#I want to break into their world and experience it too

[tesria]

I mean, in d&d a GM does have to do a lot of coordination within the game, managing environments, monsters and NPCs. And they should know the rules well enough to help players out, especially new ones, within the context of the game they're running.

However. In one of my groups, the players took on some of that burden. We had one player help in combat by keeping track of which monsters had been injured or bloodied, so the DM didn't have to keep answering those questions if other players weren't sure. We had someone else who was very familiar with the game as the official "rules lawyer," who could answer questions and speak up if a rule was forgotten (though of course the DM can overrule, and keeping track of house rules was also part of that player's job).

In all my games I take notes so detailed the GM can come to me to check something. They help me out by pausing sometimes in gameplay to let me keep up, but everyone values the notes and no one minds.

In one game group I'm in, I'm actually a functional assistant to the GM. I manage the game scheduling, help new players with character sheets and rule clarifications, and help with the roll20 interface when a player who's unfamiliar with it struggles, leaving the GM free to keep going with the game or setting up an encounter rather than everything grinding to a halt.

Everything like this that I do, I asked the GM if it would help, and they jumped at the chance. The group where we all pitch in with different jobs was all of us seeing an exhausted GM and asking him collectively what we could do to help.

Ask your GMs how you can help, what mental load you can take off their plate, etc.

And do your part to be considerate of other players' experiences, as well as the GM's, don't put all the difficult conversations - or personal sacrifice to please others - on your GMs. Share the responsibility of making sure everyone wants the same kind of game when you all start out, too. If you want to just be chaos demons and murder hobos, that's totally valid, but discuss it first and don't just inflict it on a GM who painstakingly created a world and complex campaign from scratch unless they're equally eager to just let chaos reign - make an effort to be invested in the work they're doing. Equally, don't demand twitch-streaming-level quality campaign writing and props from a GM who just wants to loosely run a pre-written campaign to enable the players' improv antics.

The idea of mixing it up sometimes so a GM can play if they want to, through a GM-less game or someone else taking a turn GMing, is also good. One of my groups sometimes takes breaks from the main campaign for someone else to run a one-shot or mini-campaign every few months. Sometimes we play d&d those times, sometimes not.

Anyway. Look after your GMs. It can be hard work. Be considerate.

D&D 5e supposedly has a GM shortage and idk maybe if the player culture of the game didn't treat GMing as a thankless job and the rules of the game as an issue to be fixed by the GM maybe things would be better. Ah well, who knows. Maybe a couple hundred more "we ruined the GM's campaign on purpose" memes will make people enjoy running the game better.

[imsofreakingtired]

idk if this might be off the table but can you write about sevika finding reader on the bridge about to jump off of it but she gets there just in time

Feel free to ignore if you don’t like it !

thank you for the request anon </3

disclaimer: this piece is not meant to trivialize, romanticize, or dramatize mental illness. i write these to cope and draw the content matter from my own experiences. if you are personally going through something like this, please please reach out and seek help!! tumblr is not a viable replacement for therapy!! and as always if this content is triggering or upsetting for you, pls scroll away and take care of yourself 💙💙

don't let me go

content warning(s): heavy angst, depictions of depression and self-destructive ideation (hurt/COMFORT this time tho trust 🙏)

"this world is a wasteland where nothing can grow if it weren't for you, i'd be here all alone i know in my heart this is where we belong this world is a wasteland... don't let me go."

~~~

*context: reader and sevika have been friends since childhood and now both work under silco.*

~~~

“Sevika,” you say. 

She grunts. 

“What’s your dream?” 

“My dream?” 

“What do you want. I mean really want.” 

Sevika rolls a broken bottle under her boot before pulling back her foot and kicking it into the river. It takes off with a sharp clinking sound, the music of breaking glass, before sailing through the air and plunging into the river water.

“Kill my old man,” she says.

“Okay, second to that.” 

She looks at you. “What d’you mean?” 

You stare back. She is only eighteen but looks older than her years, already tired of the world and its cruelties. She has grown too quickly for her young mind. Her body is hardened to the undercity. You love her with a hopelessness deeper than the black river dividing Zaun and Piltover. 

You ask again, “what do you want?”

She flashes you a rare crooked smile. “To live with you up there.” Pointing in the direction of Piltover. 

“In Topside?”

“No. In the sky.” 

There’s a pause. Then you say to her, “you’re so stupid.” 

“What do you want?” She returns. 

“Me?” I want you. The unspoken words tumble to the tip of your tongue, and you swallow them again. 

“I want a fucking break,” you say instead.

“Hunh.” She kicks another bottle. “We’ll get it. When Zaun is free, we’ll get it.” 

It isn’t quite what you mean, but you don’t try to explain yourself. You don’t tell her that she is the only reason you’re here, even when it sometimes feels like your will to live is clinging on by the fingernails. You don’t tell her that the sound of her voice anchors you when you start spiralling, guilt-ridden and full of self-hatred. You don’t tell her that the greatest fight in your life is not against the enforcers but with yourself. You don’t tell her that you fight every day because of her. 

Because you know she doesn’t fight for you. She fights for Zaun. 

~~~

Sevika watches you closely, though you never realize it. You have been acting strange nowadays, working for days on end without sleep or not coming into work at all. Silco has said nothing about it, because you’re one of his most prized henchwomen, but Sevika can sense something is off. You barely speak two words together unless it’s necessary, and when you do it sounds like your mind is far away. You look tired all the time and sometimes you disappear altogether, returning an hour later as if nothing had happened. And only Sevika notices the bloody cuticles, the swelling around your eyelids. 

One day she corners you in the passageway outside Silco’s office. 

“Are you sick?” she demands. It comes out more brusquely than she intends. She is mortified at her own concern for you. She doesn’t want you to see how much she worries for you, the effect you have on her. 

You look up at her in alarm. “No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. 

“Then why…” she searches for the right words, struggling not to betray herself. “Don’t lie to me,” she says at last. “Something’s wrong.” 

You can see right through her tough façade. You can see the concern in her frowning eyes. And all of a sudden you’re filled with deadly hope and an overwhelming desire to let go. Break down. Tell her everything.

But then you remember that most likely, she’s only concerned with the impact this may have on your usefulness to Silco—to Zaun. You’re terrified she might discover your condition and tell Silco to fire you, that you might be holding them back, that your emotional instability might make your jobs sloppy. 

So you do what you do best. You swallow your words. 

“I’m fine,” you say. “I’m sorry.” 

Her frown deepens. “I said don’t lie.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, either.” 

“I have work to do, Sevika.” You try to move past her but she reaches out and stops you with her mechanical arm. 

“You used to tell me everything,” Sevika says. Was that a trace of sadness in her tone? Was it your imagination, or was there a softer look in her eyes? 

“There’s nothing to tell,” you say, and each word feels like a dagger in your own heart. “I swear.” 

You duck under her arm and walk swiftly away from her. 

~~~

It is a clear night and you and Sevika are on the rooftop of the Last Drop, sharing a bottle of wine. You can hear Vander and Silco arguing inside the bar, most likely on the topic of politics. They are already dreaming big, thinking past the long fight to overcome, visualizing a brilliant and abstract future. 

You do not see a future. On bad days you see nothing. 

On the good days…

Sevika takes a drink from the bottle and slings an arm around your shoulder. She can be casually affectionate when she’s in the mood, and you cherish these moments. You lean your head on her shoulder. Her skin is warm under her shirt. 

“What would you do if I died?” you ask her. 

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. But you feel her grip on you tighten. 

“If I lost you,” she says finally, “how do you think I’ll go on?”

~~~

When Sevika finds your note, the first thing she thinks of is that conversation on the roof, years ago. She has not forgotten a single thing you ever told her, and the recollection fills her with a terror she’s never known before. 

The slip of paper in her hand reads, you don’t need me anymore. Thank you. For all the moments you gave me before. 

Sevika doesn’t even stop to put on her cloak. She just turns around and runs. 

She’s too late. She’s too late. She’s too late. 

She tears down the street, pushing people carelessly out of the way. As she runs she activates the Shimmer cartridge in her mechanical arm. A hot rush, the familiar jolt, the searing pink in her vision. She runs faster, faster until the buildings are a blur around her, until the sweat flicks off her face. 

Between gasping breaths, like a mantra to you, she whispers, “Please. Please. Please.” 

~~~

It is too late to cry, it is too late to turn back, it is too late to think. Your chest is tight with all you remember. The waters churn under you. 

The only person in the world you have hung on for is Sevika. You tell yourself she will move on quickly. You tell yourself that your death would not make much of a difference to her. What was one person lost in the grand cause? Silco would be able to find a replacement in no time, and the great machinery of Zaun will continue to turn its weary gears. 

Sevika is now a part of that machine. Sevika will not miss you. 

You close your eyes and let your body fall forward. 

Someone screams your name, a raw desperate sound that doesn’t even sound human. 

A flash of rippling pink, a burning sensation around your waist, and then suddenly you’re on the ground. Someone’s arms are wrapped around you, someone’s voice is in your ear, and someone’s hot tears are falling into your hair. 

Sevika. 

Your eyes are shut because you’re afraid you’re already gone. You’re afraid if you open your eyes your senses will catch up with you, and Sevika will be replaced by the cold embrace of water, Sevika’s voice will become the rushing waves over your head. 

But she’s holding you still. She’s holding you so tight you can hardly breathe. She’s saying, over and over, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” 

And you can feel her heart pounding wildly against your ear, which is the only indication of how scared she actually is. 

You free your arms and wrap them around her neck. You let yourself break down. You cry until your chest feels like it’s tearing apart. She’s still holding you, her mech arm pressed into your back like a brace, and you cling to her tighter. 

“Don’t let me go,” you beg. “Oh god, don’t let me go.” 

“I won’t,” she says roughly, her voice shaking. “I never will.”

~~~

note: dear readers, i am sorry. 🥲

[ghost-proofbaby]

thinking about Eddie being so eager to kiss you all the time and he just gets a little too excited sometimes a little too rough and you bump into something and he cradles you while you giggle cause he can't stop smiling into his kisses

And sure maybe it's a little awkward and teeth knock against each other and he catches your lip in his teeth a little too hard but it's okay cause you're deliriously happy

And it's not about getting to the sex (not all the time anyways) but he's just so happy to have found a safe place to land and he's enthusiastic that he found someone who wants to kiss him just as much as he wants to kiss you

And this time he's not too much and his feelings aren't too big and he doesn't need to tone it down cause you're his person and he's yours

Okay bye ily

mouse. mouse get the fuck back here. MOUSE DONT LEAVE ME LIKE THIS

he's just so happy to have a safe place to land and this time he's not too much and his feelings aren't too big were daggers straight to my heart you come back here right now before i actually bleed out from needing this man so badly.

no but thats exactly it. eddie has spent so long jumping and toeing that line of either trying to cram himself into this bite-sized shape for the ones around him, and just exploding and pretending he doesn't give a fuck that he will never fit into anyone's cup of tea so he'll just make himself even larger, that when you enter his life he just doesnt know what to do about it.

because he starts with his regular tricks of being so over the top, so unbearable, and all you're doing is laughing and entertaining his antics. even playing along at times. and so he retracts a little, turning back into a quiet boy who will shrivel up until he's invisible or easy to love (whichever comes first). but then that doesn't work - and to be truthful, he doesn't even know what his mind's end goal is here because why is he trying to push you away so desperately? - and he's just at a loss. you want him on the thundering days, where he makes his grey clouds everyone's problem and all his lightning is blinding and sporadic. you want him on the quiet days, where the downpour is no longer a roar but a soft drizzle, a bit more silent and a bit more bearable but still there. and he can't tell if it's a joke - he can't decipher if your kisses amidst his rambles are sincere, if you're actually smiling at his jokes because you like him or you're too polite to break his heart. he can't see through those gentle hands you use to caress back his wild hair to be sure that the softest of touches are really just you, or some strange gloves of care that you're only simply wearing for now.

and then one morning, he wakes up, and you're still there, awake before he is and just watching him with so much love. feather-light fingers taking their time tracing over his tattoo on his chest and arms, not noticing he's awake yet as you smile so serenely at him. you're looking at him in a way that he's never really gotten to experience so vulnerably before - like he isn't a nuisance, isn't a mistake. like the universe has so intentionally dropped him into your palms, and you're so aware of how delicate he can be below the surface. and he just breaks.

"i love you"

he'd blurt it out, the first time he's ever said those words to you. it almost feels like the first time he's said those words, period.

he's said them to wayne, in their own way, both a bit stiff in expressing affection and skirting around those words whenever they can for a simply ruffle of hair or unexpected side hugs. he'd said them to his mom, a young boy with shining eyes despite it all, looking at her like she was the world because she was his world.

and... well. that's it. he can count the number of times he's said those words on one hand, and now he's said them to you, and all he can hope is you handle them with as much care as you've handled him.

he hopes you can feel the weight of his heart pressing down on them.

and he thinks you do, when you startle a little, looking up to his lips where those rough words had just fallen from in a cracking tone, and you take your time in awarding him with a smile that could save lives. cure cancer, cure sadness, cure the end of the world even. every cliche possible.

"yeah?" you'd whisper back, and his heart skips a beat, terrified that the next words you say won't be what he needs to hear so desperately. but they are. because of course they are. you wouldn't have been watching him sleep in that way if they hadn't been on the tip of your tongue, "i love you."

not a crash landing, but a soft-padded decent. a slow fall with a cushion to prevent broken bones and more invisible scars.

he kisses you then the way he was going to kiss you every day going forward: pushing forward recklessly, teeth and noses bumping a little, smiles making it nearly impossible. he kisses you like he's coming home after a long day, because he is.

he's home. no boxes in sight to fit into, no cups that'll overflow from all the fizzling feelings pouring out of his chest. you've got him, and he's got you.

[magic-shop-stories]

Hi! I read your J-Hope fanfiction and absolutely loved it, and it got me thinking about Yoongi having a kid. Could you imagine a scene where Yoongi’s teenage child accidentally breaks something really important to him—maybe in his studio? It could be something like an award maybe? Yoongi isn’t mad, but his kid feels so guilty they run off to their mom’s grave and when Yoongi finds them, it’s this emotional moment where he reassures them that they’re more important than any material thing. Maybe they’ve been secretly working on music in his studio, and he already knows about it and loves it?

I hope that’s not too specific! You can ignore this if it’s too much—I’ve never requested something before, but your writing is so good, and I thought this could be really touching. Thank you! 💜

Also if you want to add Namjoon breaking something for comedic relief, I wouldn’t complain. 😂

💌 Reply:

WoooooooW, like fr... WOW! First of all, THANK YOU for reading my J-Hope fic and loving it—your kind words mean the world to me! 🥺 And oh my heart, this Yoongi dad scenario has me in pieces 🥹✨

The idea of Yoongi’s kid accidentally breaking something precious, only for him to remind them they’re his everything? I’m already emotional. And the secret music-making?? STOP, I’m soft. 💔

I’ll absolutely write this for you—expect lots of soft Yoongi dad moments, a sprinkle of angst, and a whole lot of healing. 💜

REQUEST NAME:

Broken Things That Matter

↳ Yoongi x Teen!Reader (Parent/Child); Angst with Comfort, Fluff

Rating: G/M!

Word Count: ~2,5k

Genre: BTS AU, Parent, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Feelings, Found Family, Emotional Whump

Warnings: Strong language, grief mention (loss of a parent), emotional distress, self-doubt, self-destructive thoughts, strained parent-child relationship.

Pairings: None (Parent-Child Relationship)

Featuring: Single Dad Yoongi, emotionally guarded child, music as an unspoken connection, tension and unsaid words, slow emotional healing, and a synthesizer full of memories.

The Relic

The Moog ONE 16 wasn’t just a synthesizer—it was a relic, a 16.5 million won relic. Yoongi had hunted it down in Tokyo, its walnut veneer gleaming under the fluorescent lights of a vintage gear shop, its analogue guts humming with the ghosts of every artist who’d ever coaxed sound from its keys. He’d joked to Namjoon afterwards that buying it felt like adopting a feral cat: expensive, temperamental, and his. Now it sat in the corner of his studio like a shrine, its LED matrix flickering faintly even when powered off as if dreaming.

You had been orbiting it for weeks.

You’d linger by the door after school, backpack slung over one shoulder, pretending to text while eyeing the Moog’s labyrinth of knobs and sliders. Sometimes, when Yoongi left the room, you’d dart in to trace a finger along its wooden edges, imagining the low growl of its bass oscillators—a sound you’d only hear in your dad’s old Agust D tracks. What if I tweaked this? You’d think, hovering over the filter cutoff. What if I ruined it?

Today, though, recklessness overruled fear.

Yoongi was asleep upstairs, dead to the world after three all-nighters in a row. The studio was yours. You tiptoed in, Matcha latte in hand, and booted up the synth. It whirred to life with a purr, its touchscreen glowing azure. You’d watched a dozen tutorials and memorized every patch Yoongi had ever saved. Just one experiment, you told yourself, plugging in the headphones.

But the latte was too full. Your hands were still shaky from skipping breakfast, from the adrenaline of sneaking in. The cup tilted—

Glug.

A tidal wave of green cascaded across the Moog’s ivory keys, pooling in the pitch-bend wheel.

“Shit—!”

You lunged for a towel, knocking over a stack of lyric notebooks. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you scrubbed, but the damage was visceral. Matcha seeped into the seams, the synth’s screen flickering erratically. Dead. It’s dead. I killed it.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs.

Yoongi appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts, an old Daechwita hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He blinked at the scene—You frozen mid-scrub, towels strewn like crime scene evidence, the Moog’s screen sputtering static.

“…Is that,” he said slowly, voice graveled with exhaustion, “my Moog?”

Your throat closed. You had seen that look before—the tightness around his eyes, the vein pulsing faintly at his temple. The same look he’d worn when you totalled his car at 14, a failed attempt to “borrow” it for a midnight skate session.

“I’ll fix it,” you babbled, backing away as if distance could undo the sin. “I’ll—I’ll sell my bike, my drum kit, anything—I’ll work at HYBE’s cafeteria, I’ll—”

Yoongi said nothing. He crossed the room with the grim focus of a bomb defuser, crouching to unplug cables from the synth’s mangled ports. His hands were steady, but you catalogued every micro-expression: the twitch in his jaw when a droplet of Matcha oozed onto his sleeve, the way his nostrils flared slightly.

“It’s insured,” he finally muttered, dabbing at the keys with a microfiber cloth. “Breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The air was thick with the scent of dread and jasmine Matcha. You gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, waiting for the explosion. For the “How could you?” or “You never think!” that had punctuated your teenage rebellions.

Instead, Yoongi stood, tossing the soiled cloth into the trash. “Go upstairs. I’ll handle this.”

“But—”

“Go.”

It wasn’t anger in his voice. It was worse—resignation.

You fled.

Upstairs, you collapsed onto your bed, replaying the scene on a loop. Stupid. Reckless. Just like Mom said.

Your mother’s voice surfaced unbidden, frail but teasing, from a memory six years buried: “Yu-yah, you’ve got your dad’s stubbornness and my clumsiness. Poor thing.” She’d been bedridden then, her IV stand draped with your finger-painted get-well cards. “Promise me you’ll take care of him when I’m gone. He’ll forget to eat… or accidentally adopt another synth.”

You pressed your face into a cushion. The Moog’s death felt symbolic. Another thing you had destroyed. Another piece of him chipped away.

Downstairs, Yoongi stared at the synth.

He’d lied about the insurance.

The Moog was an expensive modified beast—its quirks irreplaceable. The track he’d been working on, a collaboration with an indie artist from Busan, relied on its specific grain. Now it was gone...

He sank into his chair, head in hand. For a heartbeat, he let himself ache—for the lost music, for the exhaustion, for the child who looked at him like he was a landmine. Then he pulled out his phone.

To: Manager Kim

Need a repair genius. Moog ONE 16 water damage. Don’t tell anyone...

The reply was instant:

Suzanne Ciani’s protégé? She’s in town.

Yoongi exhaled. Fixable. Everything was fixable.

Except, maybe, the fracture he’d heard in your voice when he’d told you to leave.

---

The Shattered Trophy

The studio had become a burial ground for mistakes.

A few days after the Moog disaster, the air still reeked of regret—and now, faintly, of burnt matcha. Cables snaked across the floor like vipers, tangling around chair legs and pedalboards. Yoongi’s Golden Disc Award, its golden figure mid-strum unfurled, perched precariously on a floating shelf cluttered with thumb drives and empty coffee cups. It was the 2023 Digital Song Bonsang for “That That”—a collaboration with Psy that had dominated charts the same week your mother took her last breath.

You hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even looked at it since the funeral.

But today, your mind was a storm.

ADHD buzzed under your skin like static, limbs restless from days of walking on eggshells. You’d come to apologize again, to beg for chores—anything—to atone. But Yoongi was hunched over his monitors, headphones on, lost in a mix. His silence was a wall.

Maybe if I just… straighten up.

You tiptoed around the room, gathering discarded coffee cups and coiling cables. Each movement was careful and deliberate. But focus was a slippery thing—a notification buzzed in your pocket:

Jae BFF: Skatepark later? ,

and your foot caught on an XLR cord.

Time warped.

Your elbow slammed into the shelf. The trophy wobbled, tipped, and—

Crash.

The sound was cathedral-loud. The golden figure shattered on impact, its head shearing clean off, rolling beneath the desk with a hollow clink. Your breath stopped.

Flashback: Your mother’s hands, skeletal and IV-punctured, cradling the trophy. Her voice, a threadbare whisper: “Our grumpy rockstar… did it again.” Three days later, she was gone. The award had sat untouched since, a relic of her last coherent joy.

Yoongi froze. The click of his mouse stopped mid-edit.

“…?”

You dropped to your knees, scrambling for the pieces. “I’m sorry— I’ll glue it, I’ll— I’ll find a jeweler, I’ll—”

“Don’t touch it.”

His voice was arctic. You recoiled as if slapped.

Yoongi stood slowly, chair screeching. His face was a mask, but his hands betrayed him—fingers trembling at his sides, knuckles blanched. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anything his gaze fixed on some middle distance where grief and fury collided.

“Out,” he said, voice splintering. “Now.”

“Dad, please—”

“NOW.”

The word was a detonation.

You fled.

---

The Runaway

The streets of Seoul swallowed you whole.

You ran blindly, sneakers slapping against rain-slick pavement, the city’s neon glow warping into streaks of acid green and electric blue. Paparazzi lurked at every familiar corner—Always watching, always hungry—so you veered into alleyways, vaulting over trash bags and dodging delivery bikes. Hobi’s apartment was too close; Taehyung’s studio was too bright. The Han River bridges loomed in your mind, but the thought of standing on those guardrails, of icy water below, made your stomach lurch.

No. Not there.

Your feet carried you somewhere older, quieter. The subway ride passed in a haze—stares from passengers, a teen’s muffled “Isn’t that Suga’s kid?” - ignored. Seonyeong Cemetery emerged at dusk, its iron gates weathered and moss-clung. You slipped through a gap in the fence, your mother’s grave a compass point in the dark.

The dogwood tree had grown gnarled in six years, its branches clawing at the sky. The headstone beneath it was small, unadorned but for her name—Min Ji-eun—and the dates that bookended her warmth. You collapsed onto the damp earth, grass staining your ripped jeans, and pressed your forehead to the cold stone.

“Eomma,” you choked, the word crumbling like ash. “I’m… I’m breaking everything.”

Rain began to fall—thin, needling drops. Your hoodie soaked through, clinging to your skin, but you barely felt it. Your mind looped like a corrupted track: Moog. Trophy. Mom. Moog. Trophy. Mom.

Flashback: Age 9, hospital room.

Your mother’s hand, feather-light. “Yu-yah… promise me you’ll take care of him. He’ll forget… forget to laugh.”

You had nodded, not understanding. Now, you understood too well.

A sob ripped free. “I’m failing you. I’m— I’m just like him—all broken knobs and sharp edges—”

The wind hissed through the dogwood, scattering dead leaves. No answer. There never was.

---

The Search

Yoongi’s hands shook as he typed.

Yoongi: Yumi’s gone. Check the usual spots.

The group chat exploded.

Jin: On my way to the Han River. Jungkook, check the bridges near Itaewon.

Jimin: HYBE’s empty. Security cams show they never came here.

Jungkook: Already at the skatepark. Jae says they left their board. Paparazzi chased them earlier.

Hobi: Checking Tae’s studio. They’re not answering calls.

Yoongi stared at the screen, his reflection fractured in its cracks. The studio felt alien now—a crime scene. The Moog sat shrouded in a tarp, the trophy shards boxed but unaddressed. He’d found your sketchbook open on the couch: a page filled with rough drafts of him, all frowns and hunched shoulders, captioned “World’s Okayest Dad (Don’t Tell Him).”

How did I miss this?

Namjoon arrived unannounced, damp from the rain, his glasses fogged. “Hyung. Let’s go.”

Yoongi didn’t argue.

---

The Cemetery

The rain had thickened into a downpour by the time they reached the gravesite. Yoongi drove, white-knuckling the steering wheel, while Namjoon navigated from the passenger seat. The car fishtailed on the muddy backroads, but Yoongi didn’t slow.

“Here,” Namjoon said, pointing to a gap in the cemetery fence.

Yoongi parked haphazardly, ignoring the NO ENTRY AFTER DARK sign. Namjoon grabbed an umbrella from the backseat—Yoongi’s backup, black and battle-scarred—but true to form, fumbled it as he ducked under the dogwood tree. The umbrella caught on a low branch, ribs snapping with a sound like brittle bones.

“Aish,” he muttered, shaking the mangled fabric. “Sorry, Hyung.”

You didn’t look up. You were curled into a shivering ball against your mother’s headstone, soaked to the skin, your AgustD hoodie darkened to charcoal by the rain. Namjoon crouched beside you, abandoning the broken umbrella to the mud.

“Hey, little storm.”

“Go away.” Your words were hoarse, raw from hours of crying.

Namjoon sat anyway, his long limbs folding awkwardly, knees jutting like a grasshopper’s. Rain dripped from his hair into the collar of his jacket. “Remember when I broke Jin-hyung’s limited-edition Sailor Moon figurine? 2025. The one he imported from Tokyo?”

Your breath hitched. “This… this isn’t a figurine.”

“No.” Namjoon’s voice softened. “It’s worse. But not unfixable.”

“Stop being wise!” You lurched upright, eyes wild. “It’s gone, Joon-ah! The award, the synth—Eomma—I ruin everything! Maybe… maybe if I’d died instead—”

Namjoon caught your wrist, grip firm. “Don’t.”

“Why not?!” Tears streaked down your face, mingling with rainwater. “Dad hates me! He should—!”

“He doesn’t.”

Yoongi’s voice cut through the dark.

He stood at the edge of the tree’s canopy, backlit by the cemetery’s sulfur lamps, shadows carving hollows under his eyes. Namjoon nodded once—your turn—and rose, brushing mud from his jeans. As he retreated, his foot caught on the ruined umbrella, crushing it further into the muck.

You scrambled backwards, spine pressing into the headstone. “How… how long have you—?”

“Long enough.” Yoongi’s voice cracked. He stepped closer, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “You think I’d trade you? For any of it? The trophies, the synth—her?”

You froze.

He knelt, ignoring the mud seeping into his pants, and cupped your face. His palm was calloused, warm against your rain-chilled skin. “When she died, I… I wanted to burn the world. Then you’d crawl into my studio, all scraped knees and fury, and I’d think—this. This is what she left me. Not grief. A life.”

Your chest heaved. “But the award—”

Yoongi pulled a shard of gold from his pocket—the trophy’s broken head, edges smoothed by his thumb. “It’s metal and ego. You’re flesh. My flesh.” He pressed the fragment into your hand. “You think I care about a plaque? The night I won it, your mom held it for two minutes and said it was ‘too pointy.’ She cared more about the seaweed soup going cold.”

A sob tore from your throat. “The Moog—”

“Fixed it this morning.” His lips quirked, barely a smile. “Suzanne Ciani’s protégé said you ‘altered the dampening with impressive idiocy.’ She’s sending a bill. And a mentorship offer.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Turns out flooding a synth with Matcha is a résumé-worthy feat.” Yoongi thumbed a tear from your cheek. “Come home. Finish that track you’ve been hiding. The one with the… what’s it called? Trap breakdown meets Ennio Morricone?”

“Dusk Theory,” you whispered, stunned. “You… knew?!”

“Kid, you sample my snores. Of course, I knew.” He stood, offering a hand. “And Namjoon?”

From the shadows, a guilty shuffle. “Yeah?”

“Next time you ‘comfort’ someone, don’t annihilate my umbrella.”

Namjoon emerged sheepishly, the umbrella’s corpse now dangling from his fist. “Hyung, it was an accident—”

“God of Destruction my ass.”

You hiccuped a laugh, the sound fragile but real. Yoongi pulled you to your feet, steadying you when your knees buckled.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, shrugging off his jacket to drape over your shoulders. “Jin’s making kimchi stew. And Hobi bought you a new board.”

“With Hope World stickers?”

“Would I allow anything else?”

As you trudged toward the car, you glanced back. The trophy shard gleamed in your palm, sharp but held gently—a thing broken, but not lost.

---

The Mended Symphony

The studio hummed with a newfound quiet, the kind that settles after a storm. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, striping the Moog ONE 16 in silver and shadow. Its walnut panelling bore scars—faint tea stains etched into the grain, a slight warp near the modulation wheel—but it lived. A sticky note fluttered on its surface, Yoongi’s jagged scrawl unmistakable:

FINISH YOUR TRACK.

—Grumpy Cat

You traced the words, a half-smile tugging at your lips. The synth smelled different now—less like aged wood and solder, more like citrus cleaner and the faintest ghost of Matcha. Altered, but alive, you thought, just like everything else.

You sank into Yoongi’s chair, still warm from his earlier presence, and booted up the DAW. Your project file blinked tauntingly: FRACTURED NOTES (FEAT. SNORES). The waveform sprawled across the screen, a jagged mountain range of bass drops and distorted guitar riffs. Nestled in the bridge was the pièce de résistance—a 10-second loop of Yoongi’s snores, lifted from a voice memo you had secretly recorded during his studio nap last month.

“Cheeky,” you muttered, adjusting the EQ to soften the nasal tones.

The track was chaos incarnate—a thing of clashing genres and emotional whiplash. Trap beats collided with spaghetti western whistles; Yoongi’s snores morphed into a haunting theremin wail. It shouldn’t have worked. But as you layered in the Moog’s resurrected bassline—a growl so deep it vibrated your molars—you felt it click. Your sound. Not his. Not theirs. YOURS

---

Broken Things That Matter

On the shelf, the Golden Disc’s remains glimmered in their new home—a glass case lined with velvet the colour of midnight. Yoongi had stayed up piecing it together, gold-dusted epoxy bleeding into every crack. The figure now listed slightly, its neck kinked at a drunken angle, but it held.

Your addition sat tucked in the corner: a tiny skateboard fragment, its Hope World sticker still clinging stubbornly. Broken Things That Matter, read the plaque below, in Namjoon’s careful calligraphy.

At 3:17 a.m., you slumped forward, forehead hitting the desk. “Done,” you croaked to no one.

Yoongi appeared silently, sliding a fresh Matcha latte beside you—this time in a spill-proof tumbler.

“It’s… different,” he said, nodding at the screen.

You stiffened. “Bad different?”

“Honest different.” He hesitated, then ruffled your hair, a gesture so rare it froze you both. “She’d hate it.”

A beat. Then laughter, a bright and startled, burst from you. “Yeah. She’d call it ‘noise pollution.’”

“Then play it louder.”

You did.

...

[ask-koopasbagatelle]

Cats. Seemingly aggresive but misunderstood, hiding, but when you actually respect them they'll be all over you. Also he likes anchoovies (istg i saw this on some comic book stripe and not pulling info out of my a-)

Good quills (he tends to break then when he's angry), something handmade, maybe some fancy coffee. He doesn't strike me as a gift receiving type because both s/i and f/o are royalty. He'd be happier with experiences than stuff he can just buy.

Stargazing. Nestling into his chest and listening to his heartbeat as the Skyland's stars surround us both.

He'd never complain, he's a hard worker. But he physically winces each time he turns the vacuum on.

Depends on the amount of sleep and caffeine he had lmao.

Toccata or 5th Symphony or really, any classical piece that would give me a near heart attack out of context

If he ever got interested in the internet he'd be a chronic twitter user, I'm afraid. He's already bickering with subordinates for the fun of it, imagine how much bullshit could he make up to watch the world burn

No. He is a romantic and stuff but he hates the concept that he never had agency over our relationship. He wants to feel it was our choice, not anybody else's

They'd be scared, for sure. I mean a humanoid meeting with their supposed enemy who is a huge koopa? As for IRL friends, I don't even want to tell them. Both in AU and IRL, I doubt there's many people who would get our bond.

My f/o carrying me in his arms, half asleep, leaning onto him like a lifeline.

enemies and lovers. We're in a politically messy situation, and need to keep up appearances

Navy blue, copper, wine red! Especially navy blue like his hair!

He'd keep things as brief as possible, but would be so awkward about it people would still be able to decipher that it's something deeper

Probably pigeons and doves. Beautiful creatures, that were abandoned for no real reason. Also because I follow him around whenever he has food/lh

He'd make sure to show his feelings, without overwhelming me. Making a day off in his job and fully focusing on me, playing the piano, getting flowers and whatever he thinks I'll need at the moment..

In public he only calls me by my name, but in private he has a whole bunch of pet names. I feel pretty timid about it too.. But trusts me, he always finds a new way to fluster me

Probably working together. He likes seeing me focused, and it makes it easier on both of us. Though we get distracted a lot..

He's persistent. It doesn't fade away after our honeymoon phase, it doesn't waver whenever we argue, When he sees I'm not feeling well and trying to hide away, he doesn't let me. He's attentive, he works on himself, and is the best anchor I couId ever imagine

My eyes. They're piercing and eerie for many, but he loves staring into them, watching the subtle changes even if I struggle with talking. Especially when I struggle with talking.

My kindness. This is something unnatural, especially to the Darklands where everyone is either mean, or pretends to be mean to not get eaten alive. He's often confused how I can be so nice to him even when he messes up, and I hope someday he'll fully be aware that all I need is him, for his personality, and not what he can(not) provide.

He'd draw with ink, and his sketch would be realistic. Probably doing it quickly when I'm not aware

no yes

White. Clouds, associating me with doves, my wings being white, porcelain, my white rabbit plushie..

F/O Ask Game!!

A list of questions to answer about your f/o!! You guys can just go down the list and answer them all (I'd love to see it!!!) in a reblog, orrr you can reblog and have others ask you these questions in your inbox! Have fun!! PR.OSHI.P, NOT FOR YOU!

What animal does your f/o remind you of?

If you got your f/o a gift, what would you get them? 

What is your favorite hobby to think about doing with your f/o?

What chores would your f/o do around the house? Are there any they REALLY dislike?

Would you trust your f/o to drive a car?

What kind of ringtone or notification sound would you have for your f/o?

Would your f/o fight someone online? 

Does your f/o believe in soulmates?

How would you introduce your f/o to your friends? How do you think that would go? 

What's the first scenario that comes to your head when you think of being with your f/o?

What dynamic would you use to describe you and your f/o? 

What color do you associate with your f/o? 

How would your f/o introduce you to those they care about? How do you think that would go?

What animal do you remind your f/o of?

What would your f/o get you for Valentine's day, if anything? 

What does your f/o call you in their head? What do they call you aloud/to others?

What does your f/o like doing with you the most? 

How does your f/o show their love best? 

What's your f/o's favorite feature of yours?

What're your f/o's favorite personality traits of yours?

If your f/o drew you, how would you describe the art piece?

Does your f/o share food with you?

What color would your f/o associate you with?

What?? Who's tagging their friends again?- not me... I just really wanna see yalls answers. Formal invitation lest you become worried I don't wanna see it. @jpeg-indulgence @starshakez @moxanji-real @frankys-wife @katsenbergs-soulmate @katanahusband @fl0ralsxgar @one-winged-dreams AND LITERALLY ANYONE WHO SEES THIS.

[astracora]

EVER's Tool - Chapter 3

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc, Caleb x gn!mc (Caleb POV/MC POV)

Warnings: Hurt/No Comfort, Angst, Talk of EVER Experiments and Torture, Violence, Gore, Spoilers for Caleb's story.

Word Count: 10261

Written: 6th February 2025

Notes: Established-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. I got no notes this time, just a lil migraine that will not bugger off. Enjoy!

Now Playing: Ghosts 'n' Stuff, by Deadmou5

Masterlist AO3

<- Previous

Caleb has imagined and dreamed about the moment he reunites with you.

In some dreams, he knocks on the door of your apartment, waits impatiently for you to open the door. He knows you're home, so he would wait, as long as it took for you to open up. To see him.

He imagines your eyes widening, blinking at him, as he says he's home. Reaches a hand out to you, only for you to rush to him, arms open. Tears streaming down your cheeks, or hiccuping against his chest while he lifts you up into his arms.

Sometimes he dreams about holding your face in his hands, thumbs easing across your cheekbones. Marvelling over having you there again, after all the time he's had to be apart. Etching every part of you back into his memory, as though he could ever forget a single thing.

In some of his dreams, the ones he knows will never come to pass, he holds you as close as he can. Feel your body heat against his body. He sinks into it, remembers he's home, lets you soothe every ache and pain he'll ever have. His hand around the back of your neck, he tightens it a little when you lean back just to look up at him. Tears in your eyes, mismatched gaze holding his.

The pull of you is stronger than his EVOL could ever hope to be. He gives into every urge he's ever had in his life, every day dream, every yearning, every hope, everything he's ever wanted.

Kissing you, he imagines, he dreams about, but he knows it can never compare to the real thing. The warmth of you and the taste. Still, he sinks and he devours and he thrills. You gasp against his mouth, reaching up to him, and he responds by pulling you even closer. As close as you can get, without fusing into him.

Though he wishes you could. Live inside of him, or him inside of you. A world of just you two exists inside his mind, and he wishes for it in reality as well. He's hungrier now, more desperate.

Reminded every moment of the risk to you, the chance of losing you. The time he spent apart. Everyday watching you from afar.

His dreams have shifted over time, from the you he has spent so many years with, to the you he has seen through the lens. Arm lost because of EVER, scars over your skin, the metal of your right arm that matched his own.

Every change to you, he has ingrained in his mind's eye. Every ache, every pain, every loss, every time he had seen the pain in you. His hands aching to touch you, to ease it. To be your ally.

Instead he had had to watch, always distant, tied to the Farspace Fleet with chains he kept for you. Even as his heart cried out. Begged him to run, and keep running. Back to you.

So in his dreams, he soothes his hand over the metal as he kisses you, with his left hand. To feel every groove of your arm, to add it to his memories. He imagines you pulling back to breathe, and though it's a dream and neither of you need to, the look on your face, desperate and breathless makes it worth it.

He never gives you too much of a break though, pulling you back in. Years of craving and the attempt to satiate it.

Of all the ways he imagines reuniting with you… this is more a nightmare than a dream. As you stare at him, cool eyes stunned and wide. You bear EVER's crest at your collar, there's blood splattered up the side of your face.

As he steadies you with his hand, watching as your gaze flickers, he only gets the small warning, the flickering of your eyelids, before you fall. He swoops you into his arms, one arm under your legs and the other around your back, pulling you up against his chest. Holding you tight, clinging to you. "Pipsqueak?"

"It appears the hunting dog has run themselves into the ground. Take them somewhere to rest, please."

He looks up at the Professor, who gives a glance of disdain, and something else that makes Caleb's hackles feel like they're raising. He is barely spared a look as the man goes to leave the room, but as he opens the door, looking back over his shoulder, his sharp eyes narrow. "Make sure you keep an eye on them, I would hate to lose their loyalty and have to resort to tighter chains."

The threat hangs over his head, a reminder of the noose around his throat, of choices made. As he stands, holding you in his arms, he remembers how close to the beast you now are, and how he is all that stands between you and it.

He cannot give them a single reason to take your mind away, to get their claws into you more than they have. Now he has you back, he will not release you again.

—--

You're sinking, like you're falling into concrete.

It closes up around your chest, hardening, and breathing gets harder and harder. Forcing broken gasps out of your mouth, desperate for the haze filling your head to stop.

You can't breathe.

Darker.

Darker.

Go-

When you wake up, you're surrounded by white cold walls. Looming over you is an older woman you don't recognise, in a lab suit. Mask pulled up, glasses glinting in overhead lights.

You try to move, but your arm and legs are tied down.

No.

"Let me go." Rips out of your throat, tugging at the restraints. She ignores you, writing down on a clipboard.

"Day fifty, energy fluctuations-"

The yell turns to a snarl, "Let me go!" Your chest tightens, as you pull, thrash, struggle.

Your chest hurts, burning hot, and when you look down it's open. Red gleaming thing beating visibly where everyone can see.

"No." You try to reach out, hand pulling against the restraints to grasp at the threads of the white lab coat. "Please. You have to help me." You can feel the hot tears streaming down your face. The pain increases, a pressure in your head. You don't want to cry in front of her, you don't want to let her see it, not as she looks down at you.

Cool eyes, unconcerned with the fingers grasping at her coat.

"High levels. Still no indication of memory recollection."

Her hand reaches towards your chest, fingers covered in gloves, and no matter how much you try to recoil from the contact, you cannot get away.

It feels like your lungs are tightening, the wavering on the edge of your vision. The dimming. Flickering lights.

You stare up at her, as the static flickers, and a smiling face looks down at you.

"Gran, please. Help."

As you sink down under the darkness, the smile is gone, replaced with the blue mask, and she sinks her hand into your chest. The red glow illuminates it, and for a split second… before you fade away, you think about a far kinder woman.

Whose hand held your small one, and how despite not knowing her name, or who she was. You miss her.

—---

Caleb finds the room you have been assigned, it is empty and cold. There is nothing in it, no sign of life. No sign of you. He sees none of the plushies you often surround yourself with, no figurines on your desk, no books, nothing. The only thing that indicates it is yours, is the picture frame. He remembers you carving his name into it, so he'd carved a heart in afterwards.

Your face smiles back at him, head leaning on his shoulder, arm threaded through his. You have dirt on your cheek, and he remembers reaching up after the photo was taken to wipe it off. You'd grumbled about why he hadn't removed it before the photo if he'd known.

He'd never responded, just laughed at you, pouting at him.

He'd simply loved every part of you, no matter how you'd looked. Especially when you'd looked at him full of life.

As he rests you on the bed, Caleb goes through motions that are as deeply familiar to him as you are. Tending to wounds, taking care of you, protecting your body.

He remembers teenage years, wiping blood off your knuckles, stitching up wounds you didn't want to take to hospitals. Easing pain with warm hands and ice packs.

You had begged him many times not to tell Gran, to keep each injury a secret, to not let her see you with your heart wounded and your tear stained cheeks. Each time, against his better judgement, he'd hidden it. Sat with you, salving against torn knuckles, as you promised you'd be careful.

You rarely were, the moment you were released out of his grip, you'd run off to get into another fight. Coming up against anyone who was cruel or mean, or unfair to those around you. Arguing with your fists, full of fire and anger. Anger he knew you couldn't take out on the world that left you stranded.

He thinks about the scared kid, whose hand had taken his, then never let go since. Who hissed and growled and snarled at anyone coming too close. Who scratched every time you were pulled away from him. Hands reaching out to grasp at anything you could reach to keep.

Caleb has seen so much of you. Every memory he keeps safe and close to his chest, protecting it with all that he has. Locked where no one can ever reach it but him, and you.

From the terrified kid who never wanted to let him go, to the angry teenager who wanted to fight every problem, to the adult who faced straight forward, eyes full of fire.

You had relied on him constantly, seeking him out as a home ground. Telling him things you could never tell anyone else.

He thinks about the tears you'd shed after medical appointments, shaking, as you sat with the knowledge that you would never know how much time you had until it was too late. Every time your chest ached, you would worry, and so would he. It was never enough time.

There was never enough time, he'd been taken away from you and lost so much time. Watched as you sought comfort in others, as your safe harbour changed. Burned down, leaving you floating. Had to watch the landing pad change.

You'd built a home without him. His hand tightens on yours as he cleans blood off, the metal under his synthetic skin creaking. He eases it, before he can bruise your skin, or damage bone.

He removes your prosthetic in reverence, careful with it, despite the ache under his skin. He'd seen your prosthetic before, the same arm as his own, but when they had replaced it with the wanderer's claw… he'd sought out information, looked for the files.

Sensory feedback similar to his own, pain, but little else.

When he had teased you for copying him so much growing up, he had never wanted you to mirror him in this. There is nothing worthy or good about the twisted corrupt things they have done to you.

As he finishes cleaning up the mess, and putting everything away that he has used, before sitting at your bedside again. Picking up your hand in his own, smoothing over your skin with his thumb. The empty feeling of his right hand, at odds with the feeling of weight and heat in his left hand.

Your fingers twitch, and he thinks of a small sparrow in his palm. Something so small, and so fragile, that he fears every day that it will perish, or its wings will break.

He has caught you every time you have fallen, mended fragile wings, and watched you take off again. He never thought you would lose them.

Caleb has tried to clip them before, yearned to. Reached out with harsh hands to snap bone, only to pull back, to remind himself you are you when you are free. He does not wish to hurt you, he only ever wants you to be happy and healthy. Even if the reason takes you from him…

Still, a sick little voice in his head thrills at you being here. With him, within four walls. Your hand in his.

As you groan, eyelids fluttering, he releases you. Watching as you reach up to rub at your eyes, rolling onto your side for a moment with a groan.

"Pipsqueak?"

You curse under your breath, and he can tell the bruising he saw has caught up to your waking brain, with your hand, you push yourself up. Turning away from him to plant your feet on the ground, leaning forwards.

He calls out your name, moving off the bed to crouch in front of you. Hand hovering near your knee, unable to bring himself to touch you, now that your eyes are open. Mismatched gaze wavering before they focus on him.

Caleb sees recognition, but he has seen it before. Recognition in the awareness that you know him, but none of the weight of height of memory. He is a figure you know that you should know, a name you can speak, but there is nothing else there.

It is like being a child again, every time you had woken up in that shelter, tired and worn. Eyes that stared at him, tearful and unsure. You did not remember how you'd taken his hand that first time, promised him he wasn't alone. You did not remember every day he had spent with you, the paper planes he had made and flown around your head. You did not remember, curling up next to him to sleep, hands clinging to his clothes as though he would disappear if you did not.

You do not remember every moment, that as an adult he realises, was full of love.

You do not remember how much he adores you. Every incarnation, every version of you that comes through, every piece of you he sees.

That could never change.

You look up at him through your lashes, like you are waiting to be told off. Like you have broken something, or stolen cookies out of his stash. Like you have injured yourself and are waiting for him to tell you off.

No matter if you have your memories, those mannerisms never change.

You're guilty, and worried, and he can read you like a book. He can see through every mask you will ever wear.

He will always know you better than anyone else could ever hope to.

"I know Pipsqueak." He watches your eyes widen a little, sitting up so you can look at him properly. He watches your eyes dart around, and if he were not better at controlling his expressions, years of suppressing them, he would have blushed at the way you seem to commit him to memory. "You've forgotten, right?"

He watches you shrink back, your fingers fidgeting, before they scratch at your neck. He stops you, before you scratch it raw. Trying to ignore the way you flinch at the contact. The way your hand pulls back out of his grip.

It leaves an ache in his chest, faced with the startled look and raised hackles. It is not the first time, but every time he hopes it will be the last.

You exhale, fingers reaching out like you're looking for something, he does not know what. Only that you do not find it, and your hand pulls back. "You know?"

He lets out a sigh, and this time when he reaches out, it's to brush a strand of your hair that has grown far longer than he knew you ever liked it, back behind your ear. This time you do not flinch, just watch him carefully. Like he might hurt you. Like everyone else in this place. "Of course, Pipsqueak. I know."

I know everything about you.

I know every part of you.

I still need to know more.

His fingers brush your cheek for a moment, a second, like it was a mistake, a slip. He does not touch your scars, just feels the heat of your cheek with his left hand. The smoothness of your skin.

You pull back, standing up, shaking on feet and back away from him. "I need-" You back up until your back hits the door to your bathroom, hand reaching for the handle and shake your head, "Shower. I need-"

He watches you, as your eyes dart around the room, as your arm trembles, shaking at the handle.

"Go on, I'll wait." He assures, because he will. He will wait.

He has built you diaries and photo albums, he has answered questions every single day.

Who are you?

Caleb.

What are we?

The closest people can be.

Who am I?

My pipsqueak.

He will always wait for you.

You almost leave, before stopping, turning around to look at him, but do not speak. He watches your eyes, the wavering to the gaze. The fear he can read in the depths of your expression.

"I'm not going anywhere Pipsqueak, you're stuck with me." Always. No matter what happens. You're his home. Anyone would have to drag him, dead, from you.

Your eyes narrow, fang peeking out under your lip as you growl at him, "... stay."

He lets out a laugh, reaches out as you spear him with mismatched eyes, and pats your head. Wonders over how tangled and messy it is, uncared for, and he hopes you'll let him brush and dry it after. Though he's smarter than to push.

He does watch as you close your eyes partially, shrink under the pressure of his hand, scowling a little like a child. Sometimes he marvels, that even without your memories, you always have the same soul lurking under there. Reacting the same, acting the same, your words the same. Like you're carved out of stone.

"Alright, Pipsqueak. I'll stay right here for you."

You nod, brushing his hand away with the back of yours before essentially fleeing from him.

He closes his hand, opening and closing as the sensation of your hair through his fingers reminds him once again.

That he's finally home.

Even if he does have to forget that the walls have burned to the ground.

—---

When you remerge, your skin is still steaming and you've thrown an old shirt over yourself. Padding into the room, with a towel still around the back of your neck. He sees you stop for a moment, look at him, like you believed you would wake up out of a dream.

Like you'd forgotten he was real, and in front of you.

You hesitate, look at him, pulling at the end of your shirt. He knows how this goes, you'll try to think about what to say, and he'll wait until you can find the words.

Still. It's been a year.

It's been a year.

So he pats the space in front of him on the bed, and offers a smile he hopes resembles the same one he has given you for years. Though it feels rusty, year old ache to it.

You look at his hand, then at him, head titled just a little bit in question.

"You have questions, I can give you answers, but sit here. It'll take a while, and your hair is wet."

You step forward once, and then stop. He feels a little like he's coaxing that kitten from his childhood. Hand extended, with food, seeking out your trust.

"I'm not a child." You grumble, under your breath.

He fights back the laugh, memories overlapping, and he says exactly what he used to when you'd say it before, "No you're not, but I enjoy doing it. For me?"

Caleb watches your eyes widen just a little, and unlike in his memories, when you speak, it is a whisper, "Enjoy it?"

"Of course, Pipsqueak. It's been a long time. Let me?"

He watches the kitten step forwards, placing itself right in front of him, back turned. He tries not to focus on the scars he can see, deep jagged things. These are new, from your time with EVER.

Carved into your skin, like they're etched with a blade.

Instead, he busies himself with brushing, and drying very tangled hair.

On the first two passes of the brush, you flinch, pulling away carefully. Before forcing yourself to settle, not show him how nervous you are, how you want to flee.

He watches over your shoulder, as you twist fabric in fingers, thinking. Always thinking. Trying to find words for things you're scared to ask or say. He's watched you miss chances beforehand in conversations, busy trying to rehearse or think of words. Processing everything in that perfect head of yours.

"You're dead." Is finally mumbled, and his hands pause where he is threading fingers through strands, "They said you were dead."

He wants to make a joke, 'I got better'. He wants to be honest, tell you how close he got. He pushes both down, and lies.

He lies instead. "The explosion did a lot of damage, they didn't want to disappoint you if they couldn't save me. It was easier to tell you I was gone, until they were sure." It's not the first lie he's ever told you, it probably won't be the last. It still sinks like acid into his gut, to use the words of the people who hurt you.

"They said it was a year ago."

"It was."

"It took a year to save you?"

He can feel it, the raised hackles, the way you turn your head a little, to look at him out the corner of your eye. It is the look he has seen before, like you don't quite believe him, except this is sharp. Like you have a dagger in hand. There's months of mistrust to you, months of frustration.

You're waiting at the edge for lies and betrayal, hardened. You're there under the layers, he just has to draw you out.

"Not the full year," This is closer to the truth, "I had to recuperate." Had to be placed in the fleet. Play their game. Be a pawn. "It was…" A sigh, "difficult."

The dagger is lowered, and you settle back, "Difficult." It's not a question he knows, but he looks at you as you raise a hand to your residual limb, and he feels it. The acknowledgment, even if you do not know the metal under his skin. He knows you'd understand. If he tells you, you will look at him and understand. Even without your memories.

Emotions are far harder to forget.

"We were close?"

It doesn't feel like a question, because it is like asking if the sun rises, or the moon controls the tides.

You have always been, and will always be, the only port for him. His only weakness, and his only home.

"We were."

This time you fully turn your head, his hands falling away from you, as you look at him. Almost, eyes focusing just to his left, like he's used to. Never keeping a gaze for long. "Is that it?"

He laughs this time, as you grumble, the pout on your face one for the books. "What else do you want?"

"What exactly were we? What-" You swallow, and look away again, staring at one of the empty walls, "What was I like?"

His heart jumps, and he thinks it wants to shatter, to escape. The downcast look to your face, the shivering.

You've been alone here, without him. Without anyone but jackals that want to rip at you. No memories, no warm hand to lead you back to the answer. He has not been there to help you, to bring you home.

"We were the closest people could be," He abandons his hat on the side, extends his left hand, palm up towards you, "I knew you better than anyone else, we spent all our time together growing up."

You're cross legged in front of him, hand twitching in your lap, staring down at his.

"You were a troublemaker, constantly getting me to do things for you." He falls into the memories, images of you with dirt on your cheeks, hanging off him, asking for things, teasing him. "You enjoyed insulting me. 'Dummy', 'Stupid Caleb'."

"I sound unbearable." It's a broken whisper, and he sees you. Looking like you're waiting for him to leave, to look at him and see something to leave.

He will never have enough time to tell you all the ways he loves you. He can only try to reach out for you, and tether you to him again.

"No, whenever it mattered, whenever we needed each other, we had each others' backs. You've always been my home, Pipsqueak." You finally touch him, fingers tracing over the lines of his palm, before clinging to his hand.

He watches as you crawl over, and he feels you bury yourself against him. He freezes, but the heat of you against his chest is warm and melts him. Right arm, as empty as it feels, tugs you closer. Into his chest. You're trembling, and shaking but you won't cry.

There were times when you were younger, fresh and hurting from the weight on your shoulder, and refused to let yourself cry. He had often found you, hiding somewhere, shivering and shaking, fighting back all the feelings you couldn't put into words. The locations ranged, under your bed, in the closet, outside in a hollowed out tree.

Caleb has always found you, and he now can continue to do so.

You're so warm, and so right. He has held you so many times, and each time settles his heart, and unsettles it all in one. A feeling of perfection, and fear. The feeling of standing on the edge, of desperation, of all the desires he hides and keeps down. Even if they come to his fingers, each time he passes them through your hair as he holds you. Even if they bite his fingertips, when he brushes your skin carefully.

As your tremors subside, and your breathing calms, he carefully rearranges you, so that you're both lying down. You're clearly exhausted, drained, so you do not react at all as he wraps you in his arms again, cheek against the top of your head.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, where your hand is pressed over his heart.

It's a relief you're sleeping, because with every twitch, his heart skips. He can control many things but his traitorous heart, that is determined to share his secrets.

At least, when you wake up, he will be able to keep you safe from now on.

—---

When you next wake up, you find no weight of heavy nightmare on your shoulder. A brief reprieve from a surety you had grown accustomed to. Instead there is a weight around your hip, and warmth under your head.

Pillowed against Caleb's bicep, and wrapped up against his chest.

Caleb.

Alive.

You detangle carefully from the sleeping figure, who feels like a dream, and dress quickly. Grabbing your claw and reattaching it. Part of you yells to stay, to wake him up. If you ask more questions, find more answers.

Not to let go of someone who looked at you and still pulled you close.

Against every waking nightmare you had, of him being disgusted. Hating you.

Your hand raises to your hair, tugging through the strands that no longer catch at knots. Cared for, where you do not.

'You've always been my home, Pipsqueak.' You hadn't had words to respond to him, but they had clawed at your useless heart relentlessly. Tugging you to him like a pull you didn't understand. Need? Desperation? A desire to affirm for yourself how true it was?

Every day spent in the compound reminded you not to trust people blindly, there was nothing here worth protecting, besides yourself.

There was part of you that knew not to trust Caleb, not fully. Out of nowhere, like a gift wrapped in a bow, presented to you when you needed something to tether to ground. A show of kindness from an organisation that showed kindness to no one. It was pathetic and stupid and ridiculous for you to accept this.

You should, you know you should, pull away and push. There is nothing good to be found from letting EVER have their hand on your heart.

There is no joy to be found, in what will come to pass.

And yet.

And yet.

His voice is so warm, and so soft. He is all you have ever known you were once attached to. The only person with a memento that you hold close, in hope and in blind faith, despite the memories not being there.

He knew you had forgotten, without you saying anything. He looked at you and saw it, so surely he had to know you. Had to understand you.

Despite all that fear of the outside edges with knives and glass shards… you cannot deny that part of your heart steadied when he brushed your hair. That you felt less alone when you touched his hand. That you did not get chased by nightmarish shades through the abyss of sleep, while held by him.

There is a feeling, while staring down at him as he sleeps, your claw twitching, that reminds you that cruel tricks and illusions play a part in EVER's machinations.

That you are a working tool, that you work better when you are a loyal working tool.

It is a fool that knows the snake lurks in the grass, but still steps into the strands anyway.

You find yourself wanting to be a fool. Wanting to hold onto the heat of someone who does not see you as an experiment. Who smiles and laughs and comforts your heart without seeing you as a beast to hold the leash of.

You want to lay down at the fire of acceptance and find relief.

He is familiar, despite the empty part of your mind that cannot recall anything, and there is a small part of you… a tiny little voice that crackles through the static, that tells you, above all else, and without any doubt colouring it- that you can trust him.

Always.

—--

Leon's coffee is always burnt, always bitter. He has a collection of drinks that you raid every now and then, when you have to stomach his lab. He makes a pot, and then he forgets it, caught up in research. Everytime you pour a cup, you spill it on the side, hoping it stains and makes one of those veins pop out of his forehead.

You prefer the drinks in the cafe, even though you rarely ever get the chance to go to visit it. Kept caged, with just a moment's reprieve. The last time you had escaped, you had broken down in front of the crowd.

One of whom, you expect to see when you enter the lab, instead you only get greeted by Leon. Who does not look up from his research, but does speak when you pour a cup, purposefully missing, "It's too early for you to be spilling drinks all over my work surfaces, little bomb." As he says it, you look right at him, as you pour more over.

He does not look, but you decide it's probably satisfying enough knowing he'll have to clean it up later. Scowling, and tutting as he does.

You hold back the urge to spit for good measure, and down the cup, before refilling it. This time using sugar cubes he keeps, and spilling milk too.

It's a lot more tolerable, now that the burnt taste is covered up somewhat, as you sip, you move over to a desk and sit on it. The ache in your body is eased since you woke up, relieved by the heat of the shower, and actual sleep. "Where is your guest?"

"My guest? Actively avoiding me. He has not left the back room."

You can't say you're surprised, who would want to be in the viper's nest. He'd been attacked, kidnapped, and his family threatened. It's not even like you'd given him clothes, food, anything. Or maybe Leon had handled it when you left.

"Avoiding my prison keeper, who has the moral code of a rotten carrot? Surprising."

You look up as the man in question enters the room. He looks tired, dishevelled, he is wearing a new shirt, you note. Though it does not look like he slept. A smart move. EVER might want his talents, but it does not mean they would not force his use. Whatever they have to convince him, must be something special.

"I have no interest in hurting you, Doctor Li, the sooner you accept our offer, the better."

"As I have informed Carter, multiple times, I have no interest in working with you."

Sipping your coffee, you can't stop yourself from snorting. Forest green eyes focus on you, and the edges flicker.

'Darling.'

You shake your head, and force yourself to ground, clenching your claw and raising a brow. "You're a moral one, aren't you Doctor?"

"Should I not be?"

Raising your shoulder in a half shrug, you turn away, kicking your feet, "It won't last long."

"We'll see."

Leon stands, placing his documents in a drawer, and locking it behind him with his fingerprint. You watch him place his cup in the sink, glaring down at the mess on his side, "Little bomb, clean this up." He turns to look at you, over the rim of his glasses, when he realises you have no urge to move, he sighs and wipes down the worst of it quickly before heading to the door. As he pushes it open, he clicks his fingers, and turns back to look at you, "That reminds me, you have a new job, little bomb." Your grunt is his only answer, staring down into your cup.

You can feel the doctor's eyes on you. You pointedly ignore him as well.

"You're to guard the doctor."

This forces your head up, "I'm to what?"

"Guard him, keep him safe, keep him out of trouble." The last one is a warning, shot at Doctor Li, with a false smile. Who does not look back at him, and is still watching you.

"Why would he need-"

"I don't have the answers to your questions, you have your job, carry it out like you always do, little bomb."

A hiss rises out of you unbidden, but he leaves the room before you can throw your cup at his head.

You're reminded again that you don't have your dagger, that you cannot use its motion to soothe yourself. That you have even less to keep you stable when his sickening voice and the chain around your throat reminds you of your role here.

You don't know what to say, or do. You've been ordered to kill, ordered to kidnap, but never ordered to protect. You have never held something in your hand you weren't supposed to break.

Instead you fiddle with the segments of your clawed hand, bending them, even though you cannot feel it. It is an unsuccessful method to soothe. Just a reminder that the limb is nothing but a weapon.

"Are you alright?" The voice is soft, and warm. Too soft and warm to be aimed at someone like you. You know you look irritated, you can feel it. The same kind of frustration Leon always brings you, but this one you cannot soothe down or pretend as easy. It's harder to pull down the mask for your work, when you're out there, on a job. Doctor Li indicates your fidgeting, and offers the smallest smile.

Flinching back is your answer, huffing as you pull back, "What do you care? I'm your prison guard, remember?"

He nods, hand going to his chin as he looks down at your arm, "Did you take care of the lightning burns?"

Turning your head away, you cross your arms to hide it, even if the carapace rubbing against your flesh is an unpleasant sensation. "What do you care?"

"You were injured in front of me, and I am a doctor. It's natural to be concerned." You look at him, peering into warm eyes that hold something you don't really understand. Concern? Worry? Most of the doctors and scientists look at your injuries with glee or disdain. Either an opening for experiment and tests, or irritation with having to fix a tool. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"One's in front of me. Real damned nosy." It's not as biting as you want it to be, too confused by the man. Was he just that soft that he cared about everyone?

'He takes care of stray cats.'

Glasses pushed up his nose, small smile on his face, as he checked a cat's paw. His eyes glitter, and he laughs at the little creature as it bats at the lens of his glasses.

'You're a worse patient than-' Static and trembling. '-they avoid my advice too.'

A gentle hand petting behind small ears, as the little thing is released, only to scarper off.

'Seems I haven't yet won the local cats over.'

'Don't worry Doctor Li, he's just going to tell all his friends about the best, kindest doctor he'll ever meet.'

Warm hand in your right, sensation of skin against metal, hair brushed back behind ear.

'Is that so?'

"Darling?"

You blink, shivering and pull back from him as he reaches out. Dodging his hand and biting down on your lip with fang to centre on the sharp pin prick of pain, to ground you back down to this world. This place.

If this continues you might have to see someone… to fix what is wrong with you. Remove the shades of things you do not recognise.

Free you from ghosts.

"Do you often care about your kidnappers?"

"I cannot say I've had any, other than you. So, have you?"

You didn't, you want to say. Because it doesn't matter. Your arm works, it is fine, and that is all that matters. You need to replace your claw, but that's not you, just a replaceable tool.

"I'm fine, my arm is fine." It's not a lie, though, you realise. Your arm does not ache, the burns have left their mark, the lightning scars up your bared skin are clear, but there's a sheen over your limb. "I-" You think of Caleb, there when you woke up the first time, the blood removed from your skin. The aid kit on your bedside. It's a discomforting feeling really, to have been cared for… Something to fear.

Something to reject.

A tool has to be useful, not reliant.

That small little voice hums, however, that you did not have to deal with your wounds yourself. For the first time, since you started avoiding EVER's doctors. With their tests, and their scalpels.

He seems satisfied enough, perhaps he can hear the honesty, as tinged in confusion as it is, or perhaps he doesn't care enough to push. No, that's not right. You're unnerved to think anyone can care about their jailor.

You don't care for EVER.

You don't have the luxury.

"Do you have hot chocolate?" The question floors you, for a moment, and makes you blink at him. He is sat looking at the cup in your hand, "I don't hate coffee, but I'd prefer something sweeter."

"Are you insane?" Escapes you without your conscious attempt to speak, but he laughs. Another soft noise escaping his throat, eyes crinkling just a bit around the edges, and you fight back the shiver. "You've been kidnapped, kept in a compound-"

"I'm quite sane, or at least, reasonably so. I'm thirsty, however, and tired. Sugar will help wake me up."

Your first impulse is to tell him to be more careful of his teeth, that his dentist would question that line of thought. The second impulse is that you don't care what he does with his teeth… the third one reminds you that he is kidnapped, and wouldn't be seeing a dentist anytime soon.

You query why the first impulse even reared its head.

"Leon keeps some." You manage, but your tone is short, and you stand quickly, hoping off the table to raid the cupboard where Leon keeps his things. You busy yourself, hoping that the focus of doing anything else will take away the feeling of being unsteady.

"I can make-"

"Stay." You snap, relieved when he settles back down, not willing for you to snarl at him again maybe. Better he learn like all the others, that you're a dog with a short leash. For a reason.

There's nothing he can gain from warm eyes, and a soft heart.

You shove the finished drink back at him, and he carefully sips it. "Not even a single check it's not poisoned?"

"You were told to keep me safe."

"And you just trust that?"

"You take your job seriously, don't you?"

You shrink back, he isn't saying it to be cruel, you can tell by the serious look on the man's face. He's watching you in the same way the scientists do, analytically, but there's no fear in his eyes, just careful observation. Like he's trying to piece you together.

Being seen by him, makes your spine tingle, and you can't tell why. "Just drink, Doctor."

"Zayne."

"Doctor-"

"Zayne."

You huff, "D-"

"Zayne."

Glaring at him now, you bare a fang, but he's simply watching you. Relaxed, and even, and steady. You exhale, and turn your head away again, forcing yourself to not pout. You're a weapon, you're a tool, you're not going to be teased by a Doctor. Before you even open your mouth to try again, he tilts his head, "We're going to be stuck together, you may as well call me by my name, it is not as though it is a secret."

Seconds pass, and he does not move, doesn't sip his drink, just watches you, and you finally growl, "Fine, Zayne." The smile you receive is very fleeting, but it burns into your vision all the same. Like he's actually happy, or you're worse at reading people than you thought.

You can tell he is watching you as you both drink, quiet in the lab you hate.

"So you're going to keep me safe? From what?"

Your sigh is all the answer you can offer him for a while, what indeed. He is in the walls of a compound kept secret, he is EVER's white whale for their experimentations, you suppose, with how much effort they put into him. What could there be to keep him safe from? He's valuable.

From himself? Do they fear he'll do something reckless to escape them?

"Everything." You finally settle on, "That's my job now."

"You're not thrilled by it."

"Are you?"

"It's…" He rubs the space between his eyes, out of the corner of yours, and shakes his head, "Not ideal."

At least he's honest. Morally upright, kind and honest. You're just waiting for the other shoe to drop now. To see what really lurks in the doctor's heart.

"Why did you start working for them?"

You glare at him, baring fangs in a snarl, but he just watches you. Like your bark has no bite, like you're daggerless. Perhaps you are. Ordered to keep him safe, you won't raise a hand until that order changes. Maybe he's smart enough just to look past the empty threat.

You haven't been muzzled before.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"It's part and parcel with being a man of science, I suppose."

"Keep asking too many, and you'll get shocked like a mouse in a maze."

"Speaking from experience?"

Your eyes narrow, and the gold glow glimmers over your scarred hand, a clawing feeling up your back, and in your limb.

He does not back down, but his eyes soften, and he looks at you like he needs something. Answers? "Did you ask too many questions? Did they hurt you?"

You snap teeth at him, the noise loud, harsh in the four walls of the lab, "None of your business." It's shame that informs you that your eyes are close to tears. That you are becoming emotional against your will. That there is a deep discomfort in your heart. Too many questions…

'Who am I?'

'Why am I here?'

'Where are they?'

Your hand moves to your chest, rubbing at the space over your twisted heart. To try to ease the agony.

"I'm sorry." He offers, looking at where you have pressed your hand, and the look in his eyes causes yours to ache more. Like he's in pain too. Like as much as he wants answers, they won't ever please him.

You think you know the feeling. Too scared to ask them anymore. Too scared to learn you've always been this thing.

"You ask too many questions." You manage to grind out, but there's no venom in it. You just feel exhausted again. "They won't make this better."

"No, but sometimes you can understand, and find a better option." Your laugh is so empty at Zayne's words, you watch his hand twitch. It reaches out, and then is pulled back. "Or understand the situation you've found yourself in."

"Your situation is bad, Zayne. That's all you really need to know."

He nods, "That it is."

As your heartbeat settles and the feelings subside, he speaks again. Soft this time, like he doesn't really want to, "He called you little bomb?"

The bristling is instant, but you can't blame him for wondering. The name has hung off you like a noose since you woke up. A reminder that you are a weapon. Leon's favourite little test subject.

"I figure it's my short fuse, that gained me that one." You snap, then flinch, then pull back. "I don't know. It's been his name for me since I met him." You rest your cheek on your hand, and force yourself to relax, to be more controlled. To stop showing every reaction, even if you don't feel particularly capable of it, "Most of them call me Unicorn."

"Unicorn-"

"You. You called me 'darling'." You watch him, as his cheeks colour a little. Try to pick out the feeling. Understand, and the question is on the tip of your tongue. Why? Like every other time you debate stepping over that line, reaching out to understand others, to seek out answers. You had managed with Caleb, before you didn't want to know anymore.

You had been there, on the precipice, of understanding the world before this place. If there was one.

Instead you'd gotten scared.

Ran away.

Like you do again, as you watch the expectation on the doctor's face. As he waits, for what you have to say or ask. Like it matters.

"Call me whatever you want, though I might not respond." Is the way you finish it.

You think of Philip and the questions you keep wanting to ask about why he's there.

You think about the red eyed man and the way he looked at you, and the questions of why he reached out for you.

You think about Leon and the question of why he calls you a bomb.

Where are they?

Questions don't have a place here. They will only ever result in pain.

Zayne does not smile this time, not a small quirk, or eyes softening. He watches and he waits a little longer, like you'll add more, but finally nods, "Unicorn."

It feels wrong, and you can't explain why. You hate it, you always have. It bites at you like fleas. Discomforting. It does not feel like yours, it never feels like yours. You don't know if you ever had a name that felt like yours.

'Kitten'

'Starlight'

'Darling'

'Cutie'

'Pipsqueak'

Static and fractures and broken space.

'Little Bomb'

'Unicorn'

'EVER's Dog'

Overlapping noise and indecipherable interference.

When the man in front of you, had called you 'Darling', he had been warm and alive. You had, despite the agony, felt some semblance of home from it. Something precious, and something that fit better than 'Unicorn'.

Now, the voice has cracked and bled into the cold white labs, and the empty expanse of reminders for where you belong.

It's stupid to believe you have lost something that you have never had. Running from things or breaking them so you do not have to face them.

Too scared of the ghosts that haunt on the edges, like always.

You cannot be more than what you are.

"Other than guarding prisoners-" Startles you up, and you see the hand extend for you again, before it is pulled back. Like he's reminding himself not to touch you, but it pulls you away from the cliff's edge, and back to the room. As much as you hate the lab, the fear of the unknown is worse. "What else do you do?"

"You're the first I've guarded, I mostly kill my targets." You speak, too honestly, curated control slipping out of your grip as the world rights itself around you, and you avoid analytical forest eyes.

He doesn't seem to know how to respond for a moment, "I mean, hobbies, Unicorn."

You blink, "You want to know… about hobbies?"

"It's prudent to know each other, if we're going to spend this much time together."

"Not at all."

He ignores you and forges ahead, "If I cannot ask questions about EVER, then I can ask questions about you."

"Those won't help you escape." You're incredulous. He's foolish. You make a note to ask Raincoat if he has ever guarded a target before, and if they're all as ridiculous as Doctor Li. You're already inclined to say no.

"I have no intention of trying to escape, on the way through I noticed that all the doors use biometrics to allow exit and entry, and I doubt my own would grant me access."

So he is as smart as you thought when you first caught him. Brave, smart, and foolish. Or reckless. Softhearted? Hard to tell. Zayne Li feels like a mystery you don't think you have enough time to solve.

"So if these questions are not a risk to EVER, which I assume is your main concern, then surely I can ask them?"

"I don't care if you ruin EVER's day, Doct- Zayne." He raises a brow and you shrug, turning away, "Look, I just don't know what you're trying to achieve."

"Understanding. Asking questions, to gain answers. To understand. You, my situation, and what I should do."

You wait, but he does not speak, and when you turn your head to him, he is watching you. Like he has caught a scent, and you are prey. Though, you doubt the man has ever willingly hurt someone.

Warm hearted, despite the ice EVOL, huh?

"I don't… really have hobbies." You finally manage, toying with your claw again. Tracing fingers over the grooves left from the lightning, and catching your finger on the sharp carapace. "I train, I do jobs, and I get tested on."

You refuse to look at his face, because you don't want to see whatever this man thinks of it. You can already imagine. What else are you to do though? There's nothing else for you. Well…

"Sometimes-" You tremble at the edge as you look down at the cup to your side, "I go to this cafe in Linkon. It's not often, I can't leave often. The coffee is good, sweet. Not… not burned." You think about Destiny Cafe staring back at you as you stand at the window, itching and desperate. Some days you can enter, grab a drink, maybe some cake, other times the feeling of losing all the air in your lungs, the panic clawing at you, pulls you away. You stumble back, and you flee.

There are some days, where you see shadows next to your reflection, or you are drinking, and you turn to say something, to people who aren't there. Because you're alone. You're always alone. Then you have to leave, wrong. Like you don't belong, like to be there isn't right. Like you're trespassing on someone else's space.

An interloper in a dream.

Very, very rare days. You enter, and for a short fragment of a moment, you feel as though you're meeting someone there. Like you'll open the door and a familiar face will say 'took you long enough', and everything will fit again. Like all the broken pieces will be fixed. No longer tangled and shoved under skin that does not fit.

You wait for that day to be a reality, that all it will take is that one moment and you won't need to ask questions anymore, because the answers will be there.

It's that small bit of hope, you think, that EVER would want stamped out. That small fragment of your heart even the core cannot touch.

Memories don't work like that, though. You looked Caleb in the face and nothing fell back into place. You were not magically fixed, there was no song of angels, or the call of hope. You were still just you, except now you had a reminder that you were irrevocably broken.

"Destiny Cafe?" You stare at him, truly stare at him as he smiles. You don't know what it means, but the look in his eyes makes you turn away. Cheeks warm.

"Yeah, they're good. Good drinks."

"The macarons are-"

"Really tasty." You swallow, you want to curl up and in on yourself. Like if you make yourself small he will stop looking at you. The heavy weight of the doctor's gaze, seeing into parts of you, you feel bad for showing, and even the parts you have not shown. Like he sees and understands, and comprehends beyond anything else.

It's not unlike the way Caleb had looked at you, like even the things you don't say, pieces you together in his mind.

You wonder absently, if you are less capable of wearing your mask, than you thought you were.

How can they understand you, when you do not understand yourself?

"I like the strawberry ones. If you go again, try those." You blink at him, but he's level again, steady. Like he's shaken off a power of foresight, and released you from his tower.

"I… Alright." You respond dumbly, maybe Raincoat is right, and you need lessons on how to talk to people. Maybe that would make this easier.

You'd only ever killed your targets, then kidnapped one, and now you had to spend time with one. Would it be easier if you simply just never engaged with him?

No, Doctor Li is stubborn, you can tell that much. You think he'd simply wear you down, or engage you easily enough, or trip you up with how much faster his brain works.

You haven't held a conversation with another person for months. The closest you get is insulting Leon, or arguing with Raincoat. In all this time, you had never actually conversed with someone. Even Philip, you keep it short.

Are you supposed to ask about his hobbies now?

No, he's just a job. You cannot look at him and see a person, you can't be his friend. You can't do anything that a person would do, because your orders could change. He could be added to the list, and this time it would not be capture.

Doctor Li, is a target, albeit one you have to protect, and that is all. Until the moment that changes, you just have to keep him safe.

It is a growling stomach that shocks you out of your thoughts, you look at the doctor, who blinks and looks at you. You look down at yourself, and feel the ache in your gut, a reminder you can only starve yourself so long, and the EVOL's burn up energy more than you're used to.

"We should eat." He offers, trying to hide his amusement. You very nearly throw your cup at him, but decide against it. You can purposefully miss, but on the off chance you dent his skull, you're sure Leon would start yapping at you like a tiny dog.

You think you like dogs, but you definitely don't like Leon, so the urge to kick him would be great.

"Sure, yeah. The canteen should be open. It's normally emptier later in the morning too." You stand, taking his and your cup to throw it in the sink. None too gently, but they don't break. "Let's go."

"Eating at EVER's compound, certainly an experience Sylus would find entertaining." You hear Zayne mutter, when you look over at him, he is brushing himself down, and righting the cuffs of his sleeves. Like the way he looks will matter to EVER.

Though, they will end up his colleagues, so maybe doctor's care about impressions.

Will?… Might. You correct. Doubting ever more that this man will sell his soul. If for no other reason, than you hope he does not. That his warm eyes mean something, where everything here means nothing. It's a stupid, pathetic little hope.

"The food's not terrible. They care enough about making sure their scientists don't drop down to malnutrition." It's about the only thing they have going for them, you muse. Not terrible food, to counteract the terrible people. "Sylus is the guy, with the red eyes, right?"

Zayne blinks, and his hand twitches, you watch. He hesitates and then nods, "Yes, that's him."

Red eyes and static…

You don't say what you want to say, that he smelt like flowers, or his eyes burned you were they met yours. You don't say what you really want to say, that you're sorry. That you didn't want to hurt him. He wasn't a target, but you couldn't risk failing. That you hoped he was ok.

There's no real fear in the doctor's eyes, like he knows that the man is fine. You don't ask, or offer anything. What value do regrets have in the hands of the person who committed cruelty?

"I'm sure he'd hate to be here." You manage, but it feels as empty as you do. A comment about a man you do not know, who has seared himself into your memory, just like the Doctor has.

You're surprised when Zayne laughs and steps over to you as you head to the door, "He would find this whole thing a challenge. One he'd aim to win."

If that's the case, you're a little sad he wasn't on the list to be captured. If he was so driven to fight and claw, then perhaps he would bring this whole thing down. Perhaps he could finally put an end to it. To you.

It would certainly bring with it a relief, a quiet you want more than anything. No more questions, no more static, and no more agony on the edges of your heart. Maybe then you could shake off this guilt for the pain you'd inflicted on a man with silver hair across his chest, and the man with red eyes. Who had simply been too in the way for you to step around.

Like that alleviated it, or made it acceptable.

"He sounds… fun." You half answer, opening the door, only to walk straight into someone's chest.

A hand steadies you at the waist, though you quickly pull back from the contact, and you go to hiss but falter when a flustered and red cheeked Caleb stares down at you.

It is then you remember, you did not wait for him, you did not leave him a note, so used to being alone, and you disappeared. It had been a fear of yours when you went into the shower, and came back out to see if he was still there.

It is a new guilt that bites at you and makes you feel small. Like a child, caught stealing, you think. Fidgeting.

"You're ok." He exhales, and places his hand on your cheek, which you do not fight off. Though the contact feels scalding on skin that is so unused to it. "Maybe next time, Pipsqueak, you can inform me of any movement, so I don't think my injured best friend has gotten themselves into more trouble?" His thumb strokes your cheek bone, through black gloves, but the heat is still an inferno.

You want to speak, to say sorry? To tell him you're an adult, that you don't need him watching over you? To do something, anything, to focus away from the heat on your skin.

It is not you who breaks the quiet though, it is the doctor stood at your back, "Caleb?"

You step back, to release yourself, and stare at them both, at purple eyes narrowing at widened green, at a smile on a familiar face that makes you feel a chill down your back, so at odds with the comfort it had brought before. When he speaks, his voice is steady, but undeniably cold, with none of the warmth it had reserved for you in his worry, "Hey Zayne, it's been a while."

[slcmml]

teacher! schlatt & reader — a love experiement

★ it starts with curiosity. schlatt isn’t the type to seek out friendships with coworkers, but something about you intrigues him. you’re quiet but not standoffish, reserved but not boring. he catches himself lingering outside your classroom, peeking in to see what weird art project your students are working on. he’ll lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and drawl, “whatcha teachin’ ‘em today? finger painting?” just to see you get all shy.

★ he teases you constantly. he lives for your flustered little reactions, smirking when you avoid eye contact or mumble a response. but it’s never mean—just his way of pulling you out of your shell. “y’know, i never hear you raise your voice. what do you do when a kid misbehaves? stare ‘em down ‘til they repent?” you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward, and that’s how he knows he’s won.

★ he’s a bit of a mystery to you? schlatt is loud. and cocky. and a nuisance. but you notice things others don’t—how he never lingers at staff parties, how he prefers one on one conversations over big group settings, how he sometimes looks genuinely relieved when he steps into your quiet classroom after a long day.

★ the staff definitely has a bet going on. teachers love gossip, and your odd relationship is prime material. “they have to be dating.” “no way, they’re just ‘really close coworkers’.” meanwhile, you and schlatt are completely oblivious to the speculation, too caught up in your own little world of being fucking idiots.

★ he lowkey tries to impress you. if you ever mention finding a topic interesting, suddenly that becomes the focus of his next class. “yeah, so today’s lesson is about bioluminescence. which is pretty cool, i guess. not that anyone asked, but y’know, some people might find it interesting.” literally only does this for class so he can tell you about it later.

★ you start to pick up on his social battery? i mean, despite how extroverted he acts, you notice he sometimes disappears during lunch breaks or avoids crowded teacher’s meetings. at first, you assume he just doesn’t care, but one day, you find him sitting alone in his empty classroom, quietly grading papers. you hesitate before stepping in, holding up a coffee. “thought you might want a break.” he looks at you, then at the coffee, then back at you, before exhaling. “you’re somethin’ else, darlin’.”

★ he’s weirdly protective of you. if another teacher tries to talk over you in a staff meeting? he immediately cuts in, backing you up without hesitation. if a student’s giving you a hard time? suddenly schlatt’s popping his head into your room like, “need me to send someone out? jus’ say the word.”

★ neither of you realize you’re basically dating? you spend so much time together, fall into so many easy conversations, and yet, neither of you quite acknowledge what’s happening.

★ schlatt probably teases you about how “art can’t be that hard” almost all the time.

★ at some point you finally call his bluff and tell him to sit down and prove it. he tries to act all nonchalant, but he’s secretly a little nervous because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you.

★ he’s stiff at first. when you hand him a brush, he just kind of stares at it like he’s holding a foreign object. “alright, what am i s’posed to do? jus’... start wavin’ this thing around?”

★ he’s used to precise measurements and structured formulas, so the whole “just go with the flow” thing throws him off.

★ his grip on the brush is terrible, so without thinking, you reach over and adjust his fingers. the second your hands touch, he freezes. you don’t even notice, too focused on correcting his technique, but schlatt is sitting there, completely distracted by the fact that you’re this close to him.

★ he keeps sneaking glances at you. while you’re explaining different brushstrokes, he’s barely listening—just watching the way your face lights up when you talk about art. at one point, you lean in to demonstrate something, and he swears his brain short-circuits for a second.

★ he’s terrible at painting, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. his first attempt looks like absolute garbage—uneven strokes, weird colors, a total mess. but when he turns to you all smug like, “pretty good, huh?” you just smile softly and say, “it’s… unique.” (he knows that means it’s bad.)

★ he actually listens when you correct him. for all his teasing, schlatt really does take your advice seriously. when you gently tell him to loosen up his strokes or blend the colors more naturally, he follows your instructions without argument. he won’t admit it, but hearing you talk so passionately about something makes him want to try—even if it’s just to impress you a little.

★ you wipe paint off his face without thinking. at some point, he manages to get a streak of paint on his cheek. without thinking, you reach up and swipe it off with your thumb. you don’t even realize what you’ve done until you notice he’s completely silent. when you finally look at him, his ears are bright red. “uh—” he clears his throat. “thanks.”

★ he insists you keep his first painting. he knows it’s bad, you know it’s bad, but he shoves it into your hands anyway. “frame it. tell people it’s modern art or somethin’.” you laugh, but later that night, you do end up keeping it. it’s terrible, but it’s his, and for some reason, that makes it special.

★ the whole thing just feels a lot more intimate than either of you expected. it’s just painting, but there’s something about the quiet closeness, the shared laughter, and the little moments of eye contact that make your heart race. neither of you say anything about it, but after that day, something between you shifts—like maybe, just maybe, this whole thing was never really about painting at all.

★ ANYWAY YOU BOTH ARE FUCKING LOSERS BECAUSE LIKE CHARLIE YOU BOTH ARE TOO PUSSY TO TELL EACH OTHER YOU WANNA SWAP SPIT JUST FUCK ALREADY I DON’T FUCKING KNOW

© slcmml

[not-poignant]

Hi, Pia! A year ago I discovered you through the Mysterious Skin fanfic, which truthfully has helped me in so many emotional layers till this day (and always will). After that read, I jumped on your profile and was blown away by the world you have created with your own hands. You really inspired me to publish my first fic in AO3 recently (for a random fandom), but sadly I've been having a hard time with it.

At the beginning I was relieved that fear didn't stop me anymore, but then it happened again, it came back, in another form, hitting me harder. I don't know how to explain myself, it's just that I think I'm not good enough, that there are better stories with better characterisations and when I read one of those I think: "This is perfect, I could never achieve this level, I don't have this voice, I should just delete mine, I don't have nothing to say, I can't make people feel this way" and I hate to have those feelings because I think it breaks down the true meaning of writing in general (to help people, to connect, to make a tribute, to have an emotional journey), but at this point I have lost my mind. My dream was always to be a writer, but I left it behind for so many reasons, now I thought things were changing inside me, but I guess it's not the case, I can't even deal with a fanfic...

I just wonder if you have ever feel this way before. How did you start writing? How has it been for you? How do you deal with these things? Feel free to answer me only if you're comfortable with that, I don't wanna put pressure on you as if you were my spiritual guide, but, for all the thoughts and things you share here, I think you are a wise person.

Sorry for the long text, I don't have people in real life to talk to about these issues. I'm really grateful to you already because of your story, it's always in my heart, it's part of me. Btw, I hope you are doing well, keep the amazing work. ❤️

PS: Sorry for the mistakes, not a native English speaker here.

Hi anon,

Congrats on posting your first fic! That's really huge. Even if it does open us up to The Insecurities, it's still a massive thing to do in the first place and I'm so happy for you.

As to everything else, oomf, let's get into it.

So the first thing is there is no writer out there who doesn't get assailed - literally assailed - by insecurities and massive feelings of self-doubt or even self-hatred over their writing (if there is, I haven't met them).

There's no point in writing at which they stop, and if you overcome some, new ones come in their place. I think that's just the nature of the beast - both wanting to (ideally) please at least some of our readers, and also offer something decent to read.

It can help to realise this is a normal part of writing and the experience. Obviously at its most severe, it might require therapy support, or professional support of some kind, but getting assailed by The Insecurities is part of being a creative person.

I don't know how to explain myself, it's just that I think I'm not good enough, that there are better stories with better characterisations

So yeah, this is true. Hear me out! This is true for me too. This is true for every writer that exists. Even the ones who win Pulitzers. This is going to sound blunt, but this is true for every story in the world. I know when I post my works that there are better stories with better characterisations out there. And there are stories that I consider perfect to me. But this last part is really important! I don't get to determine what's perfect for everyone. I'm not allowed to make that choice for them. And also people don't read in order to find The Most Perfect Story Ever, they read for many many many reasons, and that one often isn't even on the list! That's just on our list, when we feel beset by The Insecurities.

Like, yes, better stories exist. That's very subjective. They're better to you, they might not be better to some of the readers who read your work, and unless your only goal in writing is to be 'the best ever' (this is not a great goal imho because it's unattainable) sometimes a simple 'oh...yeah I mean it's true there are better stories according to me, but that doesn't mean that people won't enjoy mine, or that people won't think my stories aren't the best, and I'm not even writing to be the best in the world, so I don't know why I'm listening to this because it's not even what my values are in writing.'

But I also need to make it clear that your insecurities will never leave you 100%. They find new ways to come back, and they do keep coming back. We get periods free of the worst of it, often have low-key doubts in the background fairly frequently, and sometimes feel really good about writing. That's...writing. You haven't done anything wrong in your writing or in yourself when you have new insecurities coming in, and you've acknowledged yourself that things have already changed, because these are new or different insecurities. Think of it like an upward spiral, you circle back to feeling insecure, you have to if you want to keep going up.

You won't stay there forever, but the circling is part of the process. It can help to remind yourself of some cognitively true facts - what you think is perfect in writing is someone else's 'worst story ever' if they read it. What you love to read is not necessarily what you end up writing, and that doesn't mean it can't be someone's favourite story. And yeah, someone has already done something better by our standards, because I don't think there's any point on this journey where we go 'that's it, I've done it, I've become the best writer ever, insecurities begone!!!' (It would be nice, but it's not how it works).

So when insecurities come back it's not 'oh god I've failed at writing and/or keeping the insecurities away' it's - this is normal. You can go 'oh I'm being a regular writer right now, in the hard part of it.' I know this. It sucks. It probably means I need a break when it gets really bad, and I need to recharge a bit. I can keep improving, and my writing doesn't have to be anything other than entertaining. I've pretty much struck perfect from my vocabulary. It's too subjective.

I just wonder if you have ever feel this way before.

Anon, about twice a year I feel so bad about my writing I become convinced that the only answer is to delete all of it off my AO3 accounts. And on a regular basis I go between what I consider fairly normal insecurities (is that closing okay / is this arc good / will people like this character / have I pushed this too far / oh god my engagement is down am I terrible at writing), to pretty intense ones (idk why I do this nothing I write is good / how have I convinced these amazing people that this is worth their time / I wish I could write like (insert X author here) instead of this absolute mid shit etc.)

It helps me a lot to know that some of it is mental illness, but most of it is actually just normal. I'm a writer who wants my readers to have a good time and who wants to write something I can be proud of, and sometimes my brain won't let me feel proud of anything I've done because I made it, and sometimes I don't like myself very much. It means I should work on liking myself more. It doesn't mean I should stop writing.

I started writing as a kid, to cope with fairly awful life circumstances at home. So I was lucky that insecurities didn't matter because no one was seeing my writing except for me, I already hated myself (because people who were supposed to care for me, hated me - there's a reason I write the stories I do!) and I was literally trying to survive something that some people don't survive.

When I started sharing my writing, The Insecurities came. And...idk, I learned how to recognise it as a normal part of the process. It took a long, long time. It's normal to feel like there's something unique about how much we suffer over not liking our writing or feeling like it's bad, that the insecurities say something really true about our writing or even our integrity as a person.

Most of the time they say nothing at all except about the state of our mental health and how tired we are. For example, it's more normal for artists and writers to hate what they create during times of government unrest, or increased oppression, or in abusive households, because it's a way to redirect a lot of very unpleasant feelings to something we think we can control.

Sometimes it just happens because we're tired and the wave crashes over the dam we have in place that says 'go away insecurities.' Like you'd be amazed how much food, staying hydrated, getting good sleep / having good sleep hygiene can actually keep the worst of The Insecurities at bay.

Sometimes we need a break! Too much of a good thing in writing can lead to our brain trying to tell us we're terrible at it so we'll just walk away and watch some movies for a bit! The best way to prevent that is to take a break before we get there.

The good news is, you're a writer feeling something very normal for us writers. The bad news is that it feels bad. It can help to step back a bit, and also to join some writer's groups online maybe, ones that focus on support and lifting people up.

I wish I could say you one day hit a point where the insecurities never come back, but if anything, I don't think you can do these sorts of crafts without them. At their extremes they're not good for us, but the extremes of anything aren't good for us. You're not alone, I promise. The worst you've felt about your writing, is the worst many people have felt about their writing. It's just...often such a lonely process and many writers don't talk about it, but it's there, and it won't last. It's part of the spiral. Over time, you might find it easier when you know it's normal, and temporary, but frankly, there are times it's just really, really hard.

You will move past this, and then one day you'll touch on this again, and then you'll move past it again. Sometimes we spend longer in it than we wanted to, sometimes we need to take a longer break than we meant to, sometimes we write more than was good for us with how tired we were at the time.

It's not perfect, it's not supposed to be perfect, but it is part of the journey, it just means you're a writer like the rest of us writers, anon. I hope you can find your way back into writing more soon! And I hope you can be compassionate towards yourself. You put yourself out there, and have been writing, and honestly that's fucking amazing. I think you're awesome.

[sirfrogsworth]

This bugged me so much that I actually watched Spider-Man last night.

To show you how cherry picked this nonsense is...

Doc Ock sees Spider-Man in the shadows. He only knows that the Tom Holland Spider-Man is in this universe.

And then Spidey walks forward to reveal, he is Tobey Spider-Man!

In the context of the scene, this lighting makes a lot of sense. Doc Ock can't really tell who it is until he steps into the light. You feel what the character feels when this reveal happens. It was an artistic decision that I think worked very effectively.

But if you cherry pick different scenes, you can find some really cool looking shots with more dynamic lighting.

The movie did not feel overly dark to me. There are far worse examples.

But then I looked at Spider-Man 3 from 2007. I found the scene used in the example. In the scene, there are news helicopters and spotlights that occasionally light up the characters.

This does not look nearly as bright as the Twitter photo. And that is because it was a promotional still that was most likely photoshopped and enhanced for marketing.

Here is the full image released as a "leak" to the press.

Photos are color graded much differently than movies. For a still frame, the dynamic range is pushed to the limits. You only have that single frame to convey your artistic vision. But for a movie, you want to use dynamic range over a period of time for impact. If you make everything have max contrast and brightness in every frame, your eyes are gonna get tired and the impact will be diminished.

And if you look at a few other shots from this same section of the movie, you can cherry-pick some pretty dark shots if you want.

There is a debate in the world of cinematography about "motivated" light. Especially when it comes to night scenes.

Do you shoot your movie with light that could not possibly exist?

Or do you try to "motivate" the light so there is a plausible source for where it comes from?

Or do you do a mixture?

Some people do not care if the light is unmotivated or unrealistic. But for lighting nerds like me, it can sometimes break the immersion. In fact, I was just watching Die Hard 4 the other night and this scene triggered my spidey-sense.

They are in the middle of a blackout. All lights are out. Where the heck is this bright ass light coming from? Even a full moon is not that fucking bright. The glare on the road is literally blowing out the film stock to pure white.

Most people don't care.

But some people care.

Directors and cinematographers tend to be lighting nerds like me. And many like to justify where the light is coming from. It's a big artistic choice and a lot of viewers do not agree with the decision to go more realistic. And so you get this "movies are too dark" discourse. Could a compromise be made? Is there a happy medium? Will this current fad just die out? Or will it evolve into something new that makes everyone a little happier?

Nope had a very novel solution to this lighting conundrum. They actually shot during the day and used infrared film along with normal film to compose a very visually legible day-for-night effect.

But that was very expensive and a lot of work to dial in. It wasn't a push button solution and the sky had to be replaced.

People have a lot of strong opinions about this. They want their personal viewing experience and tastes prioritized. But to fix the sound for people using small speakers, you have to make the experience worse for people with home theaters. To fix the darkness you have to do the same, but you also have to go against artistic intent.

Let's say I posted this photo I took and edited it to be dark and spooky.

This is what "hypothetical me" felt suited this photo best from my artistic instincts. And I edited it on a 32-inch, 4K, 1000 nit, perfectly calibrated monitor, in a dark environment. I kept the subject small in the frame because I wanted the darkness to envelop her.

But someone says, "Hey, I'm viewing this on a phone on a park bench on a sunny day. She is too small and the photo is too dark. I can't tell what is going on. You need to brighten this photo and crop it so I can see it better."

That hypothetical person has demanded hypothetical me change my artistic vision to suit their circumstances.

As an artist, that feels kinda bad.

Even if a consensus of people think I made a bad artistic choice and the majority of people will not see my photo as I created it, should I compromise my intent and change it?

What do I do?

Personally, I want as many people as possible to enjoy my photographic antics. I like to consider input and sometimes I do change my mind. But if people *demanded* I change a photo... I'd probably be pretty unhappy about that.

So you have a situation where there is artistic intent, displays with technical limitations, and varied viewing circumstances all crashing together and everyone wants their needs prioritized.

If you think you have a perfect solution to this or a way to please everyone, I assure you, you don't. I've been researching this for years. There is no compromise that will make everyone happy aside from making different versions of the content. But if you do that, some of those versions may go against the artist's wishes.

I think creating a new version would be easier for the sound. Streaming services already have multiple audio tracks for different languages and descriptive audio. I don't think it would be very hard to create a stereo mix for small speakers.

But the darkness issue is another matter. Every single device has a different screen with a different max brightness and a different dynamic range and a different way of tone mapping and a different array of settings you can change. And your viewing experience can change drastically depending on the size of the screen and the lighting of the room you are in.

The good news is, modern displays are all getting much brighter. If you are in a bright environment, your display will be able to compete with the light. And as more people watch content in HDR, both dark and bright details will be easier to see. Artists can create a dark scene that still has plenty of detail with that expanded dynamic range. But I'm afraid HDR is still pretty new and they are still figuring out the best practices for color grading and lighting and all that. There are movies that have flat color grades to make the VFX and HDR color grades easier, but contrast and saturation take a hit. Wicked is getting a lot of flak for that. But I do think movies will look better on more screens in more challenging settings in the next decade or so.

And there are some imperfect solutions you can employ in present day.

For audio...

Prime Video has a dialogue boost mode. There are headphones and soundbars and streaming devices that have the same in their settings. Though getting something with a center channel speaker will help more than anything.

There is also a dynamic range compression feature in audio receivers and other devices. That's usually called night mode or quiet mode. You might be able to find a phone app or computer app to do this. It will raise the volume of the quiet stuff and lower the volume of the loud stuff. People sensitive to volume changes and hard of hearing folks seem to find this mode helpful. (And people that want to watch porn at a low volume.)

For video...

VLC Player and Media Player Classic both have ways to adjust various brightness and contrast and color settings. You can almost apply your own color grade to what you watch.

There is a plugin for Media Player Classic called "MadVR" which has endless options you can tweak. It has a learning curve, but it is very powerful. Here is a setup guide.

Tweaking the actual video file works much better than adjusting the settings of your display. You can get a much more natural looking image. But if you use a streaming service this doesn't really help much due to their proprietary players. MadVR makes a hardware solution that would work, but it is very expensive.

Rtings.com has a great guide on how to calibrate a TV or Monitor. Depending on your display and how well it was calibrated by the manufacturer, this could help you see things better and also get a more accurate experience aligned with the artist's intent.

That said, movies are always crafted to be seen in a dark, quiet environment. They design movie theaters like that for a reason. If you want the best experience and you want to honor the artist's intent, matching that environment as close as you can is the way to go.

I know that isn't always possible. And I know I didn't even touch on people with disabilities and the complexity of improving their experiences. But this is as much as I can explain with my energy right now.

I honestly am not sure how I wrote this much. But I guess that Twitter post pissed me off enough to give me rage energy.

I have two posts 90% written that have been sitting in my drafts forever. One is about how megapixels are deceiving. And the other is about why people feel TV and movies are too dark.

I don't know when I will find the energy to finish them. But I do want to say this...

If something seems too dark, make sure you are in a dark room when watching it.

For a long time, I thought people just didn't have their screens adjusted properly. But then I saw a guy complaining about this on Twitter and he was watching on an old laptop with a dim screen in his kitchen next to a giant glass door in the middle of a sunny day.

Light competes with light.

The brighter thing will always win.

Make sure your screen is the brightest thing in the room. If you need some lights on, make sure they are behind the screen (bias lighting). The dimmer your screen, the darker your environment needs to be.

Bonus tip... if you are having trouble hearing the show, try a quieter room and make sure your speakers are close to you.

It's the same concept. A/C hum or fans or any ambient noise can hurt the fidelity of your sound.

Sound competes with sound.

Also, speakers have to work harder the farther away they are. If the speakers are underpowered, this can cause distortion. So if you move closer to your speakers, they can operate at a lower volume and work more efficiently.

Every movie/show is mastered in a super dark, super quiet room. The closer you can come to matching those conditions, the better your experience will be.

[pueraeternal]

Agape: Greek for unconditional love

This poem explores the theme of unconditional love. It emphasizes a love that is all-encompassing and accepting, one that sees beyond superficial flaws and insecurities. The poem suggests that this kind of love is essential for human connection and understanding. It encourages us to look at each other with compassion and empathy, recognizing and accepting each other’s true selves.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Can you expand on what you mean by Baron being "too cool" to really fit a horror monster? It's a very interesting concept and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Is it that they're too active/involved/tangible and it detracts from their scariness?

I feel like I should preface this with a wall of disclaimers lmao 1/I am a hardcore, down-to-the-marrow, avid, deeply sincere horror enthusiast, esp. horror creatures. this usually means my mileage is vastly different from the average populace's, and my scaredy bone has been disintegrated by longterm exposure. most things in a piece of horror media won't scare me! so I practically never use that on its own as the scale to talk abt horror experiences, but when something does scare me it's always a special occasion to be treasured. 2/canon d20 is never really meant to be horror horror, and for good reasons: it doesn't fit the company's output, it takes a kind of carelessness in production estimation that is always a huge risk, it's often vulnerable in a way that kinda goes against how TTRPGs usually facilitates vulnerability, and for most people it's just! stressful! d20, even with the "horror-themed" seasons, generally just plays with horror tropes and stays focused in its goal of being a comedy improv tabletop theater show. 3/fantasy high's chosen system is DnD, which as I've mentioned before is before all a combat-based game system, which means the magic circle of play is drawn based on stats that facilitate and prioritize combat. want or not this affects every interaction you have in the game, and given fantasy high's concept from the ground up (everyone's going to school of DnD stuff to get better at DnD) it's doubly relevant. 4/This Is Fine I have no quarrel with this. my meters are internal, I do not ask this show to be anything it doesn't advertise itself to be, and what it is is fucking great! I like it! when I expand on this ask's question it will be like a physicist going insane in a lab. that's the mindset we're going in with.

disclaimers done. my stance on horror as a genre is that it's a utility genre rather than a content genre or a demographic genre; it is the discard of narratives. it's the trash pile. horror, above being scary, is about being ugly and messy, it's the cracks on the ground any story inevitably steps over to stay a genre that isn't horror. the genre's been around long enough to develop a codex and a general language that medias and makers and enthusiasts of the genre can use to talk about and build onto, but if you go into individual pieces there's really no unifying Horror Story. one person's beautiful life can be another's horror story, it's just how it is.

this makes The Monster a deeply intriguing piece of the genre. thing is a monster is in a decent percentage of any story - it's just when the antagonist force steps into something past a certain line traced out in the story's world. monstrousness is in pretty much every western fantasy story, it's in any story with a hero and something to vanquish or win; more than anything it's a proxy of that thing up there. the line in a narrative's world. the monster is the guard of the unknown lands, where heroic, civilized people don't tread.

what does this mean in the context of horror? the genre is about that perceived lawlessness, that "unknown land" so to say. we're in the monster's home. that's the literary context that we often walk into a horror piece with; the monster knows more than you about where you are. it may not understand you, but it holds more information than you, and with that it moves swifter than you, has more covered than you, and is more assured in its existence in this context than you. it's a struggle to catch up to it, it's nigh impossible to get one over it, and you're never sure it'll 100% work, because you just don't have the information necessary to.

with that framing you can kinda see where I'm coming from here: horror's often about the breaking of rules. I always think a monster's most effective when it breaks well-established rules of both existence and visual storytelling. think Possum (2018) or Undertale's Omega Flowey or the Xenomorph Queen - unique change in medium, unique change in graphic, unique change in design language, etc. in that sense I actually really like how canon baron plays out: they don't really function like anything else in the fantasy high universe, the bad kids have not managed to kill them when they've felled literal gods, their domain in fhjy literally introduces new mechanics to encompass their existence! from an experience design standpoint they slap mad shit. BUT! I can't help finding their character, like as a character riz (and the other bad kids, eventually) interact with, to be very... coherent? in design. this is kinda hard for me to articulate in words, it's more often a sense you get once you've looked at enough of these scrumptious fuckers, their general design and the way they show up is just kinda too clean, so to say. always kinda newly made? fresh unboxed. it, once again, makes sense for their lore - they are looking for more about themself from riz - and their function - they're an antagonist in a game experience, they're meant to be interacted with in a way that produces results and meshes with the existing magic circle - but that shininess takes away from the implied history they should have dominion over and the person they're haunting doesn't.

from another angle there is kinda something there about how put-together canon baron is as a concept; the domain they call home is riz's deep-seeded fears, extremely vulnerable things he's drawn borders around to quarantine and refused to walk into. things that from his perspective would irreversibly shatter certain pleasant fictions his world is built on top of. canon baron, While Extremely Cool, I feel is kinda too neat to connect with and signify the apocalyticized mess that'd result from this paradigm shift. the part where they're in riz's briefcase and looking through every mirror is Very Cool And Fucked Up! but ultimately the show draws a line around them as well, by making game-physical, tangible spaces they're in (the mirrors and the haunted mordred manor) and put riz and the bad kids there only when they need to confront stuff. riz is meaningfully narratively away from baron's unknown land for most of fantasy high.

with that and all of my disclaimers in mind my conclusion here is if canon baron wants to be a Horror Monster they'd have to cross way more lines. be a Lot more invasive. hence (holds up my class swap baron like a long cat)

[giantkillerjack]

Uh-oh! You are like, SOOO awkward!!

You're so awkward that it is occasionally mildly uncomfortable for people!

You're so awkward that sometimes people are confused by you and then there are awkward silences!

You're so awkward ...... that ultimately no one is harmed!!

Oh damn!!! What a vile crime you have committed! What an unforgivable thing it is to make a fellow human briefly confused!

Why, if *I* were ever briefly confused and kind of uncomfortable as a result, I'd be devastated.... by the absolute net zero change in my happiness and health! - From which I might never recover!! Yes indeed! No punishment can ever be enough for you!!

So you better absolutely hate yourself for it.

Better be SO MEAN to yourself about every single missed social cue so you don't forget your horrible crime! Meaner than you'd ever dream of being to someone else for the same thing! This is YOUR responsibility!

You need to show the world that you KNOW you are bad by punishing yourself constantly! After all, think of all the people who BENEFIT from you punishing yourself! - No, really! Think about it! Think about who benefits from your pain.

Think of alllllll the definitely-good people that your definitely-necessary self-torment definitely helps! I mean, you can't just cut off their definitely-life-sustaining supply of your suffering, right?? Sure, everyone else has a breaking point, but you're probably the only person in human history who doesn't, right? Best not to question it probably. Sure, it's a symptom that billions of people with trauma have had, but who knows? You could be a one-in-seven-billion exception. Anything's possible!

Instead, better just accept that idea that bullies carry like guns in holsters - the idea that people who have trouble with social cues deserve to suffer. Better carry on the burden they placed on you until you drop. Aid the cause of the callous by enforcing shame and suffering upon yourself extra hard; try your best to do their work for them. They're very busy.

Better not recognize that you need patience and kindness to heal from your trauma. Better not find out that it was trauma rather than personal weakness filling your head with self-hating thoughts. Better not find out it wasn't your fault.

Better not find out that awkwardness is not inherently harmful or unkind, and, in fact, the people who act like it is *are the ones enacting harm and being cruel.*

Better not get righteously angry when you realize just how much unnecessary damage this has done to you. After all, if you get mad, you might realize you deserve better. You might even feel brave enough to DEMAND better! You might build boundaries that keep you safe! You might make other people think they deserve to feel safe too! And we obviously can't be having that, so...

Better not show yourself even a little kindness a little bit at a time.

Better not make a habit out of it after all that practice.

Better not get confident.

Especially if you can't first wipe out every trace of awkward. (And you probably never will. Because people who experience absolute social certainty at all times tend to be insufferable assholes that enforce the status quo. And you just don't have the stock portfolio for that.)

Better not be confident and awkward because then you might confuse and delight people

- you might accidentally end up making other people feel less shame for their social difficulties

- you might make isolated, traumatized, and shy people feel like they deserve to be included in social situations

- you might even make them feel they can be themselves around you

- you might start loving the effect you have on a room

- you might enjoy conversations more

- you might forgive yourself and bounce back from shame more easily and frequently

- you might come to enjoy some of those moments of harmless confusion you cause because NOBODY expects the Confident Awkward, and that can genuinely be an advantage in social situations

- you might stop apologizing so much.

- you might find that socializing is like a video game: it requires practice but also a safe space for it to be fun and positive.

Or if you can't become assertive and confident, better not remain awkward and shy and quiet, and then love and forgive yourself anyway!

Why, it would be carnage!!

In either scenario, you run the risk of finding out that it's not your fault that safe spaces full of kind people can be really hard to find, create, and nurture. You could end up building a skillset that helps you do those things if you're not careful!

If you start giving yourself even the tiniest amount of grace at a time, you will find that you've accessed a gateway drug with extreme long-term side effects:

- You might realize that it was never your fault that it took so long to like yourself.

- You might realize that you were always worth talking to, even when you didn't like yourself and communication felt impossibly difficult.

- You might realize that you'll still be worth talking to even if communication becomes harder as you age and/or experience disability.

- You might come to know that you deserve to be heard even on bad days when words come slow and blurry.

You might discover that you were always deserving of kindness, first and foremost from yourself.

So. As you can see, it's FAR too much of a risk to start granting your awkward self free pardons for your many heinous and harmless crimes. Better to just leave it there.

[neon-danger]

call me crazy but I don’t hate the umbrella academy season 4

[neverendingford]

Therapists have two genders:

Professional Asshole and

Well-meaning Incompetent

[discoreptile]

Wee ha

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I have got to go for a long drive or take a flight out of here someday soon