lighting-and-shadow - Tumblr blog

lighting-and-shadow · 2 days ago

Text

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

257 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 2 days ago

Text

I’m currently outlining this as I finish Ikigai and how to get something out in the next few months

Transmigrate as Sylus' Wife

So I had a thought again (shocking, I know) for an angst story: waking up as Sylus' wife before the LADS cannon even starts.

I mean, you're of course, shocked. The game made no mention of a wife. Why would they? Sylus' love belongs to MC and only MC; there would never be a past love in the picture.

So you dig into your own backstory. You find out that the marriage was arranged and you're the daughter of one of the gang leaders in the N109 zone during the gang war. And Sylus clearly hasn't won yet.

And they you think more. Was the wife not mentioned because you died? Because Sylus killed her?

You love Sylus in the game, but that's because you're MC. You're his love. You're his life. Now, in this life, you're nobody. You're nothing to him.

So you scheme to survive. Plans to help him and MC fall in love. Plans to destroy Ever with whatever information about the game you can remember. Plans to escape from the family that would sell you off to such a dangerous man.

But during all this together, you begin to fall in love with Sylus for real. Not the version of him that the game shows, but the real person he is. You learn things about him that you never could in your past life.

And it hurts. Because you know how this story goes. You know who he truly loves and holds in his heart. You know that this won't end well for you. That's why you wanted to escape, after all.

But how could you just leave the man you love? Maybe death by his hands doesn't seem so bad after all...

Edit: To make it even darker, what if he got the Aether Core in his eye from his wife? It’s the only reason he married her and what ultimately gets her killed.

#self reblog #sonder

1K notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 2 days ago

Text

How did I never connect this even a little bit…

Let me rot and cry again while I reread his myth

105 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 2 days ago

Text

Ikigai, Part 13: Severed Ties

Summary: Even the kindest of people have their limits. On a mission with Miss Hunter and Sylus, you reach yours.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Trigger Warnings: misogyny, mentions of sexual assault, an OC being a general creep to women, mentions/allusions to domestic abuse, murder, mentions of suicide, a reminder that Reader is a biased narrator and because of the world she lives in she has some fucked views

Part 12 | Part 14 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist

Your target is easy to spot, even amongst the crowded club. Ethan Orion tosses back drink after drink. His expensive jewelry flashes under the lights that fill his family’s establishment. You can’t see much of his features from where you approach, but you know what they are from the pictures.

Warm hazel eyes with an almost golden undertone. Short brown hair styled to perfection. Adorable freckles dot his face. He’s handsome, you can admit. It becomes all the more apparent when you and Miss Hunter get closer.

Seeing those eyes in person, those pools of color that should be so bright and peaceful, twist your stomach. Darkness clouds them. Hangs over that pearly white smirk of his that he flashes at the female bartender. That grin disarms the poor girl. The attention of a man such as him on her, who’s never got the attention of the opposite sex, makes her stutter.

She’s so innocent. And her demeanor is a stark reminder you’re not in the N109 zone.

“Why so stiff, girl?”

Miss Hunter’s playful, and loud, words snap you out it. You’re sure to school your expression, to stamp down your disgust. Even when those eyes and that smile turn to peer upon you.

You’re here for her. For her mission. The Association is closing in on this man’s family, and when you do, you never have to see him again.

Your own thoughts do little to calm your nerves when Ethan begins to get closer to you and your friend. Seeing him up close—the slope of his nose and the dimples in his cheeks—recalls the brief image of his father, Ezekiel. A man that’s been mistakenly making his mark in the world as an arm’s dealer.

He’s been trying to replace Kai since she dropped off the map. And while he’s a perfectly fine man to do business with, you know you’ll never have the camaraderie you have with her. He’s too… human. Too full of the flaws and the desires and the simplicities you see everywhere you go.

It’s why this club makes your skin crawl. It’s why you struggle to even act inebriated in this moment and open your mouth to speak such sweet words as, “Oh, leave it alone, would you? If I’m so stiff, why don’t you let me go back to the car and—“

“Nonsense,” Miss Hunter’s giggle is perfect and you see Ethan being drawn to it. “You need to learn to have fun. And if you can’t learn to do it yourself, I will gladly teach you!”

Pretending to finally spot Ethan, your friend grabs his arm with another silly laugh, “Or maybe this fine gentleman will?”

You internally cringe at her words. The sickly saccharine tone, her clearly forced smile. It all turns your stomach. To see someone so truthful, so open, be so fake.

”You want her to be you, right? She’s got the acting skills to pull it off already.”

Quiet, you shut down that chorus of voices that sing; they’re a chamber full of the worst influences in your life.

Your mind’s been in more of a jumbled up mess than usual. Those voices pipe up for their encore more often. It’s why you’ve taken this job, this mission, right now.

Because despite what many would say about you, you have some idea of your limits. You’re reaching them. Steadily. Slowly. The tide is rising and you still haven’t gotten to shore.

Just last tonight. Tonight, and you can rest.

You can rest. You can plot. You can leave.

With your mind set and at ease due to having a clear goal, you do what you do best: you read his thread. And you expect to find that he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. Ethan’s a known playboy, after all. His actions towards Miss Hunter—leaning just a little too close to talk to her, walking his hands up and down her arms, and laughing just a bit too much at her jokes—suggests loneliness. Longing. A search for love.

That’s the reason you came along with her on this mission. You foolishly believed that, perhaps, you and Ethan could distract each other. To lay in one another’s arms for one night to forget the emptiness of your hearts. His would fill one day; yours would never and he’d become just another body you shared fragments of intimacy with like in high school when your friends abandoned you.

He'd go off to jail. You'd go off to Ever. Neither of you would see each other again. It was the perfect plan.

His thread throws that all out the window. Because he’s already been connected to his other half.

Shared pain. How… interesting.

Soulmate bonds always tell a story. Sylus and Miss Hunter’s hidden messages. Alex and their mystery soulmate and their secretive thoughts, images that tell stories better than any little note they could write. Now Ethan and his other half’s mutual suffering.

What kind of story does tell? What will it tell? You twiddle with your earrings, weaving the golden piece between your index and middle finger, as a signal to Sylus.

”Change of plans,” it says. ”He’s not alone.”

You don’t say anything into the mic that’s attached onto said earring. Miss Hunter wears a matching pair, and you wish she’d press it and tell Sylus that she wants to pull out. Because as you watch her pretend flirt, giggle, and smile, all you can do is watch Ethan’s thread.

You sense the girl just as you see snippets of her in Ethan’s thread. Sophie. Smart, quiet, bookish, Sophie. Sophie who’s come from a background similar to Ethan’s—wealthy, spoiled by her parents, and has been handed everything she’s ever wanted.

But there’s a softness to Sophie that Ethan doesn’t possess. A softness that leads her to feeding stray cats on her way from work. A softness that anonymously donates, pays off student loans, and helps people get the medical care they need. A softness she got from her father.

The two compliment each other. Pasts that mirror each other, presents that clash with one another. You hope their future will be a nice blend of the two states.

Sophie’s somewhere in the building. Ethan’s link to her shows you as much, weaves through the crowd and the spool of yarn that emerges from everyone’s soul. It ends at the quietest corner of the room, near the bathroom. The one place someone who prefers to stay hidden and alone can get her thoughts together.

Seeing how Ethan cackles with your hunter friend, how his hands move to touch her waist and the hungry look in his eyes when he looks at both of you, makes you lash out.

“Now, now,” you say her name. “I think we’ve bothered this man long enough. That, and I believe you’ve had too much to drink.”

You send Ethan a pitying gaze, almost trying to will him to back off with your eyes alone. He doesn’t get the hint. Snorting in contempt at you, he tosses back another shot and gives you a smirk.

“Why in such a rush, sweetie?”

Sylus calls you that all the time. He gives you cocky grins and drags you along for missions and adventures you weren’t entirely willing to go on all the time. He pushes your buttons and challenges you in the best way with that stupid look on his face all the time.

Ethan doesn’t mirror him. The playfulness that the man you love is nowhere to see in those eyes of his. Something horrendous plays there. Something sinister that affects even you.

You can’t play your role in this moment. You can’t pretend to like Ethan, to fall for his mask and charm. The soft red glow of his thread stops you. Sophie, a woman you haven’t even met, stops you from completing this damn mission and finally breaking free.

”It’s thoughts like those that got you into this mess.”

This time, the echo sounds suspiciously like Astrid. Sylus’ sister haunts you despite how brief your encounter with her was.

“I’m in no rush, sir,” you flash him the most sincere smile you can manage. “Just don’t want to be the one to hold her hair back later tonight while she pollutes my bathroom with her bile.”

“Hey! I’m not that drunk.”

“Sure you are, sweetie,” you pat a hand on her arm, the sarcasm in your voice rushing out like waves.

“She doesn’t seem too drunk to me.”

Ethan’s infuriating grin and self-assured tone rips your attention away from your friend. He’s more touchy with her, tapping her hip again and being more blatant with how he checks her out.

“Well, you don’t know her limits,” you give your friend a playful glare while watching Ethan’s reaction to your movement. “And she clearly doesn’t either.”

“Who cares about limits? Given you’re both out here, with only each other as company, at this time of night, I’d think you’d be looking to have some fun!”

Calm down, stomach. You can vomit later.

Spider legs crawl up your skin. Tiny little pricks of pressure ghosting your flesh, biting and touching it, at his words. Bile in the back of your throat from his smile. Stomach turning into dough being beaten by a pastry chef, tossed and smacked against the floor you stand on.

He reminds you of the first person you killed, a man who thought much like him. A man raised to believe women were objects, who’s mother was beaten and broken to believe the same thing.

It was shortly after you ran from home, only getting in his car because you wanted to escape so badly and as quickly as possible. He was charming at first, kind. A man with a dead soulmate (died of cancer). And given how young he was when she died, it made sense he was still alive. It’s only really common for soulmates to commit suicide together, or kill yourself when one dies in a tragic accident, when you're older.

But when it happens so young… society doesn’t know what to do with you. That man was a prime example of that. Rejected by a world where people whispered about him wherever he went, a father blinded by his own ideology, and a mother who was a shell of herself.

That man had no chance. Or, at least, that’s what you told yourself when you killed him with his own thread and stole his car and drove that old thing until it couldn’t go any farther.

Ethan’s breath on your face is what lets you know you’ve been in your thoughts for too long.

“What? No response for me, doll?”

Internally, you gag. Externally, you politely back up and move your chair a bit. “Why, yes I do. Have a response for you that is, sir. I’m wondering where you got the impression that it was just the two of us here tonight?”

You don’t know why you keep calling him “sir” despite him having already introduced himself. Maybe to distance yourself from him. To give him false respect—security—while also allowing yourself to project your first victim onto him.

Because Ethan as “sir” rather than Ethan allows you to imagine a beard on his face. Blue eyes instead of hazel. Ghostly pale skin instead of the slight tan Ethan posses. The messiest, brightest, blond hair instead of the well-maintained brown.

Imagining Ethan as that man makes your hand twitch. It aches to destroy, to bury Moriai again under another person's corpse.

You do the signal again with the earrings, mentally willing Sylus to hurry before you do something stupid. Your Morana calms you better than any drug can. Soothes those broken parts of yourself. Even now, when he’s currently the cause of most of your heart ache.

Love does crazy things to the brain. Makes you crave Sylus when you know he can never be yours. Makes Sylus of all the people the one who heals you when he’s also the one who hurts you the deepest.

It’s funny. A comedy.

Is that why the universe created me? As entertainment?

It’s fitting. A situation that suits one such as you.

But what about Astrid? Is she entertainment too?

That woman comes back to slither into your mind’s eye. Her dark hair. Her paper pale skin you, so white that you feel as if it would burn under moonlight. Her scarlet eyes; they’re the same color as Sylus’. Her eyes make it so obvious that they’re siblings.

Why could you see it sooner? Realize what those eyes mean, what her flickering form means?

Because you didn’t want to see it? There’s a nagging thought that brews under the surface, a feeling you don’t want to explore.

”Sylus grew up with Astrid. He grew up with someone like you. Maybe he knows what an empty soul looks like? Maybe he knows your secret?”

Terror floods your system as the fucked up symphony goes for another round; it sounds like your parents this time. You beat them down with the sip of your drink and a smile to Ethan.

Focus on him. Focus on Ethan. You’re Gamayun, not Moriai. You’re strong woman, not a scared little girl.

“Is that why you’re so determined to squash our fun? Which could also be your fun too if you’d loosen up,” Ethan gives you another predatory once over, and you hope that the neon lights of the club aren’t bright enough for anyone to see the goosebumps that rise across your skin.

“I’m not the type that needs to be inebriated to have fun.”

“What type are you then, miss?” he mirrors you formal tone, and your stomach lurches. “What do you do for fun?”

“Not clubs,” you snort with a fake smile. “This was all that one’s idea and I went along because I’m a loyal friend.”

“And what about your other ‘company’? Why did they come?”

“To help me keep an eye on dear friend here. She’s a wreck when she gets drunk, you see. And since she’s already swimming in the stuff, I’d figure we’d pull out now so I don’t have to see her embarrass herself with her poor attempts at flirting.”

The look you exchange with Miss Hunter after you finish speaking is one of desperation. One of hope. One of you praying for her to see what you mean, hear what you say, and change plans with you.

We can do something else, you plea. Anything else. Anything but destroying a relationship we have no business in being in.

It’d be different if Ethan was single, no soulmate bound established. Because while losing a soulmate before you meet them is devastating, losing them while connected is a different kind of agony.

Your second kill was one such person. An old man who has lost his wife, his everything. He was so kind. Had a warm smile that could melt the frostiest of hearts.

You met him soon after you murdered your wannabe rapist. And he took to caring for you like a stray cat. Small things left out for you. He’d cook hot meals in front of you as you watched through his trailer window, and make “too much” before going out to the woods for hours. Set out newly bought clothes on his window sill.

Skittish and angry, you were slow to get close to him, to let yourself enjoy his company and his compassion. But you did, eventually. And you killed him when he asked to, eventually. Because the man deserved to rest. To be free from his heartache and all the other complications that come from simply being alive.

Being alive and alone is hard. It was something you two bonded over. Having a family that rejected you. Having friends that abandoned you once life with you got too hard.

You ended his life peacefully. Not in a rage like with your first, but with love. With understanding. Just simple thread manipulation, and than he was gone.

You cling to his memory in this moment. To forget the first man you killed. To remember that Ethan isn’t that man, and that even a monster such as the Orion family heir deserved a chance at redemption. You’ve seen soulmate love redeem many despicable people in the past; Ethan should be no different.

He’s not that man, you repeat. And he’s not Lucian.

You pull out your phone and pretend to text Sylus, mumbling to yourself just loud enough for Ethan to hear you.

“Our friend ought to be here soon.”

Said friend’s presence is behind you before you can fully finish your sentence. His familiar scent in your lungs, his arm around your waist. You bask in it. In his touch. In his smell. In Sylus.

“Now, why did you have to go and call him over?” Miss Hunter pouts, still acting but no longer as touchy with Ethan thankfully.

“Seems like someone’s been having too much fun with my other half.”

Relaxed from his arrival, the shock hits you all that much harder. You didn’t expect that out of all things to come out of his mouth. And with how his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer to his warmth, he’s clearly not talking about Miss Hunter.

He does look at her, a fact you notice when you turn your head to peer at his face. The usual amusement glitters in his eyes. But when they pass over Ethan, they shift, no longer having fun. No longer finding any sense of enjoyment over the man’s presence.

Of that, we can agree wholeheartedly.

“You mean better half. Booo! Let us have our fun!”

Sylus pulls up a chair next you, hand still on your waist and still staring down Ethan. The man laughs and finally gets out of your space. His attention is back on Miss Hunter. You don’t know how you feel about that.

“You okay?” he whispers close to ear, breath fanning your skin.

Heat coils and snakes under your skin. Pockets of the sensation moving, slithering, under the simple question leaving Sylus’ lips.

“Always so concerned about me, love.”

You continue the act Sylus has started. Are loud with your words, touchy with your hands on his cheeks while you struggle not to bring your lips to them.

“So your ‘friend’ was your soulmate, miss?”

Darkness trickles into those hazel eyes of his, dots of black emotion floating through his otherwise perfect and bright facade. They dance for just a second and vanish before you can fully process that they’re there.

You don’t falter, “Apologizes for not saying so earlier. I didn’t want to bring it up, given that we just met and I know there are some who are sensitive about the topic.”

Like me.

Ethan just appears to be more amused, taking his martini glass into his soft hands (delicate from lack of work, from never striving to be better than what he was simply born into) and swirling it around. He waves you off, shaking his head before his features soften into what you think is supposed to be an expression of sympathy and empathy.

It chills your blood. “No need. I’m not one of those people.”

“Ah. So you’ve met your soulmate than?”

Annoyance begins to weave itself into the gaps of his arrogance, thread shimmering and making waves in the air. And the normal you would steer the conversation away from this, loosen him up until he gets comfortable. That version of you would get what you want, you need.

This you doesn’t care. This you wants to know why irritation, of all things, comes up at the topic. This you wants to know what reason, if any, could cause him to feel such a way towards the best thing in his life.

“Yep. She’s even here with me. And before either of you start acting like prudes, she’s fine with what I do here. Spices things up for the two of us.”

“That sound like something that would interest you two?” eyes clouding with desire again, he continues as he looks at Sylus in particular. “Your woman here could use something to help loosen her up. She’s too uptight, like how Sophie used to be.”

You search for something, anything, to keep you together. To not fall into the rabbit hole of flashbacks to your first murder. To keep yourself from slapping a beard onto Ethan’s face, turn his hair blond and his eyes blue, and butcher him.

Miss Hunter’s eyes are on you. You feel them even as she orders another round for the three of you. Sylus’ hand, his skin, his touch, his scent, seep into you through the little bits of contact you two have. You breath him in, take him into your heart in order to chase out your past.

It’s enough to quiet your flooding mind. Enough to slow your heart. Enough to be here, to be Gamayun, and not somewhere else or anyone else.

“No thank you, sir,” the grin you give him is artificial despite how well it mimics your real one; Ethan can’t tell, but Sylus or the twins would know that immediately. “But, I’d like to meet her, if you don’t mind. I have a feeling you’ll make good company in the future, and I’d like to get to know you’re other half as a result.”

Your eyes briefly flicker over to where you know Sophie is, gathering her nerves and trying to breathe through all the noise that infects her head. Ethan’s eyes widen for a second. He’s caught off guard and that horror show of a smile of his is gone for a moment.

That man from your past vanishes when his demeanor shifts. No longer does he looks like a hunter. Much like that man, he appears to prey for a second. Afraid of a woman. Afraid of something he thought was nothing.

Ethan covers it up quickly though. That response, that swiftness in which he pastes his mask back on, distinguishes him from that man. Another reminder to yourself to not let your mind pretend that he is. Ethan is Ethan. That man was that man.

And he’s dead. And you won’t kill Ethan, no matter how much you want to.

Your target pulls out his phone, presumably texting Sophie. You can still see bits and pieces of his real feelings under the act he tries to maintain. He patches the holes in his mask by the time Miss Hunter comes back. Stitches them together with alcohol and years of practice.

He was a pretender in his own home, much like you. A faker since birth. Every event, every outing, a show for the world. To tell all who see him and his family that they’re happy, that they’re loving, and that nothing holds them down.

So similar…

Those spiders are back at the mere notion. Spinning their silky threads of sympathy into webs of empathy. It’s disgusting. You may be a monster. You may believe in redemption for Ethan, hope for it even. But you’re nothing like him.

You can’t be.

Sophie arrives quickly. She’s unsteady in the tall heels she wears. Her outfit is revealing and she constantly rubs her hands on her arms. She keeps her head down, even as she pulls out a chair for herself at the bar.

The more you look at her, the more a fist seems to squeeze your heart. Crushing it. Pulverizing it. Because when Sophie introduces herself—with a soft voice that she forces out slowly to avoid stuttering—she can only look you and Miss Hunter in the eyes. Not Sylus. Not even her own soulmate.

Her eyes dart over to him constantly. A quick glance comes every time she speaks, and every time she moves. She lets him touch her, kiss her cheeks, and smiles an empty smile that most people wouldn’t question.

And her thread… her thread is a shit show. A plague of self-doubt, determination, and longing for her family. She lost said family when she and Ethan got together. Because they saw him for who he is, for what he is.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Abuse is arguably the only reason the world sees as a valid to leave a soulmate. It’s a recent acceptance, but one that’s growing.

I can kill him. I can kill him and rid the world of another monster.

You have to move. To leave. Now. Before you do something insane. Before you kill this man in front of all these people.

“You know, maybe you’re right, Ethan,” you set your drink down, and slip out of Sylus' grip. “Maybe I should loosen up. Dance with me, while our men do whatever it is that men do with each other.”

Your hand on Sophie’s wrist is gentle. Thankfully, it’s not brittle and thin like you expected.

At least she eats well.

Using your powers, you send a pulse of comfort through her thread. Calm the woman’s racing heart. Let her trust you somewhat. Just enough to get her away. Just enough for her to have a brief escape.

You fall into your role much better as you spin Sophie. While more observant than Ethan, you can fall into a rhythm with her. You can shed your usual act for a different one, one more close to your truth.

Her eyes are storm clouds of confusion, the eyes of someone who’s lost. You know eyes like hers. You know them well. And while they force you to confront things you’d rather forget, they don’t cause discomfort the same way Ethan’s do.

“Now this is my idea of entertainment and excitement!”

You giggle and twirl Sophie again. A real smile appears on her face, despite how hard it is for her to keep her balance in her shoes. They look new. And far too flashy for someone like her.

“Gift from Ethan?” you ask between songs, pointing to horrid heels.

Sophie nods, “He said they make me look pretty. And he was so happy when I decided to wear them tonight.”

“So he gives you fashion advice? Skye does the same for me, unfortunately. Says my tastes are too ‘simple’. And than I tell him not everyone likes his bougie nonsense that he calls clothing when he could easily buy island or something else as ridiculous with the amount of money he likes spending on my wardrobe. He usually drops it after that, and instead buys me jewelry.”

You flash your earrings at her, “Which isn’t so bad, given these are so fun to mess around with. Expensive and built to last.”

You clicker the mic on your right one on and off, beginning to send a message to Miss Hunter. “Bad to mess around with.”

You know you should’ve sent something sooner. Something to properly tell her your intentions. But maybe part of you is being vindictive. Wants to see her destroy someone else’s relationship with that love of hers instead of yours.

Relationship? Don’t be daft with such vague labels. Sylus is my partner. Friend. Companion. Not lover. Not spouse. Not romantic in any way.

Sylus’ touch still lingers on your skin. His chest on your back, firm and holding you steady while you brave the chaos of your emotions. Rock in the storm; that’s what he is to you. Even when he unknowingly causes that storm.

Miss Hunter’s own broken question rings in your ear, “Secrets. Weaknesses.”

That one’s easy. Painfully simple.

“Enough about me, now. It would be wonderful to get to know you, darling.”

You let her spin you this time. Though, most of the movement comes from you walking yourself in a tight circle rather than her truly twirling you.

“Me? There’s not much to say…”

“So you say. But, I happen to be in business of chatting and making conversation when there isn’t much to speak of, as you can see.”

Sophie hums. “What’s your job?”

“Sales. Skye’s a fruit vendor, and most of his business contracts were formed by yours truly. And you’d be surprised by how protective some farmers are over produce, so it’s a struggle. But, it’s worth it to see those eyes of his brighten just a bit more after a good deal.”

Your heart warms when you think of Sylus. Of the expression he makes after a good day’s work. Of the arrogance and glee he gets on those times things do go wrong and he gets to do things his way rather than yours. And while you do give him shit for his eagerness for violence, for a fight, you can’t deny how his enjoyment brings happiness in your life.

Just as he smiles to you after you score an impossible negotiation, you give him a much softer and loving one when he gets to have his fun. You both like a challenge. Challenges happen to have different definitions for you two.

“You two work together?”

“It’s how we met,” you use this as your opportunity to weave Ethan into the conversation again. “What about you and Ethan? You claim there isn’t much to say on you—which I still believe to be untrue—but the meeting of soulmates is a tale every pair longs to tell others. So you won’t deny me this, will you?”

Guilt blooms in you. For using the people-pleaser that you know dwells in Sophie to get her talk. But you’re not here to make friends. You’re not here to be nice. You’re not here to be someone’s savior.

You’re here for information. To complete one last mission before you step down to train Miss Hunter. Sophie stops dancing so much, only slightly swaying on her feet to the beat, and you watch her. Try to make your body language as open as possible, eyes littered with curiosity and leaning slightly towards her in anticipation.

She looks at you, to the bar, and back to you. It’s a quick movement. You still notice.

“We met at Skyhaven. The Fleet had wanted my Professor’s expertise on Protocores, and I was doing my thesis under him at the time, so he took me with him,” Sophie stands still, and starts picking at her nails.

But the little upturn of her lips is the most genuine and heartfelt expression she’s worn so far. “Ethan was there for a business deal of his father’s. He found me nose-deep in a book. I took forever to notice him, of course, because I tend to spend too much time in those things instead of the real world.”

You fiddle with your earrings again, trying to form the correct story to drop the answer Miss Hunter seeks so that you can move onto something else.

“Skyhaven…?”

Contorting your face into one of pain, you trail off. Sophie acts as you expect her to: she gets closer and her expression of melancholy twists into one of concern.

You wave her off, “I’m quite alright. It’s just that the last time I visited it was an emotional experience. And I’m definitely not in the state to be remembering such adventures.”

Gesturing at yourself, you click the mic again to send, “Emotional state.”

While you await Miss Hunter’s next message, Sophie’s worry hasn’t gone away. You act accordingly, a wobbly smile worms its way onto your mouth. Nausea crawls its way up your throat again, the guilt manifesting into a need to vomit.

Get yourself together.

Why are you being this way? You use people all the time. Manipulate them, trick them, lull them with your stories and false promises, all the time. It’s your fucking job. Why is Sophie different?

“You okay?”

It’s not the choppy words of Miss Hunter this time. Sylus’ low tone enters your ears from your other earring, and you almost jolt from the intrusion.

“You worry too much, my friend. I asked the question. I got my answer. You have nothing to be sorry for because there’s no way you could’ve known anything about my history with the place.”

Your say your words to Sophie and Sylus over the mic, but somehow, you feel as if they were crafted just for your Morana.

But why? Why do I wish to say these words to him?

You ask the question despite knowing the answer. Sylus isn’t close to many people. Of this, you know for a fact. So having yet another disappear on him, abandon him, will hurt him. And part of you knows you say the things you say because you hope he doesn’t blame himself.

With those words, you say, ”It’s not your fault. I’m what’s wrong. I left because of me, not because of you.”

The broken words of Miss Hunter come in at just the right timing. “Tired. Embarrassed. Guilty?”

His thread glimmers into view when you imagine it, dancing and weaving itself between your fingers as you and Sophie get farther away from the bar and lean on the walls of the establishment. Many things shine in that little piece of fate.

Tired from the weight of his doubt, a mind plagued by the idea he’s accomplished nothing despite his age. Embarrassed from being “shown up” by a woman and a random man. Embarrassed because he’s met yet another person who prefers his perfect soulmate to him.

Apparently, his own father rejects him in favor of showering Sophie with love. Ezekiel shields her, comforts her, and pampers her instead of his own son. Anymore, that is. Something drove a wedge between father and son. And Ethan, with his utter lack of self-awareness, blames everyone but himself.

And guilt. That’s the one you hang up on the most. It’s the most human. It’s the one that shows there’s more to this man than the darkness that brews beneath the surface. There’s something for you to work with there. Because he at least feels something besides the usual glee or enjoyment you expect from people like him when he hurts those around him.

From Sophie to his friends to his father to the staff that work under his family. He hurts them all. Remorse clouds his soul as a result. You still hate him. You still wish to rid the world of him. But that spark of guilt explains so much to you.

Why Sophie stays. Why his father still helps him. Why his mother still invites him dinner. Why those same underlings he abuses still listens to him without complaint. They see that speck of humanity in him. And they can’t seem to give up on him as a result.

“So, let us both put the bitter parts of the past behind us and embrace the good. What’s your thesis on? And I’m still curious about what you and that partner of yours do for work. You know, since he seems to be in some sort of family run business and has to go to Skyhaven of all places.”

“Bitter past. Work. Family,” is what you send to Miss Hunter.

You turn your mic off after that. You’ve taught her a thing or two about persuasion. Bonding with people. Mirroring them. Labeling emotions, asking the right questions. She can’t just get to the core of someone as quickly as you can.

Of course she doesn’t. No one sees what you do. No one has a cheat code to pick people apart where it hurts the most.

Well, maybe one person does…

Astrid fills your mind again. Standing there. Flashing with her horns and tail and empty soul. Haunting you. Taunting you with her happiness.

“You’re interested in my thesis?” Sophie’s eyes are wide, her tone breathless and the sheer shock in it scorches you.

“Of course I am! I find the mysteries of the Deepspace Tunnel utterly fascinating.”

That weary glaze that’s been in her eyes, a shadow that constricts her movements and her lungs, begins to lift as she talks. About her thesis on Protocore Syndrome and the possibility of the configuration of Protocores and the energy within them causes different levels of severity. About how maybe, the reverse can be true some day, granting health benefits to humans that’s never even been dreamed of. About her struggles to finally get her latest paper published.

She rambles on and on, never once bringing up Ethan or his father. You’re fine with that. Grateful for it, in fact. While your guilty conscience nags at you for ignoring Miss Hunter and ignoring the very reason you’re here, the rest of you doesn’t care.

A little selfishness never hurt anyone.

One moment. One tiny moment, will you let yourself go. Let yourself listen to this woman who’s been silent for too long, who’s longed for her voice to reach someone. Future you can deal with the fall out.

“Sorry! I’m rambling again, aren’t I? Ethan says I need to stop doing that and no one likes having a one-sided conversation.”

“I do.”

Sometimes, you miss the old days before your power where your best friend would go on and on about his day and his hobbies and his new interests while you just sat there. Engaged, but quiet. Present, but drifting elsewhere. He would fill the space between you with his words. You’d fill it with your imagination.

Understanding is what it was. A back and forth dynamic that never needed words or labels to describe. You miss that kind of companionship.

“Besides,” you continue, getting a little closer to her and making sure the act of relaxing your shoulders and muscles is visible to her. “I hardly found that to be a ‘one-sided conversation’. You’re the expert here, not me. I ought to listen what you have to say, right?”

Sophie nods, but the way she chews on her lips says otherwise. And that response, that refusal to see that there’s people out there that would willingly listen to anything she has to say, hits you hard. The hatred for Ethan increases in volume, spills out from just a nasty sensation in your stomach to something worse.

It’s potent. A haze over your vision that has you seeing more of that deep red you’re so familiar. Like a fog in the form of fate is mocking you.

Why was this monster given what I want so badly?

Internally, you curse at yourself. Because you’re meant to see the good in the worst of people. You see why they’re the way they are. You see a path for a better future for Ethan, a path that’s not there for those you kill. You don’t kill those who are misguided.

That’s not your role. You’re Gamayun, a siren with a bleeding heart. And only weak, little, emotional Moirai would kill someone without trying to change them.

“W-we should head back to them…”

Sophie’s tremble—which consumes both her body and her words—contrasts the boldness in her eyes. While her body screams for freedom, for her to run, those eyes of hers don’t.

“I suppose you’re right,” you put a dopey look on your face before you finish. “I miss my man, and he ought to missing me as well by now.”

Sophie’s already walking away by the time your sentence is done. She drags you through the crowd this time.

Why the sudden shift?

You begin to ramble, digging your heels in to go as slow as possible in order to get as much out as you can, “Skye’s such a worry-wort. I give him shit for it, but I appreciate his love nonetheless. Although, I do think he tends to spoil me too much. It’s the little things that make a relationship work, not flashy and fancy gifts.”

They keep tumbling out. The praises. The affection. And you sprinkle in some wishes, some things you dream about Sylus doing for you. Kisses snuck in between meetings. Spontaneous hook ups in whatever places you can get enough privacy. Intimate embraces accompanied with pecks sprinkled on your shoulders by him while you put them on his cheeks while watching movies with the twins and they make fake gagging sounds.

You imagine small moments too. The reassuring arm on your waist at all times instead of it being a fleeting moment. Large hand on the small of your back. Reminders to eat and rest he already gives you when you’re lost in a project come with kisses to the top of your head.

Why am I telling her this?

Because you’ll never see her again? Because you want to make your act all the more convincing? Or because you want her to see how fucked up her relationship with Ethan is?

A man who tears her down doesn’t deserve her. A man who wallows in self-pity instead of making changes, instead of trying, doesn’t deserve her.

Just as I don’t deserve Sylus.

Maybe that’s the real reason you hate Ethan. A fact you don’t want to admit. He’s a quitter, like you. A complainer, like you. Someone who willfully and willingly hurts those he loves to selfishly protect his own heart, like you.

You may hide the beast within you better than him, but that doesn’t make it not exist. Reality doesn’t adhere to such rules. Ignoring a problem or something about yourself doesn’t make it go away.

Sylus’ gentle heat touching your skin pulls you out of the depressing spiral. And maybe it’s that sudden emotional shift that causes you to give into earlier impulsive thoughts.

You cup Sylus’ cheeks, bring his head down, and gingerly press your lips to the right side of his face. When you part, for once, you don’t bother to hide gooey glint that you know much be in your eyes. You show all that stirs in your heart. Storms of love and hurricanes of affection swirl in your irises.

Sylus must see them. He, at the very least, should have some idea of what they mean, because he gets closer. Holds his hands tighter around your hips. Stares at your lips in a way you’ve never seen him look at anything. With desperation. With hope.

With what your foolish heart believes to be love.

Ethan, of all people, rips you out of your fantasy and back to reality, “When you said they were stupidly in love, I thought you had to be exaggerating at least somewhat.”

The other reminder of your place comes in the next voice. “And now you owe me 50 bucks. I told you: they’re like a real life romance novel. Stupidly, and absolutely, in love.”

Removing yourself from Sylus after calming your racing heart and scolding yourself, you face Ethan and Miss Hunter. Flushed cheeks and wobbly gaits are what greet you. Ethan clearly more drunk than the hunter. Satisfaction weaves its way through both their threads. Their reasons couldn’t be more opposing.

Miss Hunter’s comes from success. For having her goal all the more closer to bring in her grasp. Ethan’s comes from a place arrogance. From having Miss Hunter cater to his ego and his wishes.

Funny how blind he is for someone supposedly better than that.

Ethan’s attitude, his pride and his blindness to all his errors and flaws, helps you to put the earlier thoughts to bed. Because you know you’re fucked in the head. You know you’ve messed up plenty. You know yourself to be the greatest mistake to walk this planet.

You’re not infallible. You know that.

I’m nothing like him. We only have superficial things in common. But I’m not a monster like him. I’m a different kind of monster.

“Ahh, you’re back, Missy. And here I thought I chased you off for good so that I can finally spend some time with my better half here.”

Sylus’ arms wrap around your midsection again and he moves you back to him. He’s still sitting in his chair. Going along with his act, you playfully slap his chest and giggle.

“Don’t be rude, Skye.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to be more truthful? This is me doing so.”

“Than learn to ‘do so’ without being rude!”

Sylus, for some fucking reason, laughs and presses a kiss on top of your head. You almost combust on the spot.

“I’ll try. For I would try anything to make you happy.”

The humor that laced all his previous words drains out with that last sentence. You don’t even need to look at or listen to his thread to know it’s the truth.

Stop doing this. Stop making me want to stay.

Moments like these make you ignore logic. Make you imagine a different future, one where Sylus is your soulmate and the only reason Miss Hunter is in your life is because of their strange history. A future where you are his present while he is her past.

She’s still your friend. The twins are still your boys. And you can be Sylus’ and he can be yours without anything restraining you. You can hold him, kiss him, love him without that knot in your stomach and that ball of threads of fate stuck in your throat.

“Such a charmer,” you tilt your head back and give into another one of your impulses by turning to burying your face in his neck.

Miss Hunter chuckles at the two of you, pointing at you with fake exasperation and wild gestures like you two have just committed some major offense (which, to be fair, you have), “See what I mean? Sappy. Sugary. And stupidly in love.”

“No wonder you needed to come out tonight. Anyone would after dealing with that constantly,” Ethan’s words wrench out another laugh from Miss Hunter, and Sophie joins her; both are poorly executed, and so obviously made just for show.

You laugh along with the group, even with how revulsion begins to pulse through your veins the longer you allow yourself to be in Sylus’ arms.

”This isn’t your place,” the apparitions of your past chant.

”That’s my place,” Miss Hunter joins in watching the show of you falling apart inside your head; in reality, she’s still in work mode. In your mind, she’s disgusted with you.

“You know, since you two have soured the mood with your grossness, we should go somewhere else,” Miss Hunter turns to Ethan, and the way her threads shift remind you of a pack of wild dogs who’ve just run down their prey after miles of sprinting. “Like that private room you mentioned your father owned? I know it’s for VIP and all, but come on… make an exception. Please.”

Ethan, just like you, bends to her whims so easily. “Of course! You, doll, deserve to see it all.”

Something possess the man, and he turns to you as well. “As well as you, miss. And I suppose I can also extend an invite to your… company.”

“I’d be honored.”

Sylus is tense as the words come out. He holds you closer to him, even as the five of you follow Ethan through security in the back of the building and down many, many, hallways. His touch never leaves you: on the small of your back, or one large hand on your hip.

You wish he would let you go. You wish he would hold on, tighter, firmer.

He makes it so hard leave.

—

You only partake in drinks on the first round. The wineglass left over from that delivery is still in your hand. Studying the expensive little thing, you spare few glances to watch Miss Hunter and Ethan toss back shot after shot.

Glad I prepared for this.

Since you know little of her alcohol tolerance, you gave your friend a “medication” to help her stay sober. In reality, you’ve just been tweaking her thread here and there. Yet another new ability coming about from hearing that song of the universe when she absorbed that Aether Core.

You do the opposite to Ethan and Sophie. Make them loosen up their muscles, inhibitions, and tongues. The threads entrance you, pull you into their hearts and souls. It’s comforting. It’s the place you’d rather be than here, constantly having to pretend like you and Sylus are together despite knowing you’ll never have it.

Despite knowing you’ll have to give it all up as soon as this is over.

“Are you seriously going to just sit there?” Ethan’s invasiveness is an unwelcome distraction.

“Why yes I am. I’m a lightweight, and I’d rather not burden my partner with going over my limits.”

A pointed glare between the two you says everything that those words really mean. Fixed gazes—you and Ethan—on one another, for only a second. But that second yells out the truth.

“Skye, your woman is such a bore. And a prude.”

Before anyone can respond to him, he places a possessive hand on Sophie’s shoulder. The young woman flinches; distress floods her thread and all your rage comes rushing back.

Calm down. Breathe. Now is not the time.

The piece of shit is talking still, “…You know, she’s too much like the old Sophie. Always complaining. Never wanting to go out and drink and just experience life. Took some time for me to get this one on board to see my side of things—which is the right side of things, let me tell—and now, things are better. I don’t know how you deal with it, Skye. You two have been together for what, 2 years? And she’s still like this?”

“That’s your way of life. This is mine. Deal with it,” you send a pulse through his thread as you speak.

That pulse is one with many goals. To get him to fuck off. To guilt him for his treatment of Sophie. To motivate him to do better and get out of his own head and do something about the shitty things in his life instead of lazing about. That’s the goal. That’s the emotions, the thoughts, the traumas, the details that you push into his soul.

All it does is make the jackass slouch back on the fancy couch he sits on, give you a bright smile with those wretched teeth you want to slowly pry out of his mouth with a fork and a butter knife. “Alright, alright. Chill, Miss. I’ll drop it. But I’m still ordering drinks for you. If you take some or not, I won’t say anything. Just remember, I’m paying; it’s on my card, and you owe me.”

That man from your past makes his presence known again. On Ethan’s face. On his hands. On his feet. On his clothing. In his eyes.

Imprints of the bruises you had from back then throb to life. Your wrists. Your face. His skin under your fingernails. His blood mixing with your blood on your palms.

Disgusting. Centipedes of memories crawling through the dirt of your skin, of the groundwater of your blood. Tainting it. Changing it. Warping it.

“Sure,” is all you say, smile on your face and eyes back on the wineglass.

—

“Time to go party again!”

Unsteady feet try to make it to the door. Sylus gets up to help stabilize Miss Hunter. She shakes him off, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender before returning to stand near the door. She, still acting like she’s completely wasted, turns and jabs a finger in your general direction.

“And you!” she pauses, waiting for your acknowledgement, so you point your own index finger at yourself and tilt your head at her. “You stay here!”

Amused, you shake your head at her. “And just why would I do that?”

“Because you,” she points at you more vigorously. “Are a party-pooper. And I’ll be having fun, with Sophie, without you.”

She comes back over to grab said woman, who has a hesitant tremble in her thread, before trying to leave again.

“Whatever you say, sweetie.”

“Not gonna invite me, doll?”

All the tension that Miss Hunter’s antics melted comes back in full force. Your springs have been turned again, pin in you cranked over and over again. Ethan’s voice makes you feel like someone almost let that pin go. Like you’re going to explode out of your box.

Calm down. Not now. Mission almost over.

That much is clear by Miss Hunter’s thread. She’s completely sober. And now, with Ethan out of it and the club getting even more busier, she can act. She’s gotten access to the backrooms. She knows enough to get the documents she needs.

We can leave. We can leave and I can blow off some steam. Spend some time away.

“No! You’re looking for a different kind of fun. I won’t be able to have my fun with you,” and your friend waltzes out with Sophie, making a sort of zigzag pattern with her gait while the other woman tries to keep her straight.

Ethan rolls his eyes, snorts, and moves to lay down on the chaise.

“I don’t know what kind of fun she’s looking for, but she’s asking for some guy to get the wrong impression like me. I’d bet money she’ll be waking up tomorrow in some strange man’s hotel room or something.”

His eyes are on you as he says this, head tipped over the edge of the furniture he lays across. Like he’s mocking you. Like he knows how his words affect you. The spiders are back, rubbing the ends of their feet on your nerves and their silk in your veins.

“Why don’t you go keep an eye on her, Skye? She’ll be all pouty if I go, and I’d hate for something to happen to her.”

Sylus gets off from leaning on the wall, walks to you, takes your right hand, and presses his lips to it. “Of course, sweetie.”

And the smug bastard just leaves after that. You’re left with Ethan, scrambling to keep your face relaxed and keep it together so that what just happened comes off as normal. Because this wasn’t him kissing your head, where your hair makes it so you don’t feel it.

This wasn’t some private moment between the two of you in the safety of home. Or him simply touching you like he has been all night.

I can still feel the contours of his lips on the back of my hand. Warm. Soft. Gentle.

How would those same lips feel against yours? Against your chest? Against your thighs? Against—

You cut off your imagination by taking one of your unfinished drinks, pouring it into the wineglass you’ve been messing with since you got into this room, and gulping down whatever it is.

Don’t go there, you disgusting woman. Don’t go there.

Ethan’s eyes are on you, beady little things that sap the strength out of your limbs. You hate him. And his eyes. And his face. And his stupid teeth.

”Take his life. Rip out his thread. Free both Sophie and yourself from those cursed eyes of his.”

You don’t do any of that. Instead, you pour one of your other untouched drinks into his cup and hand it to him.

“Let’s chat.”

That smile of his is back as he sits up, his features shifting to one of curiosity.

“Oh? And why should I, given how rude you’ve been tonight, doll?”

You shrug. “Am I being rude or am I being mysterious? Am I being rude or becoming more and more something you want to conqueror?”

You sigh, sprawling out on the chaise you once shared with Sylus, “Because while I love Skye and his riches and his kindness, he’s not… adventurous enough for me. Doesn’t break me out of my shell. Makes me a… a ‘prude’, I believe you called me.”

“And you believe I’m adventurous, doll?”

“Don’t know. How about you tell me some things?”

You elongate his thread so that it can float between your fingers even while you lay away from him.

Pinching and looping the thread, you make him more relaxed. More drunk. More confident. And he begins to spill. As he does, you finally switch the mics in your earrings on again.

“Ran into a bit of trouble. The guards here are… thorough,” comes from Miss Hunter.

Sylus quips back, “What exactly did you expect from them, dear Hunter?”

“Hey! Why don’t you say that louder? I don’t think Sophie, the partner of our target, quite heard you.”

You can imagine the look on your Morana’s face: smirk, eyes alight with arrogance and amusement, eye brows slightly raised. “Calm down, kitten. You’ll hurt yourself saying such biting words. She’s in the bathroom, currently.”

“Why?” your friend pipes up, a little out of breath.

“So many questions…” he chuckles. “Don’t you have a mission to get to?”

Miss Hunter scoffs. “I’m almost done. Just skimming over some documents right now.”

Sylus laughs. Inwardly, you’re right there with him.

“That was quick. Seems my partner has taught you well.”

“Why do say that?”

You try not to take offense at her question. Because it’s just banter. Just conversation between two soulmates that you’re hearing only because you want to drown out whatever nonsense is coming out of Ethan’s mouth.

But their back and forth makes you feel so lonely. So isolated. At the same time, it prepares you. For this feeling of being left out, them being so absorbed by each other to the point where you’re just background noise, is your future.

This instance, you’re left out because you can’t talk. Because you have company right in front of you. Company you don’t want to engage with.

He’s still rambling. Still shit-talking his father, Sophie, his mother, and anyone he can think of. Saying how he feels you’re too uptight. That his mother is too demanding. That his father is too critical of him. That Sophie is too careless with how she rubs her success and her career in his face when she talks about it.

You occasionally nod along and hum at the appropriate breaks in his stream of consciousness. All while you hands ache to wrap around his throat. Or turn one of the many cups on the table in front of your chaises into a makeshift weapon.

Clinging to your wineglass, you take deep breaths. Remind yourself of your role in this world: a helper of soulmates. Unconditional love is something you’ll never have. Unconditional love, soulmate love, is the representation of one’s worth. Never will you ever have that love, that worth. Bringing other people together, mending their hearts and their lives, is where you get your worth.

And if that’s not enough, I know the pain it causes when one’s soulmate dies. Do I really want to do that to Sophie?

“How did you and Sophie meet? I got the story from her eyes, so I’d like to get it from you?”

“Why?”

“Perspective tells a lot about a person. And I happen to believe the lens you view you two’s first encounter differs from hers.”

You say the words with interest, with the intent to nudge Ethan to open his mouth further about deeper things. His thread tells you he believes you want his story because you believe in him. That you think he’s more credible. That he’s better.

A little attention is all this man needs to focus on the task at hand, apparently.

“A promotion was up for grabs in my dad’s company a couple years back. He wanted to take me and the other candidate to Skyhaven to see some Professor in order to test our skills. I ran into Sophie trying to find the Professor to further discuss my proposal to him. He claimed to be busy, but I think he would’ve really wanted to hear my idea!”

You nod along, tilting your head and humming to give the impression you’re really taking his words to heart. But every self-centered comment, every way he tries to boost his ego, jabs the claws of hatred deeper into your chest. Causing more than just discomfort or anger, his words dig and dig.

“So, anyway… Sophie was no help. It took forever for her to even take her head out of her stack of books and papers to notice me. And when she does, it’s too late. I have to go back to my father, and the Professor decided to work with my opposition.”

Ethan tries to keep dejection out of his voice. Dejection and betrayal cloud his thread. But beneath those layers of bravado is something else: the familiar feeling of being a let down, of being nothing.

”Nothing you have is yours,” says his thread. ”What have you done with your useless life? What was the point of you being born?”

In a way, his insecurities make it all the easier and harder to hate him. Harder because your stupid bleeding heart can’t help but sympathize with everyone and everything it comes into contact with. Easier because, well… it’s no excuse.

Make it work, Gamayun. Make that coal of pain into a diamond of growth.

So, as you always do, you relate, “Reminds me of when I came to work for Skye.”

“How so?”

“I joined as his employee because I wasn’t being respected. Seeing how he and my old boss, who was also a former competitor of his, treated their workers is what made me shift.”

Hooking Ethan is simple. Relating to this part of him, the part he acknowledges and is constantly there, gives you something to work with.

“Skye showed himself to business savvy and to actually give a shit about those under him,” you mess with the thin neck of your glass again, melancholy pulsing through your veins. “He proved he could be both ruthless when needed, but also tender and loving when the situation called for. Something my former management never even attempted to do so. So, of course I switched sides. No one wants to follow someone who doesn’t show them basic decency.”

Ethan’s own emotions seem to intertwine with your own. His discontent. His rage. His guilt. They all scurry on your skin, hopping and skipping across the canvas of your body. You play with his thread between the fingers of your empty hand again, prying at the memories that circulate his soul and forcing him to confront said memories.

You don’t expect major changes. Not now, anyway. But you can push him to seek to do so.

One little nudge. One little push is all it takes for everything to change.

An unfamiliar giggle interrupts your plans. You drop Ethan’s thread and let it retreat back to him to look at the door at the intrusion. It’s Miss Hunter—who’s still acting drunk and being carried haphazardly by Sylus on his back—Sophie, and your Morana. Sophie’s the one laughing. Her eyes no longer carry the weight of the universe in them.

The sight before you tampers down all the complications Ethan’s presence had brought forth. Comfort returns. Joy returns. And that laughter, that free and open sound, is something that brings a real smile to your face. Fuzzy and warm and gooey, your body is no longer shackled by Ethan Orion.

“I thought I told you to loosen up and have fun, not be a whore.”

Bubbling turmoil in your throat. Body goes stiff. Heartbeats in your head, so loud and so powerful, you’re surprised you can still sit upright.

Your dread is made worse by Ethan’s next comment, “Because if that’s what you are, than you have no excuse not to do what my friends asked of you.”

Sophie’s fear. Sylus’ disgust. Miss Hunter’s anger. Ethan’s guilt. So many emotions. But you’re numb. Hollow. As if that bleeding heart of yours has been scooped out and pinned onto the table.

You don’t even hear the crack of the glass of your cup as you smash it against said table. Nor do you register the screams of Ethan as you press your new weapon against his neck.

Hard, do you press. Hard and slow, do you drag the broken object across his neck.

Fast, do you summon Sophie’s thread to your side. Fast and precise, do you put her to sleep as you sever her connection Ethan.

Smash. Cut. Snip.

One second, all in the word is right. The next, you’re killing Ethan and there’s one less soulmate pair in the world.

One second, Sophie has her other half. The next, her bond with him is destroyed and she’s all alone.

One second, you’re playing your role as a diplomat, as a woman who uses her words rather than any physical weapon. The next, you’ve discarded that all to act like a hurt child.

One second, you’re Gamayun. The next, you’re Moirai.

—

A blur. That’s what the world’s become for you. You think someone’s talking to you. You think you’re being led out of the club at some point. You think you’re transported in a car to somewhere.

A blur. That’s all that everything has become.

You think you’e crying. You think you’re saying something. Your jaw moves, your hands ache. Are you bleeding anywhere? Are you the words coming out of your mouth even coherent?

A blur. That’s what your thoughts are. Of the shock in Ethan’s eyes as you ended his miserable life. Of Sophie’s screams of terror as you take away the man she foolishly loves.

A blur.

You play the moment on repeat. Cup against the table. The life of another gushing onto your fingers. Yells. Pleas. Worries. Nothing was clear. Nothing is clear.

No. Something is.

Something is abundantly clear. It’s obvious. It’s staring you in the face, even as you try to run from it by retreating into your mind.

Why was he worthy and not me?

Why does a monster like Ethan deserve love, and not you? Why were you born a monster while he chose to be one?

You blink. Once. Twice. And then…

A blur. That’s what the world’s become for you.

—

Gentle contact against your cheek takes away the numbness. A shaky touch. A fearful touch. But you feel it all the same. And you jolt back upon that little bit of contact on your skin.

Sylus is there, crouched before you. Your hands form fists as they bunch fabric between their fingers. You know this fabric well. Even without looking around, you know this is Sylus’ room. It’s your second home, after all. You know it all too well.

Pain. Bursts of it sprinkles those hands. Not much. Only enough for you to use that sense, that spark, as something to hold onto. With that focus comes knowledge. The knowledge of Sylus’ eyes and the guilt and shame and concern that swim within in them.

The agony of your hands migrates to your heart. Words evade you. Jaw muscles lock, larynx constricts. To speak, to reassure him, is an impossible task.

Speak, you fool. Speak. Speak. Speak. Speak—

“Breathe,” his soft command is the next thing you decide to hold onto for safety.

You do as he says. In and out. Slow and deep. His eyes are still on you. He no longer even tries to touch you. But he hovers, just out of reach, for if you need him. For if you fall again.

“Can I take your shoes off?”

He doesn’t move. Eyes stare right into yours. Pools of rubies, so soft and so lovely. They’re the red of fate, of blood. Yet, all they provide is comfort. All they are is an anchor.

You nod. Your Morana shakes his head.

“Use your words, Gamayun. Use that beautiful song of yours to guide me.”

Scoffing, you try your hand at doing what he asks, “‘Beautiful’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe how I sound right now. I know you’re tone deaf, Morana, but those ears of yours need serious checking if the wretched noises I’m making right now sounds melodious to you.”

The chuckle he lets out soothes even the most broken parts of you somewhat. “And that’s where you’re wrong, my sweet siren. For your voice is a composition that no technology, record player, or singer could ever compare to. It’s the song I treasure above all others.”

Why… Why must you do this to me?

Tears blur your vision this time instead of dissociation. Love burns in your chest instead of guilt. You flush with affection instead of embarrassment. The pain in your heart is a good kind of hurt instead of one you yearn to toss away.

I love you. I love you so damn much.

Those words—his words—mean so more to you than Sylus can ever imagine.

Someone values my words, my voice. Someone longs for it that much, cherishes it that much.

A volcano of emotions threatens to tear you asunder. To rip you apart, piece by piece.

“Flatter me later. You’ve got shoes to remove,” you hope the tremble in your voice isn’t as audible as you think.

“Yes ma’am,” you roll your eyes at him.

It’s hard to stay in a playful mood when he’s so careful with you, undoing the bindings of your shoes and setting each aside. You’ve rarely seen him handle anything with such delicate movements, like he expects something to shatter or go wrong if he’s too harsh.

Thankfully, this process doesn’t go for long. Your shoes are off before you know it.

“Bath or straight to bed? I’ll run it if you choose the former.”

“You my butler all of sudden, boss?”

“No,” his smile is enchanting, and you wish your heart was fortified by steel or tungsten instead of brittle ice. “Just your dear partner.”

You hum in agreement, because what else are you meant to do when he uses such sweet words.

His affection, his softness, and his eyes all cause your response to come out cracked and broken, “Bath. I stink. And I’d hate to sleep with blood under my nails.”

It’s than you finally realize there’s no glass on your hands. Gingerly wrapped bandages dot your fingers and palms, already cleaned and dressed to perfection.

“This your handiwork,” you wave your right hand slowly at Sylus while he stands.

“Of course.”

“And Miss Hunter?”

“Cleaning up. Along with our pesky children.”

You snort at him again, conjuring the picture of the twins and Simurgh working with your friend. Four people, all drawn to getting themselves into trouble, left to their own devices to clean up your fuck up.

Seems I’ve squandered my role.

Screw ups—true, and serious errors—are rare for you. Having the ultimate persuasion tool in the form of threads of fate makes it hard for you to fall flat on your face. You rewrite the wrongs of others, sweep away the messes they cause with their failures in business. Only once have you made a flub like this.

Lucian.

You slaughtered him as you did Ethan. Only he was far, far, worse. And his death brought you one of the greatest gifts of your life: your new name.

I definitely won’t be getting anything like that here.

Why would Sylus give you anything here? You murdered someone useful, someone easy to bend to your will and pluck at for resources. Made an enemy out of someone annoying and powerful. Completely ruined Miss Hunter’s mission. And to top it all off, you had a mini mental breakdown, so you didn’t even have the curtesy to fix things up yourself.

“What are you thinking about so deeply, Gamayun?”

Sylus comes out of the bathroom, a small towel in hands. He’s still drying them as he approaches you.

You deflect, “Just that I don’t have much in terms of clothing here. My fault, of course, for not getting around to laundry.”

“You know I hire people to do that, right?”

“So? I like my independence. And despite my current state, I’d love to keep it that way.”

“Whatever you say, Gamayun,” he grins at you and comes even closer, sitting next you on his gigantic bed. “I’ve run you a bath. It’s not too hot or cold, since I still remember the tongue lashing you gave me when I once screwed up the temperature.”

“That nonsense you called ‘warm water’ was scorching and you know it. And I still believe you were trying to boil me alive.”

Sylus has no concept of temperature differences for dragons vs humans. He takes his showers in scalding hot water, to the point where you sometimes he does it like that to test his regeneration by constantly burning himself. It’s worrisome. And the amount of steam that comes out when he does this is nothing to sneeze at.

Just another interesting habit of your love you wonder about. Was that just what was done in his past life? Did his family in this one continue this? Was bathing himself in warmth just the young fiend’s way of staving off the loneliness his isolation caused? Or did he want to burn away the imprints of the past?

Is Astrid the same?

“And just why would I do that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe to cook me in one of those stews or something?”

“So I’m haggard old witch that cooks pretty maidens now?”

His signature smirk is on his face, but there’s more to it. Comfort. Peace. Worry. Concern. Affection. Care.

It’s all too much for your spinning brain.

“Yes. But you’re mistaken: I’m no maiden.”

“Than what are you?”

“The faithful pure black bird that remains by your side. And Miss Hunter is the pure white cat that you seem to enjoy teasing.”

Something shifts in Sylus. He stands, and hoists you up into his arms. One is under your knees, the other, braces your mid-back.

He looks at you with fondness, “Nevermind that, pretty bird. Back to your talk about clothes. Would you like to go and scavenge for what you have while I watch your water?”

You don't even acknowledge the new pet name. “No. I’ll leave it up to my Morana. You claim to have better taste in fashion than I. So prove it.”

His grip tightens on you slightly before he continues to the bathroom and gradually lowers you to deposit you onto a chair in the bathroom.

“Alright. I’ll leave your clothes under the door,” he looks like he’s going to say something else, or do something else judging by how he leans closer to you, before changing his mind. “Have a good soak.”

You expect him to say you’ll talk later. You expect his thread to swirl with questions, with uncertainties. None of that happens. He just leaves you there, drowning in your thoughts as you contemplate just plunging your head under the water in his massive tub and never resurfacing.

Instead, you strip and slowly lower yourself into the water. Sylus was right; he got the temperature perfect. And you let yourself breathe as you sink in the water, lifting your hands occasionally to swat at bubbles.

Time flies. You’re not sure how long you spend there, just sitting and scrubbing than sitting again and scrubbing your body again. You scrub hard. Like you’re trying to erase any evidence of your failure from your hands.

Because while Ethan deserved to die, Sophie didn’t deserve to lose him. Miss Hunter, Sylus, the twins, and Simurgh didn’t deserve the inconvenience your impulsive decision caused them.

And I don’t deserve this treatment.

You failed. You failed in a such a monumentous manner that there’s no excuses. No way of talking yourself out of this. No way of convincing Sylus or anyone else that this can be fixed.

You snapped. You let emotion take control. Again. You lost yourself. Again. After keeping it together for so many years. After keeping that mask of yours on for so long. It’s finally been moved. Sylus has once again caught a glimpse into the real you.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Maybe this failure will drive Sylus away? He’ll mistrust you, begin to distance himself from someone as unstable as you. And you’ll have the perfect reason to disappear into the night.

As you get out the bathtub and dry yourself off, you hope that’s all that happens. That he says nothing as he pulls away in disgust. That he just drifts out of view before you take off.

I couldn’t handle him voicing any of this. I don’t want to hear the truth from him.

The truth that he’s not yours. The truth that he loves another. The truth that you’re a monster who pretends to be this kind and caring person. Because while you do care too much, you hate it.

Hate how you let so many people into your heart while also trusting few. Hate how everyone sees you as this angel that finds the value in every life, when really, you just don’t want to imagine the pain in their soulmate’s heart. Hate that your horrible power makes you invest yourself into others time and time again, only to be disappointed.

You hate how fake you are. How you’re expected to always have the right thing to say when sometimes, you just want to scream and cry and curse at the universe.

You struggle under the weight of expectations. That weight seems to have taken form in the shape of the water that clings to your body. You’re too tired to properly dry it off.

Cracking the bathroom door, you quickly bring the clothes in before closing it again. You don’t turn the lock. You didn’t lock it when Sylus left, and you won’t do so now.

The second you unfurl the shirt he got you, tears break your waterline. Because you know this is one of his. You cradle it in your hands in a death grip that’s some how still delicate. You want to pull it close, to bask in the unique smell of your love and the soft fabric he wears, but you can’t bare to damage it with your touch. It deserves better treatment than to be in contact your filthy skin.

So you cradle it to your naked chest. Silent tears slip down your cheeks.

This is the last time. I’ll never be as close to him right now ever again. After tonight, I’ll no longer be his Gamayun.

Sylus will realize how untrue his nickname is for you. He’ll take away the label because he’ll know he’s fallen for the lies of a false prophet. He’ll leave because he’ll know how much of a failure you are.

No true Gamayun would turn to the violence you displaced. No being that speaks truth and whose words as a lovely as Sylus claims yours to be would do what you did: a hasty decision.

You’re meant to be a planner, to be calm and in control at all times. Not snap just because of one abusive man. You’ve remained methodical and calculated while doing business with people who’ve done much worse, whose hands have actual blood on theirs rather than just some scathing words.

So why did you lose composure? Why did you go against everything you stand for?

”You know why,” your parents are the ones to torment you this time. ”You know exactly why.”

It’s hard to open the door a second time. But you have to face Sylus eventually. Even if he fires you here and now. Even if those garnet eyes of his narrow in disgust and he kicks you out his room.

Or will he keep the act up for tonight? Embrace you, cherish you, care for, one last time. Sylus isn’t a cruel man. Cutting you off suddenly after a night like tonight would seem terrible. His own soulmate wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior.

Maybe he’ll pretend? Put on a mask just like me.

That would be the worst option. For him to force himself to talk to you, to laugh with you, to care for you, for the sake of his other half.

You hope the tremors that threaten to consume your body aren’t visible. Sylus looks up from the book he’s reading, glasses slipping down his face when he does. His robe—the fancy shit you haven’t seen him sleep in for some time—isn’t open for a change.

He doesn’t want to chance you touching his bare skin there, so close to his heart. Too initimate.

The world crumbles at your feet.

”You failed. You showed him who you truly are: a mistake that can’t even complete a simple task, the one task you were born to do.”

You don’t know whose voices it is this time. Your parents? An old teacher or professor? Your own?

Either way, they make things worse. Your eyes dart towards the exit.

“Come here.”

Sylus beckons you with his hand, his Evol swirling around your waist. The familiar energy isn’t demanding, isn’t suffocating. It doesn’t even move you. But it does make you change your mind. Sylus takes off his glasses while you approach the bed.

You plop down on the other side, as far away from him as you can manage. You think you’re still shaking.

“Why so far away?”

He’s still sounds so loving, so caring, so gentle. Like he’s trying not to spook you.

“No matter. Since I can see my precious bird is still dripping in some places, even from all the way over here, is it alright with you if I help dry them off?”

You nod.

“Use your words, Gamayun. Remember?” he chuckles. “Don’t deprive me of my favorite sound.”

“Y-yes,” a choked back sob breaks apart your answer.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stu—

“I’ll come to you this time.”

He crouches in front of you again. His eyes and face and entire body are soft and caring and loving again. What’s new is the tear that falls down your cheek. You try to stop it, but your body doesn’t listen.

Crack, goes the foundation of your image. Snap, goes the dam you built to keep the tides away. Drip, drip, drip, your tears go.

No comment from Sylus. Only caring touches you don’t deserve. From your hair, to your face, to your arms.

“I’ll have to go under your shirt, sweetie. The water from your hair’s caused quite a mess. Is that alright?”

“It’s your shirt. No skin off my nose.”

You sound gross. Shattered. Broken. A mess that can’t be cleaned, an object that can’t be fixed.

Useless.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” you scold yourself for the harsh tone that comes out.

His warm hands, and the towel, slip under the shirt you wear. Ghosts of his heat directly on your skin. Every brush, every small stroke, makes you long for more. Cry out for more. Pray and plead and scream for the world to let you have this one little thing.

Ditch the shirt and touch me for real. Let me enjoy you the truest way one can before you dump me on the side of the road.

What point is there to you holding back your desires when you’ve already destroyed this relationship for good? Sylus pretends not to see it, to not be aware of how screwed the both of you are. You know this because of how he hums off key and how forgiving he handles you. Like you still matter. Like you still have a purpose.

Like you’re still his Gamayun.

He goes down your body, pausing again at your thighs, “I’ll need to go here as well. Everything will be done, then.”

“Okay. Go on.”

Your mumbles aren’t as bad as before. They’re not the wretched echoes of a torn throat and a woman who’s falling apart. They’re somewhat normal. Almost barable, even. Your tears have stopped as well.

Endure. Escape. Rebuild becomes your mantra, your only thoughts, as Sylus glides the towel down your inner thighs.

But even those three simple words fail you, and you can’t keep yourself from asking, “Why?”

It’s just one word. One word that shouldn’t say so much, shouldn’t effect you so much. It’s asked when it shouldn’t be. It comes out of your mouth when it should’ve stay locked inside of you, away from Sylus and everything else in the world.

Why? Why don’t you ask questions? Why do you handle me with such softness when I fucked up so horrifically? Why, why, why? Why do you make me love you?

“Because I know you, my dear Gamayun. I know you very well. So I know you wouldn’tve resorted to violence if there wasn’t a good reason.”

He stops drying your body, “Ethan Orion isn’t worth your tears. And if you didn’t end him, I imagine I or Miss Hunter would’ve. Neither of us would’ve been as kind as you had.”

You try to speak, but Sylus shushes you and gets even closer to you to lay his forehead on yours. “That man isn’t worth your pity, your guilt, or any of your pain. He wasn’t worth the glass you shattered in order to end his life. And since I know you know this, I know there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

He laughs at himself; not the usual chuckle that brings life to the butterflies in your stomach and makes you feel on top of the world, but one that kills the joy in your veins and brings you crashing down into an abyss.

“I should’ve seen it. Seen how something was bothering you. That you were drowning. I claim to know you so well, yet I was blind to your suffering. I couldn’t hear your cries for help over the sound of my arrogance and selfishness.”

He removes his forehead from yours, walks to the bathroom, and comes back with your dirty clothes. His Evol consumes them, and you know instinctually, he’s warped them to the laundry room downstairs.

He doesn’t want to leave. Not even for a second. Not even for some menial task.

When he lays back down on the bed, close to you but not touching you, you expect this to be the time when the illusion crumbles. That he’ll kick you out. That he’ll push you away. That he’ll abandon you. You can barely look at him as you brace for impact. But you still turn around to face, to enjoy the vision of those eyes of his.

They’re still so warm, so soft, so gentle, “Will you stay with me?”

“Yes,” you croak out.

“Will you let me hold you?” his arms are already spread out for you to crash into him.

You don’t use words. You just hop into his embrace. This time, Sylus asks for no clarification. This time, he doesn’t need it.

And this time, when the waterworks begin, you don’t hold back. It’s obscene, vulgar. You devolve into a pool of coughing, snot, and tears. Throat torn by the force of your feelings. Eyes throbbing. Body freezing.

Deeper and deeper do you try to entomb yourself into Sylus’ embrace. It would be a beautiful place to die, to rest for all of eternity. To let all the voices in your head drift off, to only let in the sound of his steady heartbeat.

Tears splash on his expensive robe.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I ruin everything.”

It hurts to speak. You feel like a child again. An invisible hand is choking you, strangling you, because these words are uneccessay. They’re meaningless. No one will listen to them. No one cares to hear them.

“You could never ruin anything,” he strokes the top of your head and brings you impossibly closer to his chest. “Tell me. What’s on your mind?”

The wounded little girl in you weeps at his words. Falls to her knees in that room in your old friend’s house where everything went to shit. The cries she lets out aren’t tinged with sorrow, for a change.

“I’m so fucking tired!” You let yourself scream. Raise your voice. Let out everything that’s been crushing you for so long that the weight has distorted your heart and mind and you no longer recognize either as your own. “Of caring. I wish my stupid, foolish, worthless fucking heart would just shut the fuck up sometimes! That it would just let me hate without the guilt.

“I’m so fucking tired of being the bigger person with each and every time. Forgiving everyone. Acting like just breathing isn’t hard. I’m so fucking tired, Sylus, of coming up with excuses and sob stories and sympathies for monsters that this world would be better off without.

“I’m so fucking tired of being forced time and time again to put myself after everyone. Even strangers! And when I try for even a second to care for myself, there’s some sick prime time show in my mind that hits me over and over again over the head about the fact that I’m nothing. They treat me like a monster, like anything I’ve been through wasn’t that bad, and if it was, I deserved it. Because I’m not allowed to hurt!"

You have to stop for a second, a final cough ripping through your mouth, “I’m so fucking tired of hating myself.”

Those finishing words are a whisper. It is all you can manage. One of Sylus’ hands in still on the back of your head. His other arm curls around your waist, his palm spread wide on your mid back. You think he’s saying something, but your ears no longer pick it up.

You’re too tired. Too fucking tired.

So, your sleep-addled brain thinks it hears him hushing you more. You think you hear him call you sweetie, sweetheart, and Gamayun. You think you hear him call you my love, right before you succumb to exhaustion.

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: What's your hometown like? What's some of the things you did in your childhood there? (I need some ideas for a second date chapter).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

#ikigai #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x non!mc reader #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #sylus qin x reader #sylus x reader #sylus angst #sylus x mc #sylus x non mc #sylus x nonmc #sylus x nonmc reader

348 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 5 days ago

Text

I needed a good laugh. Now my face hurts from smiling so much.

Birthday post - Boyfriend Sylus

Posts on the TL w/ boyfriend Sylus during your birthday trip

misshuntermc

♥️ liked by skye.109, thing1_luke, simonesays and 204k others

misshuntermc: Private Jet Princess

tagged: skye.109

comments

skye.109: Only the best for Her Majesty

↳ misshuntermc: Is that why I have you? ↳ skye.109: If I’m the best in your eyes then I accept your kind words

liiisa_: Lmk if you can read this 👀

↳ misshuntermc: Yes? ↳ liiisa_: Okay just seeing if my broke ass comment would show up at all 😮‍💨 ↳ simonesays: LISA PLEASE! ↳ nene.nero: Fortunately for us she can understand brokey since she’s always around us ↳ misshuntermc: Now nero why would you…..

thing1_luke: @/thing2_kieran wtf do these comments above me say? 🤔

↳ thing2_kieran: Man I couldn’t tell you 🤷🏻‍♂️ ↳ skye.109: I’m cutting you two off ↳ thing1_luke: WAIT WAIT! ↳ thing2_kieran: WE’RE SORRY! ↳ talkthat_tara: This just sent me to the morgue🤣

— View 58 more comments

skye.109

♥️ liked by misshuntermc, thing1_luke, imjenna and 48k others

skye.109: I think someone likes her birthday gift

tagged: misshuntermc

comments

misshuntermc: So how much was the trip?

↳ skye.109: We don’t look at prices over here ↳ misshuntermc: You hear that? Something’s purrin’ 😈

simonesays: @/misshuntermc please I just found out my car needs an oil change 🫠

↳ talkthat_tara: Now I really wanna know how much this trip cost ↳ liiisa_: No you really don’t ↳ misshuntermc: Y’all are acting like I don’t spoil you with his money all the time ↳ skye.109: OUR money

thing1_luke: The cannon ball I would do into this pool would be devious 🙂‍↕️

↳ thing2_kieran: I’d do a front flip off the roof into it 🕺🏻 ↳ misshuntermc: and you wonder why we left you at home ↳ thing1_luke: Use me as a ‘why do you hate me’ button → — liked by liiisa_, talkthat_tara, simonesays, imjenna and 10 others ↳ misshuntermc: LMAO????

— View 20 more comments

skye.109

♥️ liked by misshuntermc, simonesays, thing2_kieran and 35k others

skye.109: So the worlds unfair keep it locked out there

tagged: misshuntermc

comments

misshuntermc: In here it’s beautiful ; let’s make this beautiful

↳ skye.109: That works for me

simonesays: HEATHERS REFERENCE????

↳ misshuntermc: YUUUHHH ↳ skye.109: I see you have good taste in musicals

liiisa_: a 6’5” crime boss thats a lover boy …. God when??? 🫩

↳ nene.nero: Sometimes I forget that this man is a whole crime boss ↳ misshuntermc: Me too PFFFFTT ↳ imjenna: To be fair that has nothing to do with us ↳ simonesays: That part 🤏🏼 ↳ nene.nero: Sylus? Never heard of him🤔 ↳ talkthat_tara: I can’t even really see fr you know? 🫤 ↳ liiisa_: last I checked he was a fruit vendor 🥴 ↳ skye.109: Such a classy and intelligent bunch

— View 32 more comments

skye.109

♥️ liked by misshuntermc, nene.nero, talkthat_tara and 39k others

skye.109: I want endless memories with you … Happy Birthday Princess

tagged: misshuntermc

comments

misshuntermc: Thank you baby 🥰

↳ misshuntermc: Gaaahhhhleeee I look flawless ↳ skye.109: You’re a masterpiece sweetie

liiisa_: Omg my bed is soaked now 😮‍💨

↳ misshuntermc: @/gray.sun come get your girl

talkthat_tara: Just one chance please 😣

↳ misshuntermc: My man said no

simonesays: Girlie! Forget my man IM ON THIS APP 😈

↳ misshuntermc: Y’all are sending me right now ☠️

thing1_luke: HAPPY MF BIRTHDAY! 🎂🥳

thing2_kieran: HAPPY COOCHIE EVICTION DAY!! 🥳🥳

↳ simonesays: Kieran?????? ↳ talkthat_tara: HELLO??? ↳ misshuntermc: KIERAN SHUTCHO ASS UP STOP REPEATING WHAT I SAY ↳ thing2_kieran: A normal person would just say thank you 😔

— View 98 more comments

134 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 6 days ago

Text

Literally going to binge this as soon as possible

The crow's song

Chapter 1 - Early goodbyes

Chapter 2 - Unfulfilled wishes

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

#lass’ to read

64 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 6 days ago

Text

No but for real. That moment when my brain goes “hmmm, I want a nonmc fic about time travel revenge or like this other story I’m reading” and now I just put as one of my many drafts.

I swear, when I finally finish Ikigai, I’m going to flood the world with one shots as I outline Sonder and Kintsugi.

ughhhh i have this nonMC concept in my head but i’m not a writer idk how to flesh it out </3 i’m just so starved for nonMC fics that aren’t just unrequited love angst. i need drama and plot twists and tension!! give me a love triangle! hidden motives! secrets! i might just have to lock in and learn how to write so i can give myself what i need LMAO

86 notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 6 days ago

Text

Read a Reddit post like this and I’m smiling

ꨄ︎ dad!sylus, mom!reader

You and Sylus fight over your daughter’s first words—well, what her first words are going to be, at least.

Sylus had bet you that she’ll say ‘dada’ first. “Statistically speaking, the d sound is easier for babies to make.”

Whereas, of course, you want her first word to be ‘mama.’ As you never fail to remind him, “I’m the one whose body did all the work.” It’s only fair.

So it begins. You spend entire days just talking to your daughter. ‘Mama’ this, ‘mama’ that. Though, you only get her giggles in return, just toothless smiles and squinted eyes. She understands, but unluckily, no words.

Your combined competitiveness truly shines whenever you and Sylus are both in the room with her. Not a moment of silence. Or peace.

“Baby, look at mama! Ma-ma!” You coo, pushing Sylus’s face out of her view.

“No, princess, don’t listen to mama. Look over here,” in a voice so uncharacteristically sweet and high in pitch.

You nearly think that Sylus will have his way. It’s exactly what he wants you to think.

Until one night, by simply passing by the nursery where Sylus was doing bedtime duty, you hear something so unexpected, never-imaginable coming from his voice.

“One more time for me princess, ma-ma. See my mouth, Ma. Like that.”

And she almost gets it. You make it the closest that you can get to the open door without being seen, before hearing a quiet and almost incomprehensible “ma” in your daughter’s voice.

Because this has what Sylus has been doing all along behind your back. During bathtime, in between spoonfuls of soft food, and now before bed, Sylus has only put your name before his. You were going to get what you wanted either way.

At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised if your daughter didn’t know what name to call him at all. Which is fine. After all, it is your body that did all the work.

3K notes · View notes

lighting-and-shadow · 6 days ago

Text

Loathe To Paint You, part one

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

18+ MINORS DNI

next part

pairing ; rafayel x non!mc reader

synopsis ; you and rafayel are rival artists, always fighting for the spotlight. when it's revealed that rhys nixon, esteemed director of the famed art gallery the dreamscape, is looking for an artist couple who are the epitome of soulmates to be his next headliner, you and rafayel set your rivalry to the side and couple up in the hopes that you'll be chosen to be the headliner.

word count ; 7.4k words

author's note ; i would like to dedicate this part & series to a few people!!!! @zeskyzed , @kazbrkker , @jexireads . . . this is for you!!

content warning ; vulgar language, mention of an ass slap, nothing too crazy! slightly proofread! let me know if i miss anything!

my painters ✐ᝰ. ; @drowsyapple , @llamabois , @romils , @debrahhhhhhh , @kebarney , @mentaltrouble2201 , @itsmeaudrieee , @flamedancer13 , @lolightrealm , @ghoulishnero , @leeniverse , @justpassingdontworry , @yumesagashite , @m0ss-gremlin , @yunozumi , @azlyneamie099 , @m00nchildwrites , @mxkvlio , @nautismgremlin , @rafshottestgf , @blcknebula , @eve-ishu , @futurecorpse92 , @kaiii07 , @imhere2dosomething , @vyntheria , @queenkymmie

want to be a part of the taglist? click here!

The Dreamscape Art Gallery is every artist’s dream. They wish for their paintings to be chosen, to be hung on the gallery’s walls alongside other great artists. Every famous artist, known in every single country across the world and throughout the last fifty years, has been featured in The Dreamscape’s visions and exhibits.

Every exhibition they hold is otherworldly. Every detail, painting, sculpture, and layout is meticulously planned by the museum’s director, Rhys Nixon. He’s an older man now, being in his early seventies. He founded The Dreamscape when he was only twenty years old. Fifty years of excellence has made him a millionaire and has brought him worldwide fame and accolades.

Rhys is known for his kindness and sense of equality. He treats every person he meets with a gentle touch and heartwarming smile. His sense of life has been nothing but taking creative risks, treating those how you would like to be treated, and actions filled with love and splendor. He hates routine and people who play by the rules, always opting for unconventional art and sculptures that make people think. To Rhys, art should reflect the emotions of the soul while also challenging its audience to turn inward and reflect upon themselves.

The sad truth, though, is that Rhys Nixon is getting old. The Dreamscape has survived through his constant care and attention, always rotating a new theme every six months. He’s given up on so many shared memories with his children and wife, always tending to the museum and artists who fall at his feet. His children are all grown up now and are falling in love just as he did at their age. He is ready to pass down the museum to one of his children so he can live the rest of his life out in peace with his wife. Rhys wants to fall in love with his wife and family all over again before he leaves the world.

Love. What a splendid concept, no?

The Dreamscape is located on the opposite of Whitesand Bay. Rafayel is lucky to live so close by, usually taking a trip to the extravagant museum when he is need of inspiration or needs a break from Thomas and life.

The building itself is located alongside the shore, built from an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be a place to build ships but Rhys Nixon saw the potential for it become something better. The building is white on the outside but the inside colors change depending on the theme. It takes about a month or two to set up for the next exhibit, the floor to ceiling windows covered with navy blue satin curtains so the public cannot see what it to come. It has three floors, each one perfectly decorated and dressed for the theme.

The moon hangs low in the sky, beaming a warm yellow color. The stars in the sky are faint, quietly sparkling against the dark black sky. The brightest constellations tonight are Cygnus and Lyra, their stars brightest amongst the other faint dots. The further one gets from Linkon City, the more and more bright and exposed the constellations become.

Rafayel’s purple hair flows in the wind. He leans against the convertible’s door, the summer breeze warm against the Lemurian’s skin. The air is salty, the dark waves crashing against the tan rocks. The car drives away from Rafayel’s house in Whitesand Bay, driving through the narrow sandstone passageway. Rafayel smiles at the moon. He slowly inhales the salty breeze and closes his eyes, feeling the car turn down the road and away from his home and studio. He feels at peace.

“Promise me you aren’t going to fuck up?” Thomas asks, looking at Rafayel from the corner of his eye. The roads are clear, just a few other people passing by on their way home from the beach and back to Linkon City. Rafayel pulls down his sunglasses that sit on top of his head, covering his eyes from the bright headlights and to, well, avoid Thomas’ question. “Rafayel!”

“What?” the Lemurian whines. He sits up in his seat and pulls his sweater back over his shoulder, the knitted fabric soft against his touch.

“We can’t fuck things up tonight,” Thomas turns on the blinker and changes lanes, falling into the lefthand turn lane that enters The Dreamscape’s parking lot. Thomas looks away from the road, the car fully stopped, and narrows his eyes. “Tonight is important, okay? The future of your career is on the line—”

“My career? Now I know you’re messing with me,” Rafayel rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks in the opposite direction, the car now pulling into the large parking lot.

There aren’t many cars in the parking lot. The last night of the current exhibit at The Dreamscape is always dedicated to artists in the community and their agents. It’s a way for Rhys to find and assess new talent. To him, it’s not just the art he picks but the artist as well. No matter how talented somebody may be, Rhys will always choose the ones that are humble and kind.

“Look…I wasn’t going to tell you until we got inside, but,” Thomas parks the car. The engine shuts off and he turns to Rafayel, his face completely serious, no ounce of humor or playfulness hidden below his skin. “There’s a rumor among the other agents that Rhys’ upcoming exhibit is going to be his last. He is looking for two specific artists to fill all three floors and wants to closely work with them. It’s going to be a bloodbath when we get inside, Rafayel. If we don’t secure this for you, your—”

“What?!” Rafayel yells. Nearby artists and their agents look at the duo in their car as they walk to the art gallery. Thomas’ eyes widen. He frantically presses the button to close the convertible’s top but it malfunctions, moving back and forth, glitching. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?! I wouldn’t have worn this if I knew Rhys was on the line!”

“I didn’t want to make you nervous!” Thomas quickly retorts.

“Well, now I am! This is all your fault! This sweater is wrong and it doesn’t go with my pants! The cream color does not blend well with my pants!” Rafayel whines, frantically shrugging off his sweater, throwing it into the backseat.

All that remains is his white dress shirt underneath but the sleeves are covered in dried specks and brushes of colorful paint. Thomas reaches behind him and grabs the sweater, putting it on Rafayel’s lap. He leans over and points a finger in his face, glaring.

“You are going to put the damn sweater on and you’re going to like it! Understood?” Thomas’ breath is hot n Rafayel’s face. The painter rolls his eyes and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “And don’t slam my god damn doors!”

Rafayel flips Thomas off and slips the sweater back on over his shoulders. His body becomes jittery, nervousness flooding his body. He checks his fingers, quickly scratching away any leftover dried paint from that day’s work. The blues and yellows come off with ease while the reds linger behind, staining into his pale skin. Thomas catches up with him, smiling and waving to other people as he passes them by. They step in sync with each other, passing through the open doors as employees greet and hand them pamphlets of the exhibit.

Rhys’ current theme is “Messy & Sloppy.” The walls are painted pitch black. Black canvases are spread out in even increments, about teen feet away from each other, and are covered in vibrant paints. The colors mix and match, showcasing abstract expressionism at its best. With some canvases, the paint moves past the canvas and onto the walls, breaking free from its confines whereas others remain inside the small white space, barely taking up the entire piece. The lighting is bright enough for the vibrancy of the pigments to come out yet dark enough where it looks like the paintings are in 3D, popping out at its audience.

“Rhys Nixon gathered twenty artists for the exhibit,” Thomas quietly reads from the pamphlet, “and they created the art in house. It took about three weeks to complete. He would like to thank all of those who accepted his invitation to paint alongside him and his wife.”

Rafayel hates to admit it, but he is jealous of the artists that were chosen to partake in the exhibit. He would have loved to come in and join the abstract artists in creating messy masterpieces by just flicking his wrist and splattering paint onto the canvas. He wishes that he would be carefree with his art and not toss a canvas out whenever he makes a mistake. Maybe it was best that he wasn’t on the list.

“Is there anyone we know on the list?” Rafayel asks, moving to the next painting. It is mainly filled with pinks and purples, a tinge of green hitting the edges. It is reminiscent of those machines where the small pieces of paper spin around and the paint creates rims of colors around it.

“Let me check,” Thomas hums. His finger runs down the list, moving over names of artists from other countries and ones that are outside of their social circle. He stops on one name, though, and turns to Rafayel. “Bob is on here.”

“Bob?! Like…” disgust is prominent in Rafayel’s tone, his voice growing loud before he drops it below a whisper, “the guy we caught chugging a bottle of tartar sauce? That Bob?!” Thomas solemnly nods. “How the hell did Rhys pick that guppy over me? What kind of cruel joke is this?”

“I don’t know, but I am going to make for sure that he chooses you for this final exhibit, Rafayel,” Thomas nods, moving along to the next painting, “nobody will get in my way!”

“Nobody?” the painter glances at Thomas. The agent rolls his eyes and nods. “Well, at least there isn’t much competition!”

Thomas stops walking. Rafayel smiles to himself, crossing his arms, walking ahead of Thomas. When he finally notices that Thomas isn’t at his side, he turns around, rushing back over. With one eyebrow perked up and his hands on his hips, Rafayel narrows his gaze at Thomas.

“What? What could possibly have you glitching now.”

“She’s here.”

“Who is she, exactly?” Rafayel scoffs and rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest. Thomas nods his head to a space behind Rafayel. The Lemurian sighs and turns on his heel, following Thomas’ gaze. When his eyes finally land on what the agent was referring to, his jaw drops.

You stand beside your agent, Abigail, and laugh along with a group of painters and agents. You hold a glass of champagne in your hand, your light red lipstick staining the rim of the glass, and reach out to touch a man’s bicep, leaning in as you laugh. Your hair is perfectly straightened and is held back by bobby pins that are adorned with, Rafayel’s hater ass is assuming, fake diamonds.

His cheeks heat up, balls fisting at his sides. His blue and pink eyes fall to your outfit, which is just plain better than his. It is effortlessly cool compared to his mess of a sweater and designer sneakers. You wear a baggy navy blue dress that is fastened at your waist with a belt, complimenting your figure. A pair of sunglasses sits on top of your head. Rafayel suddenly becomes aware of his own sunglasses and takes them off his head, hooking them into the collar of his shirt.

Rafayel clears his throat and looks back at Thomas, who slips his phone into his jacket pocket. His cheeks are pink and he avoids Thomas’ gaze, scratching the back of his neck.

He may hate you, but fuck do you look amazing.

“I can’t believe she’s here!” Rafayel turns his back to you and the group, not wanting to be seen just yet. He fixes his hair, going off of vibes and aura alone in the hopes that it looks good.

“Are we really surprised, though?” Thomas turns with Rafayel, “She is a front runner for Rhys to pick. She hasn’t been used yet, either!”

“And we’ll make for sure she isn’t!” Rafayel snaps back. He turns back around, gasping and taking a step backward.

You and Abigail stand in front of them with smiles on your faces. Abigail wears a suit similar to Thomas’, matching the cool tones of his suit jacket but is more on the vibrant side than gray. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you swirl the champagne around in its flute.

“Rafayel,” you smile, voice teasing and provocative. Rafayel places his hands on his hips, holding back a sneer.

“Long time no see,” he cocks his head to the side, “you’re like a barnacle I can’t get rid of.”

You fake a laugh, turning to Abigail who joins you. Rafayel and Thomas blink at the two of you before sneaking a side eye glance. They shift uncomfortably in their place. You stop laughing and pass off the champagne flute to Abigail. You step forward, eyes focused on Rafayel’s, only a couple of inches separating you. You reach forward and grab one of the fronts of his cardigan, giving it a gentle tug before letting go. Goosebumps spread across his skin, uncertainty tingling the back of his mind.

“I love your outfit,” your tone is dripping with sarcasm and patronization, “it makes you look like a fathead sculpin.”

Rafayel gasps. His hand smacks his chest, protecting his fast racing heart. The tips of his ears go hot. You smirk and sink back in place, taking the glass back from Abigail.

“That’s right, Rafayel, your aquatic insults will no longer swim over my head!” you announce with a proud smirk. His eyes remain wide, watching as Abigail pulls out a document from her tote bag, holding it up. A tan document sits inside a black frame.

Linkon University. Degree. Marine Biology. Your name in big, bold letters.

Rafayel turns his attention back to you. Your smirk makes his skin crawl, a frown tugging his lips down. His eyes sharpen and yet you remain unfazed, checking out your perfectly painted nails under the hanging light of the gallery. You look back to him and chuckle.

“That’s right. I’m accredited, bitch.”

“You—!” Rafayel takes a step forward but Thomas pulls him back.

“Raf. We’re in public. Calm down,” Thomas whispers the warning in his ear.

Rafayel nods and pulls away. He adjusts his cardigan and covers his torso, turning his glare back at you instead of the crowd. Your smirk turns into a smile, giving him a little finger wave. He sticks his tongue out at you.

“So! Abigail,” Thomas claps his hands together. Your agent, and best friend, turns her attention to the man, raising an eyebrow. Despite your rivalry with Rafayel, Abigail has decided to remain neutral with Thomas since they’re both agents that deal with personalities that are…larger than life. “Have you heard the rumor?”

The two of them attach themselves to each other’s sides, Thomas even going as far as offering his arm to her because he is a gentleman (and yes he is married. His wife is okay with him doing this at events okay leave Thomas alone). Abigail links her arm with his and they walk ahead of you and Rafayel.

The two of you exchange dirty looks. You turn, flipping your hair in his face before following after the two agents. Rafayel’s face scrunches up and he shoves his hands in his pants pockets, groaning as he follows in your wake. He steps in pace with you, keeping a decent amount of distance between your bodies. Thomas and Abigail’s voices float behind them, landing in your and Rafayel’s ears.

“I did! Isn’t it exciting? Scary as fuck, though, I can’t imagine how much pressure artist’s feel trying to get one of the two spots,” Abigail smiles at Thomas. They stop by a few paintings as they walk, making small comments about the colors and how creative the artist was for using the canvas.

“I’m pretty scared too! Rafayel is destroying his career because he’s a social recluse who refuses to let people buy his art — or display it for that matter — and refuses to do interviews!”

Rafayel’s head pops up. He glares at the back of Thomas’ head. You snicker from his side, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafayel turns to you, glaring.

“That’s not funny!” he says in a loud whisper. You continue to laugh at him, breaking the barrier between you two and nudging into his side. He pushes back into you, though, and you stumble over your feet. You quickly regain your balance. He laughs now and turns his face away pretending to look at a nearby painting where it is nothing but white and gray paints on the canvas.

“Don’t get me started!” Abigail begins. You gasp and Rafayel’s head turns back to you, a devious smirk forming on his face. “She has no variation whatsoever! All she does is paint the same damn thing! People are getting tired of it!”

Rafayel snorts and doesn’t even cover it up. What a bitch! You smack his arm and he winces, turning to you, ready to fight back when Abigail and Thomas snap their fingers at you. The two of you stop, slowly inching away from each other.

“You two need to behave!” Abigail whisper yells.

“Rhys can be watching!” Thomas adds. “I…I can’t even look at you,” he rubs his eyes, trying to soothe away the budding headache that forms in the center of his head.

You move to laugh but Abigail shoots a glare in your direction, shutting you up as soon as you open your mouth. You swipe your tongue over your front teeth and turn to Rafayel, who glances at you with an equally annoyed and ashamed expression. Thomas and Abigail situate themselves in front of the two of you. Their eyes burn into yours, leaning in as you lean away.

“Play nice. Drink some champagne or wine or whatever fruity cocktail I know you’re going to order, Rafayel,” Thomas groans.

“Hey—!”

“Go look at the art and mingle with other artists, go scope out the competition for Rhys’ final exhibit,” Abigail continues for Thomas.

“With him?!” you point at Rafael. He audibly scoffs at you and roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thomas and Abigail circle around the two of you. They place their hands on your shoulders and push you together. Rafayel’s hip bumps into yours and the two of you share embarrassed looks. Thomas shoots the Lemurian a glare. Rafayel rolls his eyes and holds his arm out, looking away and in the opposite direction. You turn away as well, turning your chin up and into the air while you admire the ceiling. Abigail reaches out and links your arm with Rafayel’s, Thomas giving your backs a gentle push.

You and Rafayel stumble over your feet for the first couple of steps before you fall into a rhythm at his side. He guides you towards the steps, Thomas and Abigail following in your wake, and quickens his pace. You try to keep up with him, your heels dragging against the ground as feverish clacks sound off across the floor. He’s quick up the stairs, practically dragging you with him. Thomas and Abigail share quiet laughs.

When you reach the last step, the tip of your heel catches against the step. A gasp flies from your lips, your grip on Rafayel’s arm tightening. He looks down at you, one eyebrow raising in the air, before the momentum from your fall brings him down to the floor with you.

You land face first on the ground. Rafayel tumbles on top of you, your arms becoming an amalgamated mess.

The room falls silent. Hell, even the person in charge of the playlist at the event stops the music! All eyes are on you and Rafayel. He whines in your ear, matching the ringing you hear. His purple hair tickles your forehead, hands resting on either side of your head as he pushes up from the ground. You move onto your back, looking up at him with a large red circle on your forehead from where you hit the ground. Your eyes are half-lidded, somewhat dizzy from the fall. Rafayel’s mouth falls open when he looks at the red spot on your head, a laugh escaping his lips.

“I would ask you how many fingers I’m holding up but I think the only thing you’re seeing are floating pufferfish,” Rafayel quietly snorts.

You scrunch your face at him and throw a weak punch to his chest. You cover your face with your hands, remaining on the ground as he gets up, standing on the step below the top. He brushes himself off, the dust falling onto your crumbled body, and steps over you, smiling and waving at nearby artists who watch with amused faces.

You sit up from the ground, a glare burning into the back of Rafayel’s head. Abigail leaps up the stairs and drops to your side. She helps you up. You brush the dust off of your body and fix your dress.

“Did I flash anyone?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

“No, your spanx covered everything,” Abigail teases. You roll your eyes as she grabs a nearby glass from a silver plate, pushing the cool glass up against your forehead. A mortified Thomas walks up to you, placing his hand on your elbow.

“I am so…so terribly sorry for Rafayel’s behavior,” his cheeks are flushed pink from embarrassment, “I swear, I need to keep him on a leash like a toddler.”

“Or train him like a dog or cat—”

“I think he prefers aquatic animals to land creatures,” Thomas and you share a breathless, half-hearted laugh.

“Yeah?” you smile before it immediately falls, “then he really is a fathead sculpin.”

You take your leave from Thomas’ side, making a beeline for Rafayel’s side. He looks at a blue and white painting, one that took inspiration from the wave sin the sea. Well, that’s what the pamphlet told you, at least.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpens when he feels your arm link back with his, tugging him to your side. He lets out a puff of air and turns his chin away from you, crossing his arms, which in turn makes your arms be at chest level instead of at your side. You force a smile through the adjustment, though, and look up at the purple haired man.

“Aw, they’re cute together!” an oh so ignorant person asks from behind Thomas and Abigail. They laugh in sync, shaking their heads before turning around. The woman blinks at them. A few other people catch on to Thomas’ and Abigail’s laughter and float over. All of their eyes move to you and Rafayel.

“No,” Thomas sighs, grabbing a champagne glass for himself and Abigail as the server passes by. He hands it over and brings it to his lips, drinking the golden liquid. “They are definitely not cute.”

“Whatever the opposite of what ‘cute’ is, that’s what they are,” Abigail chimes in.

“Ugly, plain, unattractive, hideous, a fucking train wreck,” Thomas finishes his glass.

The group’s eyes follow you and Rafayel as you move to the next piece of art on the wall. He leans down and whispers something into your ear. A squeak comes from the forming group. Everyone leans in, dragging in a collective breath. When Rafayel’s face is pushed away by your hand, the group exhales and relaxes into their spots.

“How did they meet?” another person in the group asks. Abigail sighs and drinks the rest of her champagne, looking at someone else in the growing group. She hands them her empty flute and they replace it with a glass filled with red wine. She nods with an impressed smile and tips the glass to them.

“It’s a long story,” she breathes out.

“Is it, though?” Thomas shoots back. Abigail rolls her eyes and take a deep sip from the glass. “Well…their complicated friendship started two years ago on Rafayel’s twenty-second birthday…”

Rafayel stands in front of a large painted canvas. A proud smile lays on his face, one arm crossed over his chest while the other holds up his chin. His purple and blue eyes scan the dark pigmented paints, the blues and reds calling out to him from his spot against the light wooden floors. He tilts his head from side to side, taking in the painting from a new angle.

You stand from behind but you don’t observe the piece, no, you observe him instead. You tilt your head with him, a small smile forming on your face. Boldly, you take a few step forwards and take the place at his side, hands behind your back. Rafayel doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain on the pain strokes on the canvas.

“So,” you begin in a calm, cool, and collected tone, “what do you think about the piece?” Your gaze flickers down to the small piece of paper that displays your name beside the painting. Pride fills chest, knowing that you have worked so hard to get one of your paintings to be displayed in a prominent art gallery, even if it is in a desert city like Aridum.

“It’s grotesque,” Rafayel’s voice is intrigued, filled with wonder and awe. “It defies all rules of art. There’s standards and this…” he makes a ‘tsk’ sound, “does not follow those standards.”

You, on the other hand, take his ‘compliment’ as an insult. Your face immediately sours and you turn to face him.

Smack!

Rafayel gasps, finally looking down at you. He places his hand over his arm on top of the spot that you hit him. You smirk and flip your hair over your shoulder, looking back at the painting. Rafayel laughs from shock and complete and utter disbelief. He diverts his gaze to look around the art gallery.

Nobody saw your surprise attack, nobody even flinched!

His jaw drops. The Lemurian swivels back to you. Without thinking, he reaches out and pinches your arm. You gasp and face him. He has the same smug smirk you wore just seconds earlier. You slap his arm again. He slaps your arm back. You hit him again, a hit in which he returns. The two of you begin to fight now, exchanging blows and slaps.

There’s a slap to the face! A punch to the stomach! A half-opened hand to the groin! Did Rafayel just slap your ass?

The two of you fall to the ground and roll around, bumping into nearby patrons as you pull on his hair and he scratches into your skin. Your yells and screams fill in the quietness of the art gallery.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s not how it went!”

The group turns to look at Abigail. They lean in towards her and away from Thomas, who crosses his arms over his chest with an eye roll. Abigail chuckles and waves the group in closer. They follow her silent instructions like an obedient puppy dog.

“This is how it really went…”

You stand in front of your painting with your arms crossed over your chest. You wear a prideful smile on your face, eyes trailing over the painted lines on your red and blue coated canvas. The colors merge together and form a dark purple, although in the darker lighting of your studio it looked brown, and forms into the shape of a woman sobbing on the floor.

You gasp. Your shoulder lurches forward as Rafayel pushes past you. He reaches up to the wall, his hands grabbing the sides of the golden painted frame that hold your painting. The Lemurian rips it off the wall. A screech flies from your lips. He turns around and begins to walk away before you snatch the other side of the frame from him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell at the man. He leans in, his torso now hovering over the large canvas.

“This belongs at the bottom of the sea! It’s hideous! We need to drown it!” he tugs on the painting.

The two of you take a few steps in his direction. Your fingers curl over the frame and pull back on it, moving back in your direction.

“It is not hideous!” your voice raises, “It is art! And art is subjective, motherfucker!”

“Mother…motherfucker?!I am not a motherfucker!” Rafayel screams back.

“Yeah?! Well you look like a bitch and a half then!” your retort is quick and sharp. It pierces Rafayel’s heart. His posture straightens, grip tightening on the frame so hard that the wood splinters. The man pulls on the painting and you pull back. His grip inches up the frame, moving closer to yours side. The two of you move in a circle, slowly picking up speed as you hurl insults at each other.

“Bitch!”

“Pufferfish!”

“Blobfish!”

“Asshole!”

“I bet your penis is microscopic!”

“Yeah? Well it’s bigger than yours!”

The room gasps. You let go of the painting, hands slapping over your mouth. The canvas tilts up with such force that it smashes over Rafayel’s head. The canvas stops right below his shoulders. His blue and pink eyes are wide, looking down at you. He clears his throat and adjusts his stance, relaxing with his hands on his hips while the canvas acts as a new fashion trend around his shoulders.

“Well…at least it’s destroyed now!”

“And now here we are!” Abigail proclaims with a smile. She finishes the wine in her glass and sets it down on a nearby table. “They have been rivals ever since that day!”

“You are so fucking ridiculous,” Thomas points his finger at Abigail who holds her hands up in the air as a defense against his words. “I mean, they are rivals, yes, but that’s not what went down between them. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh and yours isn’t?” she quips back, crossing her arms over her chest.

The group is suddenly bigger now with you and Rafayel out of sight, now on the third floor. Their eyes move back and forth between Thomas and Abigail as if they are at a tennis match where the current rally is tension filled and never-ending. If they didn’t know any better, they would think that they are the real enemies here instead of being really, really, really passionate allies.

“So, are they dating?” an older man’s voice rings out. Thomas snorts and looks inside his champagne flute, the glass now void of its golden beverage.

“Oh, no, they—” Abigail goes silent. Thomas looks at her, amused. Her eyes are big and wide, lips formed in a small frown, gulping away her sorrows. He shifts back and forth on his heels, slowly turning around to finish her answer.

“No, they are—” Thomas’s eyes shoot open. He stumbles over his words, incoherent blabbering now leaving his mouth. The large group that blossomed for your and Rafayel’s rival origin story now vanishes. The once gargantuan group disperses, a lot of the artists and agents flocking to nearby paintings and pretending to be invested in the abstract artwork. “They are…uh…” Thomas looks at Abigail. She’s of no use, completely frozen.

“They…they are not dating?” Rhys Nixon smiles at Thomas, hands resting on top of a simple black cane, leaning on it for support. “That’s a shame. I would have loved to talk to them about my next exhibit—”

“Yes!” Thomas breathes out, clapping his hands together. Rhys raises an eyebrow. He takes a step closer to the agents. Their hearts race in their chests the closer the famed art director gets. Thomas gulps and Abigail grabs his wrist, nails digging into the fabric of his silver-blue suit sleeve. “Yes! They are dating! I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Nixon.”

“Please,” Rhys extends his hand, Thomas immediately taking it, “call me Rhys!”

‘O-Okay, Rhys!” Thomas beams. “My name is Thomas and I am Rafayel’s agent!” Abigail pushes Thomas to the side and is the next one to shake Rhys’ hand.

“And I’m Abigail! I’m her agent! She adores your curations, truly!” the woman gushes over the elderly man. Rhys’s chuckle is gravelly yet is filled with warmth and delight. It puts both Thomas and Abigail at ease.

“Do you mind introducing me to them? I would love to discuss my final exhibit as The Dreamscape’s art director.”

“Yes! Of course! Follow us, please!” Thomas steps to the side, holding his arm out for Rhys to pass by. Abigail and Thomas attach themselves to Rhys’ side, helping him walk up the stairs to the third floor where you and Rafayel stand.

The third floor is empty. There’s a few sculptures scattered across the barren wasteland. The walls are lined with more canvases but the art pieces themselves are more conservative within the abstract style. Rafayel observes the pieces, humming to himself, while you stand by the large glass window that overlooks the sea. You sigh heavily. The lights from the building illuminate the nearby waves, the white bubbles from the collision capturing your attention.

Rafael’s attention soon turns to you. A faint smile spreads across his face. Je never knew you that you liked the ocean so much. Every time you ran into each other in Whitesand Bay, he always caught you looking out at the waves, a sense of longing in your eyes.

The Lemurian steps forward, silently closing the distance between you. His eyes catch how your smile grows when there’s a particularly large wave of water that crashes against the sandstone rocks. He stands right behind you. He can feel the warmth from your body on his chest, chills running down his spine. He tilts his head to the side, admiring your side profile.

He wonders how your features would look on a canvas but in his style instead of yours.

“You know, I can always throw you into the ocean if you want me to,” Rafayel’s voice is close to your ear. You shriek and jump, your hand backhanding him across his face.

“Fuck! You scared me!” your voice is loud and trembles. Rafayel stumbles backwards, holding his face in his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t break your nose! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard! You were just…there!” You reach out for him but he takes a step back, shaking his head no. You obey his silent command and stay where you are, watching as he slowly uncovers the bottom half of his face.

His nose isn’t broken, at least it doesn’t look like it, but his cheek is definitely a bright red color with a hint of purple shining through. You flinch and close your eyes, shaking your head, the stinging sensation somehow attaching itself to your cheek now.

“What?!” Rafayel’s voice is loud and trembly, “Is it bad?! How badly did you fuck me up?!”

“It could be worse! It could be a lot worse!” you immediately respond. You turn to face the stairs, giving him some privacy for whatever reason.

Well, the actual reason being that you’re so fucking embarrassed that you just did that to him. You hate the guy and his stupid fucking fish-themed guts, but you would never want to purposefully and physically hurt him! Just his career…and pairings…and the occasional sculpture he comes up with every now and then to try and one up you.

Thomas and Abigail’s head pop out from over the stairs. You sigh and wave to them, but they wear an expression on their face that tells you that something is simply amiss. Your face falls. Rafayel’s footsteps grow loud behind you, his presence becoming all too familiar at your side. Your cheeks heat up and you avoid his gaze, feeling his disappointment and annoyance burning into the side of your head.

“And here are the lovebirds!” Abigail declares with a bright smile.

Rafayel and yours faces contort from confusion. With a shared glance, you watch as Thomas and Abigail appear over the stairs with the one and only Rhys Nixon. Abigail walks ahead, her hands frantically waving at the two of you and hidden from Rhys’ sight. She mouths three words to you and Rafayel.

You. Are. Dating!

“What?” you whisper. She shakes her head as Rafayel takes a step away from you. She rushes to his side and bumps her hip into his, your bodies colliding, and she wraps his arm around your waist like a pro before Rhys can notice.

“Ah! Hello you two!” Rhys smiles. You return it, feeling Rafayel’s grip on your waist tighten. You clear your throat and nudge your elbow into his side before moving your arm around his torso. “How is the lovely couple doing?”

“The lovely couple!” you repeat his words with a shocked laugh. You look up at Rafayel, who looks completely bewildered despite the grin that spreads across his lips. You turn look at Thomas, who stands behind Rhys, furiously typing on his phone. “The lovely couple is……doing well!”

“Yes! They are!” Abigail chimes in, stepping in front of you two just as Thomas passes off his phone to Rafayel.

He wants a couple to headline his next exhibit. You two fuckers are dating! Act like it!

You blink at the message, struggling to understand before Rafael slips the phone into his pocket. He pulls you closer to his side, fingers curling into your dress and body. You gulp. Abigail steps back out of the way, no longer eclipsing the happy couple.

“What happened there?” Rhys chuckles, using his cane to gesture to Rafayel’s freshly bruised face.

“Oh! That!” Rafayel’s laugh is effortless and cool. It didn’t come off as unnatural or forced, but rather genuine and wholehearted. “My silly cutie here got a little too excited when she saw the beautiful view from up here!”

A belly laugh booms from Rhys’ mouth. Everyone else joins in with his laugh, exchanging awkward glances and winks from the agents behalf. His laughter dies down and he places his cane back down onto the floor, resting some weight onto it.

“How long have you two been together for?” Rhys’ question makes you and Rafayel look at each other with puckered lips and narrowed eyes.

“Um…great question, first of all,” you gush, buying the two of you time. “We met two years ago at a gallery!”

“Yes! And I asked her to be my girlfriend a year later!”

“So…you have been together for a year?” Rhys leans in. The two of you nod and exchange timid smiles and nods.

“Yup! She’s my little guppy!” Rafayel laughs.

“Yes! And he is my…” you pause, swallowing as you try to come up with something, “he is my…fathead sculpin?”

“Now that is just wonderful!” Rhys turns to your agents, who feverishly nod. When he turns back to you, they signal for you to keep going with thumbs up. “Your wonderful agents were telling everyone your meet cute! It caught my attention and, well, I thought I would introduce myself and extend an invitation to be courted.”

“Courted?” you repeat. He nods.

“Yes…as you may know, my next exhibit shall be my last. I want it to be a testament to the time and energy I have put into The Dreamscape as well as a celebration of my love for the art community and my family,” Rhys sighs.

He walks to a nearby painting, one that has bright pinks and reds and purples on it. Rafayel guides you over to him, settling in the space beside him. You pinch his waist. He lets out a quiet ‘oof’ before pinching you back, your hips pushing into his as you try to escape his touch. When Rhys turns around, the two of you immediately return to normal and smile at him.

“Love. That is the final theme,” he nods a knowing nod, “I know it may be cheesy, but I have never done it before. I wish for a couple to fill up all three floors The Dreamscape. I want to see their passion and desire for each other on these walls. I also want it to tell a story…your stories. How you fell in love.”

“That sounds like a wonderful theme, Mr. Nixon,” you breathe out.

Your words are genuine. If you weren’t stuck in a fake relationship with Rafayel and in a real one with someone else. Another creative who matches your artistic genius — one that is not Rafayel — and is there to push you past your limits instead of holding you back

“Thank you, young lady,” Rhys nods his head and takes a step closer to you and Rafayel. “I need to make for sure that the couple I choose are pure and not in it just to be featured in the gallery. I wish it to be as genuine as possible. There are many others who have already tried to be my…perfect couple, but I can sense that there is something real between you two...I need the epitome of soulmates for my final work. Nothing more, nothing less!”

Rafayel pinches your waist. You chuckle and look up at him, face scrunched and disguised as a loving face when in actually you’re silently planning for his demise.

“See! That is what I’m talking about! The love you share!” Rhys beams. “I’ll be in contact with your agents about meeting again soon, yes?” The two of you nod. “Wonderful! I will see you soon, then!”

Rhys bows his head and walks off. You wave, watching as the elderly man is helped down the stairs by Thomas. Once he is out of sight and Abigail gives a thumbs up, you shove the Lemurian away from you and shudder.

“Too close!” you quietly squeal. “Now I have your douche perfume all over me!”

“Okay, first of all: rude! Second of all: bitch! My perfume is delightful! It carries the scent of the sea with hints of—”

“Rafayel, shut the fuck up,” Thomas rushes over. The four of you stand in a circle. You stand across from Rafayel and stare at his face, memorizing the way a crease forms between his furrowed brows and the way he pouts when his agent chastises him. He turns his head and your eyes meet for a split second before you turn away, a blush creeping up on your cheeks.

“So, you heard the man,” Abigail takes a deep breath. “You two are a couple until this whole thing is over…or until he doesn’t pick you then we can stage a very convenient break-up to convince him that the stress was just too much. Maybe we can guilt him into giving us some connections, you know, gain something from this!”

“That’s horrible, but I agree!” Thomas points at Abigail. “We need to keep this charade going. Think you two can handle it?” Before either of you can disagree, Thomas claps his hands and smiles. “Great! Now, I’ll be in touch with Abigail about making you two appear more…loving with each other.”

Thomas takes Rafayel’s arm and yanks it back around your waist. He gasps and his cheeks turn pink. The agents furiously fix your appearance; they fix your hair and cover up the bruise on Rafayel’s face with a smudged kiss from your red lipstick (thank you, Thomas), and even switch around a few accessories to make it seem like you two share everything. Once they are down, they push you in the direction of the stairs, ready to feed you to the wolves.

Both of you hesitate when you reach the top step. Rafayel’s hand is at home on your love handle, dangerously close to your ass while your arm is wrapped around his torso and your other hand rests on his chest. You gulp. His body trembles, just ever so slightly, and you take a deep breath in sync. With one final look, the two of you nod, stepping down the first step.

Rhys’ courtship will only be a few weeks, right? He’ll probably only have a few meetings here with you two here and there. A simple few interrogations to try and weed out the phonies from the real couples. You and Rafayel descend into a minefield, a no man’s land where your only ally is each other.

Buckle up, fuckers, because oh my, my! What a ride this is going to be!

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 i love seeing what y'all have to say! <3

343 notes · View notes