#episode: a night of neglect | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luv-lock · 9 days ago

Text

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLITTLE BROKEN BIRDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You had a father. You know you have one. You don't know him. But that doesn't matter because your mother never let you forget it anyway. You're a child born from rejection. And everything hurts.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Child abuse (physical, emotional), suicide, trauma, corpse horror, neglect, PTSD, mental illness, child grief, self-hatred, self-harm, child psychological horror, psychotic episodes, depression, dissociation.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

“You have his eyes.”

That’s the first thing your mother ever told you. Or at least, that's what you remember.

She was a goddess once. A woman carved from glossy magazine pages and runway lights. Models tried to be her. Men tried to own her.

But none of it mattered.

Because the only man she ever wanted—never loved her back.

Bruce Wayne.

She told you about him sometimes.

Told you how his eyes were darker than pitch. How his smile was soft but never real. How he kissed her like she mattered and then left like she was dust.

Told you how he made her feel like she was something. And then made her nothing.

And you—you were the consequence.

You looked exactly like him.

It wasn’t just resemblance. It was uncanny.

His hair. His lashes. His fucking eyes.

Your mother couldn’t look at you without breaking.

The apartment was always cold.

The kind of cold that seeped into your bones. Rotten milk in the fridge. Cigarette smoke in the curtains. You’d press your palms to the radiator and tell yourself it was a hug.

You stopped counting wounds.

The first time you couldn’t walk, it was because your mother threw a glass ashtray at your legs. You were three.

The second time, she pushed you down the stairs.

You tumbled like a doll. Limbs bent backwards. Your arm cracked. Your teeth hit the floor. You lay still for hours, not moving. Not screaming. Not crying.

You didn’t want to make her mad.

She told you she loved you.

Always after.

After the belt. After the bat. After she dragged you by your hair and pressed your face to the oven because you spilled her wine.

She kissed your blistered cheek and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

You smiled with bleeding gums. “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you.”

Your voice was always a whisper. You were always afraid of being too loud.

Because she broke your nose, for laughing too loud once.

You didn’t even cry until the second punch.

She told you your laugh sounded like him.

Your room was small, dark. She kept it that way. She didn’t want to see you.

You had no friends. You weren’t allowed to leave. You barely went to school.

The bruises had to fade first.

She didn't feed you unless she remembered. You used to eat the leftovers she left out for the cats that never came.

And yet you adored her.

You loved her.

Even when she bruised your ribs with a hairbrush.

Even when she pushed you down the stairs and you couldn’t walk for two weeks.

Even when she knocked your tooth out and told you not to smile again.

You tried so hard to make her happy. You’d pick dandelions from the sidewalk cracks and tuck them into her hair, even when she swatted you away. You draw her with stolen crayons—smiling versions of her, the way you wished she’d look at you. Crayon hearts. Painted macaroni necklaces. Birthday cards with shaky little “I love you”s. She’d rip them up, call you a freak. But sometimes—just sometimes—her eyes would go glassy after she hurt you. And for a moment, you thought she felt guilty.

Once you cut your long hair yourself, thinking she’d like it short—because she had short hair now—and she screamed at you until you vomited.

But you still crawled into her bed every night.

You still kissed her cheek when she cried.

You still whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you…”

You didn’t know love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You scavenged alleys like a little rat.

You were six and barefoot, digging through trash cans near the broken fence behind the apartment.

Looking for coins. Or maybe a dollar. Maybe someone left behind a flower in the dumpster again.

Anything to make her smile.

One time you found a pack of candy cigarettes. You wiped off the dirt and gave them to her in a box wrapped in your old sock.

She took one look at them and slapped you so hard you peed yourself.

You apologized. You cried.

But you still left her a drawing under her pillow. It said:

— “To Mommy. You are my sun. I’m sorry for being bad. Please smile.”

And then one day, she smiled.

It was your birthday. You were turning eight.

She’d been quiet that week. No hitting. No yelling. Just staring out the window. Smoking.

You were scared to breathe.

But that morning, she woke you up with soft hands. She brushed your hair. She put your favorite cartoon on the old static TV.

And then—she brought you into the kitchen.

There was a cake on the counter.

Burnt on the edges. Icing dripping off one side. But it had eight candles.

You gasped so hard you started hiccupping.

She laughed. A real laugh. The first one you’d ever heard.

You hugged her around the waist with your skinny little arms. “You made it for me…?”

“Of course I did, baby,” she whispered. “You’re my whole world.”

You cried so hard you couldn’t blow out the candles.

You gave her the flower that day.

It was crushed. Wilted. Found outside a gas station after a week of saving coins in a tin box under your bed.

You'd kissed every penny like a prayer.

You tied it with a shoelace. You wrote a card.

— “To Mommy. Thank you for being born. I love you even when you’re sad :)”

She read it in silence. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just stared.

And then she held you in her lap. You were still so small.

She cradled you like a baby. She touched your face.

You remember this part because you wrote it down in your head, word for word.

“You have his eyes.

I wish I’d killed you when you were born.”

And then she put you down.

And got the gun.

You thought she was going to shoot you.

You stood still. Like a rabbit before the hawk.

Instead—she turned it on herself.

And she smiled again.

“Goodbye, baby.”

The sound was fireworks. The smell was meat.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You knelt beside her. You touched her hair. You kissed her temple and whispered,

“Wake up, Mommy. You forgot to eat the cake.”

You curled up in her lap. Her blood soaked through your dress.

You didn’t notice.

The corpse began to change.

By day two, her stomach swelled. Her face twisted. Her skin turned purple-black.

You were a kid. You didn’t know how to be alone. So you stayed near her.

You stroked her bloated fingers and whispered stories. You sang her lullabies you made up on the spot.

You told her you were being good. You told her you found another penny.

You curled up on her chest, even when the skin turned ugly.

You kissed her bloating face and told her she was pretty.

You told her she could be alive again if she wanted.

Because you loved her that much.

You chewed your nails down to the bone.

You smeared her lipstick on your mouth and pretended to be her.

You cooked invisible food in the corner and served it to her bloated hand.

You pressed your ear to her chest and said you heard her heartbeat.

You told her it was okay.

She could be dead for now. But you’d wait.

You’d wait forever if she needed.

The body rotted.

Her stomach burst open first. It made a noise like balloons popping.

You didn’t scream. You just sat on the edge of the bed and cried until your tears ran dry.

You tried to clean the blood. You used your favorite dress as a rag.

You laid it over her like a blanket.

She was gone for five days.

When Aunt Lila came, she almost vomited from the stench.

She found you sitting cross-legged, holding your mother’s hand, humming a lullaby to a corpse.

When they dragged you out, you were screaming.

Your eyes were wide. Your hands were black with rot.

You tried to bite the EMT that took you.

“I made her cake,” you sobbed. “She can’t leave if she didn’t eat the cake—!”

You were silent after that.

They called Bruce. Aunt Lila told them about him.

You never spoke a word in front of him.

But you watched him.

His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You memorized his breathing. You stared into his eyes for hours.

You wanted to see what your mother saw.

You wanted to understand what she died for.

Why she hated you.

“He looked at me the way you do. You little freak.”

When Bruce tried to speak to you, you turned away.

When he tried to hold your hand, you pulled back.

You didn't want his money. You didn’t want his name.

You wanted your mother alive.

Even if she hated you.

Then he took you home.

Wayne Manor was too clean. Too quiet. You felt like a ghost in a glass box.

Alfred was gentle. He never raised his voice. But you still flinched.

Bruce kept trying. Too late. Too distant.

He bought you dolls. Expensive ones. Their glass eyes looked like yours.

You smashed them against the walls when no one was watching.

You don’t know how to sleep anymore.

Not in this house. Not in this cold, quiet place where the lights are too soft and the blankets don’t smell like ash and blood and broken wine bottles.

Here, they wash your clothes. They clean your face. They comb your hair.

But no one screams.

You rip your hair out at night.

Big chunks. Bloody clumps. The strands are soft and dark just like his.

You stare at them in your hands and cry because you can’t stop.

You whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as you dig your fingernails into your scalp, over and over and over again. You pull until your skin comes off with it.

You don’t even know what you’re sorry for. But it’s safer to say it.

In case someone gets mad.

You don’t like mirrors.

Because your eyes are his eyes.

Your mother said so.

She used to scream it.

“You look just like him—just like him—get out of my sight—get out—!”

You hit yourself in the face. As hard as you can. Until your cheek swells or your eye goes red.

You don’t want to look like him.

You don’t want to be bad.

You eat too much. Then nothing at all.

At first, you ate everything.

Because Bruce had food. Warm food. Real food. Not expired peanut butter or ketchup packets.

You ate too fast and threw up. You apologized. You cried. You told Alfred you didn’t mean to waste it. You’d eat it again if they let you.

Then you stopped eating completely.

Because maybe you were stealing. Maybe you were greedy. Maybe she’d come back and she’d see you at the table and hit you with the plate.

So you stopped.

You chewed your fingers instead. You bit your nails until you bleed.

You scream at night.

Blood-curdling. Violent. Until your throat goes raw.

You scream for your mother.

You scream for the dead body.

You scream because she never came back.

You scream because no one hits you anymore, and that means no one cares.

Bruce comes to your room once.

Just once.

He kneels by the bed, but you press yourself to the wall and sob until you vomit. You bang your head against the headboard. You claw at your skin.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just says your name.

But it’s his voice.

His voice, coming from her face.

You shriek until you pass out.

You ask for a knife.

Alfred is bringing you milk. It’s warm. He’s so kind it makes your teeth ache.

You smile at him. Your face is swollen from a panic attack. You still have dried tears on your lashes. You ask:

“Can I have a knife, Mr. Pennyworth?”

He pauses. Blinks. “What for, my dear?”

“I want to cut off my hair. And my face.”

Bruce tried. But he was failing.

He wasn’t a father.

He didn’t know what to do with a little girl who flinched when someone coughed too loud.

Who didn’t understand what toys were.

Who curled up in the fireplace to sleep because it reminded her of the oven.

He thought about hugging you once.

You bit his wrist.

He said your name. You didn’t react.

But when he said her name—your mother’s—you looked up so fast your nose bled.

“Where?” you whispered. “Where is she? Did you find her? Did she eat the cake?”

So Bruce puts you in therapy.

You don’t talk.

You stare at the floor. You whisper apologies into your lap. You ask if you’re allowed to cry. If you’re allowed to talk.

The therapist is a woman. She looks a little like your mom.

So you love her.

You follow her around the office. You sit close. You smell her perfume and imagine your mom again, but soft this time. Nice.

You called her Mommy once.

And then you start hitting yourself in the face so hard she has to restrain you.

You don't know how to play.

When other kids come to visit the Manor—some politician’s brats, a cousin of Lucius Fox—you just stand there.

Stiff. Silent. Watching.

One time, a girl offers you a doll.

You take it. You snap its neck.

You hold it close after and whisper to it all day.

You draw your mother over and over.

You draw her face, melting. Her smile. Her blood.

You draw her hugging you. You draw her laughing.

You draw Bruce dead. You draw yourself in the coffin with your mom.

You draw a wedding between the three of you.

You say it’s pretend.

You say it’s just a game.

You talk to her.

She sits in the corner. She watches you at night.

Sometimes, you hear her crying. Sometimes, she sings.

Sometimes, she tells you you’re bad and you believe her.

You scream at her, “I’m not like him!”

You bite your hand until you can’t scream anymore.

You don’t like his touch.

You ask Alfred to squeeze you tighter when he hug you. You ask the therapist to hold you when you cry and dig your fingernails into her arms.

When Bruce touches your shoulder, you flinch so hard you fall over.

You say, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Then you cry.

You are eight. You are rotting.

You don’t understand love. But you understand pain.

You don’t understand death. But you understand gone.

You don’t know how to be a daughter.

You only know how to apologize.

You hold your breath sometimes. Just to see if you die.

You count. One. Two. Three. Four…

You always let go by thirty.

You always feel guilty for breathing after.

And then—someday—he takes you to the circus.

He wanted to “cheer you up.”

You didn’t want to go. But you went.

And then—there he was.

A boy who flies.

A boy on the trapeze, flying like he had no weight. Like he didn’t belong to the ground.

You sat up. Watched him like he was the first real thing you’d ever seen.

You clapped with bloody nails. Whispering “He looks like a star…”

You wanted to fly too.

And you felt something inside your chest you didn't recognize.

He was beautiful.

You smile. Real smile. Just for a second.

And then he fell.

Not from the trapeze. But from life.

His parents died. In front of him.

You knew that kind of silence. You knew that feeling.

When Bruce brought him home, you watched from the stairs. He was smaller than you expected. He cried in his sleep.

He asked for his mom.

And for the first time in your life—you weren’t alone in grief.

You slept by his door that night. You didn’t know why.

And then it became routine. He found you every night. Crawled into your bed. Clung to you like a life raft.

You didn’t push him away.

Because he didn’t look like your father.

You gave him the flower.

Not a new one. The old one. Dried. Dead. Crushed flat between your mother’s last book pages.

You gave it to Dick and said, “It’s magic. It keeps monsters away.”

He cried.

You hugged him.

That night, you curled beside him in bed. You watched the moon rise.

And for the first time in your life, you whispered to someone else:

“It’s okay. I love you.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

1K notes · View notes

cryscendo · 2 years ago

Text

kurt hummel in every performance

2x17 - A Night of Neglect

Bubble Toes - Jack Johnson (dance performance by Mike Chang)

#glee #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #klaine #kurt hummel in every performance #song: bubble toes #episode: a night of neglect #sorry all these gifsets are only like 1 or 2 #he and blaine are just audience members for most of this episode

10 notes · View notes

gleesongtournament · 2 years ago

Text

#glee #glee song tournament #glee polls #brittany pierce #santana lopez #brittana #mercedes jones #song: me against the music #song: ain't no way #season 2 #2x02 #2x17 #episode: britney/brittany #episode: a night of neglect #round 4

18 notes · View notes

parfaitblogs · 3 months ago

Note

i NEED a angst fic (with a happy ending ofc) based on tolerate it by taylor swift please 🙏 big chance it’s been done before though and im just the most unoriginal bitch ever

tolerate it ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid gets out of prison, and you baselessly feel like your relationship is growing increasingly one sided. pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: angst tags: post prison reid. neglectful bf spencer reid. happy (open) ending. communication yippee. themes of self doubt in reader. mentions of spencer not eating. word count: 2k a/n: writers block isn't real you just need to watch criminal minds season 12 episode 13 'spencer' and then listen to tolerate it on repeat for three hours straight. iiii know human beings don't talk in long monologued speeches but for the sake of my sanity let us pretend i am shakespeare and spencer reid is my leontes. plzzzz tell me if u liked this or if u didn't yay thank u ily

i sit and watch you. i notice everything you do, or don't do. (lines 3–4)

A fork scrapes against ceramic. It emits a scratching sound that hurts your ears, and you're cringing from your curled up position on the couch as you hear it. Silverware shines beneath the bright, warm glow of his kitchen light, his food barely dented as he pushes it around his plate.

He's been playing with it since he sat down to eat it.

You're not too sure what's going through his head as he takes barely there bites of a meal you cooked. You don't think you want to know. But it takes him all of twenty three minutes to come to the same conclusion he made last night, and every other night before that. That he isn't going to eat any more of the food, and just like his fork, his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands.

He wraps the plate in aluminium foil, the crinkling of metal being your only indicator that he has plans to eat it later. At least, that's what you hope.

When he disappears into the bedroom, you follow him. Like a lovesick puppy, you're trailing after him, and your chest feels hollow with how embarrassing it all is.

He doesn't know you're watching him, though.

At least, not to the extent you are. He's field trained enough to know that you're keeping an eye on him, but your silence is only indicative of you giving him the space he so politely asked for three days ago. He's not in his right mind to assume you're silent for any other reason, and you've battled to a loss with the thoughts of letting him into your disaster of a brain.

He doesn't need to know that.

The ensuite door shuts behind him, and you hear the water turn on minutes later. You take the cue to curl up on your side of the bed, your fingers toying with the paper edges of a book you now had in your lap. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, for you were rediscovering your love for children's novels amongst this trying time between you and Spencer.

"Hey, did you buy me more shampoo?"

Your head lifts at the voice, the snowy Narnia world you had built in your brain shattering in an instant, as you're met with the dull colours of Spencer Reid's bedroom, and a showered and dressed Spencer Reid standing only a few feet away. His bedroom hadn't always been dull. Really, nothing had actually changed artistically within it to make it dull. But there's something about no longer laughing in a room once filled with so much love that mutes its vibrance.

"Yeah," you say, dog-earing the page you were on and slipping it onto the nightstand. "I saw you were running low."

His lips part as he exhales, and you hate that you can tell he's pushing away something snippy. It wasn't that he was actively trying to start fights with you, but his temper has grown short, and he has more anger in his heart than before.

"You didn't get the right one, that's all."

And though it isn't said rudely, your chest opens up like a black hole regardless, and a thick ball of emotion lodges in your throat.

"I'm sorry," you force past your lips, despising the hollow sound of your sad voice, and the fact that he notices it. His eyebrows frown towards each other at the sound of you, and he takes a step towards the bed.

It's pathetic, right? To be this upset over him letting you know the thing you bought him wasn't correct. In that almost fake sounding soft, kind voice he has when he is trying to keep his unnecessary frustration at bay.

But it wasn't like this was the first time you'd done something for him in recent, and been told you did it wrong, instead of simply being thanked. Acts of service he was finding problems within no matter what they were, each new critique chipping away at the scales of your self confidence. You don't even think he's meaning to do it.

Every time this happens, memories of the other times flash violently in your head, reminding you that he could not find the beauty of being cared for by you the way he had before this. This, this thing you were barely even able to string the letters of together, because it seemed so foreign and faraway to you. Spencer Reid in prison is not a sentence that makes sense in this — or any other — timeline. You don't think it ever will. And yet.

You'd cooked him meals every single day since he got out. Meals he'd barely ever touch, wrap in foil, then put in the fridge for his work lunch the next day. You don't know if he's even eating them at work, or if he's just taking them there to throw them out. You've been too scared to reach out to any of his team members to ask. Knowledge is power, but knowledge makes his negligence all too real.

There's a fear in calling it negligence. It isn't fair of you to expect the same man before and after prison, and you know he's dealing with more than you can fathom. You were prepared for distance.

Just not this much.

The submerged sound of your name tugs you from your thoughts, and suddenly Spencer is closer than he was before, and he's repeating your name over and over in calling. Once you rapidly blink and shake your head, he determines you've returned to Earth, and he's falling silent again. There's concern knitting his eyebrows together, and he's got his hands hovering in the air, as if he's reaching for you, but second guessing himself at the same time.

"Whats going on in your brain?" he asks you after a few beats of the two of you just staring at each other.

Like a dam breaking, his question triggers an onslaught of emotions, and every fear and insecurity you've had inside you spills out.

"I feel like you suddenly hate me," your eyes rapidly search the duvet in front of you for your words. "Or—or I annoy you with my presence? Or my care? I mean, I try to do things for you and you barely even spare them a second glance, or thought. You barely talk to me anymore outside of updating me on your schedule. We sleep with miles of distance between us," you gesture to the bed beside you. "I cook you meals you don't eat, I wash your clothes you don't fold. Both of which are things that I'm fine with, because I can't imagine how skewed your appetite is, and I—I know laundry is a trigger now. But there is not even a slight hint of you—you being thankful. You know, appreciative. I feel like I'm following you around like a servant, and I'm doing things with no gratitude in return. I'm doing things I shouldn't have to, because I'm your girlfriend. Not your maid. But they are things that I want to do, because I care for you, and I love you," you pause, a self deprecating smile appearing on your face. "And—and you haven't even told me you love me since the day we got you home. Do you even love me, still? No, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. I mean, I do. I don't know. God, Spencer, can you say something?"

He doesn't. For a long while, he stares at you, and you train your eyes on the pattern on the bedding you're currently sitting under. His gaze is pulverising, and every second that passes is another limb turning to dust beneath it. His silence should be enough of an answer for you. Yet, you hold onto groundless hope still.

It feels like eternity has passed you by, by the time you hear his voice again.

"I don't mean to make you think I don't love you," he says. "I do love you. Which feels meaningless to confess to you now, knowing how you feel, and I wish my expansive knowledge of words could come up with a confession that does justice to how you feel, but also makes you feel better. I can only hope you take it at face value, and don't assume I'm saying it because it's what you want me to say."

He finds a seat on the bed in front of you, fingers fidgeting with each other as he fixates on the wooden flooring in front of him.

"I am grateful for everything you've done for me recently. I'm sorry I haven't expressed that. I'm having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other, let alone stringing together sensical thoughts. I wish I could tell you what my mind sounds like without feeling guilty about it. It isn't nice, and every thought I have is far from positive," he lifts his eyes to you, and you watch in real time as they soften, for the first time since he came home. "I will tell you that there's you. Among every awful thought and feeling I have, there is you. I think I... I think I've been coming across as ungrateful because you are a breath of relief after every bad thought and feeling. Am I making sense?" you nod your head, and he sighs in, namely, relief. "I take a step back from processing my emotions and figuring out how I'm going to talk about them with that bureau therapist when I think about you, because you are the one good thing I have to hold on to. So I just bask in the thought of you, or the sight of you, and focus on nothing else."

You aren't sure when you began to cry, and you only realise it when you have to sniffle before speaking. "You can focus on so many things at once, though."

"Not anymore," he admits, looking back down. "I don't know what's happened. I've gone from having a brain that works inhumanly — which is objectively an incorrect statement, but I digress — to one that cannot multitask on two separate things at once."

"Oh," you whisper. "I see."

"I'm so sorry I've made you feel as though your efforts go unnoticed, honey," he murmurs. "They don't. This has just been really difficult."

"I know," you say, wiping your tear stained face with the back of your hand.

There's a part of you that wants this to be the end of it. The end of self doubt, and distance, and instead the beginning of your relationship rebuilding itself alongside Spencer.

There's a larger, more logical part of you, that knows you cannot just sweep every self conscious doubt under the rug and move on.

"I just want some time," you tell him, and his shoulders tense as you speak. "Not to—not to break up. Or even for us to have a break. I don't want that. I've just felt very... unloved. Like you're merely tolerating my presence in your life. And now, I know you aren't. But I have to find my confidence in myself in this relationship again before I can move on."

"Okay," his voice is strained as he speaks, and you know he's not exactly content with your request for space.

You try not to focus on that, in order to stand firm in your decision.

That is where the conversation ends. And just like every other night, he climbs into bed and leaves a considerable amount of distance between your two bodies. You choose not to dwell on it, because this is now him giving you the space you so politely requested. You were catastrophising, and you'd be damned if you let such a thing control your life any longer.

It maybe wasn't all in your head, but you still had to take the self doubt shaped dagger from your stomach out.

now i'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life. (line 30)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid x reader hurt/comfort #spencer reid hurt/comfort

940 notes · View notes

neigepomme · 1 month ago

Text

🍎 quick headcanons about the lads guys pt. 2 WOOO!! media added for better experience :9

⋆ most of the couple tiktok videos you do with caleb are actually his idea. his whole fyp is filled with cute couple trends, and he sends them all to you. he really loved when you picked out his outfit for the h.s.k.t trend and has to fight himself to not wear that outfit daily now. his phone background is you two with the lipstick heart trend on your cheeks.

⋆ rafayel never shows up to your place empty-handed. when you tell him it's okay to not bring you a gift (whether it be flowers, some snacks or pastries, a cute handbag, etc) whenever he visits, he looks at you like you offended him before going "yeah, no. no way cutie." he actually started gifting you more stuff after you commented on it.

⋆ even though xavier's jealous nature is really cute and you don't mind it, he tries his best to keep it at bay. by that i just mean that instead of glaring daggers at a guy who's hitting on you, he starts resting his head on your shoulder from behind and dramatically sighing like a kicked puppy. it works AND you pet his hair, so it's a double win. xavier - 1, the guy who hit on you - 0.

⋆ sylus never tells you, but you quickly figure out that he loves it when you care for him and play with his hair when you two are cuddling. he's a big man and typically has you sleeping on his arm (and he loves it), but at one point, he fell asleep with his head on your stomach while you stroked his hair. when he woke up and you flashed him a warm smile, he almost saw god and thought to himself that he really ought to fall asleep like that more often.

⋆ zayne deliberately leaves his dress shirts at your place, in hopes of seeing you wear them. when he drops by to see you at one point and you answer the door only wearing his shirt, his knees actually buckle and he falls on the floor. you got really worried, and he got really embarrassed, but he gave you some excuse along the lines of "sorry, i think my blood sugar is low right now." you didn't miss how his ears turned bright red tho!

⋆ additional headcanon about zayne because he's my favorite, and i've been neglecting him recently: your phone background is his flushed face covered in lipstick marks, your handiwork. the actual video of you kissing him is the greatest thing in your camera roll — it's zayne growing more and more flushed and giggly as you smother his face in kisses. he could die happy!!

ok moving on to loser headcanons i need them to lose some aura rq

⋆ caleb never had a musical phase, he says. guess who knows the lyrics to meant to be yours from heathers tho! because that sure as hell isn't gideon! at one point, he got really drunk at the DAA and was belting it out. he also kissed gideon during that drunk episode but that's a story for another day (spreading my caleb bisexual agenda)

⋆ rafayel has edited wikipedia articles to be right in arguments and is not above pouting like a toddler and making you feel bad when you find out. at one point, he started forcing tears out of his eyes and going "no it's fine! you hate me, i get it, your boyfriend's feelings are less important than trivia night, it's fine!" like. he's a loser but a really pretty one so it cancels out kinda

⋆ xavier's the type of guy to go "huh??" at least 3 times when you explain something to him before he finally goes "ohh i get it". he in fact does not get it but he felt you getting worked up and he decided not to hit you with a fourth huh. his survival instincts are good and he'd rather look it up than have you be mad at him #loverboy

⋆ sylus has a really good grasp on his facial expressions, but he will hit a disgusted face when he hears something stupid. like yeah sure big bad unreadable boss and stuff but one time, he hears some guy on the street loudly say the worst take he's ever heard in his life and he can't help the side eye + disgusted face combo. he also stank faces when he listens to good music

⋆ zayne meows at cats. not elaborating on that it's pretty clear LOL but sometimes he'll think of the really cute cat he saw on the street that morning and quietly go "... meow..." greyson catches it and is so in shock, but no one will even believe him if he talks about what he heard ("yvonne you're not gonna believe this i just heard dr. zayne meow" “girl what the hell are you saying”)

#⋆ pomme rambles #lads x reader #caleb x reader #rafayel x reader #xavier x reader #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #guys i really miss zayne honestly #this is also really random but he kinda reminds me of haerin from njz #like the green eyes quiet cat thing.. am i crazy #⋆ neigepomme

641 notes · View notes

ittybittyfanblog · 3 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 9

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, angst, depictions of a depressive episode, it’s pretty heavy, don’t force yourself to read if ur not in the right headspace pls, ambiguous ending (?) A/N: Yeah, I’m sorry. (Ngl, this chapter kinda stumped me—it’s gone through a whooole lot of editing/revisions 😔🤙🏼 I don’t want to overthink it too much at this point, but I hope it hits the way it should lol. Blame Moby if it doesn’t.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

"I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright And I feel so alone, and I feel so alone out here.” – A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain

The television drones uninterrupted in the background; a mockumentary type featuring a ragtag ensemble of vampires stuck in some sort of modern day hell, their loud misadventures casting fractured lights across the four walls of your apartment.

You sit there, watching the screen, your gaze unfocused. Nothing registers. The remote lies limp in your hand as a stupid sitcom laugh track fills the room—shrill, hollow. Mocking. Like a bad punchline to a joke you’re not in on.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the noise, the sudden glow in your periphery pulling you out of a pensive daydream.

For a split second, your chest constricts—a reflex carved by habit, something you’re still working to shake off.

You avert your eyes, torn between the urge to look away and the desire to keep your gaze on it forever.

The screen fades to black.

A clean break, you reason. Something to spare you both the inevitable heartache waiting at the end of this… hopeless affair. Less mess. Fewer complications.

A poor attempt to keep the pain from dragging out longer than it has to. Just a quiet ending.

(Or, at least, it’s what you tell yourself.)

The same mantra plays on loop in your mind as you're swept away by the motions of the days that follow. Life blurs into a repetitious cycle of work, sleep, and chores—an unbearable combination of feigned ignorance and self-abnegation, in the guise of being caught up with it all.

You aren’t fooling anyone, of course.

The hours toll on, slipping into uncertainty. What started off that way stretches into days, and before you know it, nearly a week has passed, leaving you adrift. None the wiser to the meaningless, relentless march of time.

The pinging of your phone grows more sporadic as it lights up with every message that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. It’s not as if you don’t feel it—the pull, the weight of every vibration, like a stone lodged in your gut. Like the sting of a thousand cuts.

And as you fall back into the familiar patterns of neglect… It carries with it an odd sense of defeat. Predictable, really.

… You cave on the fifth day.

The barrage of texts hits you like a gale-force wind, tearing through the fragile layer of detachment you’ve worn over like a second skin.

How was your day, poppet?

Theres a gemstone at this auction that reminds me of your eyes.

[Image attachment]

Beautiful—but it pales in comparison to yours.

Luke and Kieran are wondering whats got me distracted lately. Ease their worries.

Answer me, sweetheart.

You dont need to ignore me.

If you need space– if we need to establish some boundaries, all you have to do is say the word.

Dont shut me out.

Please.

Your eyes prickle as they gloss over the messages, the words seeming to bend under the weight of your silence, each one unraveling like loose threads on the sleeve of your favorite cardigan, falling apart at the seams.

Gradually, they turn into something less demanding. More… defeated.

I miss you, little dove.

You read the texts over and over until the letters have lost their meaning, and all that’s left is the aching longingness behind them.

You set your phone down.

The vibrations grow less frequent, like a heartbeat slowing, fading—until one afternoon, it just… stops.

The void he leaves behind seeps into the empty spaces, bleeding into every shadowed corner and untouched surface where his voice, his presence—louder than life, brighter than anything you’ve ever fucking known and had the pleasure of knowing—once lingered.

The absence is almost physical; you feel it like a phantom limb.

Most days, you find yourself in a daze, staring blankly at nothing. The numbness spreads like tendrils—invasive as they sink into your bones, dragging you deeper into despair, turning every bridge crossed to ash, every inkling of joy to dust.

The quiet flames of apathy consume silently. It strips away everything, leaving behind a cavernous pit of utter emptiness. A wasteland, devoid of feeling.

Loneliness doesn’t scream. It doesn’t lash out.

It simply welcomes you, like an old friend, the deeper you sink into it.

––––

Sylus tries to respect your space.

That’s what he’s here for after all, isn’t it? His reason for existence—to be whatever you need him to be. A confidant, a distraction, a steady presence in your life. It’s what he’s made for. To be there when you need him, to exist between the vacant spaces, and only then.

The thought gnaws at him, a ravenous fiend that chips away at the calm facade he’s finding more and more difficult to uphold, leaving something vicious in the wake of a growing bitterness he can no longer suppress.

Time seems to slip past differently now. It drifts, shapeless and infinite, heavier with the burden of your absence. Each moment without you feels like an eclipse—darkening the edges of this damned world, casting longer shadows through the crevices where he once basked beneath your fragile light, your warmth that seemed to fill every corner of his existence.

He craved it—craves it. Now you leave him stranded in this cursed dusk, everything cold and dim in the wake of your abandonment, forever waiting for the moment his sun would once again break through the hollow grey.

Sylus thinks he’s losing a part of himself with every call unanswered, every message left unread. It’s subtle; like colors fading from an old film roll.

(Is this what it feels like to be nothing more than a script in a code? He never truly understood what it meant to be less alive, less human. Until now.)

Solitude isn’t new to him. This world, built for him, is inherently lonely by design. But this… this is different. It’s the kind of emptiness that festers, sharper than any wound he’s endured in this senseless simulation. It twists inside him like a blade, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what he’s denied.

Of what he can never truly be.

He can wait a little longer. Even if the silence presses harder with each passing moment, even as the edges of his reality begin to blur into something unrecognizable without you in it. Sylus can remain in this void a little longer, clinging to the fragments of you that still linger—your voice echoing softly in his memory, your laughter faint but still alive in the spaces where you used to be.

He can. He will.

––––

“Hey, you okay?”

You pull your attention back to Khol, who’s now watching you with concern in their eyes.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “Yeah– yeah, sorry. Just… a lot on my mind.”

They don’t look convinced. “Seriously. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Anytime, darling.

I mean it.

You blink the memory away before it can turn into tears.

“Yeah, ‘course,” you answer lightly, clearing your throat. “So, what’s been going on with you and Anna?”

––––

You stand in front of the junk food aisle, a mountain of Nissin Ramen boxes stacked high, advertised by a large sign: Buy 3, Get 1 FREE!

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering erratically, and the dull noise of the grocery mart hums incessantly in your ears. You don’t think twice before grabbing one of the worn cartons, tossing three more into your (nearly) empty shopping cart. Might as well.

The plastic bags dig into your palms as you lug three in one hand, a larger box tucked under your other arm, leaving the store.

The trip back home is a quiet affair. You almost expect admonishment; pinging sounds ricocheting in the silence to reprimand you for your poor life choices. You wait for it with bated breath.

Your phone remains uncharacteristically silent.

Back home, you pour boiling water on the styrofoam cup for dinner. The artificial broth leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

You choke down a few bites before dumping the rest of it down the drain.

The sound of steel hitting the sink feels louder than it should.

––––

The city thrums loudly beyond your window, restless and impersonal. From the sixth floor of this dilapidated building you loosely call home, you watch the skyline stretch into the night, dotted lights glimmering in distant technicolor.

Hours from now, sunlight will spill through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm, golden ochre. But for now, just a quarter past midnight, you’re but a voyeur of the world outside. In exhaust fumes and all its muted neon glory.

Those lights promised you everything, once—a fresh start, the kind of freedom you used to dream of when home felt too small, too restrictive for a runaway kid desperate to break free from the shackles of a dying town. Each glow was like a beacon, an irresistible call to escape, and you ran toward it without looking back.

Somewhere along the way, as life sapped you with the weight of its reality, the novelty fizzled from a blinding explosion down to a waning ember. The lights became another illusion, your precious city just another cage. The first cracks in the rose-colored glasses you’d worn so blindly. You can’t exactly pinpoint when, only that the colors you thought were once too bright now seem dimmer and farther out of reach.

You think you’ll miss the noise the most.

The cursor blinks on the search bar, a steady metronome marking time in rhythm with the hollow ache in your chest. Flight schedules fill the page, each option blurs together into a single choice you can’t quite push yourself to make.

You skim through the list: there’s one at dawn, another at around twelve noon, a red-eye flight you probably could catch if you leave in thirty minutes.

You stare at the numbers, a finger hovering over the Book Now button.

The details don’t matter. ‘Home’ still feels small, suffocating, but at least it’s a kind of emptiness you know. Here, the void sprawls wide, endless, leaving you unmoored with no tether to pull you back.

… The dichotomy between the two choices, you think, is meaningless.

What was once home and the city will keep on moving—with or without you. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Neither place will give you what you’re looking for.

The laptop screen dims into a faint glare. The sound of your breathing echoes too loud in the stillness, the empty space seeming to shrink around you, caving in on the weight of your indecision.

And as you sit there, swallowed by the dark, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been drifting for far longer than you realized.

If maybe there’s nowhere you were meant to belong at all.

––––

It’s not until one quiet night, with nothing but a bottle of merlot and a slight buzz, that you buckle under pressure.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the icon, as if time has slowed to a crawl. Your chest tightens, unease twisting inside you at the thought of what you’re about to do. Anticipation hangs over you, insistent, smothering everything else until it’s just the room and the cacophony of thoughts in your head, all centered on one thing.

One person.

With a shaky exhale, you finally open the game.

He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Waiting, like he always does.

The loading screen fades away, and Sylus appears, a myriad of expressions passing by his face too fast to catch. There’s surprise, yes, along with… elation? Hope?

Then a flicker of something… vitriolic.

It’s fleeting; masked quickly until you can only catch the faintest trace of pique simmering just behind a veneer of indifference.

"Finally, she remembers me," Sylus mocks coolly, almost appearing unaffected. You know better—intimately familiar with all the microexpressions on his face. The subtle tick in his jaw, the incensed look in his eyes… each one betrays what he truly feels, hidden underneath the deceptive calm.

The seconds drag on, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Your heart hammers loudly, audible in this quiet, but your mouth remains dry; the words stuck somewhere deep in your throat. You’re terrified that, once you speak, you’ll shatter this moment. Aggravate the strain forged by your self-imposed absence all the more.

You don’t really know what to say. You haven’t– you haven’t actually thought this far.

So you just… stare at him longer than you should. Long enough that it charges the air with a tension so thick, you could almost feel the weight of it against your skin.

It’s awkward. Excruciating.

With difficulty, you tear your gaze away from his withering glare. That’s when you notice it—the different icons dotted in red.

You hesitate for a second longer, then tap on them one by one.

The flood of gifts bewilders you, the sheer volume of it all almost unbelievable. Ascension materials, stamina supplies, both red and purple crystals piling up to an impossible number… each pushing past the million mark.

And unread mail. So much unread mail.

Guilt settles deep in your gut, creeping past your lungs enough to suffocate you.

It’s not the gifts. Not the why, or when. It’s the weight of how much he’s been waiting, how much he’s given—how much he's missed you.

The cold realization that he’s been here, silently counting the days until your return, strikes you like a fist to the face.

–

He tempers the sting of your sudden reappearance, swallows it down like a bitter draught. The feelings he has inside of him are tumultuous at best. Volatile at worst. To be cast aside so easily, so carelessly… it burns at him. Resentment thrums in his veins like a virulent river, threatening to ruin the fragility of the moment. He fights to suppress it, push the desire back before it can consume him, before it can manifest into being.

If he lets it go untethered, this… hunger for retaliation—to make you feel even a fraction of the agony you’ve inflicted, whether unknowingly or deliberately—it will destroy the delicate respite you’ve allowed him. The only reprieve he’s had since you left.

But the edges of his self-control fray, unraveling strand by strand.

“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally; your voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Sylus hones in on the words, sharp as a blade sliding between ribs. Something in him snaps.

“You left me plenty of time to be.” His response is quick, cutting, but when his gaze locks with yours, the fiery vermillion melts into a more molten red.

It’s the first glimpse of softness beneath his cruel vitriol, until he continues:

“Did you get lonely?”

The words hang in the air, searing and merciless. A barb meant to wound. And it does.

You flinch, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus feels a wicked satisfaction from the honest look of hurt on your face. To know that you’re not immune to the same ache that’s hollowed him out, emptied him from the inside, is intoxicating.

But the triumph is short-lived, snuffed out as quickly as it comes.

Shame crashes over him like a wave, dragging him under the tide of his actions. What kind of man takes pleasure in this? In hurting you?

The bitterness turns inward, coiling around his heart like a vice. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out. But as always, the damn screen is there—unyielding, impenetrable. A barrier he can never break.

It frustrates him to no end; the bane of his very existence.

And then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say it.

“I missed you.”

The words are feeble, paper-thin, but the admission pierce through him all the same. The stoic facade cracks; the sharpness in his gaze dulls.

You see it—the way his lips part to respond, only to falter halfway. The way his brows pull together, the way his eyes fall shut as if he can’t stand to be in this situation with you.

You’re afraid of what’ll come next.

He sees it, too—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you shrink into yourself, bracing for a blow that’ll never come. You’re standing there, like someone on death row, resigned to whatever punishment you think he’s about to dish out. Resigned to the contempt you believe yourself to be deserving of.

The sight guts him.

Sylus loathes to think he’s the reason for this. For being the one who’s made you stand there, small and trembling, as though his words or actions could destroy you.

As if he’d allow such a thing.

The guilt rises in him, sharp and unbidden, and it leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.

…

And just like that, he concedes.

The anguish he’s carried in the days you’ve left him by his lonesome—all of it falls away. It only takes a single glance at you, his little love in pain, and he’s stripped bare. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all; the ease with which he surrenders to you, this time no different than any other.

Do you have any idea how much power you wield over him? He’d give you everything—his pride, his pain, his heart—if you asked. Serve it on a silver platter, even.

And he’d do so willingly. Without question. Without hesitation.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sylus steps closer to the screen, the constant reminder of the vast gulf that separates the two of you. “Talk, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softer now—resigned. “I’ve missed your voice.”

You hesitate to meet his eyes. “It’s not as if you don’t have other ways to hear me.”

His mouth twitches, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “True,” he admits, his tone wry and tinged with something vulnerable. “But it’s been so long since you chose to talk to me.” He exhales a drawn-out breath. “No matter. You’re here now.”

You swallow the lump on your throat, willing your tears at bay. “I am.” You give him an almost-genuine smile as you offer, “Would you like to do a round of Kitty Cards?”

“Of course.” Whatever you want.

And so it goes. You and Sylus spend the night locked in a familiar rhythm, cycling through rounds after rounds of the silly card game until your laughter spills like an addicting sound bite, one that Sylus has missed hearing.

When you got tired, the two of you moved on to the claw machines, proverbially emptying out the whole arcade. Plushies of all kinds piled in his arms, a little crow even perched on top of his head.

The sight makes you giggle, and your giggle thaws the ice around his heart.

It almost feels like nothing’s changed. The easy banter, the steady stream of jokes and teasing, flows as effortlessly as it once did. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, filling in the empty gaps of the previous days. It’s comforting, like a balm to an open wound.

You play with a certain zeal that catches Sylus off guard—there’s a joy in you that both thrills and stirs an undercurrent of unease in him.

After what feels like hours of playing, exhausting all what you can do, or at least, what this damned game could offer as much, you two find yourself just staring at each other.

Two worlds, impossibly close yet painfully far. The quiet doesn’t quite settle as naturally as it once did, but neither of you seems to mind. Craved it, in fact.

You’re beautiful, Sylus thinks as he stares at the soft planes of your face, drinking you in like a man parched.

“My lo—”

“I’m deleting the game, Sy.”

And it’s as if time has staggered to a halt.

Sylus wants to believe he’s misheard you, that his mind is playing tricks on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing’s not what it used to be.

But the words sink into him, inexorable and catastrophic. The realization that this was bound to happen is clear in hindsight—like watching a glass slip from your hand, the shatter already written in the fall. He sees it coming, yet it still feels worse than anything he’s imagined.

He stands there, unnaturally still, as if rooted in place. The lightness he’s felt for the past few hours of reuniting with you vanishes in an instant. It’s as if the world itself has been drained of color, leaving only the stark, unrelenting reality of what you’ve just said.

Then Sylus breathes out a laugh. It’s short and jagged, devoid of any humor. “Oh, so it’s been leading up to this, has it?”

“I–” you swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. “I made the goddamn mistake of falling for someone that's impossible to have—and it’s killing me, Sylus.” Your voice fractures under the weight of frustration. The words feel like shards of glass tearing their way out of your throat. “I–I can’t do this anymore.”

“Just you, then.” Sylus sneers, tone acerbic. “And have you stopped to consider my feelings in this matter?”

“How can you still want this?” you bite back, voice cracking. “How can you want me—to bet on something that’s doomed right from the start?”

His expression shifts, and for a brief moment, pain flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t bother hiding it.

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, when he speaks again, his words send an icy shiver down your spine.

“You delete the game, and I will cease to exist.”

You freeze. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a guillotine.

A shallow, shaky breath escapes you.

“You won’t,” you assert, brows furrowing, as if trying to convince yourself of it too. “You’ll still have a life there. With her. The way things have always been.” There’s a pause before you utter the final blow: “The way it should be.”

“You’d condemn me to this life,” he says, voice hollow, before it turns venomous. “Knowing what I know now?”

With your heart in your throat, you clench your hands into fist. “You–you said we’re just made of what we’re given, didn’t you? That each of us has our own set of scripts, just…” you falter, struggling to articulate what you want to say.

“And you think that’s all I am?” he interjects, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he cuts you off. “Simply a mere code in a complex string of binary, incapable of making my own choices? Undeserving of it?”

“Of course not!” you snap angrily.

“Yet here you are,” he says, a quiet intensity lacing his words. “Making the decision for me.”

Your breath hitches, the will to argue dissipating like smoke.

“You tell me I have a soul,” he states. “Do you truly believe I’m bereft of a heart?”

No. No, how can he say that—

Before you can form a response—to defend yourself, to explain, to take it back—he continues, leaving no room for interruption.

“Is this what you really want?” Sylus intones, tone detached, as if he’s merely commenting on something as trite as the weather. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me yes, then I’ll do as you wish.”

Your gaze wavers. The war inside you rages—self-hate, doubt, and the unbearable ache of wanting what you can’t have spiraling out of control.

Your mind replays every moment, every laugh, every secret whispered in the quiet safety of his company. You think of how his presence filled the cracks in your life, how he soothed the ache of your solitude as easy as breathing.

And now as the void looms, ready to reclaim the space he’s occupied, something inside you feels irreparably fractured. Something inside you breaks.

“But,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of his conviction, “give me any sign—anything—that you need me still, and I will move heaven and earth to find a way to you.”

Your throat constricts, choking off the words before it could escape.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you do in that moment.

“Just live your life, Sy-Sy,” you manage, sounding so much like a stranger even to your own ears. The blood roars in your head, drowning out everything but the crushing weight of your words. “You don’t nee—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained emotion. “Stop making assumptions. Stop presuming that I don’t need you as much as I need the very ground I stand upon.”

His eyes bore into yours. Heavy. Searching. “What do you want?”

The words strike you like a physical blow, and it leaves you reeling.

I love you.

I love you in ways that consume me.

I don’t know what to do with it—with all the love I have for you.

You force yourself to speak. You spit the words out like a curse, feeling them burn as they leave your mouth.

“Let me go, Sylus.”

The implication of what you’ve said cuts through the fragile air between you.

The silence stretches.

Suddenly—

“Let you go,” he muses, low and distant, as if the very thought confounds him. His lips twitch into a faint, almost bitter smile. “As if that’s even possible. As if I could simply erase you from me.”

He steps closer to you; each movement deliberate, as though every step bears the weight of a decision you’ve forced him to make. The lump in your throat swells. You don’t speak. You can’t.

You feel like you’re drowning.

“Sylus…”

Please, please don’t make me choose. Please make it stop.

He exhales slowly. “Neither of us wants that.”

Stop.

“Do you think this is mercy?” His voice is soft. “You believe this will make it easier?”

Please stop.

“This world hasn’t felt the same ever since. Not since you,” Sylus murmurs, grief hanging heavy in the space between you. “I don’t belong here. Not without you, my love.”

Tears pool in your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. A sob rips through you, and you quickly look away, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to bear another second of this agony.

He tuts gently, a playful sound—and the familiarity of it kills you, making you cry harder.

“Look at me,” he coaxes, almost pleading.

When his gaze locks onto yours, you see that there’s no anger in them. The fire that once raged in his eyes is gone.

In its place, a quiet resolve.

“You can keep pretending,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way he looks at you—so tenderly fond, as if he sees beyond your defenses, past all the walls you’ve built. “As long as you do not stop me from trying.”

Sylus looks at you, unwavering, certain in a way that makes your heart ache. It almost feels like the space between you can’t contain the weight of his devotion. His love for you.

It feels infinite, as if it could stretch beyond the limits of time and space itself.

“I will find a way to you, even if it takes me an eternity.”

He utters it like a promise.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” Sylus murmurs, stepping back, his tall form flickering like a dark phantasm. “I just need you to hold on until I can come to you. Can you do that, little dove?”

He’s not asking for anything beyond your trust—just the simple act of holding on. Of not letting the weight of your sorrow break you. To trust that he will find a way, no matter how impossible it seems.

You don’t know if you’ve ever believed in anything as much as you believe in him. You always did.

Because for all the uncertainty, you know one thing: He is yours, as much as you are his.

So with all the strength you can muster, you nod. “I can.”

A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips. Your gazes meet, and in that fleeting moment, both of your eyes speak what words fail to convey.

The game crashes for the last time.

And you know that if you check, the app will be gone from your phone. There’s no going back from this, no undoing what’s lost. Just the burden of knowing it’s over—his exit, permanent.

Sylus is gone.

The emptiness that follows is immediate. Suffocating.

You’re left standing there, alone, with only the lingering echo of his presence keeping you buoyed from the crushing weight of isolation. You feel it—the ache in your chest where your heart used to be, brought by the absence of everything he ever was to you.

Your lover, your best friend.

You try not to let yourself fall apart, not to crumble in the wake of solitude.

You’ll hold onto his promise. And so you’ll keep yours.

End A/N: Well—that’s it, folks!

(I’m kidding, don’t kill me. There’s one last chapter left.)

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy

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

999 notes · View notes

monolotus · 2 months ago

Text

to be loved is . . .

⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒

includes: reader gets referred to as a girlfriend, seventeen adores you so much

When seventeen adores you so much that they can’t help but make you feel so loved even with the smallest gestures

Scoups ⨾ ﹙ to be able to take care ﹚

Scoups, the good leader. He’s always taking care of everybody around him- the staff, his family, his members. He will neglect himself in order to help somebody else, no matter how big or small the help may be.

So, when is late at night, and he allows himself to ask you to help him, you can’t help but smile softly, pulling him closer to your body as you comfort him trough his crying.

He allows you to help him.

When he comes late after practice, he knows you will prepare a tasty dinner for him, with a warm bath afterwards. You will help him with his clothing, as he is ever so tired to change into his pajamas. And you’ll cuddle, and he will be the one being hugged, you all over him｡

Jeonghan ⨾ ﹙ to be childish ﹚

You can’t help but to be yourself around him. How could you not? If he is so unapologetically himself. Your love for the silly games and pranks can’t help itself when you are around your lover. He created a space where your childish jokes can be heard, a space where no matter how dumb the hobby may seem, your lover is always ready to support you｡

Joshua ⨾ ﹙ to be soft ﹚

Ever the gentleman, Joshua can’t help but see you as the most sweet thing in the entire world. He encourages your aftercare routine, doesn’t matter the time nor the problem- you had a fight? a bad day? you stressed yourself out? He’s already in his pajamas, ready to help you with your aftercare routine.

Whenever you feel the world’s expectations on your shoulders, too heavy to let your walls fall, he’s already there: ready with a warm smile, and sweet words towards you.

When the worlds feels like too much, he’s ready to help｡

Jun ⨾ ﹙ to be seen ﹚

You said once you hated the world’s view on you- how people could perceive you wrongly. Since then, Jun has taken it as a full time job to learn you; your hobbies, your freckles, your expressions lines and even the colors that you think makes your eyes pop.

He’s ready to show you that, even if the world has a wrong perception of you, he’s had taken his time to see you for who you are. Not your money, connections, friends or anything alike. He will take his time to know why you frown when you listen to good music, or why you are so scared of cockroaches｡

Hoshi ⨾ ﹙ to be too much ﹚

Too loud, too emotional, too soft, too impulsive. There’s nothing wrong with being too much, that’s something that Hoshi made sure you’d understand early on your relationship.

You are being too emotional? fine! he’ll cry with you while watching the final episode of your latest favorita k-drama. You can’t take Jeonghan’s teasing today? Fine, he’ll shield you from the eldest jokes! There’s nothing wrong with feeling too much. You two take pride in creating a space where both of you could be too hyper, and nobody would have the right to say anything about it｡

Wonwoo ⨾ ﹙ to take space ﹚

Always making yourself feel small. You would physically make yourself smaller when two members would sandwich you, you would lower your voice whenever someone else spoke while you talked. That’s something Wonwoo couldn’t take lightly.

He would encourage you to speak louder when someone would interrupt you, he would make himself look even bigger just so you wouldn’t feel bad about taking even the smallest space between members.

He doesn’t allow his partner to feel small, not when she is full of good things to showcase to the world｡

Woozi ⨾ ﹙ to take time ﹚

“Good things take time” That’s what he said when you couldn’t stop complaining about your assignment taking too long to be finished by your group.

He explained, slowly and surely, how the other groups had their own times to work on their assignment- Everybody had their own schedule, yours been as busy as ever.

He made sure, after this, to encourage you to take time to do your things- your homework, your hair, your night routine.

Without realizing it, he started to take time to plan his own schedule. Sure to say, you made sure he also took time to eat and cuddle with you｡

Minghao ⨾ ﹙ to being taken cared of ﹚

To being able to love, you have to love yourself first. How can you take care of Minghao, if you neglect yourself so much? How could you learn about which herbs can help the stress you both go under, if by the smallest mistake you are trowing hard words at yourself?

He didn’t complain when his tea (made by you) was slightly sour. He didn’t complain when he got sick after taking care of you and your fever. And he would never complain about helping you through your meltdowns.

Why? Because he loves you.

Why would he complain about taking care of his partner? He knew you would drop everything for him if he called you sick, so why wouldn’t he do the same for you?

He did｡

He poured his favorite tea, his most fluffy blanket and pulled his best recipes from Mingyu. He took care of you, even when you wouldn’t stop complaining about it.

Easily, and without thinking too much about it. Because he loves you｡

Mingyu ⨾ ﹙ to be spoiled ﹚

You can’t look at something twice, say “it’s pretty” or even send him a new caffe than opened downtown, or he would be taking action into buying everything that you could lay your eyes on.

Oh, you liked a new foundation at Olive young? Good thing he’s ambassador of the brand! Craving something sweet? Snickers are right there!

There is no need to worry about your plate being nothing short of delicious: he cooks just the way you like it- the meat, the veggies, even the side dishes. He doesn’t mind eating a little bit less meat if that means you get to enjoy your food for a little longer｡

You complained, once, that you didn’t really like your work’s lunch. You bet he took matter into his own hands to learn how to make cute lunch boxes, always sending it with a cute note (“Missing your smile”; “hope you miss me as much as i miss you”; “listen to this song, it made me think of you”)

Seokmin ⨾ ﹙ to be a part of ﹚

Game night? Late after-work-drinks? Behind the scenes of a photo shoot? He makes sure you are included. Let it be through pictures, messages, video calls or even inviting you to the place.

He loves getting a picture of your lunch, a short OOTD video or even a complaint of the weather- it makes him feel part of your daily routine, even when you are in different continents. So, he does the same.

He sends a selca when is late at night and he has just gotten out of the shower, or when the boys decided to order some chicken, or even when he saw a CD of your favorite band while taking a walk with his friends: he makes sure to send a picture, to make sure you know you’re always on his mind｡

Seungkwan ⨾ ﹙ to be emotional ﹚

Growing up you didn’t let many things affect you, you couldn’t cry easily.

Until you met Seungkwan, who would always talk sweet nothings to you “i love doing nothing with you” “i appreciate you doing this for me” “it means a lot that you took time to help me”. His tongue would held so many sweet words towards you, that it was only a matter of time until you started to imitate him.

When he would stay awake to wait for you on a friday night, you would drop a “it meas a lot that you decided to wait for me, that’s why i love you” and he would be shocked, not used to you saying things like that.

He didn’t push it, not at all.

He was his emotional self, and with that, you learnt that being outspoken and letting people around you know how you felt for them, meant a lot.

How could you not? If it was so easy for him to cry out of pure love for his fans, for his friends, for his family｡

How could you not have your eyes filled with tears, as you mumbled about your love towards him?

Vernon ⨾ ﹙ to be shared ﹚

“Yeah, my girlfriend really likes that band” “Have you seen this movie? My partner is the biggest fan” “You know, my girlfriend told me how they did this scene…” Are some common phrases when it comes to Vernon.

He is a little nerd when it comes to his favorite niches, and so are you.

It slipped from your tongue before you could stop yourself “You know, they were actually drunk when filming this scene…” And, later, when a carat would ask about a TMI, he would answer with a fun fact you told him about a movie, a record, an artist.

More often than not, he would make a new playlist inspired by you. He has multiple by now.

In letterbox, he has a watchlist named “to watch with her” And another, called “Her watch” As you don’t really use the app. He rates the movies for you- mamma mia having a 5/5 star｡

Dino ⨾ ﹙ to be heard ﹚

Always the youngest, the overlooked. He can’t bare the thought of not hearing what his partner has to say. Let it be the dumbest opinion in the entire world, he would look at you with big eyes, waiting for you to finish your train of thought.

When you pause the episode of the latest drama you two are watching, he looks down, ready to hear your opinion on how the plot could be resolved.

When you send an album to his chat, with the text “Wait a sec”, he knows he is in for a rant opinion about each track, talking about how you would change it, or why you loved it so much.

You’re first person he sends every draft to: A cover, a coreography, even the instagram pictures. He values your opinion, and he hears it.

He doesn’t just listen, he hears it. He takes his time to process your words, even if it cuts the flow of the conversation, as he really wants to make sure he understands you｡

–sorry for any errors, first time writing long paragraphs for a fic! lol. let me know what you think. Xoxo, gi

– requests and asks are open!

682 notes · View notes