade's ability to stay in one piece when it impacts hard armor and bone. A blunted edge basically turns a cavalryman's sword into a thin club that's better at holding up against smashing through multiple layers of armor and bone compared to a thinner, more delicate sharpened edge that can shatter from a high-speed impact.

Heavy-Weight Horses:

The direct ancestors of modern draft horses, such as the Shire Horse, only began to appear around about the beginning of the European Medieval Era, and were far and away not even close to the enormous sizes of the draft horses we have today. Any horse counts as a "Heavy-weight" classed horse if its weight exceeds 1500lbs/680kgs.

Heavy-weight horses were really more bred for pulling enormous weights rather than carrying knights. While yeah, there is some evidence that suggests that heavy-weight horses were used by heavily-armored knights, historians argue a lot about whether it was a rule or an exception (such as with Henry VIII, who continued to ride well after he had begun to weigh more than 350lbs/158kgs, and even went to war in France in his final years on horseback). Generally speaking, medium-weight horses tend to be the right balance of agile and strong for carrying someone that's going to actively be fighting. Heavy-weight horses were bred to be a lot more tolerant to the chaos and frightening stimulation of the sounds of battle, but medium-weighted horses generally tended to be more suited to moving efficiently through dense packs of soldiers and weaving around other horses.

Ponies:

While actually being the smallest class of warhorse, ponies were essential when it came to carrying cargo and working as pack-horses. In certain forms of terrain, such as mountains, large horses pulling big carts full of supplies or soldiers could often be extremely impractical. In situations where an army needed to move on foot and form a narrow line in order to travel, ponies were able to traverse much narrower and rougher terrain while carrying smaller loads to their destination, when heavier horses would struggle more under their own weight and dexterity.

Europe-Specific Terminologies:

If you're a writer reading this and writing a piece set in the European Medieval age, there are specific terms used for the different classes I listed of warhorses above that I'm gonna list:

Destriers: The Destrier was a universal term for the iconic knight-carrying, jousting horse. They were also sometimes referred to as "Great Horses" due to their reputations in combat settings. Destriers could have just about any appearance, but were rarely taller than 15.2 hands, or 62inches/157cm. They were capable of carrying heavily-armored knights (although knights in full plate mail rarely rode into battle and stayed on the horse the entire time - they tended to specialize at grouping up and killing a lot of footsoldiers swarming them at once and preventing breaks in defenses from being overwhelmed by an oncoming army; in the case of Edward the Black Prince, we have substantial evidence in the form of his surviving brigandine that a mounted soldier or knight was more likely to wear chainmail and brigandine with a tabard on their body with their arms, feet, and heads the most heavily armored in plate when they intended to fight on horseback, making them a little lighter and more maneuverable, but I may be waaay off base there because I'm thinking of more of Italian soldiers who used full plate and how they applied it in battle more than any other example) and wearing armor themselves.

Interestingly, the sex of a destrier was often chosen strategically. Stallions (horses that haven't been neutered) are more aggressive, and could both act as combatants on their own if their knight was dismounted or killed, but could give away an army's location if they were attempting to move stealthily. Stallions whinny and shriek a lot when they're horny or arguing with each other, which is most of the time.

Mares were often chosen by Muslim armies for being much less vocal, and therefore much more capable of stealth. Geldings (neutered males) were the preferred mounts of the Teutonic Knights, a Catholic military group, since they couldn't be stolen and used to breed more horses for the enemy army.

Coursers:

Coursers were the most common Medieval European warhorse. It's important to remember that in Medieval Europe, most armies were almost entirely comprised of common men - serfs subject to the will of their landlords, not far removed from slaves in many ways - who couldn't afford the highly-prized and expensive Destriers. Coursers were usually a bit lighter than Destriers, but were still strong enough to carry someone wearing armor. Coursers were also a little more utilitarian, because they were also sometimes used in hunting as well as warfare, so they had a valuable use outside of warfare that the owner could benefit from.

Rouncey:

A rouncey was an all-purpose horse that could be used for leisure and travel-riding as well as be trained for war. They were a lot more likely to be found on the farm of a serf or independent farmer of some kind, as they could fill a lot of different roles depending on what they were needed for. Their sizes weren't really important as much as their ability to get the job done.

It's also critical to remember that, when talking about warhorses, we're usually talking about eras long past. In general, thanks to resource availability and incredible advances in medicine, modern humans are significantly taller, and therefore heavier, than people from the European Medieval era and prior. While fatness was valued in many cultures for its suggestion of wealth, most working-class and serf-class people worked intensely physically-demanding daily lives just to maintain their own homes. They were a few inches shorter on average than we are today, had greater fluctuations in body fat distribution depending on how harsh or bountiful the harvest season had been and the season in which a war was taking place (the average person's weight would swing by 30lbs or more on average every year prior to the industrial era), and cavalry were usually chosen based upon skill in the saddle as well as physical size when considering the application of medium or heavy armor being placed on the horse's back and body.

[pedrospatch]

a safe haven l seven

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist

summary: Yours and Joel’s romantic relationship progresses; Ellie confronts you about Joel in stables and encourages you to make a choice; when Joel gets injured while out on patrol, it leads to a confession.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SMUT. unprotected p in v sex (as always, wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation (if you squint), Joel and his big cock can go multiple rounds because i said so, creampie (these two really are just going at it without a care in the world), Joel gets injured (gunshot wound) mentions of blood, MEDICAL INACCURACIES (per my research, the way gunshots wound are treated depends on a number of different factors, but we are going full hollywood here). Luke and Joel have an interaction (that is a warning in itself).

word count: 8.4k

September, 2024

“Oh fuck Joel, please don’t stop. Please don’t fucking st—”

You stop short and bury your face into the blanket underneath you in an effort to muffle the loud moans and cries of pleasure spilling from your lips.

Although the chances of a single soul being out of bed and outside near the barn at this godforsaken hour in the middle of the night are slim, it’s better to be safe than sorry. But keeping the noise to a minimum is a challenging feat when Joel Miller is positioned behind you, fucking you into oblivion.

You can’t hold back, not when his long, thick, calloused fingers are gripping your hips like a vice, digging deeply into the soft flesh as he brings them back, slamming you against him with each thrust of his own. Not when every inch of his throbbing cock is stretching your cunt, filling you up and satiating your unbridled need for it. Your need for Joel.

Over the last few weeks, he’d shown you what real pleasure could—and should—be. Sex isn’t an obligation a wife has to her husband, and a woman deserves to enjoy it as much as a man does. Joel made making you feel good his goal, his priority, and there’s no coming back from it. He is the only man you want to touch you, to satisfy you, now, and for the rest of your life.

You lift yourself off the blanket, your teeth sinking hard into your quivering bottom lip as you desperately drive your hips backwards and meet his thrusts halfway out of your own burning desire to feel more and more of him. Arching your back, you squeeze your eyes shut and relish in the sweet, heavenly sound the backs of your sweat slicked thighs make as they slap roughly against the front of Joel’s over and over and over again.

Joel's grasp on your hips tightens. “Yeah, that’s it baby. Fuck, that’s my good girl,” he pants from behind you. He picks up his pace, delivering smooth strokes that gradually become harder, sloppier as that sweet release draws closer for both of you. But somehow, he’s still careful. Even when he’s lost in the heat of the moment and his mind is in a cloudy haze, he keeps himself grounded, at least enough to make sure he isn’t being too rough. He can’t bear the thought of crossing the line between pleasure and pain, not with the woman he’s grown to care about more than anything. But you make being careful difficult. Pleading and begging for him to fuck you harder, faster, you bring out the primal in him and he can’t say no to you, much less when he’s buried balls deep in your cunt. “What a good fuckin’ girl. Y’take my cock so fuckin’ well, sweetheart—s’good for me, baby. So, so fuckin’ good.”

“Joel,” you moan his name, forgetting all about staying quiet. You drag one of your hands down the length of your body and dip it between your thighs, rubbing quick, firm circles around your clit as your desperation to come mounts. Luke didn’t like it when you would touch yourself, he never allowed you to explore your sexuality or your own body, nor did he allow you to chase your high when you were together—but Joel?

He encourages it. Adores it.

He fucking adores you. And he always he makes sure to show you just how much he adores you.

“Oh fuck, that’s it baby, fuckin’ touch yourself—touch yourself while I fuck you.”

You swirl your fingers around the sensitive bud harder, the tension building in your core.

“Fuckin’ Christ, peach,” Joel groans behind you. “S’like this sweet little pussy was made for me. She was made just for me, y’know that?”

It’s hard to decide what does you in more when it comes to intimacy with Joel—is it when he’s soft and gentle, whispering beautiful, sweet nothings into the hollow of your neck while you’re underneath him, hands locked together and fingers interwined as he slowly slides in and out of your heat?

Or is it when he puts you on your hands and knees, obscene filth rolling off his tongue as he takes what belongs to him from behind?

He knows how to make love, but god, he also knows how to fuck and you can’t decide which side of him you prefer because they’re both perfect.

Unbelievably, devastatingly perfect.

“So fuckin’ tight, you feel s’good—” Joel grunts, driving himself deeper and deeper, hitting that spot inside of you that drives him just as wild as it does you. One of his hands abandons your hips and he glides it down the softness of your lower belly. What has to be one of your least favorite parts of yourself is one of his favorites and every night, Joel makes it his mission to prove to you just how flawless he thinks every inch of your body is. Lovingly, he caresses your tummy with his palm, and then trails his hand further down, slipping it between your thighs where his fingers join yours. Together, they circle your swollen clit and you hear the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. 

“Joel, fuck, I’m so close—I’m gonna—” Your own gasp cuts off the end of your sentence. You try to warn him again, but your words are washed away by the wave of pleasure that crashes over you as one final stroke tips you both over the edge you’ve been teetering and you both come in tandem. Fisting handfuls of his blanket, you mewl out his name as your orgasm tears through your body, making it shudder.

Behind you, Joel releases a low, guttural groan, his chest heaving as his balls tighten. He spills into you and his eyes pinch shut when he feels you convulse around his cock, your cunt milking him for all he’s worth. “Fuck,” he chokes as he leans forward and drapes his body over yours, his length twitching and filling you until it leaks out of you, dripping onto the blanket. His breaths are ragged and labored, but eventually steady. Instead of pulling out of you, he gingerly pushes his hips into you once more. Feeling your walls clench around him, Joel drops his head and snickers, his warm breath tickling the damp skin on your back. He opens his eyes. “Feels like you’re ready for more, sweetheart,” he mutters, planting a tender kiss between your shoulder blades. “Jesus. Didn’t know I had me such a greedy girl, peach. Guess that innocent little angel face of yours had me fooled.”

You’re about to retort but when he bucks, all you can do is exhale sharply. Your pussy involuntarily flutters around him and though you can’t see it, you can picture the smug little grin on his face—he knows he’ll have your body begging for more if he keeps it up and so do you. He’s been insatiable tonight, wanting more and more and more, and you’re not all too sure if you have it in you for another round.

“We’ve still got some time left for one more,” Joel says. He peels himself off of you and palms the curve of your ass, kneading at the perfect mound with his fingers.

“Joel, I’m not sure I can handle it,” you mumble tiredly, shaking your head. “I think I’m all fucked out.” 

He laughs softly and pulls out of you.

You breathe out an audible sigh of relief welcoming the emptiness for once. Just as you’re about to get off of your hands and knees, Joel slides his index finger up your puffy, swollen slit and the arousal pools itself in your lower belly all over again. “God, no, please don’t,” you whine. “I can’t take anymore, Joel. I really fucking can’t.”

“Y’sure ‘bout that, darlin’?”

“Yes, I’m sure—” 

The lustful moan that echoes throughout the barn as he pushes his finger inside you says otherwise and you silently curse your own body for its cruel betrayal.

Joel hums. “Hm, doesn’t sound like you’re sure,” he teases, slipping a second finger into your pussy. He leans down and trails a line of hot, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your spine. He stops at the small of your back and murmurs against your skin, “I just fuckin’ know my sweet girl has one more left in her. I can fuckin’ feel it.” He curls his digits, eliciting another gasp from you. “Tell me, peach. Y’think you can be a real good girl and give me just one more?”

It takes less than a minute before you’re whimpering in defeat.

Of course you can give Joel one more—you can give him as many as he wants you to give him, as many as he can possibly coax out of you.

“Yes,” you breathe out in reply. “I’ll give you one more. But I just hope you know that I’m probably going to need you to carry me back across town after this.”

“Hm, I reckon I can handle that,” Joel muses with a small chuckle. He withdraws his fingers from you, his hands spreading your ass and revealing your needy, dribbling cunt. Glancing over your shoulder, you see his lips part slightly as he stares at you in complete awe.

Your face floods with heat, and though he can’t see your insecurity, but he feels it.

“She’s too fuckin’ pretty,” he remarks, admiring the way your folds glisten with your own wetness and his come. Licking his lips, he meets your gaze. “You’re s’goddamn fuckin’ beautiful, baby. Promise I ain’t ever gonna let you forget it.”

Your heart flutters wildly.

Before you have the chance to respond, he shifts his position, moving off the large bale of hay you two have been using as a makeshift bed for the last several nights. He lowers himself down onto his knees behind you. Joel looks at you and smirks when he sees the expression that crosses your features—it’s one of utter disbelief. He’s devoured you plenty of times before, but not in this position, and certainly not when you’re dripping, leaking with his come. His smirk widens. “Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?”

“Joel, I—I’m a mess right now,” you stammer out, nervously. “Are you sure you want to—?”

Joel flashes you an amused grin. “That a serious question, peach?” He chuckles when you nod in reply. “Well then, here’s my answer.” He buries his face into your cunt and swipes his tongue over your seam, flattening it out as slowly begins to drag it up and then down again. Joel groans into you, savoring the taste of you and your sweet muskiness combined with him and his slight saltiness. His tongue slips between your folds, eager, hungry for more.

“Joel,” his name tears from the back of your throat in a strangled cry. “Oh, fuck.”

He’d left you so sensitive. Your body involuntary jerks forward, squirming to get away from him—but Joel is having none of it. You can feel him grinning into your pussy as he wraps his hands around your thighs, curling his fingers as far as they can go around them.

“C’mere,” he says, his voice muffled between your legs. He tugs you back towards him and tightens his grip on you, holding you firmly in place, right where he needs you. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue around it before engulfing the bud.

He might have teased you about being greedy, but truth be told, he’s the greedy one. Knowing his time with you is so limited only makes him even greedier.

Joel feasts on you, his desire to have you fall apart on his tongue again driving him to ravage you as if his very fucking life depends on making you come. The sounds of your whimpers, which are on the verge of turning into full blown sobs of pleasure, only spur him on. It’s more than just sending you home satisfied—he wants to make certain that, even when you’re apart from one another, you’ll still feel him. His tongue on your cunt, his cock buried inside of you, his lips and hands all over your body.

He can’t leave his physical mark on you to remind you of him when you’re not together, but he can, at the very least, leave you with a yearning for more of him.

You raise a tightly curled fist to your mouth, biting into it to keep from screaming out.

It’s too much for you to handle.

But somehow, it’s still not enough.

You want him to stop.

And yet you need him to keep going.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Joel, please! Please!”  

You beg him out of desperation, although you’re not really sure what you’re begging him for at this point—for him to make you come or for him to stop before you dissolve into nothing but a pathetic, whimpering mess. One of his hands abandons your thigh and without warning, he pushes two fingers into you, pumping them in and out of you all the while his tongue laps at your clit. The muscles in your stomach contract and you explode, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as you come undone all over again. There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t shaking, trembling—it takes you a minute to even realize Joel’s on his feet, helping you turn around to lie on your back.

“S’alright. I got you. I’ve got you, sweet girl.” Joel climbs onto the bale of hay and nudges your thighs apart with his knee, settling himself between them. Planting his hands on either side of your shoulders, he dips his head and peppers gentle kisses all over your neck and chest, giving you the chance to ride out your last high before it’s time to get up and start getting dressed.

After a minute or two, you find your voice.

Or at least, a tiny, meek version of it.

“Joel?” 

He hums, his nose skimming along your jawline. “Yeah, baby?”

“I think you really are going to have to carry me across town.”

Joel chuckles, gingerly nipping at your chin with his teeth. “Best cut that out, peach. S’gonna start gettin’ to my head real fast.”

You giggle. “Yeah, you’re right. Don’t want you getting too cocky, Miller.”

You bring a hand up to his face, cupping it in your palm. Gazes meet in the moonlight and you give him a soft, contented smile. You sweep your thumb across his bottom lip.

Joel’s breath catches in his throat.

Those eyes. That smile. Oh, that fucking smile. He wonders if you've figured out by now just how effortlessly you do him in.

Joel’s throat bobs. “Peach?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates, then admits, “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to tell you.”

Your body stiffens underneath him, your eyes widening slightly.

“What is it, Joel?” 

Again, he hesitates. 

Joel’s been trying for some time now to say it—to tell you that he loves you.

But whenever he thought he’d finally mustered up enough courage to spit it out, he loses it the second those three words are about to fall from his lips. He can’t figure out for the life of him what he’s so afraid of. It’s obvious, to both of you, that he loves you, and he has no doubt in his mind that you love him too. But neither of you seem to have the guts to say it.

“Joel?” you say his name quietly, interrupting his train of thought. “Are you okay?”

Letting out a small, frustrated sigh, Joel shakes his head. “M’sorry, darlin’. S’just that—”

He stops short and shakes his head again, cursing himself for being such a coward.

You understand him, though. “It’s okay, Joel. I know how hard it is to say it. It’s really not as simple as one would think.” You laugh in spite of yourself. Grazing his beard lightly with your fingertips, you manage to give him another small smile. “Please don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have to be right now. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow or the day after that. I’m not going to pressure either of us into saying something if we aren’t quite ready to say it. It should wait until you are good and ready—until the both of us are good and ready.”

“You’ve gotta know how much you mean to me—”

“I already do, Joel.” You drop your hand away from his face and place it on his bare chest. His heart thrums steadily against your fingers. “And I feel the same way about you. You do know that, don’t you, honey?”

His heart skips a beat at the pet name. You feel it. 

Joel leans down, brushing his lips softly against your forehead. “‘Course I do,” he murmurs. He then pulls back slightly, assuring you, “Couldn’t be any fuckin’ clearer to me.”

You press a delicate kiss to the tip of his nose and the little token of affection prompts his dark eyes to flutter closed. “Good.” You start to drag your fingernails and scrape them lightly down the length of his chest. They move lower, gliding over his soft belly and the coarse hair below his navel. With a tiny, innocent smirk, you wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it until he begins to harden in your palm. “Oh? What’s this?”

His eyes snap open and he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “Christ, baby,” he gruffs. “What happened to not havin’ it in you for more?”

“Mm, I lied.” You run the head of his cock between your folds, moaning as you tease your sopping entrance with it. “I’ve got one more in me. Do you think we have enough time?”

Joel bucks his hips into yours and slides into you in one swift, smooth motion. Moaning, your back arches off the blanket, your breasts pushing up against his chest when he bottoms out. “Oh, I reckon we can make it happen, my sweet girl.”

“If you smile any fucking harder, your face might actually fall off,” Ellie quips.

You look up from the clipboard you’re holding in your hands and glimpse over Duke’s back, only to see Ellie smirking to herself as she runs a brush across the brown and white spotted Appaloosa’s side, its stiff bristles clearing his stunning coat of dirt and debris.

Clearing your throat lightly, you try, but fail, to wipe the stupid grin off of your face. Not that it would make a difference, because it’s been plastered on your lips all morning long. You raise an eyebrow at her, questioning, “I’m sorry, is there something wrong with me being in a good mood today, missy?”

“Of course not.” Ellie briefly pauses and her gaze meets yours. She shrugs. “It’s actually really nice to see you so happy.” Her attention shifts back to the task at hand. As she continues to brush the horse, her smirk widens. “So I’m guessing last night with Joel went pretty well then, didn’t it?”

You don’t even flinch. Thanks to the warning Joel had given you a few weeks back, she hadn’t caught you too off guard. More than anything, what surprises you most was the fact that it’s taken the teenager this long to confront you about it.

“Ellie—”

She snorts. “Don’t bother trying to hide it. Look, I know you two have been meeting up in the middle of the fucking night for the last couple of months,” she states in a blunt, matter of fact tone. “And I also know that the two of you know that I know. So let’s not beat around the fucking bush here, sweet cheeks. Are you two like in a relationship or something? Or are you just—what do the kids call it these days? Hooking up? What exactly is the deal with you and Joel?”

Gasping, you’re quick to shush her. “Ellie!”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, relax princess. It’s close to lunchtime, there’s no one in here but the two of us. So fucking spill it. What’s up with you and my old man?”

You sigh. Setting your clipboard down on top of the mounting block beside you, you step around Duke and approach Ellie. Even though you know everyone else in the stables had taken off to the mess hall for lunch hour, you keep your voice low and hushed. “Yes, okay. We’ve been meeting up at night and seeing each other.” You’d tried your best to prepare yourself for this, made a list of things you could say to her to make the fact that you were having a full blown secret affair with the man who’s essentially her father seem a bit less shameful. But it was useless. No matter which way you could try to spin it for her, the bottom line was that you are a married woman who is cheating on her husband.

And you’re cheating with Joel.

“Listen, what we’re doing, it’s not right—”

Ellie lifts her hand and interrupts you. 

“You guys make each other happy, don’t you?”

“I can’t speak for Joel,” you reply tentatively, shifting your weight from one muck caked boot to the other. “But he definitely makes me happy. He makes me the happiest I have been in a long, long time.”

She chortles. “Oh, come the fuck on, you know you make his crabby ass happy too,” she tells you. She grins and continues to say, “Seriously dude, if only you could see him in the mornings after he’s been with you. Picture it, he’s getting ready to head out for patrol and he’s going about the kitchen smiling like a fucking idiot as he makes his coffee.”'

“Really?”

“Really,” Ellie confirms. “It’s fucking sickening.”

You can't help but chuckle at her remark.

There’s a brief bout of silence, but Ellie’s quick to cut through it. “Can I ask you something?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Figured,” you sigh. “Alright kid, go ahead. Ask away.”

“Do you love Joel?”

Anxiously, you nibble on your bottom lip. “Yes,” you admit softly after a minute. “I do.”

Ellie glances down at the brush in her hands. She fiddles with it, running her fingers over the coarse, stiff bristles. “Wow,” she murmurs, quietly. Any trace of humor had completely vanished. “It must really fucking suck having to hide being with the person that you love, huh?”

“Yeah, it does. It really, really fucking does.”

Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but then hesitates.

Frowning, you take a step closer to her. “What is it, Ellie?”

“You could leave him, you know. Luke.”

“What?” Your mouth dries. “What are you talking about?”

“You could leave him,” Ellie repeats. Pausing, she chews the inside of her cheek. She seems nervous as she shuffles from foot to foot, something you find strange considering how brazen the girl can be. “You could move in with us into our house, you know?” For as tough as she could be, it tugs at your heart strings whenever her innocence peeks through, much like it is now. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

You smile wistfully at the thought.

A life where you can openly be in a relationship with Joel—take your place by his side and live a life of peace with him and Ellie?

Of course you do. 

But it’s a dream that’s too far out of reach.  

“I would love that,” you murmur, reaching up to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. You let your finger graze the softness of her cheek before dropping your hand back down to your side. “You honestly have no idea how happy that would make me, Ellie. But it’s not all that simple—it’s much too complicated for me to leave Luke.”

“How the fuck is it complicated? You aren’t happy with a man you aren’t even really married to. The world fucking ended, it’s not a real marriage. Just take off the ring, pack up your shit, and it’s done. I don’t see what’s so fucking complicated about it.”

You sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Because you’re not even giving me the chance to fucking understand,” Ellie shoots back at you, anger and frustration glazing over her brown eyes as she tries to make sense of it all. “You could actually be happy with Joel—and with me. We could be a family, a real fucking family.”

Caught off guard, you stare at her in complete shock. It’s not like you aren’t aware of how close she’s grown to you since you’d met, but you never expected her to see you as family. 

“Ellie, please. You have to believe me. Nothing would make me happier,” you choke out in reply. You furiously blink back the hot, stubborn tears that threaten to fall and hold it together for her sake rather than for yours. “Being together with Joel—being with the two of you and living life together as a family would be incredible.”

“Then why won’t you just fucking leave him?” she demands, growing more irate. “Why miss out on the chance to be fucking happy for once?”

Her questions are met with silence. 

How do you even begin to explain it to her?

How do you tell a teenager that you’re trapped with no way out? How afraid you were of your husband?

You don’t. You can’t.

“Well?” Ellie impatiently prompts you after a minute. “Come on man, just tell me the fucking truth already. Why can’t you leave Luke?” Her gaze finds yours and her eyes widen when the realization suddenly starts to sink in for her. “Oh shit.”

You quickly shake your head. “Ellie, wait—”

“It’s because he won’t let you leave, isn’t it?”

Fuck.

For a second, you feel like you’re going to be sick all over her sneakers. 

Before you can even think of how to respond to the accusation, the sound of Tommy Miller’s voice echoes through the stables. “Ellie!” he shouts. “Ellie! You in here?”

Relieved, you call out to him. “Hey, Tommy! Yeah, she’s here—she’s with me in Duke’s stall!”

Scowling, Ellie points a menacing finger at you. “This conversation isn’t over,” she mutters. “Far fucking from it, princess.”

Tommy rushes into the stall, his chest heaving. He’s out of breath and sweating profusely, his curls plastered to his forehead. His light blue denim shirt is stained with crimson and so are his hands—he’s covered in blood.

“Tommy!” you gasp out his name and run up to him, grabbing onto his arms. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m alright! Blood ain’t mine,” he says, giving you a reassuring nod as he wraps his hands around your forearms, smearing your skin red. He then looks over your shoulder at Ellie. “It’s Joel. He’s been shot.”

Your nails dig into his arms, a chill running down your spinal cord.

“What?” Ellie cries, running up to the two of you in a panic. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck happened? How did he—is he okay? Is he alive?”

“He’s alive,” Tommy tells her, eliciting a breath of relief from her, as well as from you. “He got hit in the shoulder. I had to come find you and tell you right away,” he explains to her. “Needed you to hear it from me and not from anybody else.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s down at the clinic. I can take you there now—”

Ellie drops the brush in her hand. “What are we waiting for? Let’s fucking go!”

Tommy nods and lets go of you. He whirls around on the heel of his boot and leads her out of Duke’s stall.

You start to follow behind them, but freeze.

What business do you have seeing Joel?

As far as Tommy’s concerned, you’re nothing to his brother. Just a neighbor, maybe an acquaintance. The veterinarian his kid works for, if anything, but certainly nothing more.

“Wait.” Ellie halts in her tracks and turns back to you, beckoning with her hand. When you don’t move a muscle, she rolls her eyes and hurries over to you, taking your hand in hers. “Come on!”

Tommy shoots her a confused look.

“Ellie, what are you—?”

Ellie’s head whips around and she glares at you, as if telling you to be quiet. “I need you to come with me,” she says. “I’m going to need you for uh—you know, for emotional support and shit.”

It suddenly clicks. You know what she’s doing.

She’s giving you the excuse to see Joel. 

Squeezing Ellie’s hand in a silent thank you, both of you follow Tommy out of the stables and across the commune towards the clinic.

“Tommy, what happened out there?” you ask him.

“Raiders,” Tommy answers over his shoulder. His long strides are difficult to keep up with, and you and Ellie are forced to break out into a jog just to keep up with him. “Motherfuckers came outta nowhere and ambushed us. They got Joel in the shoulder, hit Carl in the stomach. Peter got shot in the chest—he’s in real bad shape. We don’t think he’s gonna fuckin’ make it.”

Your stomach churns. Peter. Marther’s husband.

“Anyone else wounded?”

He shakes his head. “No, but we did lose two of our horses. Daisy and Cash.”

“How could this fucking happen?” Ellie demands furiously.

“We think it was that same group we were trackin’ back a few weeks ago.” Tommy’s voice is strained. He tightly shakes his head, his hands curled into angry fists at his sides. “They must have realized we stopped with double patrol. Those fuckers caught us with our guard down. I fuckin’ knew we shouldn’t have eased up with patrol duties, I should’ve had every able bodied patrolman man out there day and night—”

You frown at the back of his head. “Tommy, please. You can’t blame yourself for this. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known they were still out there after all this time.”

“Tell that to Martha,” he replies bitterly. “Tell that to Carl’s wife and to his daughters.”

Knowing there isn’t anything you could say to console Tommy or ease the guilt he’s feeling, you clamp your mouth shut.

Now isn’t the time to even try.

The three of you arrive at Jackson’s clinic.

Before the outbreak, the building had served as an urgent care facility for the town.

Abandoned and picked clean over the years, it had taken a lot of time and effort for the community to restore what was left of it into a safe, reliable place that could be used for healthcare services. It still wasn’t much even after the fact, but the clinic boasted three examination rooms for patients, and its shelves, once bare, were now decently stocked with precious medical supplies such as bandages, vials of penicillin, and clean syringes.

Tommy leads you and Ellie inside and the first thing the both of you notice are the trails of splattered blood on the speckled linoleum floors. You pray none of it is Joel’s.

In the first exam room, you can hear Carl, a man who used to work in the stables with you before he’d be assigned to be a patrolman. He’s sobbing, screaming out in agony as he begs for someone to help him. In the second exam room that’s just across the hall from the first, you can hear Luke. He’s speaking to someone, presumably one of the nurses, instructing them to hand him more gauze, along with a scalpel.

“Joel’s in here.” Tommy walks to the last door at the end of the brightly lit hallway and opens it, stepping aside to allow you and Ellie into the room. “Hey, big brother. Got someone here who wants to see you.”

Your stomach churns, breath hitching in your throat when you see him perched on the examination table without his shirt on, firmly holding a bloodied cloth to his left shoulder to conceal his wound.

“Shit,” Ellie breathes out, dropping your hand. She hurries over to his side. “Joel, are you okay?”

Joel glares at his brother. “Thought I told you not to fuckin’ bring her here, Tommy.”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause she’s your—” Tommy pauses, searching for the right word. “She’s your Ellie. She should be here with you, Joel.”

“She doesn’t need to fuckin’ see me like this—” He stops abruptly when he finally sees you standing there at the door looking like you’d just seen a ghost.

Noticing that he’s about to question what you’re doing there, Ellie cuts him off and pins him with a stern look as if to tell him to shut the fuck up. “I asked her to come down here with me,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him and hoping he’ll get the hint. “Hope that’s okay?”

His eyes flit back over to you and he gives a single, subtle nod of approval. “You can come in,” he tells you. His gaze meets your own, but he’s careful not to let it linger for too long. “S’alright. Come on in.”

You stand there frozen. It’s not until Tommy puts his hand on the small of your back and nudges you forward that you you finally move. “Hey,” you say to Joel, your voice small and feeble. Cautiously, you approach him, your mouth and throat dry. Resisting the overwhelming urge to throw your arms around him, you fall into step beside Ellie. She reaches for your hand again, holding it in hers as she gives your fingers a comforting squeeze.

“M’okay.” Joel looks from you to Ellie, nodding his head in reassurance. “M’gonna be okay. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me.”

“Anyone been in here to see you yet?” Tommy asks.

“It look like anyone’s been in to see me yet?” Joel deadpans.

Ellie frowns. “When is someone gonna take a look at him? He’s been fucking shot!”

“We’ve only got one doctor and two nurses,” Tommy reminds her gently, placing his hands on his hips. “They do what they can, kiddo.”

Letting go of Ellie’s hand, you stand in front of Joel and gesture to his shoulder. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

Reluctant, Joel’s lips purse together. “Y’sure you wanna do that?”

You nod. 

“Go ahead then,” he murmurs.

Carefully, you peel back the blood soaked cloth from his shoulder to inspect his wound.

“It’s right there—the bullet. I can see it. It looks like it’s still intact as well. The good news about that is that it’s going to make extraction a lot easier since the bullet didn’t break off into fragments.” You manage to keep a calm, cool and collected demeanor. On the inside, you’re anything but. Words could not even begin to explain how fucking terrifying it is to see Joel injured, covered in his own blood. Still, with Tommy in the room standing just feet behind you, there’s no choice but to stay composed to avoid raising any kind of suspicion.

“And the bad news?” Ellie prompts worriedly.

“Well, he could get a serious infection if that bullet doesn’t come out of his shoulder. It needs to be removed and his wound needs to be flushed out and cleaned. It also looks like something we can stitch up. He will be fine but he needs to be tended to sooner rather than later.” You glance back at Tommy. “He can’t just sit here like this for much longer.”

“Luke’s still workin’ on Peter. Carl’s next in line since he got hit in the stomach. Luke said he needed to tend to the injuries in order based on how bad the injury is. Said it was called triage or somethin’ like that—”

“Well, what about Donna? Or Rose?” You refer to the two nurses who work in the clinic alongside your husband. Every nerve in your entire body is on edge. All you want is someone, anyone—even if that fucking means Luke—to tend to Joel. It’s quite selfish on your part considering the severe nature of the other two men’s injuries, but you can’t help yourself. You need Joel to be okay or you won’t be okay. “We can have one of them do it. I’m sure they’re capable of an extraction.”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I know Donna is helpin’ Luke with Peter. Rose is in the room next door tryin’ to stop Carl’s bleedin’—”

Your emotions boil over and finally, you snap. Turning to the younger man, you nearly shout at him in frustration. “He can’t just sit here with a fucking bullet lodged in his shoulder, Tommy!”

Taken aback by the outburst, Tommy raises his eyebrows but he says nothing.

“Wait a minute.” Ellie grabs your arm, garnering your attention. “Didn’t you take a bullet out of one of the horses once?”

“Yeah. She did,” Tommy realizes. “My horse, Ranger. He got in the shoulder durin’ an attack a couple years ago. She took the bullet right out and had him all patched up within an hour.”

Your eyes bounce between them in absolute disbelief. “Ranger’s a horse.”

“How different could it be?” Tommy wonders out loud, raking his hand through his black curls once more.

Furiously, you shake your head. “I’ve never treated a human wound before, at least not one like this. Cuts and scrapes, sure. But this is a gunshot wound, guys. I can’t—”

Ellie’s fingers dig anxiously into your arm. “Please do it,” she whispers, her eyes looking up into yours pleadingly. “You’ve got to help him. Please.”

Slowly, you turn to Joel, who hasn’t uttered a single word. “Would be kinda nice to get this fuckin’ thing outta my shoulder,” he remarks after a minute. He brings his gaze to meet yours and holds, forgetting all about subtlety. “I trust you.”

“Joel, I can’t. I’m not capable—”

“Oh fuck that, you are capable,” Ellie insists, shaking her head at you.

Helplessly, you turn to Tommy for backup.

“I’m gonna have to agree with with the kid, little lady. You’re capable. I just know it.”

“Please,” Ellie begs you. “It could be fucking hours before Luke gets to him. You said it yourself just a minute ago, Joel can’t just sit here with a fucking bullet in his shoulder. He could get an infection. Please, you have to do it. Do it for me.” Do it for him, she wants to say. But she knows she can’t.

Hearing the desperation in her voice, you don’t have much choice but to reluctantly agree to it. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it,” you relent, exhaling a sigh of defeat. “But if I’m going to do this, I would rather do it without an audience watching me.”

“Say no more.” Tommy gently takes Ellie’s arm and starts tugging her towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s wait out in the hallway, kiddo.”

“But—” She begins to protest. 

“Ellie.” Joel grits out her name. “Listen to Tommy.”

Annoyed, she huffs, “Jesus, okay. Fine.”

As soon as they disappear and close the door behind them, you turn back to Joel, your heart slamming against your ribcage.  

“I trust you,” he repeats, firmly. “Alright?”

Swallowing harshly, you nod. “Alright.”

Walking over to the opposite side of the room, you begin digging around through various cabinets and in drawers, searching for the supplies that you would need—a bottle of saline solution, a pair of surgical forceps, and a clean needle for the stitches. You toss them onto a small silver tray along with plenty of gauze and a packet of nylon sutures that had expired well over fifteen years ago. The only thing you can’t find are gloves, and while you were sure there had to be a box somewhere in the clinic, you don’t have the spare time to search for them. You wash your hands as thoroughly as possible with warm water and a bit of natural, handmade antibacterial soap one of the women in the commune makes and sells in her apothecary shop on Main Street along with her healing ointments and salves.

Your mind spins as you dry off your hands and pick up the tray, slowly making your way over to Joel. You set it down on the exam table and stand in front of him, inhaling a long, deep breath through your nose. Exhaling it slowly and steadily through your mouth, you ask, “Are you ready?”

Joel places his hand on your hip, his fingers brushing the skin that peeks between the waistband of your jeans and the lace hem of your yellow camisole. “Think I should be the one askin’ you that question, darlin’.”

You could have laughed. “Of course I’m not.”

“You can do this, baby. I know you can.”

“How can you be so sure about that, Joel?”

“‘Cause. I know my girl,” Joel murmurs, softly. He makes certain to keep his voice low, just in case Tommy and Ellie happen to be standing too close to the door. “And I know she’s capable of a hell of a lot more than she thinks she is. I believe in you, peach,” he asserts, giving your hip a gentle squeeze. “I trust you with my fuckin’ life.”

Your eyes glaze over with tears and you exhale a shaky breath. It’s not just his words, it’s the sincerity behind them—he means it when he says he trusts you with his life. If it ever came down to it, he would put it right in your hands.

“It’s going to hurt like hell,” you warn him. “I don’t have any anesthetic to numb the area.”

His hand falls away from you and he curls it into a loose fist on his thigh. “Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse, sweetheart.”

Reaching for the cloth on his shoulder, your hands threaten to tremble but you will them to stay as steady as possible as you remove it, setting side before picking up the bottle of saline and a piece of gauze. The bleeding had ceased. You clean the area well and give yourself a clear view of the thumb sized projectile. “It’s pretty superficial,” you observe, wiping at the wound and causing him to wince. “It doesn’t look like it caused any kind of severe damage, either.” Throwing the used gauze aside, you take the pair of forceps and show them to him. “Ready?”

“Ain’t got much of a choice, do I now?”

“Nope.” You flash him a tiny, wry smile. “Okay, I’m going to count to three and begin the extraction. I need you to stay as still as possible, alright?”

Joel nods grimly, his jaw clenched and lips pressed in a tight line.

“One, two, three—take a big, deep breath in and let it out slowly through your nose.”

He does as you instruct him, his fist tightening on his leg as he braces himself.

Firmly holding the forceps, you carefully insert the jaws of the instrument into his wound. Although you want to get the painful procedure over with as quickly as possible, you have to be careful not to cause any kind of further damage to his shoulder. “Fuck,” Joel hisses through gritted teeth, his eyes pinching closed. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Didn’t think it’d hurt this fuckin’ bad.”

You manage to get a good grip on the bullet with the forceps. “Almost done,” you assure him. “I’m going to pull it out now. Take another deep breath in for me and hold it.”

He nods and inhales, his chest expanding.

“On three, let it out—one, two, three.”

Joel exhales sharply as you swiftly pull the bullet from his shoulder. “Fuck!” he curses again, shaking his head. Even though his shoulder feels like it’s on fire, he does feel a huge sense of relief as soon as the round comes out.

“Got it,” you say, lifting the forceps. You show Joel the projectile clamped in the instrument’s jaws. It makes you sick to your stomach to think that there was even a slight possibility that the bullet you’re holding in your hand could have hit him somewhere else—it could have been a fatal shot. Shoving the nauseating thought out of your mind, you set it down on the tray and pick up the bottle of saline and a couple pieces of clean gauze. After flushing the wound and cleaning it a second time, you take a closer look at it just to be sure there’s no serious damage to the tissues in his shoulder. “Everything looks alright from what I can see. I cleaned it as best I could, but there’s always a risk for infection so you’ll have to take a round of antibiotics. You’ll also have to wear a sling for about four to six weeks. Doctor’s orders,” you add with a tiny, jeering smile when you clock the disdain on his face.

“Shit. That mean’s Tommy’s gonna pull me off of patrol,” he realizes, miserably. “What the hell am I gonna do for four to six weeks?”

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Recover from being shot?”

“Yeah I s’ppose I am,” he mutters with an eye roll.

Calm, tranquil silence falls over you as you prepare the suture, looping it through the needle. The moment you start stitching him up, an emotional lump rises in the back of your throat and you’re not sure why. Joel is fine. He’s alive. He’s going to be okay, and yet, all you can do is think about how frightened you’d been when Tommy ran into the stables covered in blood and said that Joel had been shot. How terrifying it was to think he was dead. 

He says your name softly.

When you don’t acknowledge him, he reverts to his nickname for you. “Peach.”

You hum, trying to stay focused on finishing the task of closing up his wound. “Hm?”

“Look at me, baby.”

“Joel, I’m kind of in the middle of someth—”

“I love you.”

Stopping mid stitch, you look at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

“Darlin’, I can’t count the number of times I almost fuckin’ said, but couldn’t. How many times those words have been right there on the tip of my tongue and just when I’m ‘bout to say them, I lose the nerve. After what happened today, m’gonna stop bein’ such a fuckin’ fool. M’gonna tell you every chance I get,” Joel vows, his gaze piercing into yours. “You had my heart from day fuckin’ one and you’re gonna have it for the rest of my life, sweet girl. I love you.”

His declaration knocks all of the wind out of your lungs and leaves you breathless. Speechless.

“AIn’t gotta say it back to me until you’re ready,” Joel reassures you. “Y’know how I feel ‘bout you—but I think it was time you finally heard it.”

You choke down your emotions—now isn’t the time to break down, not when you have a needling poking through his flesh. It’s not exactly how you pictured you professing your love for each other, but it feels right. “I love you too, Joel,” you whisper back to him. “I’ve been wanting to say it to you too, but I’ve just been afraid.” You pause and realize, “I’m not afraid anymore.”

Joel tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Do me a real big favor darlin’ and finish stitchin’ me up quick ‘cause I’m fuckin’ dyin’ for a kiss.”

Letting out a tearful little laugh, you carefully finish pitching him up. As soon as you finish with the last stitch, Joel wraps his uninjured arm around your waist. “C’mere baby,” he murmurs. He tugs you forward so you’re standing between his legs and tilts his head up towards yours. 

You smile at him before leaning in, molding your mouth to his in a sweet kiss. 

As you do, Luke’s voice echoes loudly out in the hallway. “What the hell do you mean she’s—”

Jerking away from Joel, you jump back just as the door swings open.

Luke bursts into the examination room with Tommy and Ellie behind him. His dark green eyes flit from you to Joel and then back to you again.

“Joel!” Ellie shoves past him. “You okay?”

“M’alright,” he replies stiffly, his eyes carefully trained on your husband.

“Tommy told me you were treating Joel’s wound.” Luke approaches you, and while he is keeping a collected composure for the sake of not causing a scene in front of the other people in the room, you know him better than that. He’s furious, but he’s masking it well.

Nervously, you nod. “Yes. I extracted the bullet from his shoulder, flushed and cleaned the wound, and stitched him up.” You notice the blood on his light blue medical scrubs and glance around him at Tommy. “How is Peter?”

His expression is grim. “Didn’t make it.”

“God,” you mutter, your heart clenching in your chest as you think of Martha. She’s just lost her husband.

Luke walks over to Joel, whose hands are curled into fists in his lap. He inspects his shoulder, observing the work you’d done. He then looks over his shoulder at you and frowns. “You shouldn’t have done this,” your husband chastises you, shaking his head tightly. “You aren’t a trained medical professional. Do you even realize—”

“Your wife did a good fuckin’ job,” Joel cuts him off. “She knew what she was doin’.”

Luke’s head whips back around and the two men’s eyes meet in a tense exchange.

“Give her some more fuckin’ credit than that. She’s amazin’,” the older man states, his nostrils flaring. 

“Yeah,” Ellie chimes in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes at Luke. “She’s fucking amazing.”

Luke turns to her and arches an eyebrow. Before he can say anything, the sound of Donna’s voice comes from the room next door.

“Luke! I need a little help in here!”

Lips pursed together, Luke takes a step back from Joel and turns on his heel to leave. As he passes you, he stops briefly, long enough to whisper to you quietly, “We’ll talk about this at home.”

A chill runs down your spine.

You know exactly what he means by that. 

Luke tosses you a subtle glare and stalks out of the room.

“I should go and find Maria,” Tommy states with a sad sigh. “We’re gonna have to break the news to Martha about Peter.” He gives you a nod. “Thank you, little lady. For takin’ such good care of my big brother.” He disappears, closing the door behind him and leaving the three of you alone.

Ellie comes up to you, curling her arms around your waist. “Thank you. We fucking owe you one.”

You say nothing as you hug her back, holding onto her tightly.

You try not to think about what’s in store for you later that evening at home.

[windvexer]

Hello!

I've seen you talk a few times about the dangers of over-warding, which I can certainly see the sense in; at the same time, wards can also certainly be useful things. I'd like to ask you: in your opinion, what is the most sensible amount of wards to have? Does it make sense to ward (oneself, one's home, whatever) at all if you don't have a reason to expect attacks or infringements?

Good morning!

We're at least in reference to this post.

The silly answer is, but I promise to explain it so that it's useful, the most sensible amount of wards to have is however many cover your needs.

I think the topic of warding is often framed in relation to attacks and retaliation, which it certainly relates to. But I think that also gives it a bit of a crusty patina, if you will: "I don't have main character syndrome; I'm not one of those witches who's so paranoid that everyone is going to attack them, and I don't mess around with spirits, so warding isn't for people like me."

Which is all well and good, but the idea of warding in and of itself is that it's just a barrier that stops things from coming through.

Wards can hypothetically block out anything: malifica and spirits, sure, but also unwanted guests, solicitors, debts, poverty, stress, illness, spam phone calls, and spiders.

"Attacks" may not be common, but tangles of unhelpful energy, the Evil Eye, and blustery storms of ill-effect aren't all that rare. Just because someone didn't aim at you and pull the trigger doesn't mean that your life will remain void of deleterious energies.

Spirits living their lives will infringe on you, not because you're the main character or because they're malicious, but because the two of you live in the same reality and sometimes your lives intersect in unwanted ways.

And you can accidentally infringe, and then spirits can be offended and decided to make it your problem.

So in a certain sense, not having wards because you don't expect attacks or infringements is like not having house rules because you don't expect your room mates to ever do anything upsetting:

On the one hand, it's perfectly fine to wait until something is happening before you deal with it.

On the other hand, some people prefer to say, "welcome to the house! Please don't invite your friends to stay the night without checking with us first."

Another confounding factor is whether or not you tend to draw spirits to you, as some people do; and whether or not you live in an area with very high spiritual activity. If you live in a paranormal activity desert, baseline wards might not be useful at all, whereas someone who has sensitive psychic perception and lives in an old converted mortuary might need lots of baseline protection just to feel comfortable.

But perhaps the most important deciding factor is whether or not you want to deal with it.

Early on in my education I heard a witch of great experience say, "the more experienced you get, the less wards you need. You get to a point where you can just deal with things as they arise instead of needing to stay walled in all the time."

Which is technically true. However they may manifest on the astral plane, the functional effect of a ward is like a bug screen: it's likely to stop or mitigate whatever it's meant to hold out.

The real question then becomes, what things would you prefer to never deal with, and what things are you comfortable dealing with as they arise?

Wards should be for that - the things that you would just like to not ever have to deal with, even if you don't particularly expect them to darken your doorstep.

Wards can be useful because they are proactive and preventative. A ward to stop bad energies and stress from your workplace following you home can help reduce the need for more regular spiritual hygiene. A ward against uninvited spirits can help stop you from getting distracted from the magical work you actually want to be doing.

So a ward is like a wall. Does it make sense to build a wall around your farm, even if you never expect a raid from the neighbors?

I don't expect raids from my neighbors. I still build walls.

[anistarrose]

The thing about the Heart Attack segment in Wonderland is that they put so much aromantic subtext in it. They accidentally put SO much aromantic subtext in it, on behalf of multiple characters, and I'm thinking about it constantly. Let me tell you all about it.

Magnus is dropped into a dating game and literally leads with "I cannot stress enough how uninterested I am in this." Now, it's perfectly valid to read this as due to him waiting for Julia, or just him being plain old uncomfortable with having his love life put in the spotlight. However! I cannot stress enough the exchange that happens just a minute or two after that line:

Magnus (describing his ideal date): ... and we don't see each other again, ‘cause I'm really not interested in dating. Audience: [exaggerated] Oooooh! (cheers) Griffin: The silhouette is like, fanning itself. Lydia: Playing hard to get, huh? It seems like our contestant is into that.

And I just have to say: unfortunately, this is one of the most aromantic fucking experiences I've seen represented in fiction in my life. I mean — saying you're not interested in romance, then having those words twisted on you, like they're some secret coded way of saying that you are interested in romance? Not having a single way to express your disinterest that'll actually be believed? That's some aro shit right there. God. Fuck.

As an aside, it's enough to really tell that Heart Attack is not designed to be a reprieve from the pain, even though it's the "good outcome" of Trust or Forsake. It's designed to be uncomfortable. To funnel suffering to Edward and Lydia, just like all the other games do. (More on that later, in fact.) But in summary:

Magnus is a character who can be read as uncomfortable with romance for either aro-spec reasons or unrelated reasons. But in either case, his discomfort attracts reactions that reek of amatonormativity — and therefore, resonate with aromantic experiences. (Psst, I did recently write a gray-aro Magnus fic!)

Two more analyses below the cut (and only one of them is for another Horny Boy):

Obviously the next character I need to talk about is Merle. I've found aroallo readings of his character to be compelling for a long time (having sex with plants so you don't have to worry about romantic commitment, am I right?), but the way he describes his "ideal date" is another factor:

Merle: I volunteer to drive her vehicle, and tell her it's filthy, and so we go through the uh- drive through vehicle wash and she pays for that too. Um, and then I take her to have dinner with my family, and- Magnus: Wait, like your wife and stuff? Merle: She meets my ex-wife.

Merle's probably exaggerating as a joke, continuing on about both him and his partner being miserable, but I think the fact that Merle's mind goes here is genuinely drawing from a lot of poor romantic experiences in the past. He didn't get a choice about being on Heart Attack, and his marriage with Hecuba was similarly "arranged".

It's also worth noting that at this point in time, Merle is putting in the work to be part of Mavis and Mookie's lives again, but is not interested in doing the same for Hecuba — he instead just asks Mavis how Hecuba's doing. That said, given that Magnus is the one to put the focus on Merle's ex-wife, I think it's fair to read the "family" comment as Merle actually expressing that he'd rather spend time with his kids than give any special romantic attention to his date. Moving on to the rest of the "joke":

Merle: She's having a miserable time and she's really mad, she can't wait to get outta there. I take her back to her house, and so I lean up against the door jam and say, 'Sure you don't want me to come in for a few minutes?' and she slams the door in my face.

It's possible Merle just has a more roundabout, self-deprecating way of expressing a similar thing to what Magnus did: Merle just isn't interested in dating. To me, the last line implies he might not say no to sex, if offered — but overall, it reads as if Merle is putting minimal effort in because he's looking for an excuse to get out of this relationship anyway.

It's also possible that Merle's "rejection" of a suitor being so disguised as humor could point to him still coming to terms with his disinterest in dating. Particularly, in comparison to Magnus, who is so vocal and unashamed about it, while Merle might still be figuring this all out.

(Honestly, the self-deprecation Merle turns to here is actually kind of sad, when viewed in that light — he already lets himself be the butt of jokes so often, and now he feels like the way romance doesn't click for him has to be a joke, too? Oof. Someone give him a hug and tell him he's not broken this instant!) But regardless:

Merle views dates, and perhaps romance in general, as things that will inevitably turn disastrous for him and any party involved with him, and he would rather spend time with his children than repairing a relationship with an ex, or cultivating a relationship with a new partner. This is not an experience exclusive to the aro-spec umbrella, but you can't say that an aromantic reading of his character doesn't fit him like a gardening glove...

...which he wears while fucking his plants. Because plants don't demand emotional intimacy, nor take too much time away from the platonic relationships that matter more to him. And you know what? He's fucking valid for that! Fly your flag, nasty grandpa!

But moving on: I promised you aromantic analysis of characters outside of our protagonists, and henceforth, that analysis I will provide. And not just because I admittedly see Taako as the token alloromantic (though clearly an aro ally; if he hadn't chosen Forsake we wouldn't have gotten all this incredible characterization!)

I digress. So let's go on to addressing the lich twins in the room: Edward and Lydia.

Remember my argument earlier that Heart Attack serves the purpose of collecting suffering just like the rest of Wonderland does? How it's just a subtler way of making Wonderland's victims fundamentally uncomfortable?

...Using, of all things, romance?

How the vogue twins, for whatever reason, felt inspired to make people uncomfortable with matchmaking and adoration? How, some way or another, they noticed how much potential romance had to induce suffering? Being pressured into a relationship, being told that no matter how firmly you say you're uninterested, you're not really uninterested?

...Relatedly, I have always gotten the sense that Edward and Lydia projected relentlessly onto their victims.

Edward: This resolve, this desire to do whatever it takes no matter the cost to save yourselves — do you know who you three remind me of? Magnus: No? Merle: Who? Edward: Us!

I'm even going to go a step further and say that on top of projection, they want their victims to go through things they went through. Swallowing the guilt of having fucked someone else over to survive, of course — that's basically self-admitted. But possibly also... the feeling of not being able to get back what you lost (Keats). The feeling of not being able to heal (Keats).

So, where does that leave Heart Attack?

Lydia: It was the three of us, surviving against all odds. The world against us.

Their family of three was (is) indescribably important to them. I'm not necessarily saying that societal expectations of romance, especially of romance as a priority above that of family, left a bad taste in their mouths — if not downright contributing to their trauma — but, okay, I wrote the rest of this post and now that I'm back, I can no longer deny it. I'm definitely, absolutely saying that.

At the time of the podcast, we know Edward and Lydia's own relationship is heavily strained. Until the end, they are lying to themselves and to each other about the fact that they continue to be emotionally and magically reliant on each other. After all, Lydia wouldn't say "I guess we really needed each other after all" in her dying moments with such surprise otherwise.

This is the second reason that I... well, I wouldn't quite call it a "theory," but I find it most impactful to read Edward and Lydia as characters for whom the concept of Love has baggage. And always has, from their origins as youth in a tough spot in an already amatonormative world.

Maybe the constant societal devaluing of platonic, familial bonds left them with serious emotional scars. Maybe the constant conflation of Love and morality just weighed on them and weighed on them and weighed on them until they decided: well, we don't love the way people expect us to, so we might as well give up on being the good people they expect us to be. We might as well embrace this new fuel of suffering.

...And you know, I hope this gets across what I mean when I always say I headcanon villains as aromantic to make them more sympathetic.

Edward and Lydia, textually, are already tragic villains. As twins and liches, they're also textually foil characters to several of the Seven Birds. But I also like to think that they have a lot in common with Magnus and Merle, and the possibility that tugs at my heartstrings the most is the possibility of them all falling under the aromantic umbrella.

[xlillyle]

Why in my humble opinion MHA's ending regarding Midoriya Izuku is good and fitting and completes his storyline beautifully 🧵

Or: On what it means to be a hero.

I'm having a slight déjà-vu... oh well. There are lots of opinions on MHA and its ending, now that it is here, so after seeing some I felt compelled to shove my own to the board.

While it's impossible to disregard all other aspects of the ending as MHA is a rich story with many factors and subplots additionally to the main story, I will do my best to focus on my main point, which is: Midoriya Izuku's story is a good one and has been brought to a beautiful and very fitting ending that I like a lot. Here's why:

I have three (four) main points I will go through that are related to Izuku's story that imo were ended well:

One For All & what the quirk did for Izuku & how it ended.

Izuku's on-going career, resulting in him as a teacher.

Izuku's future career with the hero suit.

2 and 3 also both pick up one of MHA's main themes: What it means to be a hero.

So, let me start with One For All (OFA).

OFA is the quirk that kicks off this series because it's the quirk given by the Symbol of Peace All Might to our protagonist Midoriya Izuku, who has been quirkless but dreamt of being a hero. There are a few important things to note about OFA:

OFA is very strong; so strong that All Might, even after agreeing to give Izuku the quirk, makes him train. A lot. And hard. Because a regular body would not be able to handle OFA due to its nature.

We learn later that not only does it cultivate the raw strength of all its previous users, but that it holds their quirks too. And that these quirks got stronger with each generation of OFA user as well.

In fact, the major reason why OFA is so insanely strong when Izuku receives it, is the fact that All Might had been quirkless himself and therefore is the longest holder of OFA as the other users could not handle having their own quirk and OFA as additional one, passing away rather early.

OFA is also the quirk of Yoichi who is All For One's (AFO) brother who, in very simplified terms, have a long history and complicated, but hostile relationship with each other. Yoichi wants to stop his brother.

And, to make a very, over 400 chapters long story short: Izuku defeats All For One and he does so after countless of training and battles where he learned to make the best use of OFA and in the end by transferring OFA to Shigaraki/AFO.

Izuku has always understood OFA as a borrowed power and ultimately as one he'd be the last user of—OFA was a power used to defeat AFO and the fact that transferring it, ultimately what AFO had always desired, is part of what destroys him is very fitting.

OFA has given Izuku the chance to enter the world of heroes—and to help change it in the long run. He was able to open the people's eyes about society, he has shown that even after he gave OFA away, he would still fight and he has animated people to be heroic even if they aren't employed as heroes. He has added more meaning to the word "hero".

Izuku as teacher, part 1 of what it means to be a hero.

Now, I have seen a lot of criticism to Izuku ending up as a teacher and I am here to tell you—it's perfect for him! Izuku is someone who loves learning, he is genuinely enthusiastic about it, and especially about quirks—he loves geeking out about them, he spends his free time analyzing them and drawing out their potential, he is an amazing supporting character for children that need assistance in finding their footing in the world of heroes. Who can you learn better from than from someone who loves learning itself? He's got a contagious kind of excitement that sparks over to you.

And, he knows better than anyone how chasing after this dream of being a hero feels like, knows better than anyone how important people supporting you on the way is—because this is what he has received, back then, when he was in high school himself. Izuku has learned and experienced himself how important support from the people around you is, so he now wants to provide exactly that to the future generation of heroes. He wants to guide them on their path.

This career path also opens a new perspective that MHA has been trying to tell us for so long now: "Hero" isn't just who goes up and picks up this nice certificate and runs around the city with the "hero badge". "Hero" is more than that. Helping people, in any little way, is being heroic and makes you a hero. Teachers are heroes too. Izuku is being a hero, even now that he doesn't do "pro hero" work, because he is helping children—a teacher doesn't only educate, a teacher provides mental support to some extent too, and that goes even moreso for UA and other hero school teachers. Teachers protect their students as well. Izuku is, by all means, still a hero, just not a "pro" hero. He is a guidance to children and is dedicating his life to extend a helping hand to them and their dreams.

And he's happy with it.

Yes, it's also said that he misses the work of a pro hero—but that doesn't mean that what he is doing now is bad or "settling". He could have done SO many other things, but he CHOSE to pursue a career as a teacher—because this, too, is something he enjoys and finds happiness in. Both statements can be true. You can miss something you used to dream of all your life—it's very natural, even, but you can still be happy about where you ended in life right now.

Moreover, even if you don't agree with my take as "teachers" being heroes too, we see just a few panels later Izuku being a hero:

Which further emphasizes the point I and MHA have been trying to make: You can be a hero even if your job title isn't "hero". That's why civilians got statues too, that's why they are considered for the heroes ranking too. You can have a diverging opinion on how effective it is, but that is the point that is being made and the characters in-universe try to bring across too.

The hero suit and the conclusion on what it means to be a hero.

Truthfully, I don't know why people keep acting like MHA ended after Izuku's teacher career, because we have a conclusion that even traces back and argues back against anyone who doesn't agree with my points about him being a teacher and still a hero. And, more importantly, it brings the full manga into a perfect circle:

Because remember what the manga opened with: Can you be a quirkless hero?

And in so many ways across all these 430 chapters, but now even in the most literal sense of itself, MHA is telling you: YES. Yes you can! It shows us that you can be a hero without a quirk because anyone can lend someone freezing or wounded a t-shirt and anyone can reach out their hand to someone who is lost and anyone can sprint to catch a stumbling child.

But, also, our protagonist Midoriya Izuku, who is quirkless and had lived his dream at the age of 15-17 after borrowing a quirk, now is only starting his dream again at the age of 25: He can be a (pro) hero again and that although he doesn't have a quirk.

Yeah, it's expensive and not yet affordable for the average quirkless guy. But that's not the point of the story, because we started with asking "Is it possible at all?" and were first deluded into thinking the answer is "No.", but MHA is here to tell you: Yes, you can be a hero. There is most certainly an argument to made that now that the first one has done it, more might be able to follow in the long run.

So, what does it mean to be a hero?

I think MHA's message on that is: A hero is someone who steps up because they can, who helps people achieve a part of happiness because they have the chance to. You don't have to have a quirk or do grand gestures, you don't have to rely on the "professionals" to take care of it, at least not if you can make a difference already. There is no shame in a little heroic act because it doesn't make the act less heroic. There even is beauty in everyone being a little hero to each other every day.

Some last words about my feelings on MHA's ending.

This isn't really part of the thread anymore, but I still wanted to say this. This is purely personal, but, to me, what was really beautiful was: Midoriya Izuku didn't "peak" in high school, he had one peak in high school, but life is made of multiple "peaks".

Izuku is 25 and hasn't even seen all of the world yet and now he gets to live his dream again. Because you never know where life takes you and even if you may feel hopeless or lost and like you already experienced all the highs of lives, Horikoshi and MHA are here to tell you: There's always another peak yet to come.

MHA has this really beautiful ending that tries to reassure you that even though your teen years feel so intense and like the world is about to end and even though so many others your age may be so much "higher" on the "life achievements" scale, it doesn't mean that you are a failure or should lose hope because you can always catch up later, in your own pace, with your own wishes. Life isn't over at 17. Life isn't even over at 25. Your new dream might only just become true later than you expected.

[ballad-of-the-lamb]

how did you work out how you wanted to draw your lamb, were there any specific references you used a lot?

when it comes to how i actually end up drawing the lamb, and most characters to be honest, is under the rule of 'wing it til it feels right'. of course i find inspirations in things and piece them all together to make a design, but how i actually wanted to draw the lamb kind of developed as time passes and i draw them more and more. and of course sticking to my main principle of; if i want to draw it consistently, i need to draw it simply. so i have to do a lot with minimalism in mind to spare my wrist

i know that my lamb has a lot of feelings i wanted to capture that you can see on first glance, even if the design itself is rather simple.

under the lamb's eyes, besides deep eyebags to signal to exhaustion, are tears burnt into his fur and skin. but with the added factor of sharp teeth, a strong physique, etc. i want to capture he is not just sad. he is full of rage. he is angry. he is built for fighting because of what he's been through, and how he feels. the type of upset i want to signal a lot is the sort of emotion you can vaguely feel off of a painting like The Fallen Angel. the essence of betrayal manifest. otherwise his physical design is based off a lot of these guys;

the valais blacknose are cute, but very very hardy when it comes to the kind of Goat they are. they are little balls of muscle with wool that is used primarily in the making of carpets, tapestry, and other coarse fiber projects. i like to think the lamb has tapestries of themself & nari made from their own wool

TLDR: i just like 'the fallen angel' painting & valais blacknose goats and will forever 'wing it' based off of media i consume. my references and inspos are vague and yet many and i am a being of constant indecision

[grimmcheems]

Yakuza Hinami AU🌸

This has been brewing in my head as an idea for like years lmao😭. Idk but I always thought it’d be kinda cool if Hinami’s father was also an important figure in the underground of ghoul society aside from being a doctor bc Jason fr tore him up and Mado was on his ass too. That mixed with the fact that Hinami does become involved with ghoul society later on in canon made me love her even more.

They have her father’s kagune up on display as decor, she obtained it at some point and Akira is pissed about it(though she does not know it is being used this way), newer members don’t know why it’s there and think better than to ask directly, so the older members just got used to referring it as “Daddy”😬

I rly need to start providing the initial context to my ideas bc there’s so much that goes on in my head for my AU lores before I draw a particular setting of it and which characters I choose to include. Hinami is basically a selective mute in the beginning of this after her father is killed by Mado and her and her mother form a close relationship with a ghoul investigator (Nakajima, but before they figure out that Ryouko is one of heir suspects but after his partner is killed by Touka) Later on Hinami is on the run and living in disguise with Touka until her parents followers find her and try to raise her to be the next leader of the group.

The yakuza group is named “The Winds , which is sort of a play on how her parents were inspired by it when naming her, and sort of used as a one liner by elite group members and those who manage to escape the hands of the Doves by saying “it must’ve been the wind”(or something similar to that phrase, it it also how the Doves speak about them in public settings as to not cause alarm and used to brush off any inconveniences they experience from the group itself).

Uta is the spokesperson of The Clowns and they often butt heads with Hinami over territorial disputes and whatnot, so his visits are frequent and he is rather surprised when he sees her for the first time again when she’s older and sees just how far and high up she managed to climb in ghoul society. He mostly teases her and Yomo does not appreciate it. Yomo joined her group at some point because he wanted to maintain ties with Ayato, and he does reveal himself to be his and Touka’s uncle and last living relative (it always bothered me that he never said anything to either of them about that in canon but at least he treasures his niece)

I also gave Uta a lot of color, he was gonna be paler but I thought more color to his face would suit him. He also has a soft expression bc his eyes are closed.

Banjou sort of takes care of the more visual side of things when it comes to Hinami(he does her hair but who does her nails?!?), I love how they have a bond in canon but in this he’s mainly like a big brother and he is always concerned with the way she is presented to others because she’s their leader.

She practically becomes like a legend and spoken of like a myth by the CCG and has a SS(-) rating. They’ve never seen her in combat and only have her combat with Mado on her file record so they base it off that, and she never really has to step in because other people take care of things for her. However being the head of the group they gave her a high rating as well as factoring in her chimera type kagune she’s sure to deal a lot of damage to anyone who’d cross her path. A lot of the wierdo investigators dream of having parts of her like a trophy someday, hence the dialogue of an investigator wishing he could see her kagune up close and in action someday.

[kradogsrats]

Been noodling idly on something about Aaravos's tiddies chest marking for a while, and since @raayllum just did a big update/summary of the "Aaravos's heart is in the Key" theory... I thought it might be time to put my little thinky-thoughts out there.

In short form: Aaravos's Star primal chest marking is not a natural feature of Startouch elves. It's a brand.

In long form: My initial question was "why, if we have the primordial Star symbol associated with the Celestial elves and with Aaravos himself, would he then have the primal Star symbol front-and-center on his literal body?"

None of the other primal elves have birthmarks or tattoos of the primal sources. (That we've seen. Runaan's might be on his butt or something.) "Actually, all elves are physically marked with the symbol of the primal they are connected to" would also be a very weird lore drop to have this late in the series. So why do Startouch elves have them?

Well, the answer is... they don't. This is a feature unique to Aaravos, and it's an important feature.

For give my heinous artbook page photos, they want thirty-five literal dollars for a digital copy:

What do nearly all of these designs have in common? They don't have their dang tiddies out. We only see what would become the chest mark in the far right and teeny bottom second from the right designs on the second page. Note that in these designs, its nature as a hole or source of corruption is much more obvious—in the far right design, it's even spreading cracks or veins across his body in the same way that dark magic affects humans. (Thank god they didn't go with that single horn, though. The fanfics would have been obscene.) Either way, Aaravos's chest being constantly, readily visible wasn't a design factor until some point where it was determined that it needed to be, because of what would be there.

Furthermore, I'm convinced that Aaravos's design and the use of the Star primal symbol on his chest informed the design of the symbol itself:

Look how much basically none of the unused ones resemble the final design. The one they chose is a total outlier from the direction all the other designs take, but it's also the one that works really well as part of Aaravos. It's the only symmetrical design, and it's simple and solid where the others are busy in a way that would interact poorly with Aaravos's already star-studded skin. (I did a broader analysis of the primal source symbol designs a while back, if you want more.

So Aaravos and the Star primal symbol were designed in a symbiotic way, knowing that it would be a prominent feature for him. Let's take a look at it, then.

In every official appearance of the Star primal symbol, from Rayla's drawing of them to Claudia's spellbook, from the cover of Tales of Xadia to the Mystery of Aaravos titling... the Star primal symbol is in the opposite orientation from the one on Aaravos's chest.

Except in two specific instances: the book page with the Midnight Star poem, and the Key as held by the Orphan Queen in the flashback sequence:

Both of which are referencing Aaravos specifically, and in a specific way—as the one who gifted dark magic to Elarion, and as a deceiving manipulator.

But it's pretty clear that Aaravos's chest star is upside-down. Falling, you might even say. It has also always been that way: we see both in the s1e1 intro shot of the elves preparing to cast the humans out of Xadia and in the much more recent s4e3 flashback sequences that it has the same orientation even before he's imprisoned. It's also there (and I'm 90% sure in the same orientation) in the s6e1 photo leaks (spoilers).

This key element of Aaravos's design is a) not a natural feature, b) very specifically oriented, and c) has been with him as far back as we have thus far seen, to what we are generally assuming for the moment was his "fall."

So, in combination with the "something (literal heart or no) was removed from Aaravos when he "fell" and may be connected with the Key" theory: either in conjunction with or as part of that process, Aaravos was branded, on his body for all to see, with the mark of a fallen star. Then he absolutely owns it with his tits-out outfit, presumably out of sheer fabulous spite, and no one around him actually knows what it means—that he's a punished exile, a piece of himself or his power stolen and/or corrupted.

[pluralthey]

is there a good place to start if we want to learn about idletry? im very interested in the story and all the bits and pieces revealed so far but i dont know if youve like, stated the basics both about the characters-in-story and how you’re releasing the comic

hi there. unfortunately, idletry became a passion project very abruptly and many details were added very quickly without regard for how long the project would take. once i did realize how large the project was, i decided that i would not even kid myself on the idea of holding in spoilers for the next 5 years, and those two factors combined make the information available very chaotic and slapdash -- somewhat intentionally.

i don't even have the comics tagged separately for easier access among the idletry content -- although, i could go back and give them a separate tag.

i can summarize the story and say that it's about a funny little talking honey badger/tasmanian devil named jessie gaylord who has for the last 10 years of her life been on heavy psychiatric medication in an attempt to mitigate a pervasive delusion that the world is a fictional story. she also has a notorious aggressive streak. these medications work primarily by leaving her so tired that she sleeps most of the time.

the story begins when her medical team has run out of typical medications to try, and they must order an older, more aggressive type of drug which is not commonly used anymore, and has a lengthier process to manufacturing and approving the drug. during this time, she is not on any medication, and she becomes more urgently fixated on convincing people that the delusion is true.

she ends up attempting to contact the writer, who is referred to as God, and she receives a response. she immediately attempts to write the story herself, and she's granted the ability to do anything within the story so long as she can write it out. (the intricacies and limitations of this power have been elaborated upon in a bunch of fragmentary posts, so i won't try to condense it here)

at the end of the first act, she kills the first writer and becomes the new God of her world. the rest of the story is about what she does after acquiring omnipotence, and it heavily features a character named fate -- or shiloh, as jessie calls her -- with whom she enters an intimate relationship.

she has a happy loving family composed of a father named adam, a mother named evelyn, and an older sister named emily. there is a later minor subplot about a cult following who worships her after she becomes God, and this cult is initially organized by an ant called samanthuel -- or samwich, as jessie calls them. these are usually the other characters i mention and i am too lazy to link them right now

the comic itself is currently being written. the script stands at around 51,000 words at the time of writing this as i work on the second act. after it's written, i will let it simmer for a few months and then write a second draft to start to relieve the story of its bloat. depending on its length at that point, i will either need to write a third draft, or i will start drawing the comic.

chances are, during the second draft, i will start to thumbnail or sketch scenes which receive little to no editing, as i know they will likely remain relatively unchanged even through multiple drafts.

the sketch strips are to tide me and an eager audience over in the meantime, but they've sort of dried up as i focus all of my attention on finishing the first draft and taking care of a puppy that was kind of just forced onto me.

i've made a couple of full-length comics before and they have taken years. it is, unfortunately, just the nature of the process. for idletry, i plan to self-publish the comic. i've never published something in print before, so that is the most daunting part for me.

the plan at the moment is to crowdfund this, but, to be frank with you, i no longer pay rent, and i care very much about having this comic as a printed book. i have no issue with paying the cost of printing out of my own pocket by the time it's done and am even anticipating that outcome ahead of time, despite having a pretty reliable audience by now.

i'm on the fence about releasing a digital book version, as i very much want to retain digital color versions of the pages that are more vibrant, but due to the explicit adult content of the story, i don't want it to be free-access.

tl;dr: it's about a lesbian incel with anger issues who's given omnipotence.

i'm still working on the story because i want it to be good.

i'm planning on printing it as a physical comic book once it's done.

[howtofightwrite]

I'm not sure if you've covered this before, but could you help me understand draw weight of bows a bit better? The concept itself makes sense, but I'm having trouble understanding it in relation to a person's strength. Does a draw weight of 55lbs. mean you have to be capable of lifting that much weight, or is there a better way to interpret it? (I'm also curious: does that strength needed to use a bow come mostly from the back and arm muscles, or is it more complex than that?)

Basically? Yes. The draw weight is the amount of force you need to use to draw (the technically incorrect term would be, “pull”) the bowstring to full power. It's not exactly analogous to lifting an object, because you are trying to pull your arms apart, but that's more of a distinction for exactly which muscle groups are getting used.

It's been a long time since I handled a bow, but from what I remember, it's a bit harder to draw at a given weight than it is to pick up a similarly weighted object. A better analogy would probably be the amount of weight you can lift with one hand in a curling motion. Most of that strain should be in the bicep and shoulder, which is part of why the explanation of the English longbow technique doesn't make a lot of sense to me, the writers said it involved the use of the archer's back, and body weight, but without further detail, I'm not sure how that would work without risking serious back injuries.

As a general safety rule: Never lift with your back. Keep your back straight, and lift with your legs. Trying to lift with your back can cause serious, or life-altering, injuries.

Also, and this is a measurement quirk, but I've never seen draw weight expressed in kilograms. You could convert the values, of course, but I've always seen it expressed in pounds, and that's probably part of the standard at this point. In fact, I've seen paragraphs that express draw weight in pounds, and relate that to maximum range in meters.

When you draw the bow, you're doing that with your index and middle finger. So, when a modern bow caps out at around a 60lb draw weight, you're pulling all of that weight with two fingers (and some assistance from your thumb.) Obviously, that can be performed reliably by an experienced archer, but it is a more significant feat of strength than it may first appear.

Personally, I always used a partial glove when using a bow. This specifically included protection for my index, middle finger, and thumb when drawing. Even with that, I did get a couple minor scrapes on my bracing arm, from being an idiot.

Now, there is one interesting exception to all of this, and it's worth knowing when picking apart the terminology in a little more detail. Modern mechanical compound bows use a complex pulley system to dramatically reduce the archer's experienced draw weight. These will feel like they're drawing ~10lbs, but the bow's rated draw weight will be around 70lbs. In this sense, draw weight isn't how much you're pulling, it's how much force is being imparted when the arrow is released. However, outside of this specific example, and crossbows, this is mostly academic distinction, and very few people would take issue with you describing it as the amount of force you need to draw the weapon.

Since I mentioned them, crossbows tend to have radically higher draw weights than bows, modern hunting crossbows frequently range from 150-210lbs. (That's not the ceiling, it gets higher than that.) There's a couple critical factors about crossbows. First, holding a cocked crossbow doesn't require continuing to hold the draw weight with two fingers. The locking design of the bow itself will take care of that. Second, you can pull with both hands, and use as many fingers as you want. So long as the string ends up locked in place, it doesn't really matter how it got there. Third, there are crossbows with mechanical assists to help with drawing the bow. This why, when I see someone mention historical crossbows with a draw weight over 1,000lbs, I don't really find that unbelievable. There are a lot of different tools that can be used to help arm a crossbow, including levers and, ratcheting hand cranks that function as a kind of winch, pulling the string back until it's ready to fire. While these numbers may sound really impressive, crossbows tend to have far less range than bows. I'm not sure why, and crossbows really aren't my area of expertise, so I can't offer too much insight onto how valuable that extra draw weight is in a realistic situation.

But, as I said at the beginning, you seem to have a pretty good grasp of what's required. It's, “like,” lifting (with two fingers), and if you're an archer you can probably lift significantly more than your draw weight, in more conventional ways.

-Starke

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[kwillow]

I alluded to this fact in a previous question about Theo's preferences for companions: it really depends.

Read more because this got long... tl;dr: IT WOULD REQUIRE A LOT OF SQUEEZIN' AND THE JUICE WOULDN'T BE WORTH IT TO ANYONE IN-UNIVERSE WHO WOULD HAVE TO DEAL WITH HIM EVERY DAY.

Someone could exist who could, in theory, get along with him perfectly and be his ideal man/woman (which again, he doesn't even really know what that would be, so he wouldn't know it when he saw it), and they could start off on the wrong foot with him, set off a tantrum spiral and never recover his esteem for the rest of his life.

Even if someone who could be compatible with him was able to pick their way through the bear traps of his mind and get close to him, that doesn't necessarily mean anything would come of it. He can get infatuated easily, experience flickers of attraction - but he would much rather ignore those feelings than act on them in any way beyond just trying to be a good and loyal friend and benefactor.

And then, even if someone got close to him, and he was infatuated with them AND recognized those emotions for what they are (a big ask in and of itself), he STILL would not want to enter a romance because that would change the nature of the relationship, he doesn't know what to do in a relationship, and he wouldn't want to entrap someone in a relationship with him (Gods, the horror) or suffer the travails and indignities of romance because all his experiences tell him that eros is a corrupting force and always ends really, really badly.

So one could ask him to start a relationship, and the absolute best result would probably be a polite and firm decline with some blathering about the nobility of "unrequited courtly devotion," with the more typical result being a meltdown.

Effectively, one would have to stay close to him for actual years in close proximity without leaving for greener pastures than him (which one should) and maybe, maaaaaybe if the right mental dominos fall he could conceivably think of entering a relationship. Except in Amaranthine, he'd only want to do that with a childbearing woman because he feels he needs to have children to continue his withered, hollow excuse of a family tree. AND THAT WOULD START A WHOLE OTHER SAGA. ALL THAT ABOVE WAS JUST GETTING TO FIRST BASE, LET'S NOT EVEN GET INTO WHAT IT'D TAKE TO GET ALL THE WAY TO FOURTH. Anyone not able to produce more Norths would have a whole 'nother endurance test to slog through to work through his issues about debt to his family and legacy and all that nonsense. And would either path be worth it to someone? Performing years worth of informal therapy (not real therapy, he hates doctors!) on a messed-up guy just to get him to maybe agree to go out with you? Probably not!

To bring it back to the beginning, despite all I've written here, it all depends. I don't think I can write a rulebook or point-by-point guide for "how to get Theo to agree to date another imaginary person" because in the end, he is a fictional character and he is more beholden to what would be interesting for my partner and I to write and draw versus anything else. And it would depend on the setting, the characters involved, the circumstances that befall them, myriad little factors that could influence what feels natural for him to do. Maybe there could be an interesting story we come up with where he falls irrationally head-over-heels for someone and proposes the same day. He could also spurn all companionship and focus his attention on other pursuits.

So... if anyone is expecting any sweet blossoming love stories to come to fruition within Theo’s story in Amaranthine… the odds aren't good. I don’t have much interest in writing “romance” as a genre, only incredibly dysfunctional relationships as a vehicle to cause strife and comedy in fucked-up weirdos' lives.

[tanadrin]

[epistemic status: a bunch of semi-related thoughts I am trying to work out aloud] It has been noted countless times that reactionary politics rely on a feeling of threat: our enemies are strong and we are weak (but we are virtuous and they are not, which is why they’re our enemies!); we must defend ourselves, we must not be afraid of doing what needs to be done; we must not shie away from power generally, and violence specifically.

And there are lots of contexts--like when talking about the appeal of reactionary politics in the US before and at the beginning of Trump’s rise to prominence, or when talking about hard-on-crime policies that are a springboard to police militarization, or (the central example of all this in the 21st century) the post 9/11 PATRIOT-act terrorism paranoia that was a boon to authoritarians everywhere, and spurred a massive expansion of both control and surveillance in everyday life--where critics of reactionary rhetoric are chastised for their failure to appeal to the other side, because they come off as callous towards their concerns and their real fears and anxieties.

And while this might not be strategically correct, frankly, I think there’s a sense in which it is justified to be callous towards those concerns. Because those concerns are lies. They may be lies borne out of a seed of real experience (9/11 did happen, of course), but the way that seed is cultivated by focused paranoia, by contempt toward cultivating any sense of proportionality or any honest comparison of risk, the way it is dragooned into the service of completely orthogonal political goals (”the CIA/NSA/FBI must be able to monitor all private communications everywhere in the world, just in case it might prevent another 9/11″) chokes off any possible sympathy I might otherwise feel. American paranoia about another couple thousand lives being lost in a 9/11 like event resulted in a number of deaths literally multiple orders of magnitude larger in Iraq and Afghanistan. During the former, some years Iraq was suffering the equivalent of six or seven 9/11s a year.

So, any fear-driven policy must not (for example) say “to prevent disaster X happening again, we’re going to make it happen 270 times over to someone else.” That’s not reasonable. And “fear is a bad basis for crafting policy” is not exactly a revolutionary observation. There’s that probably-apocryphal story of a Chinese professor responding to Blackstone’s Ratio--you know, “better that ten guilty persons go free than one innocent person suffer”--with “better for whom?” Which is supposed to be this trenchant and penetrating question that makes you reexamine your assumptions. But it’s always struck me as idiotic. Better for society! For everyone! Because the law only functions well if it is seen as a source of order and justice, not as an authoritarian cudgel; because a society in which anxiety drives policymaking and legal responses to social ills is one that is in the process of actively devouring itself; because flooding the public discourse with language that dehumanizes criminals and makes it easy to separate the individual from universal principles like civil rights is an acid that destroys the social fabric.

Fear as a germ of reactionary politics manifests itself in lots of ways outside of both historical examples, like fascism, or more recent examples, like US foreign policy during the war on terror. Fear and its link to purity-attitudes, with a low level of scientific literacy in general, drives stuff like the organized anti-vaccine movement. In the Hertzsprung-Russel diagram of political tendencies, I’d argue it’s a big factor in the wellness-to-Qanon track. It’s a big part of tough-on-crime rhetoric, which in the American instance in particular also draws on an especially racialized form (cf. the “Willie Horton” ad). Fear and purity and anti-contamination anxieties are even big in opposition to nuclear power, because most of the public just has a really bad sense of what the comparative dangers of nuclear vs fossil fuel are; and because the former has been culturally salient since 1945 in a way the latter hasn’t, nuclear contamination feels much more threatening than fossil fuel waste, despite by any measurable harm the latter causing far worse problems, even before you factor in any risks from climate change.

I would like to argue in particular that true crime as an entertainment genre, and wellness culture, and fears about child abuse all contribute to reactionary politics--they are in themselves major reactionary political currents--in a way that cuts across the political spectrum because they are not strongly marked for political factionalism. A lot of the rhetoric both from and around true crime entertainment promotes the idea that violent crime exists, or at least can flourish, because of an insufficiently punitive attitude toward crime; one that can only be fixed by centering victims’ desire (or putative desire) for retribution in the legal process, by eroding the civil rights of the accused, and by giving the police and prosecutors more power. Obviously, this is just 80s and 90s tough on crime rhetoric repackaged for millennials; it centers individual experience a bit more and deemphasizes the racial component that made the “Willie Horton” ad so successful, but it posits that there is only one cause for crime, a spontaneous choice by criminals that has no causal relationship with the rest of the world, and only one solution, which is authoritarianism.

Wellness culture leverages purity concerns and scientific illiteracy in ways which are so grifty and so transparently stupid that it’s by far the least interesting thing on this list to me; its most direct harm is in giving an environment for the anti-vaccine movement to flourish, and I’m always incredibly annoyed when people talk about how the medical establishment needs to do more to reassure the public about vaccines’ safety and efficacy. Again, strategically, this may be correct; people dying of preventable disease is really bad. But doctors as a body didn’t promote Andrew Wakefield’s nonsense; doctors as a body didn’t run breathless article after breathless article about vaccines maybe causing autism; doctors as a body didn’t scare the bejezus out of folks in the 90s and then act all surprised when preventable childhood diseases started breaking out all over the place.

Although outside the whole anti-vax thing, I think there are lots of other harms that wellness culture creates. It tends to be fairly antiscientific; in order to sell people nonsense (because as a subculture it exists almost exclusively to sell people things) it has to discredit anything that might point out that it is selling nonsense. Whether the anti-intellectualism that flourishes in these quarters is a result of intentional deceit or just a kind of natural rhetorical evolution probably varies. But it is an important component of wellness culture to be able to play a shell game between “big pharma doesn’t have your best interests at heart,” “you don’t need your anti-depressants,” and “laetrile cures cancer.”

The way in which fears of child abuse are turned into a reactionary political cudgel probably actually annoys me the most; whether it’s Wayfair conspiracy theories, conservatives trying to turn “groomer” into an anti-queer slur, or just antis on tumblr, the portrayal of sadistic sexual threat aimed at children from an outside malevolent force is compelling only because the vast majority of child abuse and CSA comes from within families and within culturally privileged structures of authority like churches, and this fact makes everyone really uncomfortable, and no one wants to talk about it. I remember getting really annoyed during the Obama years when the White House wanted to talk about bullying and anti-LGBT bullying in particular, while studiously avoiding blaming parents and teachers in any way for it, despite the fact that all the coming out horror stories I know are from people’s parents turning on them.

Now, very conservative politics have always opposed dilution of a kind of privilege for the family structure; they envision a family structure which is patriarchal, and so dilution of this privilege is dilution of the status of patriarch. Very insular communities which cannot survive their members having many options or alternative viewpoints available to them, including controlling religions but also just abusive parents who want to retain control over their kids, also bristle at the idea of any kind of general society-wide capacity for people to notice how parents treat their children. But beyond that, I think our society still treats parents as having a right of possession over their children and their children’s identities, especially when they’re young, and bolsters that idea with an idea that the purity of children is constantly under threat from the outside world, and it is the parents’ job to safeguard that purity. The result is the nuclear family as a kind of sacred structure which the rest of society has no right to observe or pry open; and this is a massive engine of enabling the abuse of children. To no other relationship in our society do we apply this idea, that it should be free from “interference” (read: basic accountability) from the rest of society.

Moreover, the idea of childhood as a time of purity and innocence, which not only must be protected from but during which children must be actively lied to about major aspects of how the world works, is one of the last ways remaining to an increasingly secular culture to justify censorious and puritanical Victorian morality. It is hard to advocate for censorship to protect the Morals of the Christian Public, when nobody believes in the Morals of the Christian Public anymore; but “think of the children!” still works as a rallying cry, because of this nagging sense we have that age-appropriate conversations with children about adult topics will cause them to melt or explode.

In many ways, these anxieties on behalf of theoretical children are the ones I am most contemptuous of. Not because child abuse isn’t a serious problem--it is--but because the vector imagined for it is almost entirely opposite the one it actually tends to occur along. People who pretend that the primary danger to children is from strangers are usually woefully misinformed; people who pretend it is from media are either idiots or liars seeking a cover for their craving for censorship.

In conclusion: while it’s not possible to exorcise all our neuroses from our politics, anymore than we will ever exercise all our neuroses from our aesthetics, there are some we should be especially on guard against. A sense of threat, and anxieties which tie into concerns about purity and fears of contamination, are two big ones. These produce policies that are not only badly correlated with the outcomes they ostensibly want, but actually and severely destructive to them, in the same way that invading Iraq was actively destructive to any notion of preventing terrorism, saving American or Iraqi lives, or promoting political stability in the Middle East. And we should hold in healthy suspicion anybody whose politics seem to be driven by similar neuroses. Some merely believe very harmful things. Some are actually actively deceptive. None will achieve any of the higher aims they claim as justification for their beliefs.

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Hi there, your Europe without trade, a worldbuilding exercise was a fascinating and educational read, kudos for all the insights!

One section has left me with dual questions however, namely:

The other rule is that the Gulf Stream still exists, so you can have that unusual European climate which is a fluke. (This also ticked off people? But seriously, to get the gradient of Europe that far north, you need to Gulf of Mexico otherwise the latitude range would look more like the US than Europe, more south, and larger, much larger. And most people don't make a continent that large. Why people get ticked off at true facts is a whole thing.)

I am rather curious about how these factors interplay with one another, IE, how the Gulf of Mexico creates an unusual climate in Europe, what about the climate is unusual and most integrally, what would the climate look like without it?

Sorry if this is a Wikipedia question, weather science is not my forte and I've love to see your take specifically on it, but not pressure.

I learned this in geography class and covered this in my worldbuilding posts, so short cutted it.

See that red arrow going to Europe from Florida-ish. That's the gulf of Mexico Stream. Hot, wet air travels from Mexico to Europe, giving you climates like the Mediterranean, the rain that Brits complain about, but also things like the South of France, Spainish warm agriculture weather.

If you want to build it super racist and cut off all PoC influence, which some people were cursing me about mentioning the Gulf of Mexico and how dare I at the time I made the original post (which was years back)

Then as my Geography professor succinctly put it, you get Siberia. Siberia, has high continentality, is extremely cold in the winter and extremely hot in the summer. You'd be able to grow NOTHING. No Europe for you. Most of the Siberian people or this reason, without the world food supply were Pastoral Nomadic people who lived in chiefdoms and tribes and survived mostly on grasslands.

The majority of maps, including Tolkien's does not include a Gulf of Mexico structure, which means high continentality and miserable weather. You're looking at only Evenk-type of people in Europe year round with probably diminishing trees, and BTW, shamanism is most likely. (or Totemism, if you follow the whole worldbuilding series I did)

If you do want an Agricultural state without The Gulf, you're more looking at China or the United States in terms of latitude, but you'd have to study China closely. This means larger latitude range with a gradual shift towards Mediterranean. But also more extreme weather, such as more deserts, more swamps, etc. And absolutely, you'd need cooperation.

There's environmental politics about China too,but you'll have to research that on your own.

This, BTW, is why I say as the first thing you probably should do is draw a map, the entire world, map the currents, and then you can figure it out. But notice Europe is really far North and the South of Spain, which is typically Warm is about equal to Newfoundland in Canada which is really cold.

And that's what you're going to get if you melt those ice caps. The summer is going to get worse. The winter is going to get even more miserable. You'll get less warm hot rain for England, etc, but crop failure rate is going to skyrocket. Unfortunately, you need those polar ice caps back ASAP because if it desalinates too much, the Earth will do everything to try to rebalance itself. And do you want that?

Read the geography worldbuilding post I put up. I got up through government loosely.

To get monsoons, you do need high continentality, which is why India, China, etc gets monsoon weather. So if you want that weather feature, understand you need more land mass, but there is the trade off of some place being like Siberia.

BTW, it's climate, not weather. Only saying it because my geography prof would be on my case if I didn't differentiate. You're looking for climate differences which are dictated by latitude, physical features and currents. Another way to screw over Europe is to Destroy the land bridge on the tip of Mexico, thus changing all of the currents and flood it.

[windvexer]

windvexer's spellcrafting and spellcasting checklist

These are the sorts of things I think about when I work the style of magic that I work. This stuff is based off of my beliefs which might include UPG and is therefore definitely not applicable to everyone. Take what you want and discard the rest.

I do not rigidly follow this checklist. These are just the kinds of things I think about and consider when planning and executing spells. For small, simple spells, I ignore almost all of these factors. For serious and large spells I may consider many more of them.

Spellcrafting

Intent

Do I know exactly what I want to occur?

Have I thought through a few obvious logical consequences of my intended goal?

Have I performed divination on the outcome of this intent?

Am I sure that what I'm asking for is the same thing as what I want? (e.g. do I really want more people talk to me or is my true desire make more friends?)

Do I need to crystalize my intent into one specific phrase, or is it okay for me to leave it casual or even improvise?

Expectations

How soon is it rationally possible for my spell to manifest?

Do I expect the spell to manifest very rapidly? If so, what components or spellcasting style am I going to use to encourage rapid manifestation?

Do I expect the spell to work "just okay," or to be very powerful? If I want it to be very powerful, what extra steps am I going to take to fill the spell with power?

If the spell does exactly as my intent dictates, what is the most likely outcome?

Responsibilities

Am I bound to any gods or spirits that would frown upon what I want to undertake with this spell?

Have I taken any vows or oaths that would conflict with my goals?

Does casting this spell intent conflict with personal goals I've set for myself?

If casting for others, is this truly a situation I want to involve myself in?

If casting for myself, is this spell in my own best interest?

Is there any chance I am casting this spell to side-step self care, responsibilities, or personal healing? (I don't mean don't cast a self-love spell if you actually need therapy! Cast that spell every gosh darn day if you please. I literally mean, are you using magic as an avoidance tactic, when the reality is you really really just need to eat a sandwich and do your homework?)

Design

Have I chosen a style of spellcasting which matches my intent? (e.g., if I want to banish, have I chosen a spellcasting style that includes sending away actions such as burning a paper or throwing away a rock?)

Can I be creative with what I have to avoid delaying this spell? (e.g. I usually use candles as a beacon to draw things in, but when I think about it, a candle burning down would also be a good sending away action for a banishment).

If I have already heavily cast in the past, do I have any ongoing spells (such as wards) which would interfere with the work I want to do now?

Do I want to include a physical indicator that the spell manifested or stopped working? (Such as tying a thread around your wrist that breaks when the spell stops working)

Physical Components

What physical object will be used to anchor this spell? I believe that manifesting in physical reality is much easier if you tie magic to a physical object.

Do I know how the physical objects I'm using are linked to the design of the spell? (e.g., I want to banish, so I choose to use a candle for a dwindling away effect.)

Do I have a safe and practical plan for storing or disposing leftover physical objects from the spellcasting?

How can I make storage or disposal of leftover objects a part of the spell? (e.g. I take the leftover melted wax from the banishment candle and walk to the dumpster down the street, completing the spell as I throw away the last bits of their presence in my life in the garbage).

Am I intending to invoke gods, spirits, or entities in this spell? If so, do I need physical components to represent them within the casting space, or within the spell itself?

If I am intending to invoke gods, spirits, or entities in this spell, and I need physical components to represent them, is it a good idea to save and re-use these components? Do I need to make disposable representations, or can I use permanent devotional objects?

What physical components have I gathered which are unnecessary?

Does each component that I've chosen have a specific job in this spell?

Does each component and their jobs fully align with my chosen intent and spell style?

If not every component and their jobs align with my intent or method of casting, do I need to re-examine my intent and rework the foundations of this spell?

Do I need to modify or prepare any physical components? If so, do I need to do any of this ahead of time?

Energy and Power

How much power do I believe it will take to successfully perform this spell? If the energy requirement is large, do I need to break this operation up into smaller parts and cast multiple small spells?

Will it be necessary for me to craft a physical spell vessel ahead of time so I can slowly charge it until it has enough power?

How do I intend to power this spell? (for me, I power it with my own energy, or call on external forces)

If I will use my own energy, do I have enough personal power reserves to successfully cast this spell? Or, will it burn me out, even on a day when I'm well-rested?

If I will use an external energy, how do I plan to raise or call this energy into my casting space?

How do I plan to combine power with my spell components? (sometimes this is inherent in spell style; if doing knot magic, the power is held within the knots. At other times, it must be thought through - if I draw a symbol on a rock, maybe my power will be consumed by the spell at the singular point where I draw the symbol on the rock. Or, maybe I'd like to charge the symbol ahead of time.)

If I'm using many physical components, do I need to individually charge each one?

Do my chosen energy sources align with my spell needs? (e.g. if I require very rapid manifestation, have I ensured that I am using airy, fiery, mercurial, swift, or rapid energies? Or, have I accidentally used lots of heavy, slow, earthen, saturnine, creeping energies?)

Spirits, Gods, and Entities

If asking spirits, gods, or entities for help, how is my relationship with that power? Do I need to visit them ahead of time and make sure we're on good terms before I call on them?

If asking spirits, gods, or entities for help, do I need to plan a formal invitation or petition?

If asking spirits, gods, or entities for help, do I need to repay them? If so, what do I need to collect or prepare for this purpose?

Aftermath and Upkeep

Is this a one-shot or continuous spell? Will I be maintaining and watching over the spell after it is cast, or will I let it go do its thing?

If it's an ongoing spell that will require upkeep, have I chosen a physical vessel that's practical to be worked with over a long period of time?

Will I need to make notes about this spell so I can remember what the vessel is in a few weeks or months?

How often will I need to recharge or maintain this spell?

If something went wrong, how would I undo this spell?

Spellcasting

Preparation

Have I gathered everything I need into one place?

If I forget something, is it okay for me to walk away from the spell to go get it, or is it really important I don't leave casting space until the spell is complete?

Is there anything special I need to do to prepare my casting space?

Do I need to take notes or write anything down so I don't forget it once the spell starts?

If I'm going to do a fancy ritual, do I need to write or print the ritual steps ahead of time?

If I've chosen to perform my spell at a special time, how much earlier do I need to prepare my casting space so that I can begin working within the correct time?

Pre-Casting Self Check

Do I feel safe and comfortable casting this spell?

Do I have enough personal energy to cast a spell right now? (even when conjuring external energies, you always use some of your own energy to cast spells)

If there is a risk that I will be drained, do I have anything important to do today or tomorrow that would be bad to miss or under-perform on?

Do I have enough free time today to have extra rest after spellcasting?

Do I have enough extra food to help restore me after spellcasting? (especially carbs, by the way)

Are there any tasks or activities I should do before I cast this spell, in case it is more draining than I expected?

Will I have enough energy to clean up my spellcasting space once I'm done? This includes properly disposing of or storing any spellcasting remnants or vessels.

Do I want to pray and ask for aid before I begin the spellcasting process?

Do I have any last-minute gut feelings about casting this spell? Is there a negative or worrying emotion that has been with me through this entire process that I've tried to ignore?

Do I want to exert my will upon the world?

After Care

How do I feel? (Including the physical, emotional, and mental)

Did I properly pay any spirits, gods, or entities involved in my spellwork?

Did I properly close down the spellcasting space (if applicable)?

If the working took place in my resting area, does my resting area feel comfortable? Is there anything I need to do, such as opening the window or playing music, to help my space return to normal?

Do I need a snack?

Do I need to perform a restful, low-energy activity for a little while?

Would it feel nice if I went and talked to people, or would I prefer to be alone?

Did I have any special insights during spellcasting that I want to write down before I forget?

Reflection

Did the spell go how I imagined it would?

Was I able to feel power being raised?

Did I end up feeling drained or buzzed after spellcasting? (note that you're not always bound to feel either, but it's worth noting as they're decent indicators that "something happened")

Did I ever feel a moment where I was still working over my physical components, but realized that they felt complete and the magic was ready?

If I called on spirits, gods, or entities, did I feel their presence? Did it seem like they had thoughts or feelings about the spell?

If I cast a spell like this again, what would I change? What would I keep the same?

Did I feel good about my disposal or storage methods for physical components?

Do I want to perform divination on how the spellcasting went?

Did I over or under-estimate how much energy the spell would require?

Did I like the style of spellcasting? Do I want to explore more spells of this style, or try a different type?

[stuckinapril]

I keep thinking about how I met this person thinking they were a good unselfish person only to discover the complete opposite and just feeling disappointed in not being able to see that before… it’s just wild for my brain

I don’t know if that’s necessarily a healthy way to frame it. Not saying you’re wrong in your assessment—I have no context of what you’re actually referring to—but generally speaking I think we fall into the trap of dehumanizing people to a fault when we’re hurt. I feel like it’s less that people are those one-dimensional, inherently awful, irredeemable caricatures and more that maybe two people crossed paths at a time they weren’t ready to cross paths yet. Maybe you were confident and assertive and unwilling to dim yourself, and that brought out their insecurities and forced them to confront questions about themselves they weren’t ready to answer yet. Maybe they didn’t have the best emotional regulation to begin with and couldn’t factor your own emotions into the equation. Maybe they had a rough situation at home. This isn’t an excuse for anyone’s shitty behavior, but it’s an exercise in empathy that’s required in any kind of relationship.

It does suck to find out someone isn’t who you thought they were. I’ve been there so many times. But if they really were this horrendous character, then they’re just become another lesson for you to refer to whenever you’re vetting people. They’re another data point to draw on whenever you’re deciding whether you’ll invest in someone or not. And the more people you experience, the more you’ll realize that people tell you who they are in little ways all the fucking time. I’ve historically given people more grace than I likely should’ve, but even then no one was so good at masking that I wasn’t on to them in some capacity. It’s at that point that you kind of have to ask “do I want to keep going w this, or am I at a place where I want someone who’s a little more able to meet me where I am?” and sometimes it’s good to drop it and sometimes it’s good to pursue it and see where it goes. People are so unique and individual that there’s no one size fits all for this kind of thing. That’s something for you to gauge.

If ultimately you do have a horrible experience w someone, I don’t think holding on to the anger is healthy. Some people do feed off of that and get off of it and validate themselves w it, but I think that’s a juvenile mindset that needs to be left back in middle school. For me I just go through that person’s rationale for doing what they did, however imperfect that rationale is, accept that it happened, and then just move on w my life. You can call that a form of forgiveness, but I see it less as forgiving someone and more as making peace w them (and w the situation itself) for my own benefit. It doesn’t have to involve actually speaking to the other person. It doesn’t have to involve confronting them or seeking them out for closure. It could just be you, by yourself, coming to terms w what happened, drawing your own private conclusions. It really is so powerful to realize you could give yourself closure, without being at the mercy of someone who may or may not grant it to you.

That to me has always been superior to burning energy holding on to petty grudges that don’t go anywhere. You want to always navigate things like this w your limited time on this earth in mind & where you wanna put it—and moving on faster gives you the ability to try again w the next person, rather than drive yourself crazy agonizing over someone who’s no longer in your life. Choosing to dwell in negativity harms no one but you in the end. Respect your time, make peace w what happened, and let it go.