#and can be fixed with a reinforced design

[animeengineer]

Full video here:

I’m pretty sure we can now call this Elon’s Edsel.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hi lovely, I absolutely love your stories. I was wondering if you could write one for Lewis, he has a daughter who is 16-17 and is absolutely smart, like Einstein smart and it's her first time in the Ferrari garage since Lewis moved and she saw a fault in some engineering work and helped fixing it and shocked her father and the whole garage. Thank you

The Future of Ferrari

Ferrari’s Maranello garage was a symphony of whirring drills, clanking tools, and intense Italian chatter. The team was hard at work preparing for the weekend’s qualifying session, red and black suits moving in well-practiced rhythm. Amid the organized chaos, one presence stood out—not because of noise, but because of the absolute silence and awe she left in her wake.

A girl with thick curls pulled into a loose bun and wide, observant brown eyes stood at the edge of the garage. She wore an oversized red hoodie with the Ferrari emblem on the chest, and a lanyard hung from her neck, swinging gently with her movements. Her expression was sharp, analyzing every corner of the room like she was mentally dissecting the internal combustion engine of the SF-24 just by looking at it.

“Daaaad,” she called out, trying not to sound impatient. “Where do you keep the drinks around here? I’m thirsty.”

Lewis turned around, helmet under his arm, his eyes immediately softening at the sight of his daughter. “Over there, near the data screens. Just don’t unplug anything or they’ll have a meltdown,” he teased, pointing her toward the crew’s refreshment corner.

She smirked. “Please, I could rewire this place blindfolded.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the confidence of a teenager with three physics awards.”

“Five,” she corrected, walking off.

As she moved across the garage, a few of the engineers took notice, recognizing her as Lewis’s daughter. Most had heard rumors of her intellect. She had attended MIT lectures for fun while vacationing in the States and was known for winning national-level science competitions in Europe. But seeing her in the flesh, in their sacred garage? That was new.

She sipped a bottle of water and leaned casually against a pillar, eyes drifting over the open rear of the car. Something wasn’t sitting right. She tilted her head, stepped forward a bit, and squinted at the gearbox housing.

A technician walked past her, carrying a tablet. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping closer to the car. “Is that the final mount design for the differential casing?”

The man blinked at her. “Uh… yes?”

She pointed to a specific joint just behind the casing. “That’s going to cause micro-vibrations under torque load. The fastener's alignment is 1.3 degrees off. It’s subtle, but enough to affect the car's handling mid-corner. Especially if it's hot.”

The tech frowned, unsure if he should laugh or worry.

“Sorry, who are you again?”

“Just his daughter,” she replied, nodding toward Lewis, who was now talking with his race engineer.

“Do you want to… maybe sit down?” he asked awkwardly.

But she stepped past him, crouched slightly, and gestured at a younger engineer who was watching curiously.

“Can I borrow your torque data? Just real quick.”

The engineer hesitated, then handed her the tablet.

She began typing, pulling up schematics, calculations appearing rapidly on the screen. Her thumbs moved like lightning, her brow furrowed in concentration. A few other engineers were gathering now, whispering among themselves.

“I recalculated the stress vector. See?” she turned the tablet toward them. “It looks fine in theory, but under compound load—especially with the way the aero package is set up—it’ll shift. You’ll get slight inconsistencies in traction, which is bad news during qualifying laps.”

The older technician who’d first questioned her stepped forward again. “Are you saying we need to rework this section?”

“I’m saying you need to adjust the mounting bracket by 1.3 degrees, shift the load path just slightly to the left, and reinforce it with carbon-composite washers. If you do that, you’ll stabilize the torque vector and improve rear-end consistency in Sector 3.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

“Where did you learn that?” one of the senior mechanics asked, blinking.

She shrugged. “I read a paper about torque distribution in high-speed cornering last week. Got bored on the flight here.”

Someone stifled a laugh. Another said under his breath, “Bloody hell…”

“Oi!” Lewis called, finally noticing the growing crowd. “What’s going on?”

The head of engineering, a stern Italian named Matteo, stepped forward and gestured for Lewis to come over.

“Your daughter,” he began slowly, still sounding amazed, “just found a design flaw we didn’t catch. One that would’ve possibly cost you two-tenths per lap. Maybe more.”

Lewis stared. “Wait. What?”

Matteo pointed at her. “She’s… she’s like a walking CFD simulator. She even pulled up our own torque data.”

Lewis turned to her, his face a mixture of disbelief and fatherly pride. “Sweetheart, what did you do?”

She looked up innocently. “I fixed your car. You’re welcome.”

A round of laughter broke out, but it was warm, appreciative. The crew clapped her on the back, some shaking their heads in awe.

“She’s incredible,” Matteo said to Lewis. “You sure she’s not secretly part of Red Bull’s spy program?”

Lewis laughed. “Trust me, if she were, we’d all be in trouble. She’s probably smarter than half the grid already.”

“I’m smarter than you,” she teased.

“Absolutely no doubt about that,” he replied with a grin, ruffling her hair.

She smoothed it down with a roll of her eyes. “So dramatic.”

The engineers quickly got to work implementing her suggestions. Matteo kept glancing back at her like she was some kind of wizard. Lewis watched with arms folded, his heart swelling.

After a while, she stood beside him, watching the updated component go onto the car.

“So… what did you think?” he asked gently.

She tilted her head. “It’s loud. Smells like oil. Half the men here don’t know how to hold a tablet properly.”

Lewis laughed. “Welcome to Formula One.”

She smiled. “It’s cool, though. I like it.”

He nudged her shoulder. “You ever think about working in this world someday? Engineering, maybe?”

She glanced at him, then back at the car. “Maybe. If they can keep up.”

He chuckled again. “No pressure, but… you made me proud today.”

She looked at him seriously. “You’re always proud.”

“True. But today, I’m blown away. You just walked into one of the most elite garages on the planet and made a critical engineering correction before lunch.”

She gave a shy smile, shrugging. “Just saw something wrong and fixed it.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve always done that. In your own way.”

As the car roared to life for testing, the modified part holding firm, Lewis and his daughter stood side by side, two Hamiltons—one a living legend of the track, the other a rising genius who might just change the sport in her own quiet, brilliant way.

And somewhere behind them, Matteo whispered to a fellow engineer, “Keep an eye on her. She’s the future.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Zayne x Reader x Yandere!Caleb

Arts cre to artist

Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world overrun by monstrous creatures known as Wanderers, you are one of the last remaining scientists, dedicating your life to preserving humanity. Using cutting-edge biotechnology, you create Caleb and Zayne—two highly advanced humanoid beings designed to assist you in fighting the Wanderer threat. You implant them with memories of being your childhood friends to ensure they feel loyalty, trust, and camaraderie toward you. Caleb is the reliable and determined pilot, wielding gravity-based powers, while Zayne is the calm and resourceful medic, capable of manipulating ice.

The morning sun streamed through the reinforced windows of your lab as the smell of something savory wafted in, pulling you out of your deep focus. You looked up from the maze of wires and circuits sprawled across your workstation just in time to see Caleb entering, balancing a steaming plate in one hand. His dark hair was slightly damp, probably from his morning workout, and his signature confident grin was firmly in place.

“You didn’t eat again, did you?” he said, setting the plate down in front of you.

You blinked at the food—a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs, toast, and even a small bowl of fresh-cut fruit. “Wait… when did you have time to make this?”

“Right after fixing that mess of a ventilation system in the south wing” he replied, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You gave him a wry smile. “You know, you’re starting to sound more like a housekeeper than a pilot.”

“And you’re starting to sound like someone who’s about to faint from hunger” Caleb shot back, gesturing toward the food. “Now eat before I make it a command.”

Reluctantly, you put down your tools and took a bite. It was annoyingly good. You mumbled between mouthfuls, “You’re too good at this. What kind of pilot cooks this well?”

“The kind that has to make up for the genius who forgets to eat.” he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

Before you could retort, Zayne walked in, clipboard in hand, his icy-blue eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Caleb and his cooking.

“What’s this?” Zayne asked, gesturing to the plate. “Breakfast in bed? How domestic of you, Caleb.”

“Jealous, Doc?” Caleb quipped without missing a beat.

Zayne’s gaze shifted to you. “You really let him boss you around like this?”

“I didn’t let him,” you said, gesturing to the food with your fork. “But I’m not complaining. He’s saving me time.”

Zayne sighed, placing his clipboard on the counter. “You know, if you actually managed your schedule better, you wouldn’t need someone to babysit you.”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “And if you lightened up, maybe people wouldn’t freeze the second you walk into a room.”

“Caleb. Zayne.” You set your fork down and gave them both a pointed look. “Can we not do this every time we’re in the same room?”

Caleb smirked but didn’t push further, and Zayne gave a small huff before grabbing a tablet to check mission reports. Despite their constant bickering, there was an undeniable ease to their presence, like two opposing forces that somehow balanced each other out.

You looked between them, a small smile tugging at your lips. No matter how chaotic they were, they were your family—the people you could always count on, even in the darkest of times. ----- The mission had gone horribly wrong. Wanderers ambushed you in the dead of night, forcing Caleb and Zayne into combat. Caleb slammed one creature into the ground with a gravitational pulse, his jaw tight as he yelled “Get behind me!”

Zayne’s breath misted in the air as frost spread from his fingertips, freezing a group of Wanderers in place. “How about you stop barking orders and actually focus on not dying?” he snapped, his voice sharper than usual.

“I am focusing!” Caleb retorted, his gravitational barrier flickering as the strain mounted.

Realizing they couldn’t hold out much longer, you made a split-second decision. Pulling out a remote device, you activated the override. Both Caleb and Zayne froze mid-action, their bodies locking up as their systems shut down.

“I’m sorry” you whispered, dragging them to safety before finishing off the remaining Wanderers yourself.

When they woke up in your lab hours later, the tension was palpable. Caleb sat up first, rubbing his temples. “What… happened? Why couldn’t I move?”

“You shut us down” Zayne said flatly, his tone icy. His sharp gaze pinned you in place. “That override… what else have you been hiding from us?”

You sighed, turning away from their accusing stares. “I had no choice. You both would have died.”

Caleb stood, his expression unreadable. “We’re not just tools, are we? We’re…” His voice faltered, and his hand clenched into a fist. “What are we?”

Zayne crossed his arms, his voice low. “Answer him.”

Taking a deep breath, you faced them. “You’re not tools. You’re not experiments. You’re my creations. I built you to help me save humanity. And I gave you memories—false ones... because I didn’t want you to feel like you were nothing more than machines.”

The silence was deafening. Caleb stared at you, a storm brewing in his eyes. “So… we’re not even human?”

“No.” you admitted softly. “But that doesn’t change what you mean to me. You’re more than just creations. You’re my family.”

Zayne’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained cold. “Family? Is that why you lied to us?”

“I lied to protect you.” you said, your voice firm. “I didn’t want you to feel like you were just tools. You’re not. You’re everything to me.”

In the days that followed, Caleb and Zayne’s behavior shifted. Caleb became more protective, shadowing you during missions and watching you with a guarded intensity. Zayne, meanwhile, grew more reserved, throwing himself into his work but keeping a careful eye on you.

One evening, as you worked late in the lab, Caleb sat nearby, idly fiddling with a gadget. “You should let me help you more.” he said suddenly.

“You already help plenty.” you replied without looking up.

“Not enough.” he muttered. “If something happened to you…”

You looked up, surprised at the vulnerability in his voice. “Caleb, nothing’s going to happen to me. I have you and Zayne, remember?”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Yeah. You have us.”

Later that night, Zayne entered the lab, finding you asleep at your desk. Shaking his head, he draped a blanket over your shoulders and adjusted the room’s temperature to keep you comfortable. “She pushes herself too hard” he murmured, his icy tone melting for just a moment.

“Don’t we all?” Caleb’s voice came from the doorway.

Zayne glanced at him but didn’t respond. Instead, he sighed. “As much as I hate to admit it… she needs both of us.”

Caleb crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “Yeah. She does.”

The city was under siege, and the Wanderer threat was greater than ever. Caleb, Zayne, and you stood side by side, ready to face the horde.

“Stay close to me” Caleb said, his gravitational field already forming.

Zayne rolled his eyes but smirked. “Protect her all you want, but don’t get in my way.”

You placed a hand on both their shoulders, your voice steady. “No fighting. Not now. We do this together.”

For the first time, they exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.

As the battle raged, the three of you worked in perfect sync. Caleb’s gravity crushed waves of Wanderers, while Zayne froze others in their tracks. You enhanced their powers, amplifying Caleb’s field to cover the entire city and super charging Zayne’s ice to create massive barriers.

When the last Wanderer fell, the three of you stood together, battered but victorious. Caleb offered you a tired smile. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

Zayne chuckled, his breath misting in the cold air. “For once, I agree with him.”

You smiled, tears in your eyes. “We always have.”

As the world began to heal, so did your bond with Caleb and Zayne. They accepted their origins and found solace in their roles—not as tools, but as your partners and family. Though their playful rivalry remained, it was no longer tinged with bitterness.

----- Life had been peaceful in the months following the defeat of the Wanderers. The lab had transformed into a hub of innovation, with Caleb and Zayne lending their unique talents to assist you in rebuilding technology for humanity. Despite the occasional bickering between them, a quiet harmony had settled over the three of you.

That peace, however, was shattered the day an unexpected visitor appeared at your doorstep.

You were calibrating a new piece of equipment when the lab’s security system chimed, signaling an incoming guest. Caleb, who had been fixing a damaged drone nearby, frowned and stood immediately.

“Expecting someone?” he asked, tension creeping into his voice.

“No” you said, confused, wiping your hands on a cloth as you walked to the door.

The man standing outside was someone you hadn’t seen in years. Dr. Marcus Vell, a former colleague from your days as a junior scientist. His slicked-back gray hair and sharp suit gave him an air of authority, but there was something unsettling in his smile.

“Y/N!” he said warmly, stepping forward as you opened the door. “It’s been too long.”

“Marcus?” you said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about your success” he said, glancing around the lab with thinly veiled interest. “I must say, I always knew you’d surpass the rest of us. Your creations…” His eyes flicked to Caleb and Zayne, lingering a little too long. “…are remarkable.”

Zayne, standing in the corner, crossed his arms, his icy gaze fixed on Marcus. Caleb moved closer to your side, his posture protective.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty busy.” you said, trying to keep the interaction short.

Marcus chuckled, unbothered by the cold reception. “Of course. I won’t take much of your time. I’m here with an offer. Humanity needs minds like yours—truly gifted ones. Come work with me. Together, we could rebuild this world far more efficiently.”

You hesitated, sensing the hidden implications in his words. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m happy where I am.”

His smile faltered slightly, and a flicker of something darker crossed his face. “Don’t be so hasty. You’ve barely heard what I have to offer.”

Caleb stepped forward, his expression hard. “She already said no. You heard her.”

Marcus glanced at him, his smile sharpening. “Ah, the pilot. A fine creation. But let’s not forget who’s really in charge here.”

Before Caleb could respond, you held up a hand. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Marcus.”

Marcus straightened his suit, his eyes lingering on you. “Very well. But consider this—talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted in obscurity. I’ll be in touch.”

As he walked out, Zayne’s voice cut through the silence. “I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I” Caleb muttered.

You sighed, brushing it off. “It’s fine. He’s just an old colleague trying to stir up trouble. Forget about him.”

But Caleb and Zayne exchanged a look—one that spoke volumes.

Later that night, while you were asleep, Caleb and Zayne made their move.

“He’s not going to stop” Caleb said, his voice low as he paced the dimly lit lab.

Zayne, seated at a console, typed rapidly, pulling up information on Marcus. “Agreed. He’s been digging into her work for months. I found encrypted correspondence with other labs—he’s trying to recruit people to take her away.”

Caleb clenched his fists. “Then we stop him. Quietly.”

Zayne looked up, meeting Caleb’s gaze. “For once, we’re on the same page.”

Two days later, Marcus Vell vanished.

You didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in your work to realize he hadn’t “followed up” as he promised. When you eventually thought of him again, Zayne was the one to casually dismiss your concerns.

“Marcus?” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I heard he left the region. Something about funding issues.”

“Really?” you asked, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Caleb chimed in, leaning against the counter. “People like him are all talk. He probably realized you weren’t interested and gave up.”

You nodded slowly, still feeling a vague unease. “I guess. Well, good riddance.”

Caleb and Zayne shared a brief glance behind your back, the unspoken agreement between them crystal clear. Marcus was no longer a threat.

A week later, Caleb handed you a plate of food while Zayne adjusted the cooling system for your new project.

“Thanks” you said with a smile, taking the plate. “You two have been unusually cooperative lately. Should I be worried?”

“Cooperative?” Caleb grinned. “We’re just that good.”

Zayne gave a small shrug, his lips curving into a rare smile. “Sometimes, we have the same priorities.”

You tilted your head, sensing an undertone you couldn’t quite place. But whatever it was, you trusted them. After all, they’d proven time and again that they would do anything to protect you—even if you didn’t always know the lengths they’d go to.

As you turned back to your work, Caleb and Zayne exchanged a small, knowing smirk. They didn’t need your gratitude. Keeping you safe was reward enough.

----- Bonus: The Great Dinner Standoff It had been a long day of work, and you were looking forward to a relaxing dinner. Caleb had volunteered to cook, which usually meant something delicious but overly ambitious. When you entered the dining area, the smell of roasted vegetables filled the air.

Caleb turned from the stove, flashing you a proud grin. “Dinner’s ready. I made roasted carrots with honey glaze, some chicken, and mashed potatoes. Pretty fancy, huh?”

Your mouth watered at the sight of the golden carrots on the table. “It smells amazing. Thanks, Caleb!”

Zayne appeared in the doorway, pausing mid-step as his eyes landed on the carrots. His face immediately darkened. “Carrots? Really?”

Caleb smirked, clearly enjoying Zayne’s reaction. “What’s wrong, Doc? Too sophisticated for your picky palate?”

Zayne ignored him, stepping into the room with a tray of his own. “I made something, too.”

You blinked in surprise. “Wait, you cooked?”

Zayne set the tray on the table, revealing a dish of cilantro-lime rice. “I thought I’d contribute.”

The moment Caleb saw the cilantro, his expression soured. “Cilantro? Seriously?”

Zayne’s lips twitched into a subtle smirk. “Oh, I know. Just thought it would balance out your… overly sweet carrots.”

Caleb glared at him. “You’re sabotaging dinner.”

“Sabotaging?” Zayne asked innocently, taking a seat. “I’m expanding the flavor profile.”

You groaned, sitting down between them. “Can we have one meal without a fight?”

Caleb pointed his fork at Zayne. “Tell him that. He’s the one ruining perfectly good food.”

Zayne calmly spooned some cilantro rice onto his plate. “I could say the same about your poor excuse for a vegetable.”

You sighed, grabbing a little of both dishes and taking a bite. The carrots were sweet and perfectly cooked, and the cilantro rice had a refreshing zest. “Honestly? They’re both great. You two should just appreciate each other’s cooking.”

Caleb muttered something under his breath but started eating, avoiding the rice entirely. Zayne, for his part, made a show of pushing the carrots to the edge of his plate.

By the end of the meal, you couldn’t help but smile. Despite their endless bickering, you knew they both cared in their own strange ways.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bunji

Since you did Rocket Raccoon reader its only fair you do Groot reader

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚎

Groot!reader

Summary || a walking tree, with a living consciousness. They’re not sure how this could get any weirder.

Note // you know what—you’re so right.

Eve Wilkins

You are drawn to kindness. No matter how wild the galaxy gets, you have an instinct for recognizing genuine goodness—it's part of what made you trust Peter, care for Rocket, and sacrifice yourself for the Guardians. You don’t speak much, but your empathy runs deep. You'd probably give a flower to a child before realizing you were in the middle of a fight.

You love light. Bioluminescent spores aren’t just functional—they’re comforting. When you're anxious or want to calm your friends, you let them glow like little stars. It’s your way of creating peace when words aren’t enough.

You don’t try to be funny, but you are. You’ll misinterpret plans, accidentally grab the wrong explosive root, or stubbornly insist on drinking from public fountains. You think you're being sneaky, but everyone sees you—and somehow, that makes you even more lovable.

When you love someone, you don’t hesitate. Whether it’s standing between them and danger, growing your body around them, or tearing through a hallway with ruthless fury, you show your love through action. You don’t need to say it. I am Groot says everything.

You don’t talk much, and Eve doesn’t need you to. She learns to understand your tone when you say "I am Groot"—the subtle differences in pitch, the context, the energy. She’s one of the few who never asks, “What does that mean?” because she’s already got it.

You two make the most beautiful things together. She’ll craft a structure, and you’ll reinforce it with vines and roots. You’re the foundation, she’s the design. Neither of you says “good job”—you just give each other that look, the kind that says, “This is good. We did this together.”

When Eve gets overwhelmed, she doesn’t always want to talk. Sometimes she finds you and just sits beside you, her head resting against your shoulder or one of your branches. Your presence alone grounds her—your steady breathing, the warmth of your body, the soft rustling of your leaves. You don’t fix her problems, you just exist with her. And that’s exactly what she needs.

You love lighting up around her. Not in a flashy way—just soft, glowing spores when the sky is dark or when she looks a little tired. She smiles every time, like it’s a private little lightshow. She once told you it felt like the universe was hugging her. You remembered that.

Eve is used to fixing things now. That’s the curse of someone who can rewrite reality. But you… you take your time. You grow things slowly. You make her wait, make her breathe. When she’s feeling restless, you’ll just plant your feet, spread your arms wide, and start growing something beside her. She’ll sigh—but then sit down and watch. By the end of it, she’s calm again.

After battle, when you’ve been scorched or cracked, she quietly kneels next to you and mends what she can with her powers—smoothing rough edges, restoring broken pieces, careful not to overstep your own regenerative abilities. You always pat her on the head after. She pretends to be annoyed, but you know she loves it.

You give her little gifts—flowers, twisted branches in interesting shapes, bioluminescent moss. She transmutates them into little ornaments and hangs them around her room or on her cape. She never throws any of them away.

Both of you have felt "different"—you, a living tree with a voice no one understands; her, a girl made in a lab with powers too big for the world. There’s a quiet bond in that. Neither of you talks about it, but when you’re together, you don’t feel quite so alone.

Whether it’s the way you side-eye Rocket’s chaos or the time you wore one of her capes and tried to strike a superhero pose (snapping a ceiling light in the process), Eve always ends up laughing around you. It’s rare, and it’s real.

You’re both incredibly powerful, but you use your strength differently—she with precision, you with emotion. If someone hurt Eve, you’d go full hallway-vine-mode. If someone tried to cage or control you, she’d rewrite the atoms of their cell into stardust. All without saying a word.

The clearing was quiet, except for the gentle hum of wind brushing through the trees. Most of those trees were normal. Except one.

You stood still, rooted in the soft earth, arms stretched to the sky like you were soaking in every drop of sunlight. You didn’t move much—just swayed a little in the breeze. Peaceful.

Eve sat cross-legged a few feet away, tracing a lazy spiral into the dirt with her fingertip. She wasn’t in costume today. Just jeans, a hoodie, and bare feet planted in the grass like she was trying to feel something real.

“You know,” she said softly, “it’s weird. I spend so much time trying to change the world, and then I sit here with you and… it’s like the world is already okay.”

"I am Groot," you replied.

Eve smiled faintly. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

She leaned back and looked up at you. The sunlight filtering through your leafy canopy cast patterns across her face. She could’ve reshaped the whole forest if she wanted to—added flowers, made the trees taller, restructured the soil. But she didn’t. Because you were here, and you were enough.

With a flick of her hand, she made a tiny swirl of pink energy spin above her palm. You watched it with interest, leaning down just a little. She noticed your gaze and chuckled.

“Wanna see something cool?” she asked.

You tilted your head. "I am Groot."

Taking that as a yes, she guided the energy into the air. It shimmered, then bent and formed into the shape of a small, glowing tree. She floated it gently into your hand.

You stared at it for a moment. Then slowly, a thin branch extended from your arm and curled around it protectively. You absorbed it into your chest—just a little—and when you pulled back, a cluster of tiny pink flowers had bloomed in your bark.

Eve blinked. “You… you kept it?”

"I am Groot," you said with a shrug, as if to say: Of course.

She laid back fully now, arms folded behind her head. “You’re kind of the best, you know that?”

You let out a low, creaking hum—almost a laugh. And then, from your fingertips, tiny glowing spores began to drift down like slow-falling snowflakes. They sparkled in the air, warm and gentle.

Eve closed her eyes beneath them, smiling.

In a world full of chaos, she didn’t need answers here. She had roots. She had light. She had a friend.

And that was enough.

Rex Sloan

You didn’t like Rex at first. You didn’t understand half the things he said, and the other half sounded like insults. But he kept coming back, throwing snacks at you and calling you “Tree-bro.” Eventually, you stopped trying to strangle him with vines every time he popped up.

You’re Rex’s anchor in combat. You, with your unflinching calm and monstrous strength, help ground Rex when he’s losing it mid-fight. He’ll be hurling exploding bolts like a maniac, and you just gently sweep a hallway of enemies clean with a vine whip, leaving him muttering, “Showoff. But like, in a cool way.”

Rex tries to teach you sarcasm. Every now and then, Rex tries to teach you how to be sarcastic—tone, timing, and everything. It usually ends with you just deadpanning “I am Groot” at him, but somehow it lands perfectly and he bursts out laughing every time.

You love his energy drinks. You once sipped one of Rex’s many obnoxiously flavored energy drinks. Now you keep stealing them. You’ll plop down next to him with a “GRRRroot” and snatch his can, sipping it like it’s the finest nectar in the galaxy. Rex pretends to complain but always brings a second one.

He carved your name on his new cybernetic wrist. After his brush with death, Rex got sentimental in the weirdest way. On the inside of his new cybernetic wrist, he etched “Groot” as a reminder of who had his back during one of the worst battles of his life. He won’t admit it to you, though. Just says it came “pre-scratched.”

You once built him a vine hammock mid-mission. You caught Rex collapsing after a long battle and without a word, extended a few vines and crafted him a hammock right there in the middle of the ruins. He called it “tree magic” and still brags about it to anyone who’ll listen.

You are his moral compass. As much of a loudmouth as Rex is, he listens when you get serious—even if it’s just a solemn “I am Groot”. Somehow, you manage to say a lot with those three words. You keep him from slipping back into his old, toxic ways.

You don’t understand his flirting. At all. When Rex tries to flirt with anyone in front of you, you always tilt your head and ask “I am Groot?” in the most confused tone imaginable. It flusters him every time. You’re the ultimate wingman by accident.

He gives you cool nicknames. “Big Bark Energy,” “Branch Bae,” “Sir Grootington,” “The Verdant Venom”—Rex insists on calling you some absurd new nickname every week. You tolerate it. Barely. Okay, you do like “Big Bark Energy.”

He saved one of your twigs. After a rough mission where you lost a bit of yourself, Rex found one of your broken twigs on the battlefield and pocketed it. He keeps it on a chain now, tucked in his jacket. Says it’s “for luck,” but it’s really because he can’t imagine doing this whole hero thing without you anymore.

The wreckage still smoked behind you. The city—well, what was left of it—groaned under its own weight, buildings half-split like paper, sirens blaring in the distance. Rex stood with one hand on his hip, the other gently cradling his aching cybernetic wrist, which sparked every so often.

“Hell of a day,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You stood beside him, not saying anything at first. The wind caught in your leaves. You glanced at him, then at the sky, which had turned the color of burnt metal.

“I am Groot,” you said, quietly.

Rex huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Bet it is better than last time. At least this time I didn’t get impaled or lit on fire.”

“I am Groot.”

He looked over at you, grinning despite the blood drying in his hair. “Okay, fair. You did get set on fire.”

You shrugged your bark shoulders and dropped a single leaf into his hand. Rex looked down at it like it was gold. He tucked it into the lining of his jacket, where you knew he kept the twig from last time. No ceremony. Just… respect.

After a moment, he said, “You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a joke. Even when I’m being one.”

You tilted your head. Your eyes, warm and soft, blinked slow.

“I am Groot.”

He didn’t ask for a translation. He just nodded.

Then you reached down with a gentle vine and flicked the back of his head.

“OW—what the hell was that for?!”

You grinned.

“I am Groot.”

Rex shook his head, chuckling as the two of you walked away from the smoking crater that used to be a shopping mall. “Yeah, yeah. I do talk too much. Shut up.”

You didn’t.

Not for a long time.

Debbie Grayson

You started showing up after Mark’s worst days. You didn’t say much—just quietly appeared outside Debbie’s porch, a tall silhouette framed by the stars, holding a flower in your hand. She’d open the door, sigh, and let you in. It became a routine. Her house always smelled like tea and tiredness.

You don’t talk. She appreciates that. You say “I am Groot,” and she nods like you’ve told her something profound. Maybe you have. Debbie never presses you to explain. She likes that you’re just there. A calming presence made of bark, leaves, and strange alien understanding.

You once grew her an entire vine garden on her balcony. After she said she missed her old garden (Nolan had accidentally destroyed it mid-landing), you returned the next day and grew her a tangle of roses, sunflowers, and alien blossoms that sparkled at night. “I am Groot,” you said. She cried. You stayed.

You’re weirdly good with Oliver. Debbie doesn’t know why, but her space-baby son absolutely loves you. He climbs on you like a jungle gym, giggles when you sprout glowing spores for him to chase, and insists you're his “tree-uncle.” Debbie’s just glad someone can tire him out.

You bring her tea leaves from alien worlds. You’ve been to galaxies she’ll never see—but you bring little gifts. You gently drop glowing leaves or fragrant buds in her hand and watch as she carefully brews them into something soothing. “I don’t know how this works,” she says, sipping. “But you’ve got excellent taste.”

She stitched you a little scarf. Chicago winters were brutal. You were fine, obviously, being mostly wood—but Debbie insisted. “Even trees deserve to be warm,” she said, wrapping a wool scarf around your neck. You still wear it when you visit. It’s green and has a tiny embroidered “G.”

You let her rant. A lot. Debbie has seen too much, lost too much. Sometimes she needs to yell at someone, vent her pain, her anger, her grief. You stand there, still and patient, as she paces her kitchen and talks about Nolan, Mark, expectations, fears. You listen. You always listen.

You’re her emergency contact. She put your name down once—just to be funny. “In case I get hit by a car, I want to know you’ll drop a tree on someone’s head.” You didn’t quite get the joke. You just gave a serious nod and said, “I am Groot.”

You helped her repair the roof. After a storm wrecked part of her house, you climbed up there without asking and just… grew a living trellis to support the damage. Now there are vines growing between shingles and flowers peeking out of the gutters. Debbie calls it her “treehouse upgrade.”

She doesn’t see you as a pet. She sees you as family. You’re strange. You barely speak. You’re from another world. But so is half her life now. And in a world full of violence and betrayal, you’re one of the only constants who show up—with tea, flowers, and the calm of a forest.

The house was quiet. Not sad quiet—just that rare, peaceful kind. The kind Debbie hadn’t really known in months. Maybe years.

She sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on wood worn smooth by time, holding a mug of gently steaming tea. It smelled like honey and something unfamiliar—one of the glowing leaves you’d left her on the windowsill the other night.

The screen door creaked open.

She didn’t flinch.

You ducked under the doorway, careful as always not to break the frame. A few blossoms bloomed from your shoulder, trailing soft gold dust as you stepped into the light.

“I was wondering if you’d show up,” she said, voice low. “Mark’s out. So’s Oliver. Just me tonight.”

“I am Groot,” you replied, moving slowly to the floor beside her table like a great oak settling into the earth. You didn’t take chairs. You were a chair, kind of. Once, Oliver used you as one. He still does.

Debbie smiled, eyes tired but warm. She pushed the other mug across the table toward you.

“You can’t actually drink this, can you?”

You paused. Then, gently, your hand unfolded into a small flower. It dipped toward the cup and brushed the steam.

You leaned back.

“I am Groot.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, laughing softly.

There was a beat of silence—long, but not uncomfortable. The kind that lives between old friends, where no words are needed. Outside, snow had started to fall, dotting the windows like stars.

She looked over at you, voice softer than before. “I used to think Nolan was my anchor. My whole life was wrapped around him. Turns out... I’m stronger without him.”

You turned your gaze toward her. She couldn’t really read you—not like Mark or Eve or Cecil could—but she always felt like you heard her.

She sipped her tea again, savoring it.

“This blend?” she murmured. “Groot, it’s perfect.”

“I am Groot.”

“You always say that when I compliment you.”

“I am Groot.”

She chuckled. “Okay, okay. Not gonna argue with a walking tree. Again.”

The clock ticked. The snow kept falling. Somewhere down the hall, a family photo tilted slightly on the wall, and Debbie didn’t get up to fix it. She just sat there, sipping tea across from a gentle, mossy giant, her kitchen warm with quiet gratitude.

And for the first time in a long time... she didn’t feel alone.

Allen The Alien

You first met by punching each other through three moons and a minor gas planet. It was a misunderstanding. Classic intergalactic mix-up. Allen thought you were a Viltrumite mutant experiment. You thought he was a weird orange bounty hunter after Rocket. It ended in a tie, mutual respect, and a fist bump that made a comet veer off course.

You don’t need words, and he talks enough for both of you. “I am Groot,” you say. Allen nods way too enthusiastically. “Right?! That’s exactly what I was thinking, man!” He fills the silence with his signature ramble—stories about his training, the Coalition, the latest disaster he barely survived. You just listen. Patient, amused. He's good noise.

You once grew a tree on Allen. During a long flight, Allen fell asleep mid-space-drift. You, bored and mildly curious, planted a tiny seedling on his shoulder plate. It sprouted. He woke up and cried tears of joy. “It’s BEAUTIFUL. Groot. I’m a garden now.”

Allen insists on calling you “my big leafy bro.” He says it with pride. You’re the one he drags along when he's got a suicide mission. “Groot’s got my back,” he tells the Coalition confidently. They don’t understand. You do. And you always show up when he needs you—quiet, towering, unstoppable.

You helped him with rehab after his near-death transformation. While Allen trained to adjust to his new strength, you stayed nearby. Your regenerative abilities let him spar without holding back. You took hits that cratered mountains and kept coming. Sometimes, he’d collapse afterward, laughing breathlessly. “You never fall over. Not once. You're like… my bark-covered rock.”

You two have a favorite asteroid bar. It’s floating in the edge of unclaimed space. The drinks are weird, and the gravity’s inconsistent, but Allen loves it. You don’t drink, but the owner gives you compost tea. Allen always tells the story of how you arm-wrestled a six-limbed warlord and won by blinking.

He taught you how to play space poker. You always win. You never bluff. You just stare. No one can read you. Allen lives for it. “That’s my guy! You see that? I am Groot, baby!”

You saved his life by wrapping him in vines and dragging him out of an exploding satellite station. He was unconscious, bleeding, and the place was falling apart. You didn’t hesitate. You wrapped him in your arms and shielded him from the blast. When he woke up, cradled in a cocoon of your bark and leaves, he called you a "space angel."

He gave you his backup Coalition communicator. “Just in case,” he said, pushing it into your hand. “If I’m ever in real trouble, I want you on the other end. You don’t ask questions. You handle things.”

You said, “I am Groot.”

He saluted like it was a vow.

You two are chaos together, but good chaos. When you're on a mission, it’s like a tree and a tank joined forces. He punches through starships; you tear through walls with vines and glowing spores. Between his dramatic commentary and your unstoppable calm, people never know what hit them.

Somewhere between Sector 5-Lu and the Outer Rim of the Darlune Cluster, your ship was… stuck.

Allen swore it was just a “minor navigational delay,” which in Coalition-speak apparently meant ten to twelve hours of drifting with no entertainment except your own brain.

So he did what any emotionally resilient, painfully bored Unopan would do.

He hit the karaoke switch.

The lights dimmed. The console screen lit up with a glittery font that read “StarScreamz!™ Deep Space Karaoke Lounge” and started playing an upbeat synth-heavy tune that vibrated the floor.

Allen turned to you, arms thrown wide, voice dramatic:

“Groot. Buddy. Bark beast of legend. I hope you’re ready to share your soul with the stars.”

You blinked. One flower bloomed gently on your shoulder in response.

“I am Groot.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Allen’s first pick was a Coalition classic: “Fly Me Through That Supernova (You Took My Gravity With You).” He sang it terribly. Passionately, but terribly.

He twirled. He added finger guns. He hit a note so high a bolt came loose from the ceiling.

You just watched from the co-pilot’s chair, arms crossed, vines twitching slightly with the bassline.

Then, it happened. The instrumental version of “I Will Survive” began to play.

Allen turned to you with a twinkle in his massive eye. “Your turn.”

You stared.

“…I am Groot.”

“Oh, you are singing, my man. You’ve got the roots of rhythm. The bark of a star.”

You sighed. Slowly stood up. Walked to the mic. Picked it up in one hand like it was a twig.

And then—“I am Groot.”

You sang it.

You didn’t need lyrics. Didn’t need verses. Just “I am Groot,” over and over—varying tone, melody, intensity. Somehow… it worked. You even hit a key change. The vines on your arms started swaying in rhythm. You bloomed bioluminescent petals mid-chorus.

Allen’s jaw dropped.

“Holy asteroid clusters,” he whispered. “You’re… amazing.”

You struck a final pose, leaves glittering in the low light.

“I. Am. Groot.”

Silence.

And then, thunderous applause—courtesy of Allen slamming his hands together like cymbals.

“You win. Karaoke. Forever.”

You returned to your seat, one flower falling gently from your shoulder and drifting through the air.

“I am Groot.”

“You are,” Allen said, chest still heaving from laughter. “You really, really are.”

The ship was still stranded, the stars still unmoving outside the viewport.

But now the cabin echoed with music, wild laughter, and the faintest trail of glowing petals as two cosmic misfits passed the time—with harmony, hilarity, and a mic that may or may not have short-circuited from your last solo.

[swappedandtrapped]

Swapping Research - Part 3

Read part 1 here Read part 2 here

"Fix this." Marcus's voice—Tyler's voice—cracked as he grabbed Alex's shoulders. "Whatever you did, undo it. Now."

Alex stepped back, her face tight with conflict. "It's not that simple. The quantum entanglement that facilitates the transfer has been modified. Tyler asked me to—"

"Show me!" Marcus pointed toward her computer. "Show me exactly what you changed. Now!"

"I can explain," Tyler said, the familiar features of Marcus's face contorted with unfamiliar desperation. "You still have a body, a life. I'm not taking everything."

"Not everything?" Marcus laughed bitterly. "Just my future. My medical school. My brain."

"My procedure wasn't designed for permanent transfer," Alex said quietly, pulling up complex neural mapping on her monitor. "But Tyler convinced me the research value was—"

"Research value?" Marcus stared at her. "You're using us as lab rats?"

Alex's shoulders slumped. "You don't understand. My brother Michael, after his car accident… He's trapped in a body that doesn't work while his mind is intact. This technology could help thousands like him."

"So you used us."

"I used the opportunity," she corrected. "And Tyler was—"

"Show me what you changed," Marcus demanded again.

Alex pulled up a complex neural diagram. "The initial transfer created quantum entanglement between your neural signatures. For temporary transfer, the entanglement naturally degrades. For extended transfer…" She pointed to a modified segment. "I stabilized the entanglement and introduced a selective degradation algorithm that reinforces Tyler's signature in your original brain."

"And destroyed the original components of the device," Tyler added quietly.

Both Alex and Marcus turned their heads to Tyler. Marcus felt the floor drop beneath him. "You what?"

Alex interjected. "This isn't what we talked about Tyler. What the hell?"

"I can't go back," Tyler said, voice breaking. "You don't know what it's like, Marcus. For the first time in my life, I can think without fighting my own brain. I read an entire textbook yesterday. Just sat and read it, front to back, and understood everything." His eyes, Marcus's eyes, gleamed with tears. "Do you know what that feels like? To be smart after a lifetime of drowning?"

"And I'm supposed to live in your body? With your basketball scholarship I can't maintain? With your father constantly on your back?" Marcus's hands shook with rage. "My medical school interview is Monday!"

"I'll nail it," Tyler said. "I've been studying your notes, practicing with your flash cards. This brain, your brain, it remembers everything. First try."

"It's my future!" Marcus grabbed a nearby monitor and hurled it against the wall. The unfamiliar strength of Tyler's arms sent it crashing with far more force than intended. "My life! My parents' sacrifices!"

Alex stepped back, eyes wide. "Marcus, please—"

"My parents immigrated with nothing. Worked double shifts for my education." The words came out in a roar, Tyler's voice filling the small lab. "And you're stealing everything they worked for!"

"You get to be athletic, popular," Tyler countered. "People respect you now. They listen when you talk."

"I don't want that! I want MY life!" Marcus swept his arm across a desk, sending equipment clattering. The physical release felt alarmingly good in Tyler's body, the raw strength an outlet for his despair.

"Marcus, stop!" Alex moved between him and the equipment. "Violence isn't going to solve this."

"What will, then? Tyler destroyed the components." The fight drained from him suddenly, replaced by hollow despair. "I'm trapped."

"Not trapped," Tyler said. "Just… different. I can help you navigate my life, the basketball—"

"Stop talking." Marcus sat heavily. "Monday is the Kellerman interview. The program that's accepted three students in five years. The entire reason I—" He stopped, overcome. "My parents are flying in to celebrate after. They think it's guaranteed."

Tyler's expression changed, a subtle shift in Marcus's features. For a moment, something like guilt crossed his face. He looked away. "I'm sorry, Marcus. I didn't have a choice."

"You had a choice," Marcus whispered. "You just made the selfish one."

---

One month later, Marcus sat on the bench during a crucial conference game, his knee wrapped tightly, watching his team lose without him. His Coach had benched him after weeks of declining performance.

"Reeves, what the hell happened to you?" Barrett had demanded after Marcus missed yet another defensive assignment. "It's like you forgot how to play over summer."

How could Marcus explain that muscle memory wasn't enough? That Tyler's instincts were fading while his own analytical approach couldn't compensate? That each day, his connection to his original life slipped further away?

His phone vibrated. Tyler, checking in with artificial cheer, maintaining the pretense that this was temporary, a research extension: Got the med school acceptance letter today. Your parents are ecstatic. Your mom cried.

Marcus pocketed the phone without responding. Tyler called less frequently now, their conversations strained. What was there to say? "Thanks for maintaining my GPA while I lose your scholarship"? "Enjoying my parents' pride while yours threatens to disown me"?

---

After the game, Marcus returned to Tyler's apartment—his apartment now—and stared at the anatomy textbook he'd been trying to study. The words blurred and swam, his new brain struggling with the complex terminology that once came naturally. Trapped in Tyler's dyslexic patterns, he couldn't retain the information that had once been effortless.

Worse than the academic loss was the sense of his own identity dissolving. He'd catch himself using more of Tyler's phrases, laughing at more jokes he wouldn't have understood before, responding to Tyler's name without hesitation. His memories of childhood felt increasingly distant, replaced by physical memories embedded in this body, how to execute a perfect jump shot, how to charm a date with a specific smile, how to deflect a father's cutting criticism.

He couldn't remember his mother's birthday last week. He'd forgotten the Mandarin phrases his grandmother had taught him.

Even in his dreams, he was Tyler now.

He tried reciting the bones of the hand, his old calming ritual. "Trapezoid, trapezium…" The third bone eluded him. Had it been lunate? Hamate? The anatomical terms that once ordered his anxious mind were slipping away.

His phone rang again. Tyler.

"Hey," Marcus answered, too exhausted for anger.

"Just checking in." Tyler's voice was careful, controlled. "Alex wants more data on our adaptation progress."

"Tell her my adaptation is going great," Marcus said bitterly. "I'm failing Kinesiology despite living in a athlete's body. Forgot my own mother's birthday. Can't read more than ten pages without the words scrambling."

Silence stretched between them.

"I never meant—" Tyler began.

"Yes, you did," Marcus cut him off. "You saw a chance and took it. I just never thought you'd sacrifice my future for yours."

"I was drowning," Tyler whispered. "Every day."

"And now I am." Marcus stared at the basketball on his living room floor. "Congratulations on med school. My parents must be thrilled."

"They are." The quiet pride in Tyler's voice, using Marcus's voice, was unbearable. "Your dad called me 'son' yesterday."

Something broke inside Marcus. "Don't call again," he said. "We're not researching anymore. We're not friends. You're living my life, and I'm disappearing into yours. Just… let me fade away in peace."

He ended the call and picked up the anatomy textbook again, staring at meaningless symbols on the page. He tried once more to remember the bones of the hand, a final desperate attempt to hold onto the person he had been.

But the stranger in his head had already taken up residence, and Marcus Chen was gradually becoming a memory that even he couldn't fully recall.

[littlemissspiraleyes]

Combat-Ready

Its pilot-body activated. It was spinning. It was falling through the open air. Threat assessment systems told it that it had 0.7 minutes to impact. It checked its flight logs. It had been inserted into its true-body 38 seconds ago. It checked its mission clock. This was not the designated mission start time. It checked its mission parameters. This was not the designated insertion point.

It activated its jets. It stabilized. Threat assessment systems told it that its new downward velocity was acceptable.

new parameters? It outputted. No response from Handler.

new objectives? It outputted. No response from Handler.

Friend or foe systems told it that a friendly vehicle was requesting support. It focused its optics on the target. Its drop ship was spinning and falling. There were multiple holes in it. One was in the mech bay. Another was in the engine. Its drop ship struck the earth. The request for support ended. No new parameters meant that the mission must continue without alteration. It flew towards the objective.

A final combat check was made when it entered the mission area. It registered numbness in its right arm and in the end of its left arm. It turned its optics to the left extremity and saw extensive damage to its left-side cannon. The weapon was non-functional. It looked at its right arm and saw an empty socket. A flash of memory: Its pilot-body looking down after its first surgery and seeing its arms and legs gone. It screamed then. It did not scream now. The second surgery fixed that. Friend or foe systems told it that enemy units, sub-type infantry ground transports, were entering combat range. Mission parameters stated that all enemy units were to be engaged. It increased its jet output.

It slammed into the first transport in the convoy at maximum speed. Target eliminated. Its true-body fed its pilot-body a chemical rush of positive reinforcement. Goosebumps and shivers covered its pilot-body.

thank you Handler. It outputted. No response from Handler.

It shook the remains of the transport off its true-body. The other transports were disembarking. An infantry unit held an Electromagnetic Pulse Cannon that was targeting it. It did not have time to evade.

A combat EMP at this range would kill the pilot-body. This had been designated by Handler as an unacceptable loss. It performed an emergency all-systems deactivation. Gravity reasserted itself on its pilot-body as its true-body fell backwards.

Darkness. Silence. Stillness. A hiss as the cockpit was opened. “Oh my god, is that the pilot?” an unfamiliar voice said.

“I guess so. I think she’s a woman but I’m not sure, what with all the wiring and shit in the way. Can you hear us?” a second voice said.

hearing check confirmed. pilot-body is combat-ready. It tried to output, but its transmission systems were offline. “They took...She doesn’t have any arms or legs!” the first voice said.

“Or eyes or mouth, it looks like. Look at how the tubes go into her face.” the second voice said.

It hears the cocking of a pistol. “It’d be a mercy to just kill her here. Look at what they did to her.” a third voice said. “Fucking evil pieces of shit.”

“Put that down.” a fourth voice said. “She’s a prisoner of war and we’re going to treat her like one. Just because they’re fucking monsters doesn’t mean that we get to do whatever we want.”

A thump next to it. “Help me cut all this wiring out of the way so we can pull her out.” the fourth voice said. There is a tug on its right leg socket. Then a squelch as one of its sensory inputs is pulled out incorrectly. The pain deactivates it.

[salemrph]

"Let the World Burn"

Chapter 5: Gravity - Part 1

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | AO3

Chapter Summary: Classified research, human experimentation, and a serum designed for Evolvers like you.

"Pipsqueak."

You may not see him the same way anymore. But that doesn’t change a damn thing. You are his to protect.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Zayne, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst, graphic description of corpses, childhood trauma

Words: 8.1k | Reading Time: 32 min

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup @thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger

Skyhaven – Three Weeks Before

The Farspace Fleet Base was never truly silent. Even in the late hours, the halls resonated with disciplined activity—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency, their boots striking the metallic floors in a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Throughout the sprawling command sector, figures in crisp military uniforms navigated their stations, issuing hushed orders, scrutinizing data streams, and coordinating missions that spanned the entire Deep Space Tunnel. The immense holo-screens lining the walls pulsed with constantly updated reports—strategic deployments, classified directives, shifting alliances.

Deep within the complex, beyond secured checkpoints and locked corridors, lay the nerve center—the high-command offices, accessible only to those of rank and authority. And one office remained illuminated.

Inside, behind a polished, reinforced desk, sat a man whose attention should have been fixed on the classified reports illuminating the space before him. But his thoughts were a storm, a tempest raging beneath a veneer of calm. He sat rigidly in his chair, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the armrest, a subtle telltale of the frustration boiling within.

A holographic display shimmered before him, a torrent of intelligence cascading in real time—fleet deployments, border skirmishes, the names of officers assigned to Linkon. But the data was a blur, a meaningless stream of light. His gaze skimmed the screen, seeing without comprehending, registering without processing, his focus consumed by a singular, urgent concern. He let out a sharp sigh, his fingers instinctively finding the cool weight of the silver apple pendant nestled against his skin. A cherished keepsake, a tangible link to you. 

Pip-squeak. 

Caleb had called you that since you can remember. A stupid, teasing nickname that had stuck long. It was supposed to be endearing, meant to ruffle your feathers, to keep that sharp fire in your eyes burning whenever you glared at him. 

And yet, despite your frustration, he loved it—loved the way you’d always respond, the way your face would bloom with that vibrant, defiant smile. He had always taken care of you, in every way he knew. Gently scolding you when you begged for just one more snack, only to give in minutes later. Preparing your comfort food, anticipating your unspoken desires. Hovering over your shoulder, sighing dramatically as you tried to wiggle out of your homework.

But lately, things felt different. You had been retreating, little by little, leaving him to navigate the quiet ache of your absence. His brows furrowed, the weight in his chest settling deeper, heavier, a leaden ache that mirrored the growing distance between you two. Things had escalated quickly that night, a whirlwind of unspoken emotions that nearly forced a confession from his lips.  He didn't want you to see him as an older brother anymore. He had never seen you in that way.

"I don’t need you— Caleb… You just can’t… You are very important to me, and no one can ever replace you…"

The way you had looked at him—like he was a stranger, an unknown entity, like you weren’t sure if you could trust the very ground he stood on. It was a wound, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge, a silent, festering ache. He had spent this whole time surviving, clinging to the fragile hope of seeing you again, a beacon in the darkness that kept him from succumbing to the madness of his ordeal. Chasing after the impossible, enduring the aftermath of the explosion, only to finally meet you again and then lose you in a completely more painful way.

Possessive? Absolutely. Obsessive? He wouldn’t deny it. But you were his. His to protect. And whether you liked it or not, he wasn’t letting go. The sacrifices he had made, the sins that clung to him like a shroud, the weight of being the Colonel of the Fleet. These were burdens he didn't know if he could ever confess. His jaw clenched, his grip on the pendant tightening until the silver bit into his skin. Some things were better left buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of his soul. He touches his bionic arm. Another secret. Another truth you hadn't discovered yet. If you did? Would you look at him the way you used to? Would you feel bad about it? 

His fingers hovered over the holo-screen, scrolling past personnel reports—until a sharp, insistent knock on his office door shattered the silence, snapping him back to the present. Caleb shook his head and he forced his emotions back beneath the surface, burying them under the steel resolve that had made him both respected and feared. He tucked the pendant back under his uniform.

He straightened, his expression unreadable. The Colonel, once more.

"Enter." 

The door slid open, revealing a uniformed officer standing at rigid attention, his face pale and his posture strained. Caleb knew immediately, from the officer's forced composure and the clipped cadence of his approach, that something was gravely wrong.

"Colonel. We have a situation." 

Caleb paused, his mind already racing, but his voice remained calm.

"Speak." The officer swallowed, taking a measured step forward, the rigidity of his stance betraying the urgency of his report.

"One of our men is missing, sir," the officer stated, his voice flat. "Calloway. He failed to return from leave."

Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly. Another one.

"Three now," he murmured, his fingers tapping a sharp, insistent pattern against the desk.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Low-ranking members of the Farspace Fleet had been disappearing—quietly, without a trace. No distress signals. No records of their whereabouts. It was as if they had simply been wiped off the grid. 

At first, it had been dismissed as desertion. Soldiers vanishing on their own terms. It happened. Some succumbed to the crushing pressure, some sought a life beyond the Fleet's rigid structure. But three in rapid succession? That was no mere coincidence.

Caleb leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the officer, his gaze piercing. "What was his last known location?"

"Off-base, sir. He was granted a two-week leave and never returned. His family reported that he never reached his destination." The officer's tone was grave, confirming Caleb's suspicions. This wasn’t just a soldier going AWOL. Caleb's gaze flicked back to his monitor, the earlier reports now utterly irrelevant.

"Get me everything we have on Calloway. His communication logs, his last movements, every shred of information. Do the same with the others." His voice was cold, measured, but a low, simmering intensity underscored each word.

The officer nodded. "Understood, sir."

As the door hissed shut behind him, Caleb leaned back, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cool outline of the pendant. Another goddamn problem.

He was tired. Not just of this. Not just of missing soldiers, buried reports, or the endless cycle of war and bureaucracy. No—he was tired in a way that settled into his bones, in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

Knowing the information gathering would take time, Caleb decided to return to go home. The thought was almost laughable. It wasn’t home, not really. Just a space, cold, silent, filled with things that no longer held meaning. No warmth. No presence. No you. 

–

The apartment was deathly quiet when he entered, the air still, undisturbed, a chilling testament to his solitude. The emptiness of the space enveloped him a suffocating shroud. His steps echoed softly against the polished floor as he moved deeper into the apartment, his gaze drifting over the familiar surroundings. 

His fingers brushed over the edge of the counter as he passed, as if expecting to feel your presence there. But the surface was glacial. Caleb made his way to the shelf where the only photo he has of you stands out. Her violet eyes reflected the deep regret and sorrow she carried with him, day after day. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he turned away. Shrugging off his uniform, he tossed it onto the sofa without a second thought.

Without even the thought of food, he simply fell onto the bed. As the mattress sinks beneath him, the exhaustion of the day presses into his bones. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. Lost in the silence. With a slow, drawn-out breath, he rolled onto his side, his eyes drawn to the pillow lying beside him. His fingers traced the soft fabric, a hesitant touch, before he pulled it to his chest, clutching it as if it could somehow fill the gaping hole you had left behind. Your scent is still there. He hasn't changed the pillowcase since you left—it’s pathetic, really—but he doesn’t care. It’s the last trace of you he has. And it’s been too long.

His grip tightens, eyes slipping shut, jaw clenched against the ache in his chest.

Pip-squeak… 

The name barely forms in his mind before the memories surface—your face, the way you used to look at him, the warmth in your eyes before everything became so damn complicated. He can picture it too clearly. Your lips parted, the soft hitch of your breath, the way you whispered his name, unaware of the effect you had on him.

Caleb hates this feeling. The love he has for you it’s too much. It tears him apart from the inside, as much pain as it brings relief. His body betrays him before his mind can stop it. Heat coils low in his stomach, tension tightening, pressing down. Fuck. Caleb swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. He wants you. Has always wanted you. And worst of all—he knows that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much distance you put between you, that won’t change. He will still love you. 

He buried his nose into the pillow, while his fingers trail down, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, exhaling sharply as relief and frustration war inside him. It’s not enough. It never is. The memories keep flooding in. He regretted it. Every damn day.

He should have told you at the graduation. Just said it. But he stood there, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending being your "friend" was enough. It never was. It never would be.

Caleb strokes himself with slow, rough precision, chasing something that won’t come—not fully. His breath is ragged, his body tense, aching for something real, something that isn’t just the fading memory of you. 

He should have asked you out during school. Pulled you aside, away from the others, away from those clueless boys who thought they had a shot. Who looked at you like you were something they could own. They weren’t good enough. Not for you. He hated the way Zayne looked at you. Hated the way any of them did.

You had no idea how many times he’d chased them off. No idea how often he’d threatened guys who got too close, who thought they could touch you, kiss you. It was miserable, really. How far he’d fallen. How he had once cornered that quiet little thing you liked, the one who dared to think he could stand beside you. Who dared to think he had a chance. Caleb had stood in front of him, voice calm, deadly, his stance relaxed but full of warning. Every guy wanted you. Every guy was a predator circling prey. Pathetic. That’s what he was. Because despite it all, despite the jealousy, the anger, the obsessive fucking need—he had still failed.

A growl of frustration escapes him, his free hand fisting the sheets. The scent of you clings to them, but it’s fading. Just like everything else. His strokes falter, frustration curling in his gut. It hurts. Wanting you like this—needing you like this. It’s not just the physical ache; it’s the raw, consuming hunger, the part of him that’s starved for you. For your warmth. For your touch. For the fucking impossible dream that, maybe, you could have been his.

That stormy, suffocating night, years ago, when the two of you were trapped in the attic of your home, waiting out the torrential downpour. The rain had battered the roof like a relentless siege, the wind howling through the gaps in the aged wood. It had been so dark, so still, broken only by the soft rhythm of your breathing beside him, the flickering lamplight casting dancing shadows across your features. You had been so close. But again, you were arguing about whether he should stop protecting you.

"Right, I forgot. You’re not a little kid who needs to be protected anymore."

He had stared at your lips, at the way they parted when you sighed, at the way you frowned in anger, and even though it tore him apart that you rejected his protection, his touch… he should have done it. Should have leaned in. Should have kissed you. Should have finally shattered the pretense. All he had to do was reach out. Tilt your chin up just slightly. Close the agonizing space between you. But he hadn’t. Because Caleb—brilliant, calculating, fearless Caleb—had faltered. He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into his palms, and let the moment bleed away. Maybe with that kiss, you would have seen the tempest of emotions he kept locked inside.

Caleb’s breath shudders, frustration curling in his gut. His grip tightens around his cock, stroking harder, faster, his teeth gritted as his mind spirals deeper into the past. His wrist aches from the pace, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

How long had he been holding back? How many years? How many goddamn nights had he laid awake, aching for you? How many chances had he squandered, playing the part of the protective “big brother” when every inch of him wanted to be something else?

And then, just when he was finally fucking ready—

He died. Or at least, that’s what you thought. Faking his death wasn’t something he planned or expected. The only thing he could do at that moment was save you from the explosion. 

Months after that, you were right there, in front of him, alive, breathing, more beautiful than he remembered. But instead of the relief he expected…You looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was someone you had to keep at arm’s length. Like the years you’d shared were nothing but dust. And that? That cut deeper than any blade. He knew you resented the Colonel, the mask he wore, but beneath it all, he was still the same. If only you'd see him, truly see him, and give him a chance.

His stomach tenses as his release finally hits, his breath punching out in a sharp, guttural sound as he spills over his hand. He lets himself ride it out, panting, his body trembling with something far more than just pleasure. But even as his muscles go slack, even as he wipes himself off with a sharp exhale, there’s no real satisfaction—just emptiness, frustration, and the cold, cruel truth: You’re not here.

After cleaning up and finally getting a bit more comfortable. He reached out for his phone. He goes over the last messages you exchanged, just a week ago. He never replayed. Your voice crackles to life, softer than he remembers, but unmistakably you.

"Hey… I know you’re busy, but—" A short pause, a short exhale. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you're not brooding too hard over classified reports or whatever it is you do up there."  He closes his eyes. "Anyway. Just… message me back, alright?" 

Caleb stares at the screen. He should have answered. He should have said something. Instead, he had let it sit. Left it unread for hours, then days. Let the silence stretch too long. His grip tightens around the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What would he even say? Would he lie? Pretend he wasn’t tangled in his own damn head every time it came to you? Would he apologize? Admit he didn’t know how to bridge the space between you anymore? Or would he say what he really felt? That he was angry. That he hated the way you pushed him away and he hated himself for letting you.

His thumb taps against the screen, hesitating before he types.

Pip-squeak, you worry too much.

He stares at it. Deletes it.

Don’t tell me you miss me. You’ll ruin your whole "I don’t need Caleb" act.

No. That would be mean.

I should have answered sooner.

Still wrong. The words hang on the screen, staring back at him. He knows it won’t send. He deleted it. Then, with a frustrated breath, he locks the screen, tossing the phone onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could scrub away the frustration twisting in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The abyss of loneliness isn’t just consuming him, it’s devouring him. Swallowing him whole in a darkness that only you can keep at bay. You weren’t just his light. You were his gravity. The unwavering force that kept him anchored, the only constant in the relentless chaos. His entire universe revolves around you. It always had.

But what if that center faltered? What if you drifted beyond his reach? Would he be left adrift—a derelict planet, lost and forsaken in the vast, indifferent cosmos? Or worse… would he implode, a supernova of self-destruction, unable to exist without your gravitational pull?

His dreams are plagued by memories twisted into nightmares, fragments of a life he barely remembers or chooses not to. The accident during his last test as a DDA pilot was repeated in his dreams. The way reality had warped and fractured around him inside the Deepspace Tunnel, time stretching, collapsing, and twisting into impossible, nightmarish geometries.

He remembers the desperation. The creeping horror of knowing something was wrong. He had been alone. Drifting in the endless void, praying to return home. He doesn't remember how he survived. Or maybe he refuses to. Because when they found him a week later, barely alive. The official reports called it a miracle.

Caleb never told you. He smiled and kept it for himself. He didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want you to see him as broken. But he wasn’t the same after that.

Some nights, when sleep is kind, he drifts into a different kind of memory—one untouched by war, loss, and the weight of the present. Laughter echoes through the golden haze of afternoon sunlight. The warm, earthy scent of sun-baked grass fills the air, and the world shrinks to a comforting simplicity. You’re both just children again. No ranks, no titles, no battlefield of unspoken words and buried desires separating you.

Caleb watches as you dart ahead, your feet barely touching the earth, your arms outstretched as if you could take flight at any moment. Your laughter rings in his ears, bright and carefree. You’re running behind him, panting, pouting.

"That's not fair!" you shout, your small feet pounding the sun-warmed dirt path. "You're older, and your legs are longer!"

Caleb doesn’t slow down, tossing a playful, smug grin over his shoulder. "You’d run faster if you weren’t so short, Pip-squeak!"

The nickname makes your face scrunch in mock frustration, your eyes sparkling with playful defiance, and with a burst of stubborn energy, you push yourself harder, determined to close the distance. Caleb laughs, effortlessly maintaining the gap between you. But you never give up. He knows that about you. And, perhaps just to indulge you, or to feel the weight of you against him, he lets you catch him. You tackle him with a joyful cry, both of you tumbling into the soft, sun-kissed grass in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles.

"Ha!" you exclaim triumphantly, sprawled on top of him, your chest heaving with laughter. "Got you!"

Caleb groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, feigning defeat. "You cheated, you little sneak."

You punch his arm. "Did not."

His eyes glinted with amusement. "Yes, you did."

You huff, rolling off him onto your back, staring up at the drifting clouds, your cheeks flushed from exertion and the lingering summer sun. For a while, the two of you just lie there, side by side, soaking in the moment, the golden warmth, the comfortable silence.

His protective instinct, a fierce, primal urge, had awakened much earlier than he’d ever admitted, almost a few years before. The day he first laid eyes on you.

A small girl in a white uniform, just like the other kids, standing apart from the others, clutching a worn-out stuffed animal with a grip that spoke of silent desperation. Your eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of childhood. Too empty for someone so young. You had death written all over you. The medical facility—no, the research center—was a place that devoured children whole, leaving behind only husks. Some called it a sanctuary for the orphaned, a haven for the lost, but Caleb knew the truth. It was a gilded cage, a holding cell where survival was a daily, brutal test. He had been one of those children, a survivor of its silent horrors. And now, so were you.

The experiments weren’t unbearable—not for him. He had endured worse before. At least here, he had a roof over his head and food in his stomach. And really, what did it matter if he succumbed here, within these sterile walls, or out there, in the unforgiving wasteland? Inside here, for now, he wasn’t starving.

But you… you were different. Different from the others. You never spoke a word. Never played with the other kids. You just sat alone, staring up at the sky whenever they let you out into the garden. Like you were waiting for something. Or someone to pull you from the abyss.

Caleb hadn’t planned on making friends. Didn’t see the point. But something about the way you kept slipping out of your room just to stand under the open sky annoyed him. The third time he saw you outside at night, standing barefoot on the frost-kissed concrete, your gaze fixed on the distant constellations, he finally broke the silence.

"What are you looking for up there?"

And just like that, his life became tangled with yours. You didn’t answer him right away. Did you even hear him? The night air was cold, biting against his skin, but you stood there as if you didn’t feel it. Your small frame, swallowed by the shapeless, oversized shirt they forced you to wear, seemed impossibly fragile. You didn’t shiver. You didn’t flinch. You simply… stared, your eyes lost in the vast expanse above.

Caleb had witnessed countless children succumb to the crushing weight of this place. Some cracked under the weight of what was happening to them. Others got angry. Fought back. Broke apart. But you? You were a still, silent enigma. 

"Hey." He nudged your shoulder, his touch less gentle than he intended. "I asked you a question."

You blinked slowly, finally turning your gaze away from the sky to look at him. For a moment, Caleb swore you weren’t actually seeing him. Then, finally, you spoke, your voice a soft, ethereal, just a whisper in the rustling night wind.

"The stars… are different here."

He frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You tilted your head, your grip tightening on the worn, comforting stuffed animal in your arms. "They’re in the wrong place."

Caleb stared at you, confused. What the hell did that mean? Of all the things you could’ve said, that wasn’t what he expected. You looked back up at the sky, eyes searching. Waiting. And for the first time in a while, Caleb felt something new. Curiosity. So, he sat down beside you, drawn into your orbit, into your strange, silent world. 

"Then tell me where they’re supposed to be." He said, voice quieter now. Less demanding.  And that night you truly spoke. At first, you spoke only in quiet, uncertain murmurs, short answers, observations about the sky, questions that never quite made sense. But with each passing night, with each shared glance at the stars, something shifted, something bloomed. You offered a shy smile, and with time a genuine laugh. Caleb, never cared for people, never let himself get attached but that night he felt something crack inside him. 

You were stubborn, always trying to sneak past curfew, always looking for a way to see the stars. He started to call you pip-squeak, half-teasing. Whenever you lost a race because you couldn’t keep up with him. You’d pout, demanding a rematch, but you never won. And he liked that. Liked seeing you frustrated. Liked the way your nose scrunched up when you got mad. Liked the way your laughter made this miserable place feel less suffocating. 

"Caleb, Caleb!" You ran to him, breathless with excitement, your small hands carefully cupped around something. "Look what I found!" 

You opened your little palm, revealing a delicate pink petal resting in your hand. Your wide, gleaming eyes met his, and for some reason, something strange stirred in his chest. A warmth that made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.

"It's the first time I've seen one of these," you said in awe, your fingers carefully clutching the tiny fragment of color in a world that rarely had any.

Caleb eyed it for a fleeting second, shoving his hands into his pockets, his posture stiffening. "Don't come so close."

You tilted your head, a flicker of confusion clouding your radiant eyes. "Why?"

"Just- don't."

Your lips wobbled, and before he could do anything about it, your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Do you hate me?"

"Tsk- what? No, idiot." He sighed, glancing away, a wave of guilt washing over him, instantly regretting his clumsy words. "It's… from an apple tree. I saw it in a book once. Asiatic apple."

"Do you like apples?" you lean even closer. 

"I- I do…" he said, avoiding your gaze. 

"Caleb…" You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him with that same intense look that always made him feel like you could see right through him. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. His face flushed, a wave of heat creeping up his neck.

"W- what?" he stammered.

"You’re smart. Thanks."  You said, your grin widening, a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, before suddenly leaning in and pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek. Caleb froze. His mind went blank. His body stiffened like he'd just been struck by lightning. The warmth from where your lips had touched his skin burned in a way that he definitely didn’t understand.

You giggled, a bright, melodic sound, and skipped away, twirling with your delicate pink petal. Meanwhile, Caleb stood there, blinking rapidly, blushing like an idiot. He was just… glad. Overwhelmingly, achingly glad. Glad that you were alive, that you were here. And that fleeting moment of joy made him forget, for a precious and beautiful few seconds, the grim reality of the place where they were both trapped. 

But with the abruptness of a slammed door, reality crashed back into him, a brutal, unforgiving wave. All the hope he'd had of escaping that place together vanished overnight.  One morning, it was all gone. Your vibrant smile, the melodic chime of your laughter, the spark in your eyes: extinguished. 

You sat in the garden, staring into the empty distance, your stuffed animal limp in your arms. When he spoke, you didn’t answer. When he nudged your shoulder, you barely blinked. And when he said your name, you just looked at him—through him. Like you didn’t even recognize him. Like those shared days, those precious moments, those fragments of a life you had built together, had never existed at all. Erased from the fabric of your memory.

"Talk to me. Did I do something wrong? I'll let you win next time…." Just the chilling silence, a void that swallowed his words whole. "Fine! Then don’t talk to me!" 

The first time it happened, Caleb was angry. And not the kind of anger that burned fast and faded away—this was worse. This was a slow, simmering rage that curled deep in his gut, coiling tighter with every second you ignored him. You sat there, a blank canvas of indifference, barely reacting to the world around you. For days, he deliberately avoided you. Didn’t try to get you to talk, didn’t try to make you laugh again. Maybe it was stupid act of pride, but he reasoned that if you didn’t care enough to acknowledge him, then why should he expend any effort on you?

One night, he found himself wandering the halls. Drawn by the need to flee this madness. And there you were. Right where he found you the first time. Sitting on the edge of a bench in the garden, your legs swinging slightly, your eyes locked onto the sky. The stars were out, distant and cold, blinking against the vast darkness.

He just stood there in the shadows for a long time. Watching. Wondering if he should or should not continue his way back to the rooms. Caleb was many things back then: a fractured, discarded, forgotten child. But with you, he’d found an anchor, a constant in the swirling chaos. Something that drew him with an irresistible force, his personal center of gravity. So, he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. Before he could second-guess himself. 

"The stars are different here, right?" The words hung between you, fragile and uncertain. A beat of silence. Then, you blinked. Slowly, like pulling yourself from a dream. 

Days full of laughing with him returned, but just as they appeared, they vanished just as quickly. The second time it happened, he started to worry. Not fully understanding what was happening to you. The third time? He knew something was wrong. It was always the same. One day, you were yourself, you'd smile, challenge him to a race you'd never win, stealing food off his plate when you thought he wasn’t looking. You’d laugh, roll your eyes at his teasing, shove him when he got too smug. Alive. Present. And then, gone.

Like someone had flipped a switch. Like the warmth had been drained from your body, leaving only a hollow shell behind. Your eyes would go dull again, your posture stiff, your mind somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach. You wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t react. And each time, he was forced to start anew, to rebuild the fragile bridge of connection. 

At first, Caleb thought it was just one of those things. Kids in this place had their ways of coping, of withdrawing. Maybe you were just shutting down. Maybe you'd been punished for sneaking out at night, and this was how you dealt with it. But by the fifth time, he realized the pattern. It always happened after your medical routines.

Three to five days. That was how long you disappeared each time. They took you to another wing of the facility, away from the rest of the kids, locked behind doors he had never seen beyond. Then, just like clockwork, they’d return you, placing you back in the main pavilion as if nothing had happened.

The day they brought you back, dazed, empty, hollow. Caleb didn’t try to talk to you. Didn’t try to pull you out of whatever haze they had left you in. Instead, he unleashed his fury, his evol flaring with unrestrained power, attacking the caretakers with a ferocity that startled even himself. He shoved back when they tried to move him away, snarling demands that went unanswered.

"Where did you take her? What the fuck are you doing to her?" 

The faceless figures in white coats. The ones who came in the night, who took you without explanation and returned you less and less yourself every time. He swore a silent vow, a solemn oath etched in the depths of his soul. Never again. He was going to shield you, to safeguard you from their insidious manipulations. Even if you didn’t retain a single memory of him. Even if he was condemned to rebuild their fractured bond, to start anew, every single time.

That fierce determination to protect you, has endured, unyielding, until the present day.

—

Days crawled by. Caleb immersed himself in a flurry of work, burying himself in endless reports, tedious routines, anything to drown out the gnawing unease that clawed at the edges of his sanity. And finally, the full, damning report finally landed on his desk.

The missing soldier wasn’t an isolated incident. The disappearances weren’t confined to the Farspace Fleet or Skyhaven. They bled into the civilian sector, citizens of Linkon City vanishing without a trace, all within the same chilling timeframe. And a single, terrifying common denominator bound them all together: Evolvers.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around the datapad as he read through the details, his eyes narrowing. This doesn’t look good. Evolvers being targeted. But for what? Research? Trafficking? Cold-blooded eliminations? He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he skimmed through the intelligence briefs. No direct ties to the Hunter Association, yet. A sliver of relief, a fragile hope. That meant you weren’t involved.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Colonel," Liam said, his voice grave, his presence radiating an unspoken urgency. If he was delivering this news personally, it meant something truly dire. Caleb exhaled slowly, a sigh of weary resignation, shoving the damning report aside. He was in no state of mind for more grim tidings.

"What is it?" Caleb asked, voice edged with irritation.

Liam stepped inside, datapad in hand. "We found Calloway’s body."

Caleb stilled. A heavy silence settled between them.

"Where?" A heavy, suffocating silence settled between them, a prelude to the inevitable.

"Near the municipal depot," Liam said, his voice smooth but his eyes holding an unsettling glint. "The body is… fragmented."

That single word, "fragmented," snapped Caleb’s attention into sharp focus.

Liam continued, his voice as clinical as ever. "Signs of black glass were found on the remains. We believe he started converting into a Wanderer before death." He paused. "Which is highly anomalous, considering Calloway was not diagnosed with the Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s fingers curled against the desk. That shouldn’t be possible. Wanderer transformation wasn’t random—it happened to Evolvers and people who had suffered severe long exposure to Protocore. But Calloway was stable, documented. He should have never been at risk.

"The autopsy is in progress now," Liam added, his gaze assessing. "We should have a clearer picture soon."

Caleb sighed, rubbing his temple. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. First, the vanishing Evolvers. Now, an impossible Wanderer transformation. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

"Any progress on the other missing individuals?" Caleb asked.

Liam shook his head, his expression grim. "Still unaccounted for, sir."

Caleb pushed back his chair, the metallic screech echoing in the sudden silence, and stood, a palpable tension radiating from his rigid frame. He grabbed his hat, adjusting it on his head. Caleb wasn’t the type to passively await reports. He needed to see the grim evidence with his own eyes.

The corridors of the Farspace Fleet’s medical facility were eerily silent, a sterile, tomb-like quiet broken only by the soft thrum of life support systems. White walls, bathed in the blueish harsh, clinical glow of overhead lighting, stretched into the distance. The faint, persistent hum of machinery, a constant, unsettling drone, filled the air.

Liam walked beside him, his expression unreadable as always. He didn’t question the Colonel’s decision to personally inspect the gruesome remains, nor did he offer any unnecessary, platitudinous commentary. He simply followed.

When they stepped inside, the smell of disinfectant and something rotten greeted them. The morgue was always too damn cold. Calloway’s fragmented body lay exposed beneath the harsh glare of the surgical lights, his chest cavity gaping open, organs meticulously dissected and examined. His right arm was severed entirely, the stump jagged and darkened with the first signs of necrosis, while the left arm remained, but only partially, half-flayed, muscles and tendons peeled back as if someone had been mapping them.

Caleb’s eyes trailed to the shattered remains of Calloway’s face nor what was left of it. His jaw was unhinged, the flesh around his mouth torn as if he had screamed himself raw. One eye was gone entirely, an empty, hollow socket staring back at them. The other? Glossed over in an eerie black film, a telltale sign of corruption.

The coroner, a seasoned professional with graying temples and a piercing, analytical gaze, stepped away from the grisly tableau.

"You’re early," the coroner remarked, peeling off his blood-stained gloves and surgical mask with practiced efficiency.

"I don’t have time to wait," Caleb replied curtly. He glanced at the mutilated remains on the steel slab, then back at the coroner, his eyes demanding answers. "What have you found?"

The coroner exhaled, gesturing toward the shrouded body on the metal slab. He activated a holo-display, projecting detailed scans and preliminary analytical data. "Calloway’s Evol classification was B-Class. Standard military issue—enhanced perception, minor strength augmentation, a common profile among the ranks. The initial autopsy revealed traces of an unknown substance within his system. His cellular structure exhibited signs of forced mutation, a rapid, catastrophic degradation of his heart and lungs. It was an unnatural, violent process."

Caleb leaned in, his gaze fixed on the intricate data streams, his brow furrowed in grim concentration. "You're suggesting this was deliberated?"

The coroner nodded. "It's a bit early to say, but it's plausible. I discovered traces of black glass embedded in his internal tissue, a clear indication of Wanderer conversion. But the crystallization pattern is… peculiar. It deviates significantly from natural Wanderer transformations. The formation is irregular, almost chaotic, as if it was—"

"Induced." Liam crossed his arms. "Sounds like a black market serum."

The coroner scoffed, a dismissive snort escaping his lips. "If it were a black market hack job, it’d be sloppy, haphazard. This? This was meticulously crafted, surgically precise." He gestured towards Calloway's mangled remains, a silent testament to the horrific procedure. "But I must confess, Colonel, this level of… intervention… is far from commonplace."

Caleb’s stomach turned. A familiar unease settled into his bones. He had seen engineered horrors before. He knew exactly what kind of people had the resources to pull off something like this. A hunch clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t have concrete evidence, tangible proof, but his instincts screamed that this wasn’t an isolated incident. 

His fingers tightened into a fist. "Classify this case as top secret. No one—and I mean no one—breathes a word about this until I give the order." His voice was a low, chilling rasp, absolute and unwavering. "I don’t want a single leak to the press. If anyone inquires, Calloway’s death was a tragic accident."

The coroner nodded slowly, his expression grave, but Liam’s gaze remained unconvinced, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "You think this is part of something bigger, don’t you?"

Caleb rolling his tense shoulders. "I don’t believe in coincidences." Liam stepped back, his expression grim, nodding in silent agreement.

If someone was experimenting on Evolvers…

Caleb turned to the coroner, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I expect a full report on what happened to him. Every detail. Every anomaly. I want it on my desk before the day is over."

The coroner gave a slow nod, unfazed by the sharpness in Caleb’s tone. "Understood, Colonel. But I’ll need time to run a full biochemical analysis. Whatever they used on him, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before."

Caleb exhaled, his patience running thin. "Then don’t waste time."

The coroner nodded, his expression grave. "Understood, Colonel."

A sense of foreboding settled over Caleb as he left the morgue. The weight of the missing Evolvers, the strange circumstances surrounding Calloway’s death, it all felt like pieces of a larger, more sinister puzzle. He needed to find the missing link, the piece that would unlock the mystery.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the rhythmic hum of the computer and the restless shuffle of datapads. Caleb’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, scanned line after line of missing Evolver data, and the list of missing people from Linkon. Some had reappeared, their disappearances chalked up to miscommunication or temporary lapses in contact. Those cases were dismissed, deemed irrelevant to the investigation. But Caleb would make sure not a single clue went unchecked, no detail overlooked. He cross-referenced names, locations, and Evolver classifications, searching for a pattern, a connection, anything to illuminate the encroaching darkness.

A report flickered across his datapad, a notification from the Linkon City Police Department. An illegal shipment had been intercepted near the N109 Zone. The cargo was unknown, and the perpetrators had scattered, leaving behind only a few low-level operatives. The interrogations hadn't yielded much, just fragmented accounts and a single name: "Rudy." 

Could this be related to the missing Evolvers? To Calloway's bizarre transformation? Caleb couldn't dismiss it. He added the name and the N109 Zone as location to his growing list of potential leads. He had to consider every possibility, no matter how remote. Every thread, no matter how thin, could lead him to the truth.

Then, the comm unit crackled to life, the sterile voice of the coroner cutting through the oppressive silence. "Colonel, the full report on Calloway’s autopsy is ready." He wastes no time, striding through the halls of the medical wing. Liam follows behind, silent as always, but Caleb can feel the tension radiating off him too.

As Caleb and Liam entered, the coroner tapped the display, bringing up a complex web of biochemical readings. The intricate chains of data, a language of cellular decay and forced mutation, were indecipherable to the untrained eye. But the stark conclusion, highlighted at the bottom of the report, was brutally clear: Calloway hadn't simply died. 

"At first glance," the coroner began, his voice low and measured, "I suspected an atypical case of protocore exposure. But then, I detected an anomaly—his system was exhibiting a rejection of its own biological functions, a phenomenon reminiscent of Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. "Similar?"

The coroner nodded, his expression tightening. "Yes. Almost as if someone was trying to mimic Protocore Syndrome—but it doesn’t match exactly. The genetic deterioration doesn’t follow the usual pattern." The coroner continued, his voice laced with a clinical detachment that couldn't quite mask the underlying unease. "It shares similarities with Protocore Syndrome, yes, but it's not the root cause. From the limited blood samples we recovered, I was able to isolate residual compounds."

With a few deft taps on the console, an incomplete chemical formula materialized on the large display screen, a complex arrangement of symbols and bonds that pulsed with an unsettling, digital light. "This," the coroner stated, gesturing to the formula, "is what's left." He paused, his gaze shifting to Caleb. "An experimental serum. Code-name Chimera 1X9."

The name sent a slow, ice-cold dread creeping up Caleb’s spine. Chimera 1X9.

"Where did you find this information?" His voice was dangerously low, a barely restrained growl, but the coroner didn't flinch.

"The system flagged the compound, when I tried to pull more data, my clearance level wasn’t high enough." 

This wasn’t just some underground black market experiment, some nameless operation buried in secrecy. And there was only one individual who possessed the access and the knowledge to wield such a weapon: The Professor.

Caleb turned on his heel, his decision made. He needed answers, and he needed them now. And if the Professor dared to believe he could dismiss him with vague half-truths and obfuscation, he was sorely mistaken.

"Thank you," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "Your work here is complete. Prepare the body for transport. Ensure the family is given the respect he deserves."

"Colonel?" Liam asked, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze questioning. "Caleb?" 

Caleb didn't bother with further discussion. "We're done here," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of patience. He strode towards the exit, his mind a whirlwind of cold fury and grim determination. Caleb doesn’t waste time. 

That same rain-soaked night, he found the quickest way to Professor’s secluded residence. He carried with him every classified file, every damning report he could access regarding the serum, a tangible weight of rage and impending confrontation. He bypassed the security measures with practiced ease, not even thinking about knocking on the door, letting himself into the house with the cold efficiency of a man driven by a singular purpose. He marched into the Professor’s study, sooked by the rain. Leaving a trail of rain drops on the floor. Caleb slammed the stack of files onto the polished mahogany desk, the sharp thud echoing through the room.

"What is all this?" The Professor barely spared the scattered papers a glance, his fingers meticulously adjusting his spectacles as he exhaled, a sigh laced with thinly veiled annoyance. "At least let me know when you do this shit."

"Honestly, Caleb, have the decency to inform me before you stage these… dramatic entrances." The professor meets his gaze, calm, detache. Too comfortable in his secrecy.

Caleb’s expression remained an unreadable mask, his features carved from ice, but his voice was sharp, as he pressed his attack. "What exactly are you up to?"

"We’re simply conducting… tests," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the mundane details of a scientific experiment. "You really don’t have to concern yourself with any of this."

Caleb didn’t buy the Professor’s nonchalant facade for a second. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white against his skin.

"What, precisely, are you trying to accomplish?" he demanded.

The Professor let out a small chuckle, slow and knowing, a sound that grated on Caleb’s nerves. It was as if he had anticipated Caleb’s arrival, expecting this confrontation. As if it were merely another calculated move in a game he was already playing several steps ahead. And then, with a casualness that bordered on arrogance, he revealed a sliver of his true intentions.

"Patience, son," he said, his tone far too paternal, far too condescending. "We're simply attempting to enhance Evolver abilities."

Caleb’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold control. He didn’t flinch but inside, something sharp and brittle snapped, the last vestiges of trust shattering into fragments. The trust he had placed in his plan, in his ability to stand between you and the people who sought to exploit your power. He'd believed he could manage the situation, keep you safe while navigating their dangerous game. Now, he saw the cracks in his carefully constructed plan. He'd thought he understood the Professor's intentions, that he could anticipate their moves. But he'd been wrong.

"People have died." Caleb stated, his voice a low, icy pronouncement.

The Professor merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. "That's science," he said, the words devoid of empathy, a chillingly pragmatic justification that made Caleb’s blood boil. He stared at him. This wasn’t mere experimentation; it was weaponization. This is not very different from the hell you went through as a child. Caleb’s fingers dig into the desk, his jaw tight, his patience wearing razor-thin.

"Why?" he asked, his voice a low, menacing whisper, a dangerous edge lacing every syllable. "Is this because of her?"

The Professor finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable light, a cold, calculated intelligence. Caleb didn’t miss the subtle twitch of his lips, a fleeting expression that suggested he was holding back a cruel amusement.

"You told me the time hadn’t come yet," Caleb pressed, his fists clenching tighter. "So why rush it now?"

The Professor exhaled, tapping a finger lazily against the stack of files Caleb had slammed onto the desk. His gaze flickered over the documents, unimpressed, dismissive.

"Because," he said simply, his voice laced with an unsettling finality, "sometimes fate doesn’t wait."

Caleb’s stomach knotted, a cold, hard fist of dread clenching around his insides.

"That’s bullshit," he retorted, his voice thick with suppressed rage.

The Professor smiled, a knowing, infuriating smile that sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine. "Maybe," he mused, his tone ambiguous, deliberately provocative, designed to ignite Caleb's anger.

The Professor never spoke without a hidden agenda, without a calculated purpose. And if he was implying that you were somehow entangled in this deadly game, that you were the catalyst for this accelerated experiment, then everything had just spiraled into a far more dangerous territory. He had played their game for far too long, adhering to their rules, their timelines. But if they dared to lay a hand on her, if they decided to inflict their twisted experiments upon you… Caleb wouldn’t hesitate to tear their entire world apart, piece by agonizing piece.

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | AO3

A/N: I know, I know! A lot of Caleb happens here. Don’t bail on me yet! I wanted to keep it short, but I got a bit carried away. There’s still a second part with him, full of mysteries, but we’ll be back to the action soon. I wanted this to be one chapter, but it would've been way too long—like 13-16k words. Sadly I don't have the time to write and review a so long chapter. By now, you should have a pretty good idea of where this is heading. If not—don’t worry. The real peak of the story is just around the corner. I promise the wait will be worth it—once we’re back with MC/You and Sylus.

Released date: ~2 weeks. Chapter 6: Gravity (Parte 2) - Caleb will find a way to the N109 Zone.

[shirecorn]

this is a bit silly but i have strabismus and i never see anyone make designs with it. so thanks! it made me feel really nice!

I know four people with strabismus! It's actually really common occurrence in real life.

This particular design based on the canon appearance of a My Little Pony character.

In both canon and fandom, she is shown to be extremely clumsy, makes many mistakes, and speaks in somewhat of a monotone. A lot of people consider her autistic-coded.

Both autism and strabismus are great! But misaligned eyes have been used as a shorthand for stupidity in animation and comics for a very long time. So I don't like to pair them, personally.

Apparently strabismus does occur more frequently in autistic people! But there are way more people who have it who are allistic.

I'm of the opinion that you can pair traits together that just happen to align with stereotypes as long as you have those traits represented separately in other characters. There's quite a few ponies who are easy to interpret as autistic, but she's the only one I can think of with strabismus, and unfortunately her personality is easy to write off as "stupid." A good way to fix this without changing the character is to have a variety of other allistic characters with strabismus and other traits that don't reinforce stereotypes.

The same goes for other over-done tropes that combine traits. If your only gay character is a cop, that's suspect like you're just checking boxes. But if you have lots of gays in a variety of professions then cop becomes just one of the many flavors of gay. The same goes for childlike or autistic asexuals, and ethnic stereotypes like aggressive black characters, or tech-support indians. All of these people exist! But they also exist (much more frequently) without those combinations. So adding diversity to your world is important.

I don't think I have any ocs with strabismus, so I'll bestow the honor on one or several of them. I'm glad my art made you feel nice, I hope to do more of that in the future!

[dollgxtz]

Why’d you write Sylus so crazy? You’re turning him into one of those booktok men and he’s anything BUT that. I just don’t get it :/

Hi anon! I know my yandere!Sylus story is disturbing. And while yes, I do take great pleasure in writing such topics such as kidnapping n such, I genuinely just wanted to write a dark Sylus fic exploring a different version of him where his desires and upbringing lead him to hurt even the people he loves. I love tragic characters and stories!

Think about if you watch a horror movie. You know murdering and killing is bad and yet you still watch it for entertainment, to see what happens!

By the way, this isn’t to argue or call you out anon, just hoping to shed some light on my perspective as the author. I love when people ask about my work, and I’m happy to answer regardless of the context! My ask box is always open if any of you have questions!

Below is a breakdown of some of the complexities I wanted to portray!

Yandere!Sylus Breakdown

I envisioned him as a deeply complex character—not necessarily in his emotions, because yandere!Sylus always knows exactly what he wants—but in the way he rationalizes his actions and interprets his “wrongdoings.”

On the surface, his actions are undeniably wrong. Kidnapping a girl, forcing her into a life of isolation, and desiring to have children with her while keeping her away from everyone she’s ever loved is, by all moral standards, reprehensible. However, Yandere!Sylus doesn’t see it that way. To him, these actions are justifiable as long as they fulfill a purpose in his grand design.

He operates with a calculated mindset, never doing anything unless he believes it will ultimately benefit him, even if it means causing immense suffering. The fact that the reader might hate him only reinforces his resolve; he views it as a challenge, something to be overcome or “fixed” rather than a deterrent.

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t love reader, he does. But he is inherently selfish at his core since that was what was needed to survive. I intend to break this down further!

In yandere!Sylus’s twisted logic, he genuinely believes that if he can get the reader pregnant, she will inevitably develop a bond with the child. He sees this as a means to an end—a way to “tame” her, to anchor her to him emotionally.

He is convinced that motherhood will soften her resistance, leading her to accept the life he has meticulously crafted for them. To him, this is not just a strategy but a deeply held belief that love, however twisted, can be cultivated through shared ties, like the birth of a child.

This version of Sylus is driven by a yearning for the idealized version of happiness that society often romanticizes—the “big happy family” with “children running around” and a “loving wife.” It’s a vision that he clings to desperately, not because he understands it in the way most people do, but because he was denied such love and stability as a child.

Sylus grew up in a world where love was scarce and survival was paramount, as depicted in the original story. This lack of nurturing has warped his understanding of love and family, leading him to believe that these things can be engineered or forced into existence.

In blending elements of the original story into this version of Sylus and the reader, I wanted to show the core aspects of his character while exploring new dimensions of his psyche. However, I didn’t want it to be an exact replication, as the reader in this version isn’t the canonical main character from the original universe. Instead, she represents an alternative narrative where Sylus’s obsessions and desires manifest differently, yet still retain the disturbing intensity that defines his character! ^o^

All in all, if this story isn’t for you. Don’t read it please. I write for a certain demographic of people who enjoy twisted media. It’s fiction after all! No one is truly getting hurt. I hope this helps with your confusion anon!

[pm-my-beloved]

Ryoshu - Thoracalgia

And further down, Sleeping Bag of a Bygone Day speculation.

I am done with exams, and thus, I can write about one of my fav's EGO.

First, we need to gather some starting point data.

I'd like to point out that the abnormality itself is primarily skeletal, literally spine, skull and ribs, housing within a shadowy figure (or the sinner)

Moving onto the name itself, Thoracalgia is a medical term for chest pain and discomfort. While usually it is due to heart related problems, there is a significant amount of cases where the source of the pain is skeletal.

And now third aspect of the abnormality before I can start making conclusions, association with breathing. Nebulizer is a type of medical equipment used for application of oxygen and or medicine in form of a liquid mist to be absorbed within lungs. Oftentimes it is to reduce pain of breathing in patients with chest-pains

Here, is the first conclusion/assumption I want to make. I believe that Thorocalgia and Sleeping Bag overall, represent treatment of symptoms without fixing underlying issues. The heavily skeletal design of the abnormality makes me believe that it's supposed to imply that the source of pain is deepest possible, down to ones bones, and because of that, tools such as nebulizers simply minimize the pain.

Now, how does that apply to Ryoshu? While it is not explicitly stated by the game, I believe Ryoshu's personality, and strong avoidance of "Gloom" in her kit, is characterised primarily by thrill seeking behaviour to avoid confronting and processing one's hurt. That to me, feels like the exact type of behaviour I described for Sleeping Bag.

Now let's move onto EGO lines for further delve into that. With that in mind, I also want to highlight that generally Ryoshu seems to be the least affected/Least revealing with her EGO lines out of any sinners in my opinion, which makes her lines here all the more interesting.

First thing to look at, or rather hear, is that unlike her usual EGO lines, they are unusually low, somber, serious. Then, the text itself. "I was only reaching out to grasp onto something, anything." That is, the most open and introspective thing we have ever heard from Ryoshu, and I believe, shows that she is aware, that what she does is not a cure for her pain, simply a band-aid on the gaping wound. As they say, a drowning man will grab even a razor.

I honestly think this is simply further admission, that despite all her thrill seeking behaviour, all the bravado and appearances of confidence and pleasure from art, she is in pain over her past.

Next point of interest, is her appearance while using the EGO.

The two points of interest for me are : How her left side blades/ribs are burnt/dissolved, and how her outfit is quite literally, a straight-jacket, including having covered her left eye. I think both of them point towards Ryoshu's behavior ruining her body, almost in a death wish attempt to make her physical self be as scarred as her soul. An interesting note on that that someone pointed out to me while writing this, is that there is a simmilar relation in her sinner Icon, with her left side being more directly broken/shattered.

Next thing to point out is the EGO cost

1 Lust - I think lust in this case represents the pursuit of momentary pleasures 1 Wrath - This imho stands for the other side of the coin, as her awakening line says, among things she held onto resentment, as one of the things to keep her afloat. 5 Pride - As many times I have said, Pride stands for Conviction and Certainty. With Ryoshu having Pride s3, and this EGO being so pride-centric in general, I think this stands for Ryoshu's complete stubborness about the path she has taken, refusal to change her path, even if she is aware it is a flawed one. Now, Resistances

Starting with fatalities, Gluttony fatality in combination with sloth fatality reinforces my previous points, with her constantly seeking stimulation (Gluttony), in order to avoid dealing with her pain (Sloth). Pride ineffective reinforces my point from Pride cost, and wrath endurance imho signifies that while she is avoidant of the feelings, she does not actively repress them, rather, simply avoids thinking about them.

Now onto the, in my opinion, more difficult task.

Sleeping Bag of a Bygone Day

Operating with information we got through the EGO, I'd like to make additional exploration into the abnormality itself.

Starting with appearance, it still is skeletal, but the appearance is more akin to a cocoon or, as the name says, sleeping bag. On top of that, it is placed between floating medical equipment. Funnily enough, it seems to be on the ceiling, as the "floor" it stands on has ceiling lights characteristic of hospitals or research spaces.

Lets move onto the MD event, rather than the abnormality name, as the latter will be easier to read into with all information gathered

One thing I want to preface with is that, with abnormalities, sometimes the choices that reward us are not the choices that are "right" or "Correct", but rather, those that feed into the confirmation bias of an abnormality or directly harm it.

With that in mind, first thing to note that when doing this check, we are not interacting with the shadow, rather only the skeleton. The check itself is gloom/pride favoring, which in my opinion reflects the abnormalities confirmation bias, certainty that alleviation of symptom will be what brings relief. The check passed variant speaks nothing of the abnormality being cured of its ailment, rather, it only gave it a temporary relief, a singular breath without pain. Check failed on the other hand shows the futility of the treatment, as it did not touch upon the underlying cause.

This check is in my opinion more difficult to analyse, but my theory as of now is such.

Option one, is that the shadow is the source of pain, that it's us keeping and dragging and clinging onto past events, refusing to move on from them that is the reason for hurt, but it became such strong part of us that we are incapable of getting rid of it, for without it we remain only a hollow shell.

Option two, is that the shadow IS the self inhabiting the body, experiencing the pain, but upon belief that everything we do to cover the wound is futile, it simply fades away, because non-existence is better than suffering. This one has additional backing because of check failed result from the other option saying "Perhaps the liberation is nigh", implying death as a desirable state. The option two is additionally interesting for me in context of Ryoshu being inspired by Buddhist based texts, with Nirvana, aka non-existence, being seen as the ultimate pursuit of a human. Now, lets finally move onto the name, Sleeping Bag of a Bygone Day. If we go with interpretation number one, it suggests that it's about refusal to wake up from a dream, or rather a nightmare of ones past. Interpretation two is more like it becoming a place of final rest, a sleeping bag to fall into oblivion, leaving the days of the past behind.

I will not lie, half of this stuff I came up with WHILE writing this, so there might be some internal inconsistencies, so feel absolutely free to disagree and show your own interpretation, or add something I missed.

[stitchposts]

Heyo! Had two questions - one a little less relevant to your blog but I thought I'd shoot my shot :D

First off, do you have any experience with visible mending using embroidery techniques? Both my denim jacket and favorite sweater are getting worn out after years of constant wear, and I'm unsure how do deal with some of the holes. My main issue is that the very ends of the sleeves are simply... splitting open? Like the fabric got so thin from whatever stress I apparently put it under, it fecking disintegrated. It seems simple enough, straight line on an edge, but I'm worried about messing it up anyway.

And, speaking of my jacket, with it falling apart a little and me seeing more about battle vests and the like, I've been wondering about trying to embroider it, maybe make some patches... I have a bunch of cotton embroidery floss that was gifted to me years ago, but not only have I not embroidered much since learning it in school more than 15 years ago, this is also literally my only (wearable) jacket. The other two are a 10 year old fake leather coat that is peeling itself and also doesn't fit right, and a windbreaker in terrible colors that, if I remember correctly, is too badly damaged for me to know how to easily fix it. Meaning just going ham on it is a big risk. Do I try to find my first new jacket since 2019 and hope to stumble upon one satisfactory in both price and fit? Do I just pray and start fixing up my denim jacket? What else do I need anyway? I got thread and sewing needles big enough to fit it, but nothing else.

Help.

Thanks! <3

This post got kinda long even for me, sorry. First off, this is all embroidery related imo, this is still about stitching on fabric. A square is always a rectangle but a rectangle is not always a square. There's nuance under the umbrella of 'embroidery' here and this counts.

There does reach a point when clothing can't really be repaired anymore, and after that point, historically became rags, or the patches used to repair other clothing. You'll eventually need a new jacket, but if your choice is to immediately find one now or to repair your jacket and buy time to be able to locate one, it seems a bit obvious to me what the option to follow here is, especially if you like the look of visible mending.

This is the part where I wanted to add a cut, but tumblr is glitching out and refusing to add one. So I guess everyone is just subjected to this now. Sorry, and I'll try to have an actual pretty embroidery picture up for everyone to see this week since my furnace is no longer trying to blow up. So: visible mending is at the core applying mending techniques to clothing, and instead of trying to make them invisible repairs, using the stitches or extra material that reinforces the repair to creative visual interest and turn it into a design feature. The stitching itself is done to reinforce the fragile parts of your garment. Sometimes it can be darning, other times it's adhering new fabric to back/cover the fragile parts. It depends on the repair which to use, or even which method the mender prefers. It's not always clearcut and even then, sometimes we prefer doing the thing we know better more than a brand new technique and we bruteforce it to work. So, dealer's choice on darning or patching here, but I'll get to both of them. My opinion of your situation is that you have nothing to lose with trying to repair your jacket that fits you. It's already falling apart, and it's better to stabilize it before it gets worse before there are giant gaps in the fabric. Clean it gently by hand by letting it soak in a bucket or a tub with some ph neutral detergent - do a couple rinses of letting it soak, until the water runs clear and stops smelling foul. Then lay it flat to try on a towel, don't hang it up to dry as that will put more stress on the fabric, I find the shoulders are usually one of the first places to give out on my stuff but I am very broad shouldered. In my opinion, gaps in the fabric at high stress spots like the cuffs should have new backing fabric added to the weak spots, and then the visible mending can adhere that in place. If you were to make new embroidered cuffs you could just sew them on, and protect the integrity of the base fabric, the same way patches do. But you may prefer other options. For darning there's a few ways to go about it. Darning itself is using new threads to weave through the holes in fabric, and stabilizing it past the delicate thin edges of the base fabric. A dear friend of mine lives and dies by her Speedweve loom these days, and I've seen her work with it. She is one of the top 5 trusted fiber artists in my life so I vouch for these looms being cool as fuck and very functional without having used it myself. I also got her this particular book called Darned Easy, by Sally Simon, that I find interesting that has a lot of patterns in it for darning - I grabbed it at a used book store at some point. I messaged her before I made this point because she follows this blog and would know this part is about her. Hi bud. She's the only one who gets to see the rest of the interior of the book, because it was published in 1981 and I'd rather not use this blog to host scans of books that are that recently published.

You don't need a loom for darning if you know what patterns to follow to darn using your needle, and there are a lot of ways to make darning decorative in the manner you want for visible mending, just use your contrasting threads to stand out on the ground fabric. There's also other books available, a HUGE amount of them because darning's existed for millenia, but this is the resource I physically had on hand that I wanted to use as my example so it's the one you get pics of.

On the other end of repairs, you can applique on patches or reinforcing material, then quilt the material into place, with the quilting being the surface embroidery you are pushing through the layers of fabric in order to adhere them into place. Before anyone replies to this op telling them to fucking look up sashiko, please get off my post. I take umbrage with a lot of embroidery designs being referred to as 'sashiko.' This type of repair on existing clothing genuinely is one of the origins of sashiko as a necessity of life - it was that a pattern was laid down on the clothing or items that needed to be repaired or pieced together, and then quilted into place with running stitches that formed the design, which reinforced the clothing and allowed the fibers to be usable for longer. I really despise the words 'sashiko' 'wabisabi' and 'kintsugi' tossed around casually out of historical context by every fucking art blogger under the sun. Fabric was fucking expensive pre industrial revolution, so preserving clothing mattered a lot. Many different cultures have preferred methods (very often extremely regional even within a country) for mending in a manner that is similar to what we know of as quilting or applique today, but there's a certain obsession with anything Japanese in particular that bloggers love to describe as mysterious and wholesome when it's just a visually distinctive fucking way to repair a hole in a garment and quilt things together to make it warm and functional.

Anyway. My first vest I made, it did eventually disintegrate. I knew it would happen because fucking entropy of the universe and so I managed to find a new vest I could afford at the time when I happened across it, and kept it in a back closet till I was ready to transform it into my dragon vest. I repaired that first vest until almost every seam was paper thin and shredding. I loved it a lot. I wore it daily for years and years. I'm still sad I can't wear it anymore, even though I kept my back patch from it, and I still don't know what the fuck I am going to do with that patch. Eventually fabric is destroyed, after many many years of service and wear. Things die. You can't put resin on your embroidery and make it live forever. But when things finally do perish, you can use the base fabric that is still good to make new patches. You get to design and plan a new battle vest or projects you want to start. If you're not sure yet about how badly you'll be hit emotionally by seeing something you put hundreds of hours into disintegrate into nothingness, then hold off on making this particular jacket your battle jacket holding a lot of purchased patches and such, instead of as a test springboard for learning repairs. This is not me being facetious or jokey. It hits people pretty hard to lose, especially the first time this happens. We're humans that hold bonds with things we like, especially things with that much personal hand investment on it. It won't be a failure on your part if you decide to learn repair and extend the life of this jacket, when this jacket does finally bite the dust. It will happen. The accomplishment here is how much service and use you get out of the jacket past when you thought you'd have to throw it away far earlier than if you had learned to repair it.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

If the Chromatic Crew had jobs in the Omega Timeline, what would they be?

I feel like Delta would work as some sort of mechanic, given his passion for technology and engineering. Perhaps he specializes in robotics, cybernetics, and biomechanical enhancements—particularly for monsters, hybrids, or even humans with prosthetics.

He could design and maintain cybernetic limbs or assistive technology for those who need mechanical augmentations.

Given that Omega Chara kinda cut him half, if his body still struggles to function in some way due to that despite its healing, and potential magical instability, he might experiment with integrating technology into his own recovery and mobility—like reinforced plating, internal stabilizers, or even minor cybernetic enhancements.

He might build AI-driven mechanical assistants to help him in the workshop, reducing the strain of overworking himself.

If the Omega Timeline likely has threats or conflicts, Delta could also potentially work as a weapon specialist, designing high-tech weapons, armor, and battle gear.

I think he’d likely refuse to create purely offensive weapons, instead focusing on defensive gear, shields, and non-lethal weaponry to prevent unnecessary deaths.

(And this is likely something Core agrees with if they allow him to build weapons in the first place. If Delta does make any offensive weapons, they’re likely hidden somewhere he deems safe.)

If the Omega Timeline has any advanced vehicles or transport systems, Delta would absolutely be involved in repairing, modifying, and upgrading them.

He might build experimental hovercrafts, motorcycles, or personal flight devices. I also think Delta is likely to take on side projects, where he builds things just because he can—whether it’s helpful inventions, weird gadgets, or impractical but cool devices.

He might experiment with combining magic and machinery, creating hybrid tech that blends the best of both worlds.

Given that Beta (his human half) grew up on the Surface and Sans grew up in the Underground, he might take inspiration from both human and monster engineering, leading to designs that take from both worlds.

Rather than working under a formal organization, i think Delta is more likely to be a self-taught, independent mechanic who runs his own private workshop or garage.

He might barter services instead of working for money, fixing things in exchange for food, materials, or favors.

Especially if he barters with Core and any members of the potential Council—ensuring their technology, infrastructure, and security remain secure and functional in exchange for housing where he either doesn’t have to pay rent/bills, or the Council covers that for him.

His workspace could be cluttered but functional, filled with half-finished projects, custom tools, and notes scribbled everywhere. He would probably refuse to take jobs from people he doesn’t trust, especially if he suspects they would use his work for harmful purposes.

Especially if we take into account the headcanon of how Killer used any weapons of Delta’s to fuel negativity for Nightmare and help the corruption expand his “organization.”

Color, however, I feel would be unable to work a traditional full time job, at least not for a long time.

And although Delta likely to insist on being the one to take care of everything and everyone in their household, willing to take on extra work if he has to, Color probably worries a lot about what would happen if he doesn’t “get better” and start “pulling his weight.”

Start behaving..like an “adult.” Again.

Will Delta leave him? Will he hate him and get mad at him, throw them out on the streets one day, because he realized how much of a drain Color has been on his life? The burden on his shoulders? Will Beta realize how pathetic he is, nothing worth looking up to? Will Sans look at Color, and be glad he didn’t make the wrong choices and end up like Color?

So at first—I think his best options would be remote work and self employment/commissions.

He could do writing like blogs, short stories, and transcription work. Data entry if he can manage long screen time, and even email-based customer service, not phone-based.

He could even sell any arts, crafts, or music online he makes—and before going on to paid work, he could even try out volunteering in an attempt to refamiliarize with being around people again. (Such as volunteering at the hospital with the children.)

And then eventually a part-time job with flexible hours, and it has to be low-stress, accommodating, and allow for breaks to prevent burnout, breakdowns, and physical collapses from Color.

Like working as a library assistant or a museum guide or doing archival work.

When he starts getting antsy about being trapped in the Omega Timeline, however, I do think he’d definitely be willing to push himself past his limits in regards to work if he views it as a means out of the Omega Timeline.

Perseverance definitely would make it near impossible to stop if it agrees with or shares Color’s desires to get out, or simply is particularly very ambitious on their job or helping Color, regardless of the strain or injury it could cause their shared body.

For Killer, at first I was considering something to do with the death care industry—like an embalmer or a mortician—but then I remembered how he tends to be towards the dead.

He doesn’t really show much respect or care for the dead, such as taking the souls of his victims or studying their dead bodies for his own purposes and ends without consent—and he’s trying to get better in this ending.

Keeping him around and trusting him to handle the Omega Timeline’s dead, tempting him, reminding him of what he’s been surrounded by for a long time now.

What he’s yearned for, what he’s done. Especially if he ever comes across any familiar faces or magical “signatures”…i doubt it’d be good.

So i definitely think he’d do something to do with animals. He loves animals, relates most to them, definitely has a lot more respect and care for them then he does for most other living beings.

He could potentially get a full or part time job in Ccino’s Cafe, working primarily with the animals—cats and dogs.

Especially since Ccino not only knows Killer through their shared connections with Nightmare, but Ccino also very likely has rapport with both Color and Epic.

And speaking of Ccino’s cafe and Epic, there’s Epic’s good pal, Cross.

Now I was a little stuck on potential jobs for both Cross and Epic, outside of the obvious ones—something science related for Epic, something Royal Guard or militaristic-like for Cross.

But I had a feeling that military work may not actually be as good mental health wise for Cross as it seemed, despite its familiarity, and I also felt that Epic had more potential options I just couldn’t see yet.

So I asked a friend of mine her opinions and thoughts on the matter, since she’s more familiar with the characters’ canon than I am at this moment, so I’ll paraphrase what they (@/zuzuelectricbugaloo) and down below:

Epic might take on a part-time role as a doctor since his ability to see Codes would be useful for treating cases where regular magic isn’t effective.

Additionally, he could run a daycare in the Omega Timeline, given his experience babysitting many kids like Palette, Goth/Vidal, Paperjam, and Gradient, and his genuine enjoyment of it.

As for Cross, he might initially consider a military-related job since he’s skilled in that area and likes feeling helpful. However, given the war-like trauma and PTSD he experienced in XTale/Underverse, it wouldn’t be the best choice for him.

He enjoys art and baking, so working part-time at a café could be a good fit. However, considering his past actions in Underverse—such as destroying AUs or causing harm, even indirectly—many Omega Timeline residents might not welcome him.

Because of this, he might prefer working elsewhere, like at Ccino’s café, where he has a good relationship with both Ccino and Epic. There, he could use his artistic side in baking and making drinks or even help with the animals. This setup would allow him to feel productive without overwhelming anxiety or the pressure of feeling like he’s doing everything wrong.

[paddlescuddlesbubblesgurgles]

Carpentry

I like to work with my hands. I’m a hobby carpenter, and reupholster. I love fixing and making furniture, blue printing ideas, and trying out designs. 

I have a dream that I will constantly be fixing furniture, reinforcing ones I like, and making custom things I can’t find for my partner and me. I already threaten the physical integrity of lots of things all the time. Chairs, couches, and beds all creak beneath my weight now, and some I’ve broken. I’ve fixed a few already. 

But I’m not so worried about my weight as much as hers, and ours. 

You see, I like my women not just fat, but closer to more of a tub of lard than a lady. 300lbs, 400lbs, 500lbs all sounds quite likely for her. I like a truly overweight princess to spoil and make mine. I want her good at eating, sitting, and being on top of me. That sends our combined weight on these poor pieces of wood to 1000lbs or so.

That’s gonna break a lot of furniture. She simply must break chairs because I love when she sits. She simply must collapse a bed because we love laying there. She simply must crack couches because I love pinning her to them. 

Her comfort is my biggest concern. Not only do I want to fix or make her perfect relaxing arrangements, we are gonna need things just for us. Bigger specifications, things with leans and restraints for when we need to do something kinky, and solid back support for the massive guts we will both be carrying around. 

I want to create a home that welcomes her excess. I want to build a home that is sized for us. I want to fashion a home that fits her needs. I want to celebrate, cultivate, and embrace our growing love. I want to give us space to grow into.

We can still break things sometimes. It feels so good to shatter something weak. 

I need to fatten her. 

[kitkatorin]

Creating my Skitarii Cosplay! ⚙️💀

I tend to hyperfixate on a lot of my ideas, and if it involves physically creating something, it's so satisfying to bring an idea to life.

So it was with my Adeptus Mechanicus cosplay! The idea possessed mind and I somehow managed to make it a reality in about 2 months just in time for a con lol

I don't have too many progress pics because I was in a bit of a time crunch and worked on it at odd hours, but I still wanted to share the process because this project is very dear to me - this was the first cosplay I ever built from the ground up.

So, the initial sketches!

I remember staying up super late sketching and ironing out the designs. And then going on a spree buying all the materials and pieces. The robes and mask I worked on and finished first!

Before this I had never worked with eva foam but I already committed to using it for the armor. I made the pattern first with tracing paper (thank the Omnissiah that the shapes were relatively simple!) and copied them to foam. The pauldrons and hand armor were finished first, and after seeing how well they came out, I was feeling pretty confident about how things were proceeding!

Then it was the chest armor and backpack 😬 the most involving for sure. Lots of paint and glue, lots of shaping, lots of trial and error in reinforcing and securing things in the right place...

I was honestly surprised how well it came together as a first time experience working with eva! The backpack was HEAVY (I used a PVC pipe for the top part and real plumbing lines), but once I got it on it was OK 😅

Handwriting the purity seals was a lot of fun too, kinda want to make more just to do it. And the very last touch was stenciling the Ad Mech insignia on the robes literally the night before the con.

The final result? Something I'm immensely proud of ☺️

Shame on me for not test running it during the process before wearing the entire thing for the first time. Some things needed to be fixed and readjusted during and after the first wear but overall it held up in two different events!

I'll post some more finalized photos soon~ now that I know what I can do, I already have another cosplay in the works 👀 stay tuned for that! (Psst you can find them here now!)

Hope you liked it! And if you have any tips or suggestions for working on future projects I'd love to hear them!

[tobiasdrake]

Incidentally, I talk a lot about how corporate America is just a feudal state with brands instead of borders. Particularly with the way meritocracy is basically just rebranded Divine Right of Kings. "I am worthy of wielding absolute power over you because of this nebulous factor that sounds really meaningful but is functionally unfalsifiable and self-reinforcing."

"I deserve wealth and power because God blessed my lineage/I am the hardest working person, and the way to prove that God blessed my lineage/I am the hardest working person is that I wouldn't have wealth and power if it weren't true." It's a rhetorical loop used to defend and uphold a corrupt system.

It's designed to discourage people from taking collective action against an unjust state. Is your life situation shitty? Well, maybe you should pray more/work harder. That's it. That is the only salve for your woes. If you're suffering, it's because you haven't been pious enough/worked hard enough, so go fix yourself and stop whining to the king about it.

But also.

I need y'all to understand.

That in addition to rebranded Divine Right of Kings.

We also have. Literally. The Divine Right of Kings in corporate America.

It's an American invention born of the 1950's called Prosperity Gospel. The idea is that God blesses those most worthy with wealth. If you have lived justly, God will reward you with money. If you have lived unjustly, God will condemn you to poverty.

Under Prosperity Gospel, becoming a billionaire happens strictly by will of God. All billionaires are chosen by God to lead our country, and the people who are struggling in poverty are so struggling because they are, every last one of them, sinners guilty of turning against Christ and thus deserving of their cruel and merciless fate.

Prosperity Gospel is how Conservative Christianity is able to reconcile the difference between Christ's anticapitalist leanings and their own desire to fill their coffers with as much money as they can steal from the poor and disenfranchised. It exists for the purpose of persuading Christian followers to see the ultra-rich as modern-day messianic leaders.

This idea, which is literally just the Divine Right as written, no rebranding required? This is how you create a church for billionaires our of a faith that condemns the wealthy in no uncertain terms. This is how you marry religion to capital and create a force strong enough to overpower government.

And that is the cultural force we are dealing with on the right. Prosperity Gospel and Meritocracy propping each other up as a religious and secular version of the same root concept. Two sides to a coin that combine to create a force of thought control. Enshrining patterns of behavior and belief whose endpoint is the cult-like surrender of power and control to a population of grifters.

[p0orbaby]

Velcro’s

summary: Leah tries and fails to get your daughter ready for school

warnings: just cuteness!

a/n: oh to be a housewife

word count: 488

-

“Who on Earth would design something like this?” Leah mutters to herself.

You stopped what you were doing, packing lunches to be precise, to peek around the open fridge. Finding Leah kneeling down while your daughter sits unamused on the bottom step.

“Do you need a hand?” You called through the house. “Or we can swap”

Even from in the kitchen you can hear her huff in frustration, your daughter following suit. Though you gave birth to her, she was all Leah. The same pout, the same furrowed brow, and apparently the same shortage of patience.

“No, I’ve got it” she responds, though you can tell it’s through gritted teeth. “Stupid shoes”

A smaller voice echoes her frustration. “Stupid shoes”

“Right? why did we buy you these anyway?”

“Lights”

And the fact that your wife found it awfully hard to say no, you thought. But who could blame her? When blue eyes water and a chin wobbles at the word, even you, the stricter of the two, struggle to deny her.

“Lights, right. How could I forget?”

“Silly, mummy”

You found yourself gravitating towards the two of them. The fridge is left open as you lean against the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the hall. Arms folded over your chest and a lovestruck smile on your face.

“Silly mummy” you repeat. Relishing in the way that identical pairs of eyes soften as they look towards you.

“Reinforcements” Leah whispers, and your daughter giggles when fingers dig gently into her sides.

You join the huddle with a soft chuckle, and you reach over to take your girls’ foot from your wife. Her heel hanging out as the material folds meekly underneath it.

“What would you two do without me, huh?” You ask, deftly fixing the shoe and securing it on your daughter's foot in one smooth move.

A soft kiss was placed to the crown of your head as Leah stands. “Be barefoot, no doubt,” she suggests. Fingers finding your hair, playing with the loose strands as you start on the other shoe.

You hum in agreement. “And late” you add, Bringing your daughter up with you as you stand yourself. Kissing your wife when you turn around.

And you probably would’ve deepended it, liking the way Leah grabbed your waist and smirked into your mouth. But you had a child on your hip, and the fridge had started beeping at you angrily, not liking that it had been left open for so long.

Leah tuts as she pulls back, “what were you saying? About us not being able to live without you?” She teased.

“Shut it, Williamson” you say. Her response was to slap you on the ass as you walked back towards the kitchen.

“What do we call mummy, baby?”

You pause as you swivel your head, narrowing your eyes at the woman standing smuggly behind you.

“Silly mummy”

“That’s right, clever girl. Silly mummy”