#why does everything they say need context

[fiendsgf]

Soulbound

VI. Mirage

sylus x reader, rafayel x reader

Summary: Desert heat and shadows press close. Sylus is wounded. The line between control and chaos blurs. Tensions fracture, and a moment almost slips beyond words. When the world feels too heavy, the ocean calls — a fragile refuge amid the storm.

content: non!mc reader, angst if you squint, isekai, love triangle(ish), shady raf

1 2 3 4 5

Another week passed in the hollow rhythm of steel corridors and synthetic air.

You settled back into life in the N109 base–if it could be called life. The routine took hold again. One night it was an auction, all cold lighting and silent tension, your heels echoing against the floor as Sylus handled the bidding with unnerving calm. The next, you were trailing behind the twins through a derelict warehouse, retrieving something that buzzed faintly in your palm and made Luke mutter weird under his breath.

Everything in between bled together–long stretches of silence, training sessions that left your muscles aching, and the distant hum of Onychinus systems reminding you that time passed whether you wanted it to or not.

Rafayel texted sometimes. Not often. Just enough to make you wonder if he was still thinking about that night.

A meme with a flamingo wearing sunglasses and the caption: me heading into the void again

A blurry photo of some experimental pigment swirled across canvas, captioned not sure if I hate this yet.

A seashell with strange ridges and faint gold inlay, sent without context.

You replied once or twice.

A simple lol

A picture of your lunch shaped into a frowning face.

One night, you almost sent a voice note. You didn’t.

Now the silence just... holds.

You were coming back from the gym when Sylus found you. Hair still damp at the edges, your joints stiff, your mind already halfway to a shower and sleep. His footsteps didn’t echo in the hallway the way yours did–he had a way of appearing without warning.

He didn’t smile, but something about his expression felt less rigid than usual.

“There’s a new retrieval happening soon,” he said. “Big one. Protocore confirmed, deep in the desert. Looks like another syndicate’s trying to move it quietly.”

You blinked. “Desert?”

He nodded. “Hot zone, harsh terrain. Everyone’s being mobilized for this one.”

You hesitated. “And… you’ll be okay out there?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You gave a faint shrug, trying to sound casual. “You don’t exactly thrive in direct sunlight.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you like he couldn’t decide if you were teasing or concerned.

“I'm not made of wax,” he said at last, dryly. “But it’s noted.”

A beat passed.

“You’ll be coming,” he added. “Assuming training goes well.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sounds ominous,”

“Just preparation,” he said. “We don’t walk into unknown territory without knowing who’s on our flank.”

You didn’t ask if he meant that as a vote of confidence or a warning. Maybe it was both.

He paused, eyes narrowing–not in suspicion, but thought.

“Rest tonight. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be running drills with me. We’ll escalate until I’m satisfied.”

You gave a small salute that earned you the slightest twitch of his mouth, something barely there. He turned, like that was all he came for, but–

“Wait,” you said. “Can I ask you something?”

He stopped. Didn’t turn fully around, just glanced at you over his shoulder.

“I know things have been hectic,” you began lightly, “but I was wondering… have you found anything new? About how I got here?”

A longer pause this time.

“Or… if there’s any chance I could get back?”

He’s quiet. And when he does answer, his voice is even. Measured.

“I haven’t found anything new,” he says. “Not yet.”

You nod, but something tightens in your chest. You try not to let it show.

“I’ll keep looking,” he adds. “You know that.”

You do. Or you want to.

He watches your face a second longer than he needs to, like he’s measuring something he doesn’t quite want to name.

Then he turns fully away, walking off without another word.

Inside his mind, something dull shifts.

He should be looking. Should’ve been digging every night after lights out, tearing through theories, reaching beyond what’s classified.

But lately…he hasn’t been.

Not because he doesn’t care– it simply… slipped his mind. How you’ve managed to keep pace with him on missions. The way your laughter echoes through the halls. How you’ve slipped so easily into the twins' chaos.

It feels… right.

And some quiet, selfish part of him has started to feel that maybe it’s better this way.

He doesn’t name it. Wouldn’t even call it hesitation. But as he slips back into the hum of base routines, he doesn’t reopen that file.

Not yet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The training bay was cold.

Artificial light flickered above the reinforced walls, casting long shadows over the matte flooring. Targets lined the far end, glowing faintly with heat signatures. Drones buzzed like distant wasps as they reset themselves midair.

You adjusted the grip on your pistol and took the next shot.

Miss.

“Wider spread this time,” Sylus said behind you. “Recoil control’s decent, but you’re anticipating it. Let your body absorb it. Don’t fight the motion, follow through.”

You nodded, jaw tight. Reset.

Fire. Hit. Hit. Miss.

He walked beside you toward the wall, reviewing your score silently as the panel refreshed. You could feel the weight of his presence more than his footsteps.

“Not bad,” he said at last. “Better than last week.”

“That’s a low bar,” you muttered, exhaling.

He glanced at you sidelong. “Still a bar you cleared.”

Later, it was close combat drills. You’d lost track of how many times you hit the mat today. You knew he was holding back. That didn’t make it less frustrating.

When he finally called a break, you slumped on the bench against the wall, arms burning, throat dry.

He handed you a bottle of electrolyte water and sat on the edge of the mat, hair damp with sweat, head tilted back like he was listening for something in the vents above.

You took a sip, swallowed hard, then said quietly, “How dangerous is this going to be?”

His head didn’t turn right away, but you saw the flicker of movement in his expression.

“I mean… the mission,” you clarified. “You said it’s big. Everyone’s going. That’s not normal, right?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”

You hesitated, then voiced what had been coiling in your stomach since he first mentioned it.

“Do you think I’m ready?”

This time, he did look at you. Steady. Clear.

“I don’t want to be dead weight,” you added. “I know I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t want to be the one slowing you down.”

He was quiet for a moment. Not like he didn’t have an answer, more like he was choosing the exact shape of it.

“You’re not slowing anyone down,” he said. “You’re learning fast. And you’ve done more than hold your own under pressure.”

“I don’t think that’s the same as what we’ll be facing.”

“It’s not,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you to be there.”

You blinked, caught a little off guard by the word trust.

His voice dropped slightly, not soft, but gentler than usual.

“You’re allowed to feel uneasy. You should be cautious. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

Your fingers tightened around the bottle. You nodded once, letting the words settle in the quiet.

“Alright,” you said after a long pause, exhaling. “No more dead weight.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not a smirk, not condescension. Just approval.

“Good.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Somewhere above the clouds, the hum of the engines was the only steady thing.

You sat by the window, knees drawn loosely to your chest. Below, the sky broke open into a blazing amber horizon–the kind you only ever saw from planes or half-remembered dreams. The sun hadn’t dipped low enough to sting yet, but the gold was already turning sharper, like something on the verge of cutting skin.

Most of the others were quiet. Luke had dozed off with one arm flung over his eyes, mouth slightly open. Kieran was flicking through something on his tablet, eyes darting side to side too fast for fiction. Occasionally he muttered to himself and adjusted the brightness like it was fighting him.

Sylus was up front, talking in low tones with one of the mission leads. He hadn’t looked back once since takeoff.

Your phone buzzed.

cutie

are you haunting whitesand again this week or do I need to file a missing persons report

You smiled faintly and typed:

wish i was there. :(

i’ll be gone for a while, onychinus stuff.

stuck in the desert. signal might suck :p

A pause.

Then:

desert? that doesn’t sound like your vibe 

or his

You didn’t answer that part.

A final ping.

be careful cutie

dont dry up like a beached fish :p

You reread it twice, letting out a soft laugh.

You were setting the tab down when Kieran glanced over, brows raising slightly.

“Texting your boyfriend?”

You blinked. “No.”

“Suspiciously quick answer,” he said, leaning back and stretching. “But alright.”

Luke stirred beside him, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Are we there yet?”

Kieran nudged him with his foot. “What are you, five?”

Luke ignored him and turned toward you instead. “First desert op?”

“Obviously?”

“You’ll be fine,” he said around a yawn. “Worst part is the dry air. That and the bugs that scream.”

“She doesn’t need to hear about the bugs,” Kieran muttered.

“She should be prepared,” Luke said, completely serious. “You don’t want to go in blind.”

Kieran rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. He got bit by a caterpillar once and thought it put a curse on him.”

“It glowed,” Luke insisted. “And it growled at me.”

Despite yourself, you laughed–and the tension in your chest eased just a little.

Kieran tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his mouth. “You’ll be alright, you know. You’ve already lasted longer than most people would’ve.”

Luke nodded, oddly sincere. “We’ve seen new recruits go white just walking into Sylus’s office. You didn’t even flinch.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you looked back out the window instead.

The sun had fully bloomed–high and white and unforgiving. It burned through the clouds in molten streaks, promising nothing kind.

You leaned your forehead briefly against the cool glass.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The heat hit like a wall the moment the aircraft’s doors opened.

Dry, stinging wind scraped across your face as you stepped onto the cracked stone platform. Everything shimmered – not from beauty, but from sheer temperature. The sand here wasn’t golden; it was bone-pale, the color of ash and burnt pearl. Jagged rock formations jutted from the ground like broken teeth, and the air pulsed with a silence that felt unnatural.

Sylus walked ahead without pause, coat flaring behind him in the wind. Sweat already clung at your temples just from standing still. He showed no sign of it.

“This outpost doesn’t show up on most maps,” he said without turning. “Old mining base. Abandoned after they bled it dry and started losing people.”

You fell into step beside him, boots crunching against dried clay. “Should I have brought a pickaxe or something?”

“No,” He laughed. “We’re not digging. We’re extracting. One of our teams narrowed it down to a sealed sublevel. Could be the last clean Core left in the zone.”

He stopped beside a half-buried bunker entrance and keyed in a sequence. The outer wall groaned and slid open, revealing a tunnel carved deep into the cliff face. Cool air breathed out from within.

You started to follow him inside, but he stayed at the threshold, eyes scanning the ridge beyond.

“Before we go under,” he said, “I want to see how exposed this place really is. If we’re compromised during retrieval, this whole layout becomes a killbox.”

You hesitated. “Sylus… how long are you planning to stay out here?”

“Long enough.”

His voice was calm, but you noticed the way he rolled his shoulders, not stiff, exactly, but deliberate. Controlled. As if bracing.

You didn’t press. Not yet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You crouched behind a dune, peering through your scope at the excavation site below. The perimeter was still quiet, but it felt like the kind of quiet that breaks the moment someone breathes wrong.

Sylus knelt beside you, one hand resting lightly on the ground. His other arm was braced across his knee, sleeve pushed back to expose a device blinking faintly at his wrist.

“How’s the heat sensor?” you asked.

“Stable. No movement underground.”

You turned to glance at him – and stilled.

His face was pale, even for him. The light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, but the flush you’d expect from sun exposure wasn’t there. No sweat. No obvious signs. And yet,

His breathing was slightly shallower than usual.

“How long have we been out here?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted his stance and looked toward the horizon, where the sun still clung to the edge of the sky like a dying god.

“Too long,” you said quietly. “Isn’t this… hard for you?”

He glanced at you then. “I have it under control, there’s no need to worry.”

“You’re not built for sunlight.”

His mouth tugged at one corner, something wry but distant. “There’s no one else I trust to map the entry plan.”

“Still.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t move either.

Eventually, you stood and offered your hand.

“We’ve seen enough, haven’t we?”

A beat. Then he took it, cool skin against your sun-warmed palm, and let you help him up.

The sun dipped lower.

But not before it took a little more from him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You had dust in your throat and static in your ear, and the only thing sharper than the adrenaline was the unrelenting heat still radiating off the rocks from the daytime. The underground base was cool enough now, sure – but everything out there had been sun-soaked for hours, including you.

Sylus hadn’t said much since they breached the entry vault. No complaints, no signs of weakness. Just that same unreadable focus, red eyes glinting as he moved ahead with one pistol drawn, body close to the walls.

You kept pace behind him, heart pounding harder with each checkpoint cleared.

“Clear,” he said into his comms. “Sector C secured. Luke, Kieran–status?”

A burst of static, then Kieran’s voice: “North flank holding. No movement yet.”

Luke followed a second later: “Got two drones in the outer corridor, dealt with ‘em. Heading back your way.”

You and Sylus shared a quick glance. He gave the faintest nod – let’s move.

The next few minutes passed in tense silence. The hallway sloped downward, slanting deeper into the earth. Cracked panels glowed dimly from rusted ceilings, casting fractured light across the metal floor. A Protocore signature pulsed faintly on Sylus’s scanner, just ahead.

You were so close.

The moment the reinforced door hissed open, everything broke.

Gunfire lit the room in staccato bursts – a perimeter squad lying in wait, half-buried in shadows behind old consoles and collapsed support beams.

Sylus moved like lightning. You barely caught the blur of him firing, ducking behind a pillar, dropping one assailant, then another. You followed instinct, diving low and sweeping to cover his flank, pulse in your ears louder than the gunfire.

“You alright?” he barked over the noise.

“Fine!”

Two more shots. You hit one center-mass. Sylus took down the last. Silence.

Everything stilled. Just your breaths, too loud. The faint hum of the core unit pulsing in its cradle, like a heartbeat.

You turned to Sylus.

He hadn’t moved.

He was standing there, hunched slightly, jaw locked tight – one hand pressed against his side.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sylus?”

He looked at you.

And even though he tried to smile, you saw it – the blood slipping between his fingers. The way he swayed just a little before catching himself against the wall.

Fuck.

You rushed to him, dropped to your knees, hands already moving before your brain caught up. “You’re hit. When did you–”

“During the first wave,” he muttered, wincing. “It’s nothing. Through-and-through, I’ve had worse.”

“You should be healing.”

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes flew to the wound. The bullet had gone in clean – lower ribs, left side – but there was too much blood. You reached out instinctively, pressing your hand to the spot, trying to staunch it, trying to buy time.

Still nothing. No warmth. No red glow.

Just blood.

“Sylus, why isn’t it healing?”

He exhaled slowly. “The sun. I told you I’d be fine, I–”

“No you didn’t. You said you had it under control. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” he said, voice too soft.

“That’s not your job!” you snapped, breath catching in your throat. “You can't just die because you didn’t want me to worry!”

Your hand was still pressed to his side. His fingers came up slowly, covering yours. Not forcefully, just enough to make you stop.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Sweetie,”

You froze.

It was the first time he’d ever said that to you. Quiet. Deliberate. His voice had dipped low, velvet-soft, and something in you broke at the sound of it.

“I’m not dying,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You���ve seen me take worse. You’ve seen me crawl out of worse.”

“No I haven’t,” you whispered. “Not like this.”

He didn’t answer.

The room was suddenly too quiet. His hand was still over yours, his long legs folded in front of him, back pressed against the wall. There was a slight tremor in his grip now – and in your chest, something was vibrating at a frequency you didn’t understand.

Your vision swam. A sharp pain bloomed behind your eyes.

A ruined sky. The scream of metal against bone. Your hands on a sword, driving it forward. His face–familiar, scrunched–eyes dull as the blade passed through his chest. A voice screaming his name.

You gasped. The moment vanished.

Gone like smoke.

You blinked, heart pounding, your breath suddenly ragged.

What the fuck?

Why would I see that now?

He was still watching you, brow furrowed now, as if he’d seen the flicker of something behind your eyes.

Your face was too close to his. Your mouth opened to say something, and nothing came out.

He looked at you like you were about to disappear.

And for a second, a brief, electric second, it felt like he might lean in.

Not for comfort. Not for want.

Just because there was nowhere else to go.

Then he blinked, like shaking off a spell, and looked away.

You did too.

You swallowed hard and pulled back, hand leaving his side, already fumbling for your comms. “Luke, Kieran, Sylus is hit–he’s not healing. We need evac, fallback point B, now.”

Static.

Then: “Copy. On our way.”

You turned back to him. He was still watching you, barely hiding the pain now. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You just moved beside him, bracing your shoulder against his and helping him to his feet. His arm slipped over yours, heavy and trembling, but he didn’t complain.

You didn’t let go.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You had blood on your hands, and none of it was yours.

The room was dim, built into the rock itself – no windows, just cool concrete, shadows, and low amber light from a single ceiling fixture. One of Sylus’s many bolt-holes across the map. You didn’t ask how many.

He sat on the edge of the cot, shirt discarded, the white bandage at his ribs already stained dark. You knelt beside him, patch kit open, gloves abandoned. The cut on your palm from earlier throbbed faintly, but you didn’t notice it.

“You’re lucky it missed your lung,” you said under your breath, peeling away the soaked gauze.

Sylus tilted his head, watching you work. “You planning to report me to HR?”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

He smirked. A pale thing. His voice came quieter this time. “I am immortal. This isn’t even top ten.”

“That’s not the point,” you said, not looking up. Your hands were steady, but your voice wavered. “You didn’t tell me you were weak earlier. You brushed it off like it was nothing.”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered.”

Silence. A slow, searing silence.

You finally looked at him. “I don’t like seeing you like that.”

His smirk faded. That faint amusement drained away under the quiet weight of your words.

“I’m sorry,” you added quickly. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I was just–scared.”

The last word came quieter than you meant it to.

You were still holding the clean wrap in both hands, but hadn’t moved to press it against his side yet. Your fingers stilled in the space between you.

Sylus studied your face.

Something in his expression flickered. Less guarded. Less amused.

“You did good tonight,” he said, voice low. “You kept your head. You got me out. And you’re still here.”

You exhaled, shaky. “Barely.”

“It counts.”

You didn’t reply. Just leaned in and pressed the bandage against his ribs, careful, but firm.

He hissed softly through his teeth, eyes scrunching shut.

“Sorry,” you murmured, even though you weren’t. “Maybe if someone hadn’t downplayed their weakness to sunlight like an idiot–”

He chuckled under his breath. “You wound me.”

“Gonna make me patch those too?”

That got a twitch of a smile out of him.

The silence returned, but it was different this time. Thicker. Denser. Like the walls were leaning in around you, trying to listen.

You both stayed still longer than you should have – your fingers brushing just barely along his ribs, your legs folded beneath you, his breath soft and shallow, like he was still deciding if he could trust it.

There was something warm in the space between you now. Something unspoken. Almost unbearable.

You swallowed. “So. What’s the immortal recovery plan? A nap?”

“Maybe two. If you’d stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re kneeling in front of me with a death grip on medical gauze.”

You flushed and pulled your hands away, but you didn’t move back.

His voice dipped. “You really were scared?”

You hesitated. “Of course I was.”

Another long pause.

Then, softly–like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud:

“You didn’t have to be.”

You looked up at him, eyes locking again. That same pull, quiet and gravity-heavy, like something between you had almost shifted but hadn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood finally, wiping your hands on your pants, backing away like it was nothing. Like your pulse hadn’t jumped. Like you weren’t still trying to ignore the look on his face.

“I’ll let you rest,” you said.

He didn’t stop you.

But his eyes followed you all the way to the door.

The second the door closed behind you, your breath left you like a wave crashing out.

Too much.

It had been too much.

You leaned back against the cold metal, pressing your spine into it like you could anchor yourself. Your palms still smelled like antiseptic. Your heart hadn’t slowed down. You could still feel the heat of his skin against your fingers, the rasp of his voice in your ear.

“Sweetie…”

You shook your head sharply.

That wasn’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to care like that. 

This world was never meant to be yours. You knew that from the start. Every thread you’d tugged at, every choice you’d made – it was all just survival. Keeping your cover. Staying out of the way. Just until you could get back home.

But then Sylus got hurt. And something unspoken cracked open in you.

You covered your face with both hands and exhaled again, harder this time.

He didn’t look afraid.

He didn’t even look surprised.

But you had been terrified.

And not just because of the blood.

It was the way his voice softened. The way he looked at you. Like he’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to mean anything to him. Like maybe you did.

The vision. Hallucination. Whatever the hell that was. 

It was exactly what you had seen in the game. But more… real.

Why did it feel so real?

You couldn’t do this.

You needed air.

You fumbled your phone out of your pocket and tapped quickly through your contacts.

Rafayel.

It rang twice before the line clicked on.

“Hey cutie,” His voice was warm, easy. There was ocean behind it — seagulls, maybe. Wind through open windows. “Miss me already?”

You swallowed and tried to laugh. It barely came out. “I was wondering… when I’m back from the desert–would you mind if I came to Whitesand for a bit?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Of course you can.”

You blinked fast, staring at the far wall like it might give you strength. “I just need to clear my head. Nothing serious.”

“You sure?” He asks, with a note of quiet concern. “It doesn’t sound like nothing, did something happen out there?”

“I’m okay,” you said quickly, forcing your voice to lighten. “Just sandy and probably sunburnt.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, me too.”

You smiled faintly. Let the quiet settle a second longer before thanking him and hanging up.

Then you lowered the device and stared down at your hands again.

This wasn’t about Sylus. At least, not entirely.

This was about everything pressing in too close. The heat. The silence. The fact that you were starting to forget what life before this had even felt like. That the man bleeding on a cot in the next room had made you feel something real. Something you have no right to feel – not in this world. And that terrified you more than anything.

You didn’t need to figure out what any of it meant.

You just needed distance.

Time.

A new horizon to look at so you could breathe again.

You weren’t falling.

You were just tired.

And if you left now, maybe you could still convince yourself that was true.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The plane ride back to the base was quiet.

You’d pretended to sleep the whole way, head leaned against the window, eyes half-lidded behind Sylus’s spare jacket. No one spoke much. Kieran kept fiddling with the comms receiver like it might say something different if he tuned it just right. Luke watched the clouds like he was trying to memorize their shapes. Sylus said nothing.

When the engines cut and the bay doors opened, you were the first one out.

No one stopped you. Maybe they thought you needed space. Maybe they just didn’t know what to say. You didn’t blame them.

Inside the base, you moved on autopilot. Through the dark corridors, past the still-glowing mission board, into your room. You didn’t unpack. You grabbed a bag, stuffed in the bare minimum. A change of clothes. A small vial of disinfectant Sylus had given you with a flippant, “For when I’m not around.”

You didn’t leave a note.

By the time you reached the base level, your hands had stopped shaking. Almost.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The wind off the water found you before he did.

You stood in the studio doorway, half-shadowed beneath the salt-bleached awning, watching the waves roll in through the slatted window. Rafayel was inside, finishing something – a canvas leaned against the far wall, half-drenched in blues and burnished golds. You weren’t really looking at it.

You just needed to be somewhere else.

When he saw you, he didn’t smile right away. He set down his brush, walked toward you, and looked – really looked – like someone measuring the shape of a storm before it broke.

“You’re not okay,” he said softly.

You shrugged.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the beach.”

You walked beside him in silence. Sand gave underfoot, cool from the breeze, the sky above faintly overcast, a relief after the dry bite of the desert. Rafayel kept a respectful distance, hands in his pockets, humming low now and then, like he didn’t want silence to feel too sharp.

You told yourself you wouldn’t cry.

But it came anyway. Sudden. Heavy.

Like your body couldn’t hold it anymore.

You stopped walking and pressed the heel of your hand hard against your eyes, trying to stifle the tears. It didn’t work. Your shoulders shook.

He turned back instantly.

And without a word, Rafayel stepped close, wrapping his arms around you, guiding you gently to his chest.

You went with him.

Didn’t even think.

Didn’t care who saw.

You buried your face in the fabric of his shirt, his scent faintly oceanic and earthy – paint, seawater, something warm and unfamiliar. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, slow and steady.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you cutie.”

You clutched the front of his shirt a little tighter. Your throat hurt. But the sobs quieted, not because the pain was gone, but because something steadier was holding it up now.

After a while, he shifted just enough to rest his cheek against the crown of your head. And then–

He started to hum.

Soft. Low.

Some old melody you didn’t know, but it felt familiar in your bones. He began to sway, slow and rhythmic, guiding your body with his like you were dancing in a memory neither of you could name.

You let him.

Because for the first time in days, maybe longer, it didn’t feel like the world was slipping out from under you.

It just felt like the tide.

And Rafayel was the shore.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The base was quiet. Too quiet for this time of night.

Sylus moved through the corridors with no real destination, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing lightly against the polished concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a door hissed open and shut. Equipment clinked. Life went on.

He hated this part. The aftermath.

No bullets to dodge, no protocols to follow, no one bleeding out in the dust.

Just silence. And memory.

He hadn’t spoken much since they got back. Kieran had patched him up and cracked a few jokes. Luke asked if he wanted to run duos. Sylus brushed them both off.

He told himself it was because of the injury. Said he needed rest. Said it was nothing.

But the truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your hands had trembled over his chest. The way your voice cracked when the wound wouldn’t close. The way you’d looked at him like you weren’t ready to lose him.

And that scared him more than bleeding out ever could.

He walked until he found himself near the game room, not even remembering how he’d gotten there. The space was dim, lit by low strips of LEDs along the ceiling. Empty, except for the twins leaning against a gaming pod, sharing a snack and arguing about some side bet.

They noticed him before he could turn back.

“Boss!” Kieran said, mouth half full. “You’re up. Feeling better?”

“Fine,” he said shortly.

Luke squinted at him. “You’re not looking for her, are you?”

That stopped him.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

Kieran popped another bite into his mouth, watching him. “She’s not here.”

Sylus kept his expression neutral. “Where?”

“Whitesand,” Luke said. “Left a few hours ago. Didn’t say much, just said she needed air.”

He exhaled through his nose. A beat of silence stretched long between them.

“Didn’t seem upset or anything,” Kieran added, trying to fill the space. “Just kinda… quiet. Like she had something on her mind.”

Sylus didn’t reply. But his jaw tensed, subtle. Barely there.

He turned, murmured something like “Let me know if anything changes,” and walked away.

What would he even say if he called?

That he didn’t like the silence she left behind?

That he’d gotten used to her voice filling the base like it belonged there?

No. That was ridiculous.

She needed space. Fine. He’d give it to her.

He didn’t have the right to get attached.

But somehow, every step he took away from that room felt heavier than the last.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Morning came slowly in Whitesand.

Golden sunlight poured through the arched windows, casting soft waves across the sheets. The ocean murmured somewhere beyond the glass, a quiet hush-hush rhythm that folded over the silence like a lullaby.

You blinked up at the ceiling, bleary and warm. Your body ached in places you didn’t remember bruising. Salt clung to your skin like a memory.

Last night felt far away. The beach. The dance. Rafayel’s arms around you, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

It should’ve been awkward – but it wasn’t.

It should have felt wrong. But it didn’t.

You sat up, stretching until your joints popped. Somewhere down the hall, the sound of soft humming drifted in, familiar and low. It was the same tune he’d hummed last night. That strange little lullaby. You weren’t sure if it was from Lemuria, or just something he made up.

You followed the sound barefoot through the airy studio. The smell of paint met you first, sea salt and turpentine and something floral. He was there, back turned, brush in one hand, the other tucked behind his back. Barefoot, of course. He always was in the mornings.

“You hum in your sleep too,” you said, voice rough with sleep. “Could hear you from the living room.”

Rafayel didn’t turn around. “Do I?” he said, amused. “I must be dreaming in tune.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “What’re you working on?”

“Something hideous.” He turned slightly, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “It’ll be perfect once I ruin it a little more.”

You smiled despite yourself. The air in the studio was warm, tinted with that lazy, golden serenity only Whitesand ever seemed to have. It was impossible to hold tension here. Like the walls refused it.

And for the first time in days you let your shoulders drop.

“Can I ruin it with you?” you asked.

That got a real look from him – full attention now, gaze flickering to your face like he was studying something new.

“Absolutely not,” he said dryly. “You’ll ruin it far too beautifully. I’ll get jealous.”

You laughed. Really laughed.

And just like that, the heaviness receded another inch.

“C’mere, I want to show you something.”

He took you to the back wing of the studio, where the salt scent grew heavier and the windows spilled afternoon light in long golden blades across the floor.

“This is what I’ve been working on,” he said quietly, gesturing toward the room.

Paintings – maybe twenty of them – lined the walls. None of them signed. All of them unfinished in some way: a missing figure, an edge left blurred, a gesture half-realized. They were strange, aching things. Not abstract, not realistic, somewhere in between. They looked like memories.

“I haven’t shown anyone this room,” he said. “They’re for a private exhibition. Something… quiet. Not sure when I’ll hold it.”

You didn’t answer. You were still staring at one painting in particular – a shape rising from black water, burning. A silhouette reaching toward something just out of frame. Your chest ached, and you didn’t know why.

“I painted that one a while ago,” He murmured. “Can’t decide if it’s finished yet.”

“What does it mean?”

“I lost something,” He almost whispers. “...something important.”

You don’t ask what.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You woke late, salt-crusted and sea-heavy, in one of the spare rooms Rafayel had offered without question. Morning had already passed, sunlight curling lazily across the floor in wide slats.

He didn’t ask if you’d slept. He just handed you sandals and said, “Come on. You haven’t seen Whitesand properly.”

The day unfolded in pieces. Quiet ones.

Rafayel took you through side streets painted in coral and faded turquoise, where flowering vines spilled over balconies and the air smelled like sugarfruit and sea brine. He led you to an old stone market near the harbor, where vendors called his name and offered you samples like you were already part of the landscape.

He bought you a ring – a thin silver band with a starfish and a pearl.

“You don’t have to,” you’d started.

“I know,” he said, already placing it in your palm. “But I wanted to.”

You tried to thank him. He just shrugged, looking away a little too quickly.

The afternoon softened. You stopped for grilled flatbread at a stall beside a fountain and sat in the shade while a group of street kids danced through the plaza. Rafayel didn’t talk much, but when he did, his voice always carried.

And later, when the sun dipped toward the ocean and the sky turned amber, he walked with you down to the beach.

You stayed close to the cliffs, where the sand turned pale and cool beneath your feet. The tide was coming in. You walked in silence, the breeze tugging at your sleeves, the sound of gulls giving way to waves and wind.

When the moon finally rose, low and white and heavy over the water, Rafayel stopped.

He shrugged off his jacket, spread it out on the sand, and sat.

You joined him. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just was.

For a while, all you did was watch the ocean. The kind of quiet that hurt and healed at the same time.

Then, softly,

“Will you… tell me about Lemuria?”

Rafayel’s gaze didn’t move.

But his voice did.

“It’s… not what people think,” he said. “There’s no gold. No towers. Not anymore.” 

“But when there was, it was… beautiful. It’s vast.” he sighs, “It was lively.”

You glanced at him.

He was watching the horizon. His features were softened by the moonlight, less untouchable, more real.

“It’s dark down there. No sun. Just light from the creatures, or the stones in the walls. You start to hear things – your breath, your thoughts, your heartbeat. You can’t outrun anything.’

You didn’t realize you were shivering until his shoulder brushed yours, close enough to feel warmth.

“I miss that part of it sometimes,” he said. “The stillness. Not the isolation. Just… the way everything settled.”

You looked at him.

And for a moment, in the hush between words, something in you eased.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The moon was still high by the time you made it back to the studio.

Rafayel held the door for you, wordless, his silhouette lit faintly by the lanterns inside. He didn’t ask how you were feeling, didn’t comment on the quiet that had settled between you. He just moved toward the back room, murmuring something about making tea, and disappeared behind a curtain of gauze-draped fabric.

You stood alone for a moment. The salt still clung to your skin. Your sandals were full of sand. You didn’t want to move.

But your phone buzzed.

Not a call.

Just a text.

You need to come back.

We’ve got something. You’ll be briefed when you’re here.

No greeting. No explanation. 

You stared at the message, thumb hovering just above the screen.

The last time you’d seen him, his blood had been on your hands. Literally. The bandages. The trembling weight of his arm around your shoulders. The echo of his voice saying sweetie like it meant something.

You hadn’t talked since.

Another buzz.

Tonight, if possible.

That clipped tone again. Cold. Professional.

You swallowed hard. A pit opened in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was still there.

Behind you, the floor creaked softly.

Rafayel returned, holding two mismatched ceramic cups. “Didn’t know if you’d want chamomile or sea fennel,” he said, offering both. “So I made both.”

You took one without thinking.

His eyes lingered on your face.

“Something wrong?”

You shook your head. “Just got a message. I have to go back. Sylus needs me.”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t press.

Just nodded once, slowly. “Of course.”

But something in his expression shifted. Just slightly. Not hurt, not even surprised – but… quiet.

Like the tide pulling back.

You looked down into the tea. Your reflection trembled faintly on the surface, fractured by ripples. You hated that your first thought wasn’t what does Onychinus need – it was what will Sylus be like when I see him again.

You took a breath. Shallow. Bracing.

“Thanks,” you murmured, eyes still on the cup. “For the tea. For everything.”

Rafayel smiled, and this time it was faint – one corner of his mouth, like he knew you’d never really stay.

“Be careful,” he said gently. “Don’t forget there’s a world outside of him.”

You looked up.

But before you could respond, your phone buzzed again.

a/n: pacing? who’s that? i could make these chapters shorter but i’m just too excited for this story sorry. anyway. poor reader. everyone is having thats so raven visions with no time to process. way too locked in. sylus is playing with his life. reader probably thinks she fr lost her mind. luke is trying to run fortnite duos. its tewwwww much. the urge to post chapter 7 right after this might oneshot me. how we feeling😁

another note: writing the onychinus missions/business is actually so hard. because what actually goes on. i do not know. if it seems stupid pls ignore that juseyo 🤍

🏷️: @paper--angel @leftpoetrymoon @istolepeanuts @rjreins @freeprincesslove @3fg7 @mariahuchiha90 @beaconsxd @poptrim @hon3yydew @pinkpastelbabygirl @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @yannew @peachystea @cms399 @marinenox @cottagedumpling @nightmarewasteland @mitskunicheesecake @katyeongs @shadowypeachsweets @saybeyonce @napforalifetime @bubera974 @moonlight-inthe-sea @xvilluis @potania @demon-master-zero @antonneva @fairestofnrc @orianakira

[alwaysless]

Just a few more words about Duke's behavior

This man definitely has trouble reading social cues and the emotional atmosphere in the room. Duke often gets carried away and he himself does not understand when its time to knock it off. It would never occur to him that he was going too far unless his friends told him so. At the same time he usually doesn't even have really bad intentions. The most striking example of this behavior is that one scene in the maze, when he literally threatens to break Lenore's arm, hoping to provoke her manifesting. It sounds like a big red flag now that I think about it. However Lenore very quickly explains to him where he crossed the line – the girl has no problems standing for herself. Duke immediately backs off and says he wouldn't really hurt her. Tbh I believe him here, he no longer plays with fire when it comes to Lenore.

But Pluto is a different case. Where Lenore dot all the "I" at the first opportunity and gives a well-deserved kick in the ass, Pluto tolerates all teasing and taunts. Meanwhile again in the maze Duke is literally trying to push him into the abyss. As a joke, of course. That's a great joke, Duke, bravo. I can't even imagine why Pluto isn't laughing. And yet Pluto does not stop him. He patiently endures ridicule over his numerous fears, and grumbling that he did not share his knowledge of etymology in time, and indignation that he got his spectre too late, and teasing for having a crush on Eulalie. Sure, Duke and Pluto barely knew each other in the maze but that's exactly why this behavior is Pluto's first impression of Duke. Of course he thinks that the guy who teased him about anything is going to tease him about his scar as well!

Yes, Pluto expresses both embarrassment and displeasure but he never clearly tells Duke to stop. This is a delicate moment: on the one hand Pluto doesn't have to voice everything that makes him uncomfortable – Duke is an adult boy, he must understand when he crosses the border. But on the other hand, we already found out at the beginning that he doesn't understand. He needs to be told, literally thrown in his face what he is wrong about. Even Morella does this once when Duke tries to distract her from uneasy conversation with Lenore. But Pluto didn't. Pluto endures.

Until he snapped back after almost drowning.

He's hurt, scared, he almost died, he has no idea if the rest of the group is okay. And Duke, with his cheeky jokes and cocky fearlessness, doesn't help the situation at all. Therefore Pluto throws out everything that has accumulated because there is no more room in his cup of patience. Sure Pluto has every reason to be angry. We understand that. But does Duke understand that? It came out of the blue for him: he saved Pluto, he apologized, he tried to cheer him and Eulalie up all the way so that they wouldn't lose heart in a difficult situation. What is Pluto unhappy about?

Here I would like to draw a parallel with a rather unexpected duet in this context: Ada and Prospero.

We all know how much Ada annoyed Prospero with her flirt. We all know how she shamelessly imposed herself on him and ignored his boundaries that he tried in vain to defend. For us readers Prospero's discomfort and disgust were obvious. But not for Ada. She read all the hints he gave her as embarrassment and timidity because that's what Annabel told her. Let's be honest: Prospero never directly rejected Ada. On the contrary in a sense Prospero encouraged her feelings: I remind you that the scene in which he gallantly gives her his hand and calls Ada "my lady" still exists. It still doesn't make sense. Literally A FRAME LATER Prospero says her don't touch him. Dude?? You give her your hand yourself???

When Prospero snaps at her after the mansion for us his breakdown is understandable and justified – but it seems cruel and unfair for Ada. After all Annabel had said he liked her. After all he himself was so gallant and courteous to her. After all he had been tolerating her flirting all this time – what had gone wrong?

Both Ada and Duke behaved in a certain way and nothing in their behavior changed – but for some reason Prospero and Pluto`s reaction changed. Why are they suddenly angry? After all everything was fine.

Absolutely nothing was fine. It's just that both Pluto and Prospero are emotionally closed introverts who couldn't express their discomfort in time as bluntly as possible. And Duke and Ada are too self-absorbed to notice someone else's discontent until it explodes in their face. As a result EVERYONE is unhappy and offended.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

noticed near chapter 4 ending's kris keeps out of the screen's last prophecy just barely enough so they could see it but not the player. lowkey makes me wonder if it was completely their intent to not let us the prophecy's end just as ralsei was protecting susie.

Yeah, I noticed that too! Good eye!

Honestly, one potential detail I LOVE about this scene, and the whole idea behind it, is that it's a rare example of the concept of Dramatic Irony completely flipped on its head. Normally, dramatic irony describes a situation where the audience/player knows something the characters in a story do not know, and that lends extra emotion/weight to that situation, because we can infer what will happen while the characters have yet to realise what's in store for them. It makes tragic stories that much more tragic, because we see what's coming and are powerless to avert it or warn the characters about it.

In THIS instance, however, it is the CHARACTERS who know something that the AUDIENCE/PLAYERS do not know. This doesn't even have a name, as far as I know, and I did look to see if it was defined or had a term associated with it, and could find nothing. If anyone DOES know what this is called, do let me know!

Anyway! We have this fascinating situation where AT LEAST two of our three protagonists are aware of the final prophecy and are behaving with that knowledge in mind. Now! A conventional story might have Susie and Ralsei clumsily explain what it is they know, as if explaining it to someone who doesn't know (i.e. us), and it'd come across all stilted and awkward... but of course, we're NOT supposed to know what the Final Prophecy says, and so... they DON'T discuss what it says. Why would they need to? They know, they know the other knows, discussing it further at that time would be pointless, and makes perfect sense for the scene and with regards to how actual people talk about knowledge they're already aware of.

This is especially unorthodox in this capacity, because it means that the characters we control have more knowledge about their own fates than we do, and that means we're flying completely blind. We might have to actually rely on and listen to what Susie and Ralsei say, glean what knowledge we can from them, and use that to inform our choices. But there's every chance we could end up unwittingly stumbling into the final tragedy without realising it, but the CHARACTERS would be able to see it, while being unable to avoid it or directly warn us about it! It's actually brilliant when you think about it, the way this makes absolutely perfect sense within the context of Deltarune's story, its themes, its plot, it's everything. It's a masterstroke, plain and simple, and it can't really be replicated in any other game, or any other medium for that matter.

I can't wait to see how this is going to play out!

[velvetvexations]

help they're (various people i've seen online) trying to make "protect the kens" and "protect the alans" happen (trans men/masc and nonbinary respectively) and its just like,,,,

why are we doing this? why have we seen that trans women/fems have a specific word/slogan (that is far from universally accepted by those its supposed to represent), discovered that there is a gap in the vocabulary for trans men/mascs and nonbinary people wrt slang terms, and then immediately jumped to "dolls but for men!!" or "dolls but specifically naming the ones from the barbie brand/movie"? (i've also seen "gi joes" suggested and i don't think i need to explain why i have several problems with that) like if we're trying to create new slang terms for other trans people why does it have to be based on the pre-existing term used for (some) trans women? why does the "transmasc equivalent" have to be "transfem thing, but the boys version" instead of something unrelated but that fills the same role? why does it have to relate to children's toys and specific brands? there are various different types of dolls out there and its also a word that has been used to refer to irl women in both specifically trans contexts and in general (although again, how much people like being called that varies), but "kens and alans" makes it clear that people are thinking specifically of barbie dolls

why can't i just be called what i am (a man and a person)? why are people so intent on finding words to avoid using the ones that call people their actual genders? why is "protect the dolls" more palatable than "protect trans women"? why is "protect the kens" something that people want more than "protect trans men"? why can't universal and/or non-gendered slogans be used more often? (eg trans rights/healthcare/lives/people/kids/etc)

for the record, i have no problem with new slang terms being created and i know i don't have to use them if i don't like them, its just the "dolls but for men" type that really annoy me

and i don't really have anywhere else to say this shit so i'm venting in your anons

Yeah, I kinna agree. I get wanting to highlight that trans men also need protection but the idea of a phrase like that has inherent flaws even beyond the precise word used, and I feel like it kinna pointlessly invites TRFs to throw more wood on the "transmascs just want to rip off all our language" fire, which is stupid as fuck but I'm cursed with foresight of exactly how bad people will respond to everything.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

I'm not Spanish, nor do I have any interest in them, but it's a bit strange that many players now say that everything is perfect and that there's an excellent relationship between staff and players, as if it wasn't already like that before. They forget that there are players, besides Misa and Jenni, who aren't called up because they play for Atlético Madrid, and other players who go to the national team without any merit. It almost seems like they want to distance themselves from the problems they themselves have swept under the rug. If Tomé hadn't called up Alexia for the Nations League, depriving her of the chance to win a trophy while injured, do you really think they would be as happy as they are now? I don't think so. Basically, things are fine until they affect one of them, then I'm curious if they still think so.

okay, so you need to look at this in context. none of the players are saying that the team is "perfect." in fact, several of them have acknowledged that there is still work to do. but the conditions and treatment of the team is a lot better than it was in the past, that we can all agree upon.

first, the players agree that there is team unity that wasn't present before. keep in mind that there are 12 players on this team now that were not present at the 2023 world cup (including many barça and ex-barça players), which is a more than 50% turnover. so it's obvious that the dynamics will be completely different than the divided locker room of the world cup.

patri guijarro

claudia pina

vicky lópez

jana fernández

laia aleixandri

leila ouahabi

adriana nanclares

esther sullastres

maría méndez

maite zubieta

lucía garcía

cristina martín-prieto

and vilda purposefully chose players that he could control, including the captain's squad, and that's how that team operated. he also micromanaged the squad, visited players at night, wanted to know what they were doing during their off time and even checked their bags if they went shopping. montse is an incompetent loser, but she's not doing *that level* of nonsense as vilda has done.

not to mention that the selection now has all the basics, including a nutritionist, proper facilities to train, and better travel conditions. so if you are comparing what life was like before to what life is like now, it's night and day. which is why players like jana has made the statement saying there is a good atmosphere within the team.

finally, what does atletí have anything to do with anything? if there is one team that rfef has a problem with, it's barça way more than atletí. 🤔

[ilikekidsshows]

I hate that in Revelator Marinette saw what Alya's reaction was to the secret Marinette is keeping, and yet at the end Marinette whimpers at an Alya who lost her memories that she's afraid that Alya could possibly ever hate her, so Alya is made to unknowingly invalidate her previous feelings so Marinette is calmed into upholding the status quo by not attempting to fix the thing Alya called her out for.

That is.. the SECOND time Miraculous used a method like this to validate Marinette by not letting her partners know what they are actually talking about.

Adrien in Kuro Neko and now Alya in Revelator.

It was already a moral disaster the first time which the show hever recovered from, but pulling that a second time is a level of unwillingness to let Marinette face actual consequences I can't wrap my head around.

Just don't write conflicts like that into the story if you don't wanna challenge your MC at all?? What the point of writing these conflicts just to always break morality's back to instead let Marinette have her way through deliberate and selfish deception.

It even ruins any weak argument that could have possibly been made for Marinette having "learned her lesson" ever since she did it to Chat Noir "so clearly she doesn't need to be called out for it and take accountability! She totally grew past that so it would be unfairly punishing her for something she already flawlessly matured from"

She's doing the same shit to alya now, clearly she hasn't learnt ANYTHING from the season 4 Ladynoir conflict. Not to mention how she's once again reducing Chat Noir to nothing but an agenciless tool in Revelator. She pretty much said that she knows that Chat wouldn't agree with her secrecy towards Adrien because she fears that letting Chat know would result in him telling Adrien behind her back which leaves her feeling helpless because she couldn't stop him as unknown civilian person.

Alya at least only decided to use Chat for something he wouldn't agree with because Alya made it very clear that she's expecting of Marinette to come clean. And considering that Alya's first question was "does Chat Noir know?" it's actually a relief to have canon proof for once that someone gives a damn about Chat's dignity.

Cause from Alya's side, you can genuinely say that she only went with deceiving him here because she was fully convinced that it wouldn't last long due to Marinette coming clean and explaining everything. That's the best partnership and leadership Chat Noir has received in seasons... and, mind you, this still isn't GOOD good. It's just for once a type of deception I can work with because it still upholds a moral standard, particularly because Alya makes it clear that she doesn't want this secrecy to last. It's a temporary deception that already included the intent to properly make up for it.

That's the bare minimum, but in comparison to Marinette's writing, it's a heaven sent.

So obviously, Marinette had to be written to ruin everything by manipulating Alya into validating her instead and letting her trust in Marinette to make up for the harm being done be completely in vain.

---

It's dramatic, that's why it's there. Like, the one thing that Astruc can be said to be good at is setting a scene, because he's a storyboard artist by trade. He knows how to make a scene pop out and be memorable, how to invoke strong feelings in the moment, and it all falls apart as soon as you know this trick and look at the scene in question in relation to the rest of the episode and series. There is no consistency, the buildup and payoff fall flat and the context makes these dramatic scenes annoying or abhorrent based on the intensity of bending over backwards to validate Marinette involved.

Like, I first noticed this tendency of the show in the New York Special. Everyone praised the reunion scene at the end of the special and all I could think of was “we still haven't discussed Cat Noir's trauma over killing someone, he just felt like he had to come back because Ladybug needed him”. That broke the magic for me, since then, every time I look at a dramatic scene in Miraculous, I am reminded of everything they left unaddressed or with how much ease and Marinette-prioritizing the scene will get resolved with.

Alya getting upset at Marinette is a powerful scene and vindicates the audience members who think she's gone too far. They love it. Then it gets wiped away and undone so that it won't influence the show, because we can't have Marinette suffer actual negative consequences. But the people still willing to believe in this show see that scene as evidence that the writers can do better. Marinette was called out (except the person took it back after a quick mind-wipe)! She wasn't easily forgiven (instead they wiped away all knowledge of her guilt)! Alya is holding her accountable (she can't with her mind wiped)!

[mauveflowers]

SHJ’s and HYJ’s conversations just be like this for no reason

[hanzajesthanza]

one thing about cahir is that he does not run away from shit. even when he really really should. he is brave and noble to the point of idiocy. isengrim was like ok i am taking you back to nilfgaard to probably be executed for treason and cahir was like “ok” and didn’t even fight back and let them tie him up and put him in a box because he knew he fucked up again and that was the consequence. i’m not calling him a bootlicker because he literally rebels against mentioned evil empire and fights them on the battlefield, but there is something funny about him entirely accepting evil and unfair authority even when it means his demise. he loses the deal he’s made with emhyr like “ok. you can break me on the wheel now. because i failed.” it wouldn’t be honorable to chicken out of his fate, so he won’t run. because he doesn’t want to. it’s all about honor with this guy. i mean regis barely asks milva who is this man, and cahir interjects to straight up tells regis his entire full name. even though that’s sensitive information and he is literally on the imperial wanted list at the moment. like no one fucking asked dude. cahir is literally the kind of guy to respond to a lukewarm online comment with his full name and address (which btw is in vicovaro). because he wears his honor and his name like a badge. he could have stfu as geralt accused and berated him, but instead he defends his honor by fistfighting a witcher (an injured and disabled witcher, but still a witcher who he has witnessed fight and kill coldly and calmly with superhuman agility and speed). and finally, we all know how he met bonhart. like no fuck you it’s my destiny to die by your blade. cahir was just comfortable with speedrunning death. i love how fascinating he is as this deconstruction of chivalry and knightly masculinity.

because sapkowski also tangles with this idea of “the knight” in the hussite trilogy and he also talks about it in historia i fantastyka and świat króla artura (a little bit) about how historical knights were essentially bandits sanctioned by law, and the romance and chivalry was a literary invention, and cahir gets to do both, because he’s just combining these elements of the modern, real world and fairytale. but unlike everyone else, who goes from fairytale to real—although cahir is set up as the black knight and this Evil Guy Hunting Innocent Princess, which is very fairytale—cahir goes from real to fairytale, because the invasion of cintra is so very real, and cahir’s journey is to leave behind this reality of violent knighthood, to become a kind of virtuous literary knight instead.

because i love how his persistance and determination in his pursuit of ciri, which is initially set up as evil and villainous, becomes part of his honor. because it’s his persistance to follow her down as he was tasked with as the black knight, which transforms into the noble pursuit of her as in a rescue as a truely knightly endeavor. which is just as powerful and insane as the darksided version of it. geralt tells him to fuck off multiple times and he even gets jumped and he still pursues geralt’s company because the only thing that matters is to find ciri. and i feel like he had even more persistence when seeking her for good, rather than when he was working for evil. maybe because this time it was personal and not a punchclock motivation. and that noble calling to find ciri held out even when geralt’s fatherly devotion lost hope. in tower of the swallow, he wouldn’t believe in her death even when he sensed it as much as geralt did. because that’s the same overconfident youth we saw in blood of elves, smirking when emhyr discussed this second chance with him. like no i don’t care what anyone says, even my own premonitions or the emperor i serve. we are gonna find this fucking girl—

like just really a masterclass in how to take a character from villain to hero, keeping his same motivations and obsessions and self-image, and at the same time make it relevant thematically with the whole story, setting, and historical and literary connections that have already been established.

[wardensantoineandevka]

I will admit I'm a little salty that people, in an effort to prove that there is no good dialogue in Veilguard at all, keep comparing mission exposition to the high point narrative set pieces of prior games. I agree that some of the writing related to plot mechanics and mission exposition in Veilguard is a little too utilitarian, but that doesn't mean none of the dialogue is good or that prior games didn't also sometimes have this issue here and there.

I also generally dislike when people put the bar for good writing — and all writing too, not even just dialogue writing, ALL writing — at mic-drop sentences that still sound good completely divorced from context, because that really just reduces "good writing" down to like fake-deep philosophizing or witty quips exclusively. sometimes, a really good bit of dialogue sounds like a completely normal sentence out of context.

[rorydrawsandwrites]

"I am a grown adult woman, fascinated by horror and disturbing elements in fiction, I can rationalize the scary parts and be fine"

Also me: *disturbed by the mere description of a fan animation depicting sewerslide and procrastinates going to bed as a result because Ooh Scary Shot Of Corpse is now a (self-constructed) mental image*

[aceredshirt13]

gang i have to share this P. G. Wodehouse quote with you all because ever since I found it I can't stop thinking about it. it's from a letter he wrote when he was 78 years old to his friend Guy Bolton (many thanks to P. G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters)

I have been on the sick list myself, but am better now. Inflamed bladder or chill on the bladder or something, the symptoms being agony when I passed water, as the expression is. It brought back the brave old days when I used to get clap.

he really said "yeah the pain from my bladder issue reminds of the days when I used to have so much sex I repeatedly got venereal disease"

[imminent-danger-came]

how would you rank the ninja from worst to best based on the ninjago seasons youve seen?

Nya and Wu are the best, everyone else is the same to me

[red-dyed-sarumane]

being told my explanations of series songs make sense means so much to me bc im really bad at managing information neatly it all ends up as just one big train of thought & not really organized so i worry it ends up not making sense or comes across as super disjointed

[bastardlybonkers]

i feel like not enough ppl are factoring in the cultural clash between laios and shuro and the many micro agressions shuro faced while being in their group. literally the name 'shuro' in itself is one

his name is toshiro 😭 lets also not forget that he has his own communication issues, in the opposite way that laios does- thats literally a factor in their argument, that his envy for laios's ability to express himself sincerely manifested as part of his distaste for him.

ig all this to say like, was their fight heart wrenching, especially when reading laios as autistic? absolutely. anybody whos ever been in laios's position knows how much it hurts to realize someone you thought was your friend doesnt actually like having you around, especially when they didnt tell you and you had no way of knowing due to not understanding their cues. but im begging yall to step back and see the nuance of this situation cause im gonna be real a lot of you are kinda just brushing over it acting like everything is toshiros fault and that hes a terrible person when in reality hes an average guy who really, really clashed with laios and it led to a very long misunderstanding due to their supremely opposite methods of communication. even laios and toshiro, after letting everything out in their fight, were able to come to an understanding and start a foundation for an actual friendship built on better communication

ok yknow what Edit: i shouldve made it even more explicit at the end of this post, i hadnt thought i would need to since i started the post with this, but i think a few too many people are missing my point so i just wanna clarify. i shouldnt have said 'really clashed' and left it at that because yeah they did, but it wasnt just their opposite methods of communication, it is also very much that toshiro was experiencing microaggressions via laios. it may have been unintentional on laios's part, but it still happened and wore him down, made it harder for him to communicate on top of both the more subtle social cues that he was raised with and his own communication difficulties. i also want to say that the fandom reaction to toshiro and the complete ignorance of this point is also racist tbh or at the very least ignorant. i understand that the anime did not cover this panel, and neither did the manga, as this was an omake, but im gonna be real with you guys. there are enough context clues within the story to clue you into this. if you didnt pick up on it thats ok, but i think this is a good lesson in picking up subtext in the stories that youre watching and/or reading. kui shouldnt have to explicitly say 'by the way laios was racist to toshiro' for this point to be understood, and at the very least, when the author portrays a character in a sympathetic light (as kui clearly does) it should make you question Why they are doing so and what makes them sympathetic, rather than youre immediate and only reaction to be 'well i hated what this guy did/said so i hate them and they suck'. idk exactly how to finish this, just. idk. question your biases and gut reactions to things you see in media and stories, and think about whether or not theres subtext that youre missing.

[homunculus-argument]

When it comes to high-context and low-context cultures, where one has the expectation of people understanding specific subtle nuances of what someone says, and the other has the expectation that everything needs to be explicitly said to be understood, I've heard plenty of people from low-context cultures ask "why not say what you mean and mean what you say then, why would you have to speak in riddles?" about high-context ones, like people of the latter type are just being cryptic and esoteric on purpose.

But culture does not consist of things you do on purpose, it is just the way things are done where you were raised. And when you were raised in a high-context culture, the thought of needing to explicitly state something instead of using some phrase or expression that you've learned to use comes as a culture shock, too. It's not "fuck you for not correctly understanding my riddles three", but "oh shit, I hadn't occurred to me that I would need to say that out loud."

The first time I went on a business trip to the US, my partner came with me, and we immediately discovered that he does not fare well on long flights. So when my publisher asked me about future trips, inquiring whether my partner would be coming with me, I asked him. He said that he would, if the flights weren't such a problem - he would need to travel in some way where he could get his feet up or lay down during flights, like business class or first class. Being also a finn, I understood what he meant and relayed the message as is to my publisher, not considering that they might not.

To both of our surprise, they started to actually look for first class tickets for us.

Finnish culture is a high-context one, people don't talk much and aren't very confrontational. Being demanding and putting someone else into a position where they're forced to be upfront or demanding is rude. And in finnish, saying "this would only be possible if these entirely absurd/completely impossible conditions were met" is a polite way of saying "no". You are simply explaining why something cannot be done, without either saying an explicit "no" or seeming like you're making up excuses. It offers the other party an opportunity to agree that these conditions cannot be met, so neither party will come off as confrontational or demanding.

Both me and my boyfriend considered it self-evident that the request was absurd, and could not be read as anything but a polite way to decline. It had not occurred to me that an american's natural response to "it would be impossible to do this" is to start figuring out how to do it anyway.

[sirfrogsworth]

I think in this new age of A.I. the general public is going to need to increase their photography and lighting literacy. The response to this photo has just been a shit show.

There are people pointing out perfectly normal edge lighting and misunderstanding how reflections work.

First the plane is parked at an angle. The tail is farther back than the nose. But also that is a curved surface and it tapers. It's reflecting the area to the right of the photo.

And the bottom of the plane is reflecting what is directly underneath. Which is the tarmac, not the crowd.

It should also be noted that photo was shot with a very telephoto lens and everything is super compressed. The crowd appears much closer to the airplane than they actually are.

But then someone who should have good understanding of lighting said this...

And now I'm worried for her clients. Because that's very... wrong.

Well, wrong-ish.

First, let's try to understand why this photo is setting off some alarm bells.

The crowd toward the rear is in shadow, but they are still very well exposed. But then there is also a bright light source creating a strong edge light on them. Looking at this photo with just the context of what is in it, there are some things that seem uncanny.

The information we do not have is the people in the shadow area are inside a very brightly lit airplane hangar.

So they have artificial light blasting them from the top.

But that light is still much dimmer than the sunlit areas outside so they appear in shade. But we are used to shade being much darker than areas in direct sun. So the balance seems off in our brain. We expect the people to be darker because we don't have the context of the bright hangar lights above them.

But the other issue is that the photo was post processed. It wasn't manipulated. The pixels weren't changed. But the exposure balance was altered.

If I were to guess, the original photo looked more like this...

But newer digital cameras can have 13 to 15 stops of dynamic range. And if you shoot in RAW, you can easily lift shadows and bring down highlights. You can balance the exposure so the dark parts aren't as dark and the bright parts aren't as bright. This photographer might have overdone it a bit in this case, but this is a fairly standard edit used to bring balance to photos.

And lastly, where does the edge light come from?

Edge lighting or backlighting or rim lighting (all the same) should probably be called wrap-around lighting if you want to be more accurate.

It comes from a homogenous light source that is larger than the subject being lit. So with my knife photo, I placed it on a large LED panel light.

The light source was bigger than the subject so it wrapped around the edges.

And I'm afraid the airplane is not nearly large enough to create a light source to wrap around everyone in the crowd. It isn't even reflecting direct sunlight. So I'm sorry to say that lighting designer was mostly mistaken despite the confidence.

The light source is... everything.

That entire red area I highlighted is the light source.

As well as everything above and everything to the sides.

And the biggest aspect of that light source would be the sky above. I think people always forget the sky is a light source. If you are seeing blue, you are seeing light. And I guess the plane is included in that, but that entire highlighted red area is so bright, and so filled with sunlight bouncing around, that it creates basically a giant softbox. It becomes a huge single light source for the people in the hangar.

If you look at footage taken from way inside the hangar, you can see the camera adjusting exposure for the crowd inside, but look at what happens to the sunlit area outside.

What does that look like?

A giant softbox.

A single homogenous light source blasting light inside the hangar.

The sun is so incredibly bright that even when it is not directly lighting something, the light just bouncing around outside is enough to overpower the very bright hangar lights.

So, what have we learned from this?

Perhaps people should hire me to be their lighting designer.

Though I'm sure she is actually very talented. She seems to work with stage lights and this is more physics and photography.

Phystography.