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ittybittyfanblog · 3 days ago

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Error 404: Spin-off – Pt. 5

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized, what a chad. (That’s it, that’s the plot.) Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, a frankly disgusting amount of domesticity (author is projecting), fluff fluff fluff A/N: We’re doing fun little vignettes in this one <3 It’ll span a couple of chapters, maybe not sequentially. We’ll see as we go along.

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5

It’s the end of the fiscal year, and your boyfriend is currently preoccupied with sorting out your taxes.

No one asked him to. In fact, he took it upon himself – like it was simply the natural order of things. You suppose, to him, it is. He’s very aware of how you used to file things back when he was just confined to a mobile device, and upon seeing that nothing’s really changed on that front, he’s decided to resume the duty of being your reliable, little (big) AI assistant.

Well. Made flesh now.

“Back then,” he says offhandedly, without looking up, “you kept misreporting your ITRs. For your peace of mind,” and his, “I’ll personally handle it this time, if you have no objections.”

Okay, rude. (Still, you give him your full consent.)

There’s something inexplicably attractive about the way he’s focused on doing a task as menial as paperwork. His messy hair falls into his eyes, and the way his glasses perch low on the bridge of his nose makes him look like an insanely hot accountant with a highly skewed moral compass and a strong propensity for tax evasion.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on by proper auditing. And yet.

“Your hair’s getting longer,” you comment. “Want me to cut it for you?”

There’s the briefest flicker, a micro-freeze you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t looking so closely at his face.

Sylus recovers quickly. Keeping his tone light, he tries to turn the offer down. “No need, sweetie. You can come with me to get it styled this weekend, how’s that sound?”

You squint at him. “You don’t want me to cut your hair.”

He pauses mid-keystroke. His fingers hover over the keyboard, suddenly feeling like he’s under close scrutiny. “I didn’t say that.”

“I’ll have you know I’m getting better at it, thank you very much.”

He gives you a patient smile. His gaze darts—briefly—to your baby bangs, but wisely says nothing.

You scoff, stomping over to his side of the desk. He automatically shifts to make room as you clamber onto his lap.

Sylus noses your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he resumes typing into the open spreadsheet.

You settle in comfortably, glancing at the Excel file on the screen. It's currently on his own budget sheet, and it's looking very… meticulous. Formulaic. You see multiple tabs color-coded by category, with conditional formatting, along with a bunch of complicated calculations that are already automated.

Now, who would’ve thought that the ex-leader of Onychinus is actually a huge nerd?

Your eyes zero in on something. “Uh, why is your budget for me filed under mandatory deductions?”

He hums. “It's a fixed expense, naturally.”

You watch the numbers rack up, sweatdropping. “Oh. I didn’t realize how much I’m costing you? I– sorry, I’ll be more mindful with the spending next time.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he says disapprovingly. “It’s already accounted for.” He moves the cursor, highlighting the section of the sheet labelled Personal Allowance – [Hers].

You fidget, biting your lip. “That ceiling’s kind of high,” you say timidly.

You expect him to make a joke out of it, maybe earn you a chuckle. You're caught off-guard when you hear him sigh instead.

“Not as high as I’d like.” There shouldn’t be one in the first place.

You huff, craning your neck to send him a look. “I’m already your biggest expenditure—that includes rent. And you’re still insistent on paying the bills yourself.” You poke his chin. He bites it. “You do know this is a joint household, yeah?”

He blinks at you, faintly amused. “I’m well aware, sweetie. You provide more than enough.”

“Pray tell, what exactly am I contributing fiscally that puts me on equal footing with you?”

“Does it need to be financial for it to be equal?” he muses, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“No, actually,” you shoot back, now jabbing your pointer at his chest. “But everything still tips toward you. You do most of the housework, too.”

“My love,” Sylus chuckles, finally, eyes dropping to the crease between your brows. “Why are we keeping tally? Nothing brings me greater joy than knowing I can provide for you.”

He pauses, the grin on his face softening to a small smile.

“And you do provide. You cook—meals that are getting better every day, don’t think I haven’t noticed—you give me… reason. A home to always come back to.”

Your ears go hot at the unexpected bout of sincerity. “Sweet-talker,” you mutter. We’ll get back to this later, mister.

Clearing your throat, you quickly pull the topic back to its course, doing your best not to show how flustered that little comment made you. “How can you even afford this, huh?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I saved up enough over the last two years.” The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, as if the thought amuses him. “Income’s steady and reliable now. Good job security.”

“...You still haven’t given me enough info about this job, by the way.”

He studies you closely, gauging your reaction. “Not trying to keep anything from you, little dove. It’s just… quite tedious to explain. But I haven’t lied.”

“Offering a range of digital services for select clientele, primarily operating on a consultancy basis,” you quote skeptically. “That sounds like professional jargon for black hat. Do you do anything illegal? Dangerous?”

“Nothing that trite,” he sniffs, as if offended by the lack of originality in the suggestion. “Please. Give me more credit.”

“Sylus.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, gentler now. “It’s all above board. Nothing reputably damaging is going to trail back to us, I assure you.”

You press your lips together, still a little miffed by the non-answer. It’s not that you think he’s lying—he never does, not to you. But he’s good at redirection.

And you’ve seen what he’s capable of, even sans the extraordinary power. You remember the version of him that wasn’t bound by this world’s rules. The one with a ludicrous bounty on his head and a criminal record a mile long, one you still don’t know the full extent of.

It’s hard to believe all of that could just… change in an instant.

Still, you give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s here now. You know he wouldn’t risk what the two of you have—not on a whim, not to chance. And more than anything, he’d never willingly put you in harm’s way.

So you’ll accept his explanation at face value.

(Tech support, it is.)

Before you can say anything else, Sylus sighs and pulls up another tab. Your taxes this time.

He stares at the spreadsheet for a lengthy moment. It’s a mess of half-filled entries, missing receipts, unlabelled expenses, and two different months lumped into a single column succinctly named “misc.”

He frowns. “There’s quite a lot of backlog this year. What happened to the template I made you?”

You wince, smiling angelically. “It reminded me too much of you?”

His brow lifts. Unimpressed.

“Made me sad to look at it,” you supply unhelpfully.

He snorts, clearly not buying that excuse. Without another word, the former head of the most powerful crime syndicate in the universe begins copy-pasting cells, redoing your poor attempt at filing from scratch.

“Did you at least send me your payslips like I asked?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

––––

Sy-Sy (Real): Black or red

You: black

Sy-Sy (Real): Ok 👍

You: ?? why

Sy-Sy (Real): Getting a motorcycle

You: OMG pop off king how much did u get back from that tax refund 😭😭

You: can i see

You: the bike not ur tax refund

Sy-Sy (Real): Haha

Sy-Sy (Real): [Image Attachment]

Sy-Sy (Real): Lightweight frame, high torque. Seamless shift assist. Very smooth ride 🏍️💨

You: idk what allat means !! but that’s exciting can u take me for a spin later pls pls pls

Sy-Sy (Real): Of course sweetie. Ill be back in 20 we can go out for a drive

Sy-Sy (Real): [Image Attachment]

Sy-Sy (Real): Got you a helmet too 💚

You: WAIT THAT’S SO COOL

You: thank u ily 🥹💗 drive safe !!

You: mind the speed limit k else i’m not riding w u

Sy-Sy (Real): I love you too

You: SPEED LIMIT

Sy-Sy (Real): 👍

––––

It’s the weekend, and the two of you head downtown, where they close off the junction between Bayview and the main highway every Saturday to make way for the public flea market.

Once a week, an open sprawl of ramshackle tents and pop-up stalls sets up shop in one of the city’s hipper areas—the air thick with the cloying scent of sugary treats, mingling with the heady haze of handmade soy candles from local artisans and enthusiastic first-timers alike. Secondhand storefronts line the streets, while buskers stake out every busy corner, their strumming and crooning imbuing rhythm to the restless scene in front of you.

It’s overstimulating in a way the city can be. Your shirt sticks to your back as the afternoon sun blazes down, the crowd warping around the edges of your vision; almost mirage-like, in your heat-induced state of delirium.

You used to come here a lot. Back in your uni days—with Khol and a rotating crew of casual acquaintances. Back when the world was your oyster, bearing none of the many boring responsibilities of adulthood.

Your biggest concern at the time had been whether the taquitos they sold by twos were actually worth the ridiculous price point, or whether it's worth stopping your friend from blowing another twenty on a Blue Hawaiian from some kitschy mobile bar parked somewhere along the road.

They host the annual mardi gras here, too. You're already forming plans for the next one in your head, quietly excited at the idea of dragging Sylus along for his first next year.

For now, you’ve been weaving through the crowd like a stone-cold veteran, tugging the taller man behind you by the hand. He follows without complaint, content to be led around as you stop at every stall that catches your eye.

He’s very patient as you oooh’d and aaah’d over trays of vintage jewelry and various rough-cut stones, all the way to the more eclectic resin crafts, buying whichever calls to you. You’re now the proud owner of a butterfly hair clasp you’ve already clipped into an updo, a paper cup full of pretty glass beads and sparkly gemstones you can buy by gram, and a Doechii ‘Swamp Princess’ concert tee.

Sylus, on the other hand, got a first edition copy of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, unearthed from a pile of secondhand books. And, at your insistence, a small clay keychain of a crow for himself.

The crow, inexplicably, is wearing a tiny yellow lei.

He snorts at the sight, adding it to the pile.

Amidst it all, it’s not lost on you—the glances he gets. Curious, wide-eyed appreciation, mostly from giggling women. Likely because of his height, his looks. His demeanor.

It makes you tighten your grip on him, a rush of pride mixed with a quiet, niggling feeling that surfaces when their attention flicks over to you. You pretend not to notice.

You’re about to pull up near the concession stalls when Sylus slows, catching sight of an unassuming record shop with stacks of old vinyls piled haphazardly out front. A proper hole-in-the-wall, tucked somewhere behind two larger stalls, easy to miss amidst everything else.

You see the flicker of interest in his eyes, and without a word, you pull at his hand and lead him inside.

A teenager with pink liberty spikes nods in greeting, barely looking up from her phone. You give a small wave to who seems to be the actual owner – the fat calico sprawled across the glass counter, watching the two newcomers enter the store. It blinks its yellow eyes at you.

Sylus easily weaves along rows of LP crates, still holding your hand as he moves toward the back. You totter along beside him, dodging dusty cassette tapes and boxes of old rolled-up concert posters just left lying around.

Electric Ladyland. Tidal. Motor Speedway 1969… Clairo? Their selection is—something, alright. Perhaps a bit oddly curated, but so very Gen-Z of them.

He stops near a row of phonographs, all laid relatively neat across a low table and a couple of shelves. Some are in decent shape, while others look like they haven’t been touched since the fucking '80s, their needles cracked halfway or missing entirely.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

He crouches in front of one near the end—finding something quite rare: a classic Rega Planar in light oak. The tonearm looks wonky, and the plinth itself is badly scratched and chipping away at the edges, likely from age.

He fiddles with the switch. Nothing. Tries again. Still nothing.

“Shame,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “It’s not dead. Just neglected.”

There’s a familiar light in his eyes. The same one you’ve seen before, when he spent an afternoon disassembling your coffee maker just after you’d declared it officially dead, or the time he rerouted your power strip so it stopped shorting out the microwave. That same quiet confidence that never brooks doubt in your mind whether he can fix something, only a matter of when.

You hide a smile. You don’t doubt him.

While he tests the tonearm, you dig around nearby and pick out three records: Morrison Hotel, Awaken, My Love!, and The Lonely Island: Turtleneck & Chain. In celebration for whenever he inevitably gets the damn thing running.

At checkout, the teen behind the counter pulls up your purchases. She rings everything through with a bored expression, pausing briefly at the Rega before slashing nearly fifty off the price. It’s clear she doesn’t expect it to be anything more than decorative.

After you leave the store, Sylus flips through the records you picked. The first two are familiar; the last one he only vaguely recognizes by name. Not an artist from your top twenty list, or else he’d remember. He considers asking, but you seem adamant to keep it as some form of surprise so he lets it be.

He’s sure he’ll like it either way.

––––

You’re fiddling with the locks of a silver bracelet, carefully wrapping the cord around his wrist. One of your better creations—thrown together from the beads and trinkets you picked up at the market after falling down some TikTok rabbit hole on DIY jewelry-making.

A small lizard charm swings at the center as you adjust the clasp, its tiny enamelled body catching light. Sylus turns the tiny reptile between his fingers, examining it with keen interest.

“You don’t have to wear it,” you murmur, suddenly a bit self-conscious.

He glances up at you, then back at the bracelet.

“A bit flashy,” he notes with the air of someone used to appraising things expensive and high in value. “But I suppose I make it work.”

Then—softer: “I like it.”

You’d expected him to maybe humor you for the afternoon. Wear it for a couple of hours at most, then tuck it away somewhere alongside the rest of your pile of knick-knacks.

But it stays on until the next day. And the day after that.

He only takes it off when he showers.

––––

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered poker chips and a growing pile of discarded cards.

Sylus lounges across from you, smiling placidly in the face of your growing ire.

“Stop winning,” you grumble, glaring at your weak hand. “Holy shit.”

He hums. “Would you prefer I lose on purpose?”

You narrow your eyes, not liking the confidence. So you pull your last ace. “Sex ban.”

He doesn’t take long to decide on his turn.

Without further comment, he gathers his cards into a neat pile and calmly slides them across the table—face up, revealing what is very clearly a straight flush.

“...Oh no. Bad hand. I fold.”

––––

It’s sometime in the lull of the evening. The sun’s low outside the window, and the fan whirs loudly as it oscillates back and forth the room. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket half-on, a hot water bottle pressed against your lower belly. Sylus heated it up earlier, handing it over along with a brown paper bag from the corner bakery – the one that somehow still had your favorite pistachio croissant, despite always selling out before noon.

You’re halfway through it now, uncaring of the crumbs dotting your shirt as you happily munch away.

Across you, Sylus is crouched in front of a partially dismantled record player, one knee on the floor, surrounded by wires and various components. He sings a Nina Simone song off-key while he tinkers, a precision screwdriver in hand, fully absorbed in the laborious task of bringing the old thing back to life.

“So,” you begin carefully, making him glance over at you. “Just out of curiosity. How much did you actually see, back then? When you were still… y’know. In my phone.”

You don’t even know why you asked. It was a dumb question.

There’s a loaded pause. “Too much.”

You make a face. “Define ‘too much’?”

He shifts slightly, brushing an invisible bit of lint from his arm with unnecessary flourish. “Things I’d rather not reminisce on,” he says. “And yet, they haunt me. Stepdad Toji. Miguel O’Hara… What was it? Ah, right. Dbf.”

He lists your past ‘nightly readings’ in a flat monotone. Then:

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

You nearly regurgitated a chunk of your half-swallowed pastry.

Spluttering, you croak, “That—that’s private!”

“Ah,” he muses, completely unfazed. “So, my baby wouldn’t like it if I called her a dirty, little slut.”

You gape.

“Pull her hair a little bit?” he adds, almost offhandedly.

“SYLUS!!”

In a maddeningly neutral tone, he simply says: “You asked.”

“That was two years ago! And you weren’t supposed to know that, what the fuck—”

He doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Doesn’t rise to your defense.

Instead, he grouses, “Why didn’t you read anything of the sort about me?”

You blink, hard. “What?!”

“You read it about them,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Not me.”

You go embarrassingly pink at the thought. “We weren’t—we weren’t like that yet!”

A beat. “Weren’t we?”

“It would’ve been weird! It’s humiliating enough that you’re even aware of the shit I’ve read about you!”

He scoffs, low and sharp. “What you’ve read about me,” he says, a little irked, “is offensively tame in comparison.”

You stare at him owlishly. “…Sorry, would you have preferred if I had objectified you?”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Perhaps.”

“What’s so wrong about being my favorite comfort character!”

Sylus sighs. “Nothing. But I could have provided you with more than just comfort.”

He says it like the very idea wounds him.

“You’re so weird.”

He starts to stand, wiping his hands on a stray rag like he’s washing them off your verbal accusations. “I do recall a vampire one.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Did he mean–

“It had a really interesting plot,” you hiss defensively as your brain remembers bits and pieces of the source material in question, cheeks burning from the shame of it all. “It was introspective! And accurately characterized you, considering it was an AU.”

(And he was paired with a non-MC reader, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“Yes,” he says, already making his way over. “I fondly remember the look on your face as you read through it chapter by chapter. So very invested.”

“Oh my god.” You groan, snatching up the nearest pillow and burying your face in it. “This is bullying. You’re bullying the hormonally afflicted.”

He chuckles, tugging down your makeshift cover, clearly enjoying the mortified look on your face. “You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about, kitten. It was quite the memorable experience, reading it alongside you.”

“Okay, you have no moral high ground here,” you grumble. “It wasn’t even that explicit!”

“Which is exactly the problem,” he replies, kneeling by where your tense legs are drawn up. “I intend to remedy that.”

His hands settle over the blanket draped on your thighs, brushing against the fabric in a deceptively soothing manner.

You feel his thumbs drag upward.

You jolt. “Wait—what are you–”

He looks up at you pointedly. “You’re on your period.”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“I was a vampire, sweetie.” he punctuates, tilting his head. “And I’m feeling very comforting at the moment.”

Is he… he couldn't possibly be insinuating…

Your brain stutters to a halt when you see the wicked look in his eye.

He leans in closer.

“Creative liberties,” Sylus purrs, voice dropping into a sly register. “You know how it is, pet.”

––––

You’re boneless, half-slumped on the edge of the tub, cheek pressed somewhere near Sylus’ hip as he shaves shirtless above you. You’d followed him in on autopilot, insisting on staying close after what was arguably the best night of sleep you’ve ever had. You’re pretty sure you’re still drooling.

He finishes, rinses the blade under the tap. Then reaches down to scratch your scalp absentmindedly—the same way he does with Maru.

You hum, eyes barely slitting open.

Bleary-eyed, you stare at his reflection in the mirror. He’s effortlessly put together even like this: bare chest, razor in hand, the light from the window skimming the high points of his face.

A stupid thought drifts through the haze of your sleep-addled mind: if he was a vampire, you’d miss this. His reflection. You’d hate brushing your teeth beside a blank space. Hate not seeing the way his brows furrow in concentration, the way he swishes a gulpful of water in his mouth before spitting it out.

You wouldn’t even get to admire him like this in the mornings.

The thought unsettles you greatly. You scrunch your face and grumble into his side, “Don’t become a vampire.”

His reflection blinks in slight bemusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetie.”

––––

You: u busy?

Sy-Sy (Real): Never for you. Do you need anything?

You: up for barcino later ?

Sy-Sy (Real): Of course. After your shift?

You: yuhh

You: i got salary increase :DD

Sy-Sy (Real): Oh?

Sy-Sy (Real): Look at you. Thats wonderful new, sweetheart.

Sy-Sy (Real): *News

Sy-Sy (Real): Congratulations ❤️

You: hahah only 1 new

Sy-Sy (Real): 😒🙄

Sy-Sy (Real): No celebratory cake for you then

You: >:^0

You: jkjk

You: dw kitten daddy’s got it 😏😏

You: i treat u <33

––––

“Order whatever you want,” you tell him smugly, grinning as the two of you slide into your seats at the back booth of the tapas bar. “We’re loaded. At least for tonight.”

Sylus arches a brow at your declaration, expression unreadable.

He then flags a waiter, and what follows is a long, alarming list of non-English selections that grow increasingly difficult to pronounce the further along he goes. You catch something about a duck having a fit and a cured ibérico, but the rest begins to blur under your rising panic.

You glance helplessly at the menu, scrambling to do the maths in your head. The proud smirk you wore a mere minute ago has all but slid off your face.

Internally, Sylus laughs.

(He foots the bill, of course. It’s the thought that counts.)

––––

He waits for you at the bistro while you work. Not every day, but often enough that some of your coworkers have started taking notice. Usually at table two near the window, nursing an Irish coffee—or whatever concoction his favorite barista (you) recommends.

After spotting him in his usual seat one too many times, a younger coworker leaned over and whispered, “The hot guy at table two keeps looking at you.” When you told her he was your boyfriend, she blinked. “Holy shit. Does he have a brother?”

After that, he sort of becomes a regular. Familiar and expected, like some of the older patrons who come in after work, already part of the evening’s rhythm. Especially during your late-night shifts, one could find the distinctly tall man half an hour before closing, sometimes even earlier, just waiting to whisk you away on the sleek black Kawasaki sportbike parked outside.

Today is an outlier. Your shift ended two hours early, and it’s barely a quarter past five when you clock out. Rain drums steadily outside; it pools at the edge of the pavement, leaving small, growing ponds in its wake. You didn’t bring an umbrella.

You’re loitering by the front, eyeing the waterlogged footpath and debating whether to just wait it out. The steadily increasing downpour beats heavy against the polycarbonate roofing, loud enough to drown out the jazzy sax playing from the speakers. You’ve just pulled out your phone to text Sylus when something catches your eye through the glass.

He’s already outside—coming up the street with an umbrella in one hand and a blue eco-bag on the other. You spot the familiar logo of Maru’s choice of kibble peeking out from the cotton fabric, slightly wet, but for the most part, intact.

You step out to meet him, and he cocks his head at you.

“Would you like to wait for the rain to let up?” he asks, ambling closer, water sluicing down the edges of the umbrella between you.

You shake your head, already shuffling under the shelter. “Nah, I wanna go home. I’m cold.” You glance up at him. “Didn’t know you were on the way.”

“Maru was lodging complaints,” he says dryly, tilting the umbrella slightly to angle more of the cover your way. “I was about to head back when it started raining. I thought I’d swing by.”

“Lucky you did. They let me off early. Slow day,” you explain, just as thunder cracks overhead. “Did you take the metro?”

“I did,” Sylus confirms, slightly contrite as he eyes your favourite pair of green loafers. They’re my lucky shoes, you told him once—worn seldomly, saved for special occasions, or when the outfit matches.

It seems to be the latter today, though that doesn’t change the fact that they’re your special pair.

“The bike’s still in the shop for a tune-up,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not scheduled for another two days.”

Sylus redirects you back under the bistro’s awning with a gentle nudge. Before you can ask, he shifts the loop of the bag to the crook of his elbow, crouches down in front of you. Signalling you to get on.

You stare at his broad back for a moment, mouth twitching. “Are you serious?”

He glances over his shoulder, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You are wearing your lucky pair. It’d be a shame to get them wet.”

A giggle bubbles out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

Still, you pluck the umbrella from his hand and climb on without protest. He catches the back of your thighs effortlessly, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“Comfortable?” he asks, adjusting his grip on your legs.

You lean in to kiss his cheek. “Five stars.”

Sylus huffs a soft laugh. “Ratings are usually done after the ride, from what I know.”

The rain’s steady by now, falling in sheets that soak a large part of the footpath. You lift the umbrella higher to cover both of you, though it doesn’t do much against the wind. He walks carefully across the slick pavement, the blue bag rustling at his side, droplets thudding relentlessly against your makeshift canopy.

You rest your chin against his shoulder, watching the world blur from your perch. The gutters overflow, glinting silver in the streetlights. The air smells like wet asphalt and petrichor, and the city feels quieter amidst the downpour.

It feels like you’re in a bubble with him, suspended from the rest of the world despite being out in the open.

Maybe you are, nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck. In this small stretch of street before the main road, caught in the middle of a rainstorm, maybe the world really was built for just the two of you.

And you hope, selfishly, that it stays that way for a long, long while.

End A/N: Alexa, play Video Games. As usual, I’ve taken a few liberties here and there okay, so don’t come for me about how the fiscal year doesn’t exactly line up with their current timeline >:( I KNOW

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset @longlivedelusion @beesin03

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x oc #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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ittybittyfanblog · 3 days ago

Text

Error 404: Spin-off – Pt. 4

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized, what a chad. (That’s it, that’s the plot.) Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, feline shenanigans, cat-speak, delusions of grandeur (mostly from Maru), outsider POV for narrative purposes, it’s got a little kick to it folks i’m ngl A/N: Oooh, we got a POV shift.

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4

Mother brings the Other home.

He is tall, and carries the scent of copper and a charge in the air before a Northeast monsoon. My fur rises in tandem.

There is no warning. He does not come with a proper invitation. No respectable exchange of scent or posture.

He entrenches into our territory with an abnormal lack of noise. I retreat beneath the oak refuge where Mother dines, and I watch.

He does not try to find me. He knows I am watching.

I stalk the shadows for six sunrises. He keeps vigil, yet does not push. That is good. That is wise. The big ones who force touch are the ones who leave covered in marks of defeat, deigned by my claw.

But the Man is different.

There is a strangeness to him that does not belong. His gait does not match that of a regular human. His eyes catch the light, and hold it far too long.

He is not like the others she has invited into our den. The air around him fizzes with cold static—something else. Something not of This World.

I begin my assessment at once.

––––

On the seventh day, he kneels beside my perch. He reaches toward me.

I ready myself—claws unsheathed, judgement swift. I imagine the strike: a clean arc through soft flesh and tendon. An edict drawn in blood.

He does not pull back.

He extends an offering. Pelleted cod.

...

Dignity is paramount for beings of higher stature. This offering, I deem sufficient.

He watches me. The corner of his mouth lifts, betraying his insolence.

I bare my teeth. He makes a sound of merriment.

He finds this amusing.

So be it.

The mighty are often misunderstood by the weak.

––––

The Man wears socks that offend my sensibilities.

I wait until he’s looking, then rake my claws across them deliberately. A demonstration of my abilities; simply a small taste of the might I possess.

He only lifts a brow. Speaks something to Mother in a low tone that makes her snort-laugh.

Another slight. Shameless, SHAMELESS CREATURE

I mark his shoes to the list of quarries that will soon meet their demise.

––––

Mother, in her temporary lapse of sanity, attempts to place me in his arms.

(Her betrayal will not be forgotten.)

I allow it only long enough to make a point. I go limp and feign death, let my body slither like a gutless fish until he’s forced to adjust his grip.

Then, I stiffen. My hackles rise—formidably high and indignant.

Unhand me, cretin, I communicate, loud and clear, with a single look.

He meets my gaze. The Man tilts his head, as if listening.

Then sets me down. Gently, without fanfare.

…This is acceptable. ––––

The Man and I do not speak the same language, but he learns quickly.

I meow once, demanding sustenance. He understands.

I knock his cup off the table. He nods, as if this was expected.

I leap onto the Humming Monolith and stare down at him from one of my higher thrones. He bows his head, at last, in solemn respect.

(Or perhaps he is reaching for food inside the Cold. It is difficult to tell with the tall ones.)

––––

The plastic figurine challenges me.

Its posture is mocking. It smiles without a mouth. It stands where I do not permit it to stand.

I strike fast, before it can sense my presence. It topples from the shelf and meets its end against the hardwood floor.

The Man watches from the couch and lets out a bark of laughter. It’s loud enough to startle Mother and alert her to the battle that has transpired.

She does not appear to share the same joy of a hard-won victory.

I clean my paw and stare into the middle distance, distinguished in my repose, unbothered by the noise of the rabble. The Man brings me another offering of delicious pellets as both tribute and reward.

This, I allow.

––––

He touches the memory-box when she is out. The one she keeps beneath the bed, layered in soft things that smell of must and her Before.

He is greeted with pictures and paper, and the Man stares as if the contents are not physical things, but glimpses of a time long past. He never touches more than one object at a time, never lingers too long on a singular memory.

When he closes the box, he turns to me.

“You guard it well,” he says.

I watch from my post until Mother returns.

––––

A crescent moon hangs from its high perch as he sits before the mirror, the lights long gone at the witching hour.

Mother is asleep. But the Man is awake.

He watches himself in the glass, silent as I am. He looks the way animals do before storms.

I join him, quiet as the grave, landing at the edge of the kitchen counter. The artificial glow of The Outside paints us both in silver.

He does not blink. Neither does the reflection.

There is something delayed about it. Off by a fraction, too small for Mother to see—but I see.

My eyes dilate. The reflection follows suit.

His does not.

There is something not-right within that form. It is watching back.

"You see it, too."

I cannot answer, but he already knows I do. We understand each other in ways Mother does not.

He smiles faintly, unmoving.

We stay like this for a long time.

––––

He treads quietly, but not like prey.

Prey scurry.

The Man moves like one that has never had to run.

He makes unnatural movements—a flick of the wrist, a flex of the hand—that speak of a long ingrained habit not quite unlearned. He does this unthinkingly, as if by muscle memory. A remnant of something he once was.

I catch him watching her. Mother. My Mother.

She chatters and moves, filling the room with her strange little human rituals, carefree as only the naive can be.

And he watches Mother with a kind of hunger—not only for flesh, but for permanence. For stability, a place to be.

One might say this desire is grander; demanding not for insipid intimacy, but for a seat in our court, a space within the sanctum Mother made for the two of us alone.

His gaze is greedy.

To be a part of this. To become a permanent fixture.

It speaks of a deeper need: to belong.

I hide in the underbelly of Mother’s machine and listen to the power lines in his voice. It hums with a fragment of the World Spirit.

It is asking to stay.

––––

There was a time when the Man could not reach her.

He was flat, then, and wore a different face. A trick of light inside a rectangular prison.

An incorporeal voice, bodiless. Hands that could not touch, could not hold. Smaller than I. Less imposing in stature.

But he watched. Oh, he watched her.

He came forth, nearer, with no place to go. His eyes burned with want, but he could not reach past the invisible barrier.

Mother often made the storm-sound. Not as loud as thunder from beyond, but more frequent. It did not come from outside the glass cage, but from her eyes.

I do not shy from this. Unlike the turn of the season, when the sky’s calamities barrage our sanctuary, I do not run.

I shield her belly with my body, whenever the world is larger and she is softer.

She is soft, always. Softer still when she is alone.

––––

There was another time, worse than the solitude.

The Man was gone. No voice. No light. No presence at all.

Mother stopped existing for many sunrises. She was silent like dying leaves, spiritless and coiled inward.

The world dimmed, even darker than the Time-Before him. And I was the only one left who remembered how bright she could be.

So I provided warmth. I waited. I curled against her stomach and defended her from everything—pests, cold, the loose thread from her blanket.

I would kill for her.

I have. Mice. A bird. Once, a roach audaciously larger the size of my paw. I left it on her pillow as a gift. She screamed. She does not always recognize love when it is violent. But I love her.

With every miserable heartbeat, I kept vigil.

I was her lone sentry.

––––

I watch them now, curled together in the dim of this newer den.

The walls do not carry the familiar scents of the last territory. It will take time before I mark this as mine.

I have begun to map the corners. Learn the sounds. It is not yet home, but it will be.

The loud box drones a bothersome noise. The plants sleep in their new placement, out beyond the larger glass cage.

She is cocooned in his arms, her breath uninterrupted as she slumbers. He holds her without speaking.

His hand finds hers, like it has been waiting all its life to do so. I stretch beside her thigh and settle in.

We do not speak of the past.

But I remember it—and so does he.

––––

He sings sometimes. Not with his mouth, but from his chest. A low sound. Not unlike mine, albeit rougher and much less refined.

One afternoon, we both lie upon Mother’s long, oddly shaped nest. The Sun bathes the room in warmth.

I stretch across his torso, my golden-rye fur striking against his skin. We purr in synchrony.

I allow this moment of camaraderie. He makes a decent heater.

––––

There will come a day I do not wake.

My limbs will be slow, my mouth dry. My body rigid as I cross the threshold and sink into the warm-dark.

It is the way of things.

Mother will call for me. I will not answer.

She will weep, as her kind do.

And he will hold her in her grief, and the world will continue. Perhaps not the same, but he will stay. He will stay long after me.

He will remember to warm the bed before she climbs in. He will know to knead the spot behind her shoulder where the ache begins. He will listen when her words run out, and respond in the way she understands.

And so, I grant him immunity.

I let him bask in Mother's laughter. I let him touch her. I allow him to stay.

This is no small thing.

I am Maru.

I have killed cockroaches the size of small gods. I have ended the reign of the false idol To-ji. I have stared into the eyes of the uncanny and remained unblinking. And I have chosen.

Let the record show—I did not surrender.

I made peace, knowing that when I am gone, the Man will remain. He will guard her in my stead, loyally by her side.

And I will pass easy, knowing she is loved by Him.

End A/N: Sylus casts Animal Friendship. (Also the only chapter in this godforsaken AU that actually made me tear up while writing lolll) I don't think it's difficult to surmise who Maru is inspired by.

#pt 5's coming ! tonite wow #just proofreading brb #self-rb!#icymi <3

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