#but that's something that absolutely would have consequences

[dytabytes]

Ok, OP was probably not looking for or expecting this response, but I have to say as a practicing dentist: if your dentist is telling you flat out to just give up tea and coffee and sugar and all the other load-bearing pleasures in your life, I think they're doing their job wrong. My job as a dentist isn't just to treat teeth; I'm supposed to treat the whole person. In the end, your body is your body. If you want to do things to it and with it, that's not my judgement call to make. My role, in truth, is 1) making sure that you know the consequences of your actions so that you can make informed decisions about what you're doing with your body, and 2) figuring out compromises so that you can be as healthy and pain-free as you can be. For the record, if a person wants to have caramel instant coffee, I'd say absolutely have it. Yes, it's going to increase your decay risk and stain, but so does eating food in general. IMO, the least "damaging" way to have it would be to drink it all within a meal time and then rinse out with water after, to minimize excess sugar from sitting on your teeth for a long period of time... but if that's not something you want to or can do, then it's not something that's going to happen. You deserve thorough, compassionate care anyway.

You deserve thorough, compassionate medical care without judgement or shame in all aspects of medicine, to be honest, no matter what choices you have made or what actions you have taken, simply because you are human.

If your dentist, or any other medical provider, doesn't understand that, they don't deserve their license (and I recommend finding a new one if you can)

Sometimes little pleasures in life are loadbearing. Whenever someone is like "If you'd just give up tea and coffee and sugar and--" im like I'll stop you right there. Because if you finish that sentence i am going to kill everyone in this building and then myself. If i have to face the horrors of the world without my little jar of caramel flavoured instant coffee i am going to go full American Psycho. Believe it or not, my main priority in life is not to have perfect teeth or be an Olympic athlete or look like a supermodel, but to actually enjoy living, because I spent far too long not doing that and it royally sucked. And boy, some people don't like hearing that. Particularly dentists

[aleksatia]

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

[eeriepromis]

THE LADS AS PARTNERS-IN-CRIME

Origin Story of this idea started in the official Discord Server with me saying Caleb is someone I could steal horses with.

The German saying "jemand, mit dem man Pferde stehlen könnte" describes a person who is extremely trustworthy, adventurous, and reliable - someone you can count on for anything, even risky or mischievous endeavors. Translation: "Someone you could steal horses with." Equivalent English Saying: "A partner in crime."

[+ Marauder's Special at the end.]

I feel like Rafayel, Sylus, and Caleb give off total partner-in-crime vibes. I can just picture them as teenagers, always up to some mischievous antics, sticking together through thick and thin.

Zayne, on the other hand, would absolutely be the one trying to talk sense into them, worrying about the consequences. But let’s be real - he’d still get dragged into it in the end. He’s that friend who nervously points out how risky their plan is while following along anyway.

Xavier? Tbh I have no clue - he is a wild card. I feel like he’d be the quiet one who just goes with the flow- until he suddenly suggests something so completely unhinged that even Raf and Sylus would pause. Meanwhile, Caleb would just pat his head and agree that it’s a brilliant idea.

Sylus would definitely be the strategist, the one actually figuring out how to pull off their wild schemes without getting caught.

And Rafayel - He’d be bouncing ideas back and forth with Sy or MC- while dramatically complaining about his designer clothes getting wrinkled and dusty. xDD

Omg - Imagine them with this kinda dynamic during the Marauder Times in Harry Potter

Their Hogwarts Houses

Gryffindor - MC & Xavier Slytherin - Sylus & Rafayel Hufflepuff - Caleb Ravenclaw - Zayne

The Midnight Heist

The Gryffindor common room was dimly lit, the dying embers in the fireplace casting flickering shadows as five figures huddled together near the window. Outside, the castle grounds stretched out under the silver glow of the full moon.

“We are not doing this,” Zayne whispered, arms crossed, looking like he was already regretting showing up. “Breaking into the Restricted Section is expulsion-worthy. Do any of you have an actual plan?”

Sylus smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Of course we do. What do you take us for, amateurs?”

“That’s exactly what I take you for,” Zayne deadpanned.

Rafayel, perched lazily on the arm of a chair, stretched like a cat. “Relax, bird boy. We’re professionals. Well, Sylus is. The rest of us are just here for the chaos.”

Caleb snorted, nudging MC’s shoulder. “And this one is here because she has no self-preservation instincts. I swear, Pipsqueak, one of these days I’m going to have to bail you out of actual trouble.”

MC grinned. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Caleb rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Xavier, who had been silent until now, suddenly piped up, “Why don’t we just tame the library’s guardian monster instead? That way, we don’t have to sneak past it.”

A brief silence.

“…Xavier, what monster?” MC asked slowly.

“The one that’s supposed to be guarding the Restricted Section.”

More silence.

“…There’s no monster,” Sylus finally said, brows furrowing.

Xavier blinked. “Oh. Then what was that huge shadow I saw moving between the bookshelves last week?”

Raf sat up straight. “Excuse me?”

“Okay,” MC clapped her hands together. “New plan: get in, get the book, and get out before we find out what Xavier saw.”

“And if we do find out?” Caleb asked.

Sylus grinned. “Then we make it part of the plan.”

Zayne sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I cannot believe I’m the only responsible one in this group.”

MC smirked. “Then why are you still here?”

With a hidden smile decorating his lips Zayne replied: “Because someone’s gotta make sure you guys don’t get eaten by an imaginary book monster.”

[ranger-kellyn]

OH WAIT

in light of me reading the Imbalance comic, where Suki teaches a bunch of non-benders how to chi block, do we think Amon's henchmen who can chi block are like. an unintended consequence of Suki teaching them?? like how apparently Kyoshi originally trained the Dai Li and came to regret it because of how corrupt they became?

[trappedinafantasy37]

The last DeVir and the forgotten Baenre. Two noble drow forever exiled from their homes and abandoned by Lolth.

[theanimetrackstar]

I was thinking of a fmab and dr stone cross over, and I can't decide if Senku and Ed would immediately get along like a house on fire or if they'd immediately hate each other on the basis that they're eerily similar.

[genderfluid-rat-god]

im putting one post and one post only. ive said what i wanted. you say we should have told you. we did. every time you freaked out. do you know how tiring it is to tell someone something over and over again and just have them freak out or just say "idk" when asked why?

and then for the last instance, we absolutely were gonna let it be. but then you started vague posting. and so we were joking about the things YOU said that made us uncomfortable and caused issues, the same way everyone does. because when you're over something and it no longer makes you upset, you joke about it. simple as that.

as for the joke bit. bsffr. anyone who does not know you, would not take that as a joke. most people do not joke like that with people they dont know well. key word. well. most people would take that as you saying their experiences werent as bad as yours.

yes. Kara's memories are real to her. you see them as real. but heres the thing. objectively, they are alter memories. this does not compare to someone's life that is happening right now.

you're saying this is taking accountability but you're just not. you push this on Kara being upset. But there are many messages THAT WE'VE SHOWN! of you specifically being weird and rude.

another bit. you keep saying things like "why would you say xyz when im abc" we dont know that. we dont know it but you keep acting like we know everything about you without you saying.

In every instance you paint yourself as the victim, even when we show proof of otherwise. you dont care. we had actually agreed earlier that we were done. you obviously didnt care that we were right.

you complained about us in another server and to people neither you nor us know. an impartial party and they agreed you were in the wrong and you cant handle it. you're upset that you tried to get someone on your side and you failed. thats not our problem. we didnt search it out, we literally did not make you complain about us to someone and it having consequences.

you act like we made you do any of this. but you started it. we started saying things to defend ourselves. you only say things to try and make us look bad, we come back with evidence and explanations. you wouldnt know anything about that. you're too busy acting like a child saying "look! look at what they're doing to me!" you're saying we're acting childish when thats exactly what you're doing.

i wrote out a thought-out response detailing what we had a problem with and why. i tried to explain it as nicely as i could. and what did you do? you blocked me within 10 minutes. instead of handling it, you ignored it.

this is my response. i am not responding after this. anything else you say there is a response for already. have fun!!❤️❤️

the situation

I did not want to have to do this, but I want to apologize to the people that need apologies. So, what happened from our point of view was that Kara made a joke in this system server about hell only being slightly worse than being a system. She makes these jokes all the time. With our friends, with other systems, it didn’t bother them so we didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Than people told us we were talking over the vent- which no. We were just trying to relate to the vent like you do in any vent channel to make them feel better. I feel like that’s pretty normal but I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was talking over you. Kara was just trying to make a joke about her experiences. We think that her memories are not false as we are demonkin. That’s our spiritual belief. We did not mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I apologize to anyone who feels uncomfortable with us comparing our experiences in hell with your own problems. That was a joke that we thought was ok but was not. Kara defended herself in not the best way, and when people stated dogpilling on her, we left because we were getting distressed. And than shit hit the fan. Kara privately vented about it on her own blog and all hell broke loose. People started invalidating our experiences. People started calling us fake for talking about our positive experiences with the disorder. Problems that we didn’t even know were problems started being leveled against us. We had already been considering leaving before because Jeremy had a hunch this group was toxic. I should have listened to him. Multiple people have told me this group is toxic. They have started mocking me. Making fun of my alters. My experiences. This is unacceptable behavior. I wanted to take accountability for a situation that was handled poorly, but this is way past “taking accountability” at this point.

[aroaceleovaldez]

I think one of the problems with the HoO characterizations is Rick kind of forgot to give half the cast hobbies and general interests, and maybe like people they know outside of their families and outside of camp, or if he did remember to it rarely gets brought up for most of them, or in the special case of Annabeth - she randomly develops a hobby in weaving for exactly one scene and then never again. Apparently she just knew how to do that, even though it is a skill she has literally never used before nor uses again.

The best examples I can give of this are comparing/contrasting the examples of when we do actually get this with the lack-thereof: Hazel and Frank are good examples. Hazel has hobbies and interests generally unrelated to all her demigod stuff (horses and art) and we see this repeatedly discussed and brought up. She also knows and interacts with people outside of the necessities of her quest/Camp Jupiter or her family - Sammy was her best friend at school and they hung out and stuff! Meanwhile, Frank, as far as we know, doesn’t know anybody outside of his family even though he presumably went to school before Camp Jupiter? His hobby is... archery? That’s the only thing he ever really shows interest in but at the same time it only rarely gets brought up except for him using a bow as his main weapon and the like two instances of noting that Frank had hoped he was an Apollo kid for a little bit. The closest other detail we get to Frank having any other kind of hobby/interest is him mentioning off-hand that he used to play Mythomagic.

Piper and Leo - We can presume that Piper knew Shel before moving to Oklahoma, because Piper used to visit her grandpa often and as far as we know that’s also where Shel lives. But we never see Piper ever mention knowing anyone else in her grandfather’s community. Heck, when she’s introduced we’re basically outright told that she doesn’t interact much at all with any of her classmates outside of necessity, and we don’t even have any confirmation that before Hera’s mind-meddling that she even acknowledged Leo’s existence. Also, Piper has like, exactly zero hobbies. We do not know what Piper does in her free time or what she likes (except vaguely that she has surfed before), only really what she dislikes. Leo at least does have some kind of excuse for not really knowing anybody, and an explicit explanation about why that is the case and how he feels about it. Leo also has a repeatedly referenced interest/hobby in mechanics that’s very core to his character.

Percy and Annabeth? Pre-HoO, they both have plenty of interests and know people outside their general circles! Percy knows kids at school. Annabeth’s general outer social circle is Camp Half-Blood, because she grew up there, but she clearly knows people at camp. She’s also super into architecture! And Percy does a ton of stuff in his free time - he skateboards! He plays basketball! He has two pets he takes care of (Blackjack and Mrs. O’Leary)! Post-HoO he’s on a swim team! But during HoO? Percy’s hobbies just kind of disappear, besides “oh yeah he uh. Does water stuff.” There’s no acknowledgement of like, “Yeah Percy sets up a little basketball hoop on the back of his door on the Argo 2 and shoots trash at it.” Literally anything! And yeah, Annabeth’s architecture interest is somewhat acknowledged, but also like, not really? We at least get some kind of “Yeah, in her spare time she’s usually on her laptop working on stuff” but we also barely get any instances of Annabeth thinking about her friends at camp except for like, Tartarus.

For Jason it at least kind of works because a.) he has amnesia and it’s implied he doesn’t really have close friends at Camp Jupiter besides Reyna, so it figures he only ever really references random other legionaries like, twice. and b.) there is also the heavily implication that Jason doesn’t have hobbies, because his entire life was so focused around his training at Camp Jupiter. This works less with Reyna, but she also kind of has an excuse for not knowing people besides like, her sister and Jason, given she ran away when she was young, Circe’s island was destroyed, and she could have only been at Camp Jupiter for like 3 years maximum at that point. And she’s not exactly the most social character. We also don’t get much indication of her hobbies, besides she also likes horses and it’s heavily implied she likes nature/gardens? Presumably, given we get like, one note of that in HoO, maybe two if you count her living on Circe’s island, and then like one more nod to that in TOA. And we only get her POV chapters in BoO anyways so again, she has some excuses. Coach Hedge also is incredibly bland besides maybe him having a hobby in sports, and... violence? Which definitely does not count. And him lacking any POV chapters doesn’t really help.

I think this is why Nico continually feels like such a strong character, simply because we know what he does in his spare time. We know he knows people outside of the camps (most of those people are gods or ghosts, but he at least knows people) and technically you could argue him knowing about Camp Jupiter between BoTL and TLO counts too. He even references his old neighbor at one point. Obviously, he’s very into Mythomagic, and that comes up a lot because it’s his special interest and is usually also relevant to their quests. He travels a lot, and apparently used to when he was younger as well. We also learn he used to have a special interest about pirates and that apparently may have played into his crush on Percy. Like, all that is so simple and minor but it makes such a difference for how Nico feels as a character. Most of Nico’s stuff though is established in the first series, which definitely helps because the first series was pretty good about giving characters hobbies and maybe some people they know - Annabeth, Percy, and Nico we’ve already covered, but also like, Grover knows other satyrs and is usually practicing music and also we know what foods he likes. Thalia is very into punk culture and music. We know she particularly likes Green Day. We know she knew the Hunters of Artemis before the events of TTC. Rachel's whole thing is that she’s super into art and she has a bunch of connections through her rich family, and she’s basically Percy’s only mortal friend. They have lives!

If you put a protagonist in a room and told them to occupy themselves, you should have an answer for what they do. They should be able to name one person outside their immediate social circle who they are generally friendly with or vaguely know, unless they have a specific reason for that to not be the case. HoO crew needs to occupy their time by themselves, no weaponry, for twenty minutes? Hazel could be drawing, Nico could be organizing his cards, Leo could be tinkering, Annabeth could be working on her laptop, Percy could be trying out little skateboard tricks. Jason, Piper, Frank, and Reyna? What would they be doing?

TOA does actually answer that question for Jason, at least, because we learn that Jason makes tiny dioramas! That’s adorable! Why doesn’t he do that in HoO?! TOA also gives us more depth to Will Solace besides “He’s a medic and does medic things” with telling us that he’s into Star Wars. Like, that’s actually so much information to work with! Thank you! And then we also find out in TOA that Nico’s also kinda into art! We still don’t get anything new for Piper, Frank, or Reyna - besides again one more potential implication that Reyna thinks plants are Pretty Okay, and that nature is Mildly Alright. Like, not even “maybe she keeps a houseplant” territory, all we have is “if she had the option, she might be interested in visiting a flower garden.” But honestly TOA at least gives us something for most of the characters we see. Like at least one thing. Most of the rest of the writing is a mess but at least the characters are mildly interesting.

Anyways, give your characters hobbies, it’s good for them.

[cobra-creampuff]

i think a lot of people have never been in a truly desperate situation but think they have, and this causes them to pass really harsh judgment on people who made bad choices when either irrational or having no good choices to pick instead, and i really wish people could get some fucking self-perception and work on their compassion skills and not fucking do that as much anymore

[bitegore]

ngl i think i kind of was a genius for being like 'yeah this character is a scary killyou cannibal scary killer who scary kills you' and then realizing that the way my worldbuilding works out is that there's a nonzero chance that if you leave literally any body parts over they can just come back, depending on what they believe in their heart of hearts can kill them. Of course she'd start eating her kills. She probably tried normal stuff first and then realized it didn't work and she had to try harder if she wanted to actually keep them dead.

[bxtonpxss]

@dnangelic from [HERE]

Jack was thoroughly rattled. Her head spun a bit as she was shaken but she did not once let go of the sparkly orb despite his demands. Her claws instead pop out of their sheathes to curl around the smooth surface even further, body instinctively curling up and tightening around her prize even though she was now being scruffed in the same way her parents often held her.

[“W-Whazzit matter who you are?”] Fur still standing, this time her whole little frame puffed up due to his ferocious roar and creepy appearance, but her parents didn't raise no coward! Sure he was scary! But the need of a brand new sparkly object for her personal stash outweighed her common sense at this very moment and her baser instincts peeked out. [“I bet I'm a way better thief than you anyways! So Put. Me. Down!”] She hisses at him again even as her frame trembles in his hold. Despite the fear she glares right back at him and squirms furiously keeping her forearms wrapped tightly around the orb while her legs lowered and she began to kick and scramble in the air.

["I'm not playin! This is my treasure! I spotted it! You snooze you lose fake theif! Nyeeeh!”] Jack tauntingly sticks out her tongue, followed by the slightest twitch of her curled tail. It's also the only warning the kitten gives before her fur begins to stand even further on end, a loud crackling sound fills the air. Bright yellow sparks briefly jump off the curly brown tip of her appendage then disappear and within seconds Jack surrounds both herself and the stranger in a wall of electricity in an attempt to get him to drop her.

Have a taste of Thunderbolt, jerk!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also if only the physical copy of how to disappear completely & never be found i first encountered & read a few years ago (sort of [roughly avg age ten] reader book, not any similarly titled How To) hadn't disappeared completely & not been found since, probably b/c i put it somewhere i intended to be For Safekeeping, which is also how my binder vanished....b/c it's one of those like. those book for late elementary/middle school readers when they just weave in this unrealism which makes for a delightful range & unpredicability? and with a cynical protagonist girl like off to the races like wow her mom is depressed asf & smoking? and it's about A Family History Secrets Mystery so blatantly a haunting that the inciting incident is basically introducing a haunted [family history secrets mystery] house. and spoilers don't matter like it's stemming from there being this missing uncle who grew up so in contrast to the Winsome Winning Sibling Who Does It All Right while seeing his own affiliation with rats that he tried to disappear completely & never be found which led to this Tragedy which led to this more unintended disappearance of his & he haunts this house & wants to be left alone & only goes out at night with this [ambiguous Is That A Giant Rat Or Weird Small Dog (protagonist affected by these family situations who expresses her preoccupation with an awareness of how fate can Strike and Get you with this interest with roving packs of killer chihuahuas. people think she's weird though she spontaneously befriends this other girl struck with this bolt from the blue & a bit weird / outcast & then Insightful who i wish was in it more)] & plays into the hauntedness danger like playing into the [something's Wrong with you then] until having to take yet more action where the urge to express the truth comes out more both b/c living that hidden is more threatened but also b/c now the niece children are more threatened as well. ft. a sort of preternatural blurring of time b/c of only being communicated with through this uncle via his comic pages (that he paints?) of dubiously accurate translations of irl events that are created so quickly it seems to verge on foresight, imagine like "hmm what's this painting. it's me standing in this room looking at this painting??? as someone ominous lurks in the shadows right behind me?" in both [now how could you know this & paint it really fast ahead of time] and [horror]

[lux-astrorum]

really looking forward to one day having the power to refuse to get shit on at work😇

[deathbind]

Serot's own arsenal of spells and generally how he applies necrotic magic differs from modern day Anactaci. You can clearly see the foundation he laid, but it has been over a thousand years. The order has evolved considerably in that time. There's also the fact that he was reborn at level one and has structured his skills to suit his present needs, but [hand waves]

There are different sects and roles within the Anactaci who call on the Plane of Death in different ways, but certain generalities can be relied upon. Their magic is largely geared toward what would be considered divination. They are the bridge between this life and the next, the messengers of eternity. They commune both with the souls of the dead and with spirits — chiefly spirits / entities on the Plane of Death but spirits of all types, including those like Refhremmit. Indeed, every City of Eternity has one Anactaci dedicated to communing with their patron. It is a sacred office.

Beyond that, their magic is deeply focused on the soul and the threshold between life and death. They are adept at identifying and countering curses or maladies of the soul. They are adept at identifying and addressing possessions or spiritual attachments. The skilled can manipulate the ravages of time on a body or object (a skill shared with the Manthu). The most skilled of all can leave their bodies behind to inhabit ritually prepared objects; these become the teachers of the Anactaci and keepers of the deepest mysteries.

Yes of course, they animate and preserve corpses, either directly or by calling a spirit to inhabit it. This is part of Meketi funerary rites. But, simply making dead things move is only part of their skillset. Indeed, it's the most basic part.

Anactaci are bound by sacred oaths to turn their magic to holy purpose and with a thought for balance always. However, a truly irate or unscrupulous Anactaci could do serious damage. Particularly if they are skilled. Insidious curses and nigh-undetectable possessions (i.e. slowly driving a person to madness with ill luck or nightmares; far worse curses are possible). Yanking a person's soul directly from their body, either holding it captive or causing it to become lost. Learning secrets from spirits or from souls that can utterly destroy a person. Causing them to rapidly age, turning to sun-bleached bone before their eyes, one limb at a time. Or causing them to wither, then return to their correct age, then wither, then return to their correct age — over and over until they don't know whether they're alive or dead. If capable of severing their soul from their body, they can possess others directly, influencing or totally overriding their will. They might not touch a person at all; they might sap all life from their home instead.

Fortunately, such corrupt Anactaci are rare — and swiftly dealt with.

[thethingything]

okay this is a very like, tentatively hopeful thing, but the last time we went outside we took antihistamines before going out, and we noticed afterwards that we didn't feel anywhere near as bad as expected, which lines up with stuff we'd seen about antihistamines helping with preventing post-exertional malaise if you take them before exercise.

so I took one maybe 40 minutes ago to see if it would also help during a flare up, and I think it has? my head feels clearer and my muscles feel less heavy and I'm not as out of breath as I was. I still feel worse than usual, but not as bad as I did, so maybe this might be something that helps? hopefully? and if so then holy shit that would be incredible