#custom 404 error

[digiluxo]

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[frogshunnedshadows]

"Scully, you're not gonna believe this 404 page."

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

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

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table; framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly – not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me–”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say... until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter; just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just, vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock; gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang; a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it, and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath, and you, with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @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 @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[hoonstrology]

error 404 sunghoon missing a date with reader and him trying to do everything to apologize for it but he's so bad with his words he just makes it worse lol

＃ apologies for the delay .ᐟ

   ⤷  ꒰ an e404-boyfriend!sunghoon drabble. ꒱

⤷  can be read as a stand-alone. ┆ for context, read e404 here! ⤷  contains — 1.7k+ words. softbf!hoon, est. relationship. angst, fighting, mentions of cheating, comfort and fluff at the end. lame attempts at humor. seyoon as sunghoon's sister. not proofread. ⤷ main masterlist.  ┆ series masterlist.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ reblogs and replies are highly appreciated! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

the waiter looked at you— at first, with curiosity. like he wasn’t used to people coming in unaccompanied. then, after having to order twice and still be in your lonesome, the look morphed into one of sympathy. an expression you’re sure he’s made a thousand times whenever patrons get ditched by their dates.

if this were any other man, you’d have gone home already. but he’s rarely ever late and he never let you down. so the first half of the hour was spent patiently sitting down and digging through your plate of salad.

somewhere near the full hour mark, your confusion turned into mild irritation.

to: pengoo. 🐧 — hey, it’s been an hour. can you please let me know if you’re still coming? i feel a little shy here. :( 

you’ve sent him a couple of texts intermittently, all of them having been unreplied. 

you put your phone away with a sigh, trying your hardest to look unbothered while internally burning at the looks you’ve been getting from some of the customers. 

just as your third meal was set down, the doorbell's chimes rung and you caught the waiter’s look of relief. your boyfriend came walking through the door with a bouquet of what looked liked beaten tulips, prompting the server to leave you two alone.

he jogged to your table and set the flowers down with a smile. a fucking smile. you looked at him, face void of any amusement before crossing your arms over your chest. 

“thank god i made it.” he sighed in relief, wiping the sweat off his forehead before taking your glass and bringing it to his lips. rather than picking up your cues, he picked up the menu.

no explanation, no apologies. just a useless review about how nice the appetizer choices are.

“park sunghoon.”

you rarely ever used his full name– only when he’s really pushed your buttons. you’ve found it to be an effective way of reprimanding him without using much words. true to its efficacy, he stilled in his seat before looking at you, the brown cover of the booklet covering half his face.

"yes?" he asked, slowly putting the menu down.

“you’re late. more than an hour late.”

he shifted in his seat, all of a sudden finding the plain white table cloth interesting while his fingers poked on the stems of the wilting flowers atop the table.

you didn't shout. you didn't need to. the steady gaze you had on him was enough to make him feel hotter, urging him to slip off the leather jacket he had on.

“i’m sorry. really. i’m sorry, angel.” he whimpered, head hung low. when his eyes tried to take a peek, you’re still looking at him deadpan. perhaps even more irritated than when he came in.

sunghoon just frowned and reached for your free hand which you gladly let him do, but you didn’t hold it back.

he picked up on what that meant. 

“enough apologies. explain yourself.” you demanded. 

he sat up properly and flashed you those damn puppy eyes but you’re far too annoyed to even entertain his attempt at making you swoon. no matter how cute he looked. 

“i swear i didn’t mean to be late! i finished prepping about two hours early, and i was already going to head out but this girl—” 

he was wearing the shirt you got him last week. and he wasn’t wearing his glasses today either which was a change you always welcomed. on his neck, a thin silver chain that he got to match the bracelet on your wrist.

as your eyes went further down to inspect your boyfriend, it caught a stain. you don’t even hear the rest of his words. your eyes just continued to zone in on the right sleeve of his shirt.

a light, almost unnoticable beige stain with what looked like smeared red ink towards the hem. except you’re not stupid. 

that’s not ink. that’s makeup. 

“why do you have lipstick on your shirt?”

“oh fuck, she must have left some on me—”

she?

“excuse me?” you whispered, brows furrowing together in disbelief. 

you waited for a look of guilt, of surprise, of anything from him. but he just shrugged his shoulders like having a girl close enough to leave makeup smudge on his shirt was normal.

“yeah, she was crying and begging me to stay but i told her i had a date with you, but don’t worry, i’ll just meet her after thi—” 

yeah, no.

you shook his hand off of yours and grabbed your purse, knuckles tightening around it as you walked past your confused boyfriend.

he stood up to follow but the server who sensed the tense atmosphere from a distance came just in time to lay the bill on the table which allowed you to create some distance from your scumbag of a boyfriend. 

the tears don’t come. not yet. you just feel numb. this wasn’t something you’ve experienced. all your past relationships ended in ghosting or in mutual decision that growth was more important than love, never cheating.

you don’t want to assume the worst in your boyfriend. he wouldn’t do that. surely, he wouldn’t. not your sunghoon. 

you heard his footsteps before his voice. “babe?”

you turned around to look at him holding the bouquet and looking panicked, carrying the demeanor similar to that of a kicked puppy. it’s so hard to be mad at him when he’s being like this— so you turn your back again.

your footsteps carried you away, the previously confident strides turning into upset stomps as you felt the quiet rage bubble up into something bigger, something more ugly.

“b-baby? where are you going?” 

“away from you.” 

“wh– huh? what did i do?” he asked with the same genuine confusion in his voice, trailing behind you while keeping a safe foot of distance in between.

he stops walking when you do, and you turn around, chin tipped slightly upwards to meet his face.

“you show up late for our date with lipstick stains on your god damn clothes and expect me not to walk out?” you sneered, angrily pressing on the smudges on his shirt to prove your point.

his eyes briefly glanced at the stain, and they widened. “oh– baby, no i swear it’s not what it looks like–”

you laughed, but it’s not the bright one that sunghoon loved hearing. it’s forced. it’s sarcasm mixed with hurt and betrayal. “and to say to my face that you’re planning to meet her afterwards too? the balls you have, sunghoon.”

“angel, i swear! she’s.. like.. my sister.” he whispered in between pauses and you cut him off with an exasperated show of your palm.

“i don’t give a flying fuck if she’s like a sister to you!” your voice finally rose to match your rising temper.

“no i didn’t mean it like that, i mean she's—”

“then what did you mean? because every evidence is pointing to the fact that you’ve broken my trust. willingly so.”

he looked at you with conflict behind his brown eyes, and did it again. he reached up to scratch his throat. the words that left your lips stabbed him like icicles: cold, sharp, and painful. 

“spit it out.” 

he walked forward, holding your hand and opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, just soft breaths and inaudible mumbles. what if he can’t explain it properly? what if he makes the situation worse than it already is? 

so he knelt on the pavement and kept his eyes glued on it, which took you by surprise. while you did want him to apologize, you didn't want to bruise his pride like that.

"sunghoon, get up right now." you muttered, trying to pull him up by your connected hands.

"no."

"get up right now or so help me—"

“it was seyoon, okay?” he starts, a hollow spot appearing on one side of his face as he bit on the tender skin of his inner cheek.  

his sister?

“i got held up because she visited and cried about her cheating boyfriend and i wanted to be a good brother but she was telling me not to go but i really didn't want to be late." he explains.

"i hugged her but maybe some of her makeup got on my arm— y/n. angel. i swear i wouldn’t ever do something as disgusting as that to you and i'm so sorry for being late but she just wouldn't listen, i swear i tried my best—"

now you just felt like an asshole.

"you should have just mentioned her name before anything else, you idiot." you grumbled, letting go of his hand to go on one knee, cupping his cheek to tilt his head towards you.

the dejected look he wore made you feel like you've guaranteed yourself a spot in hell.

"i know, angel. i'm sorry for not explaining it better." he whispered again, wrapping his arms around you. you took that opportunity to make him stand up, giving his butt a loving pat.

"i'm so sorry too, my love. i should have listened to you."

when sunghoon refused to break the hug, you leaned back with raised eyebrows. he gave you a smile but you can tell he still had a lot in his mind by the way he's rocking on his heels and squeezing on your waist.

"what is it, love?"

"just.. please don't shout at me like that again, angel. it really scared me." he confesses with a pleading voice so soft that it made you want to hurt yourself. how dare you think so little of your boyfriend who was just trying to be a responsible brother?

you coo and cup his cheeks, placing an apologetic kiss on his lips. "i'm sorry. no more shouting at my hoonie." you hum, peppering kisses all over his face which was enough to pull a giggle out of him.

"so are we going back to the restaurant?"

"are you kidding me?" you scoffed. "we're heading to the grocery store. ice cream, salty chips, whatever seyoon likes. i'll have a girl-on-girl with her, and you're going to hunt the bastard who broke her heart."

sunghoon broke the hug and gave you a two finger salute, nodding. "yes, ma'am."

꒰ from ! 🐰 yan ꒱⠀⠀ i.... hope this was enough. i can't tell if anon wanted this to be an angst-centric drabble or humor-centric so i tried doing a little bit of both. if i failed..... don't let me know. < / 3 i want to expand my masterlist so send more requests for other members juseyo ! ♡

⌗ taglist (open) — @zerocoded

© hoonstrology 2025. please don't translate, plagiarize, steal, or repost any of my works.

[dear-ao3]

*make an account to purchase* *use your amazon account to purchase instead so you don’t have to make a new account* *enter the code we sent to your email* *connect your amazon account* *enter your email* *you indicated you were a new customer but you already have an account* *sign in to your account* *forgot your password? how about i inconvenience you more and make you reset it* *check your email for the password reset button* *reset your password* *cannot be same as previous password* *error 404 page not found*

[unidentifiedsim]

Error 404 Eyes with Heterochromia Options

I'm super duper excited to FINALLY unleash these eyes with heterochromia options!. I've been working on them for what seems like forever!

I'd recommend using only with each other as they may vary in size with other eyes.

☆ 12 Colours ☆ Heterochromia Options ☆ Found in Face Paint and Occult Eyes ☆ All LODs ☆ Gender Neutral ☆ Teen - Elder ☆ HQ Compatible ☆ Disallowed for Random ☆ Custom Thumbnail ☆ Base Game Only

Early Access Until 15th March 2025

Tag me on Bluesky, Instagram, TikTok, Tumblr and Twitter. I'd love to see your pictures

Download Error 404 Eyes Here

Early Access Until 15th March 2025

Terms of Use Please Respect Them x All of my CC will be made public within 2-3 weeks. Depending on the creation. x Do not edit my mesh in anyway for your own use, whether personal or commercial. x Do not re-upload my cc! x Do not include my cc in your sim dumps, whether free or paid for. Please link back to me. x Do not claim my creations as your own and do not reupload them. x Recolouring my CC is not allowed unless stated otherwise. x Do not use a*fly or any link shortener. x Do not use my cc for patreon exclusive or early access benefits. x Do not convert my cc to other platforms such as Second Life, GTA etc.

Tag me on Bluesky, Instagram, TikTok, Tumblr and Twitter. I'd love to see your pictures      

[yukizme]

gin and wine . . . !

WELCOME TO SUNFLOWER SQUARE !

THIS IS THE RECEPTION ! it wasn't exactly easy running a flower shop, especially not when the girl who owned the tattoo studio right below your unit was determined to steal your customers with bows in her hair and that sweet smile stitched to her face. no, it wasn't easy running a flower shop, especially not when your nephew kept sending her free bouquets and you didn't understand why you were mad — because your business was slowly tipping towards a loss due to this free bouquet giving thing or because it wasn't you giving her the flowers.

proceed with caution ! — warnings will be added at the beginning to each chapter! still, your media consumption is entirely your responsibility.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ OH BABY, I THNK I'M IN LOVE ⭑.ᐟ

PLEASE WAIT IN THE LOBBY !

meet the residents. from the gramophone. i'm so thorny. super freak tattoo shop. the social media feed.

MEET THE LOVERS ! OH UH ! ERROR 404 ! MEET THE ENEMIES !

⋆⋆⋆

WAIT FOR THE ELEVATOR !

18 . . . 15 . . . 11 . . . 7 . . . 4 . . . 1 . . . ! THIS IS THE LOWER GROUND FLOOR !

upper ground floor !

first floor !

second floor !

. . . the elevator is under maintenance !

⋆⭒˚.⋆ I'M GROWING THESE FLOWERS INSIDE OF MY HEART ⭑.ᐟ

©yukizme

[animusbell]

can we please flood tumblr support with demands to stop redirecting to the general tumblr 404 error page (you know, the one with full-page-sized trippy gifs we've been complaining about triggering epilepsy for a decade) FROM YOUR OWN BLOGS??

it used to be if you tried to go to yoururl.tumblr.com/tagged/something, and you didn't have any posts tagged "something," it would simply say you didn't have posts with that tag and leave you on the blog. that you were on. and now instead it takes you fully OFF the blog to tumblr's generic 404 error page & redirect.

same thing happens with yoururl.tumblr.com/pagename which is a huge pain in the ass because i don't want to risk getting slammed with the 404 page because of someone accidentally having an outdated custom page link on their blog

why have i not seen anyone mention this it has been driving me absolutely insane. why the fuck would you do this

[hyperref-lex-ia]

lots of common reactions i get as a mute person

all the following are peoples reaction when they assume i am deaf, the most common assumption

- flustered and lifts hands to try and sign and then lowers them when they realize they dont know ASL

- flustered and starts to sputter and talk before settling on mouthing things at me

- mouths “can you lip read”

- talks really loud at me (which wouldnt do much if i was deaf so idk)

- goes to find something to write on

- sometimes if i type on my phone in my notes when i need to say something other than yes or no people will go to literally take my phone from me to type back instead of literally anything else

- signs some of the more common sign, i get thank you a lot (especially in customer service situations, which is where most of these happen)

- if it is someone on the street saying something and they assume im deaf when i sign at them they usually just disregard me which is actually really nice

these next ones are when people dont assume im deaf, which is rarer

- talks to me normal

- talks to me like im dumb

heres a few nice incidents

- guy asked me if i was mute in spanish and i nodded and he asked if i knew spanish and i was like not really lol (live in a heavily hispanic area so i picked up on enough to understand) and he switches to english and shares about a talk he had gone to recently about mutism

- girl working at sonic assumed i was deaf and ran inside just to grab her phone to help me which i thought was really sweet so i just didnt correct her

- just today i was using the self checkout at a gas station and the guy behind the register sees me getting frustrated with the card reader and slides over a piece of receipt paper that says “tap works better” and i am like “i dont have tap” and i decide to just cancel the self checkout and move to him cause hes got good vibes and he holds the bag up and raises an eyebrow allowing me to have a choice in it which i dont often get. when i am leaving he signs “have a good day” super slow and obviously practiced a lot, and the fact that he obviously learned that just in case this happened made me really happy

- every time someone has happened to know ASL in public, its always surprising how many hearing/verbal people know ASL, almost always because they are CODA

- the enthusiastic gay man at my eye doctor who got so excited when he saw i signed even though he doesnt know it, because he thought it was so cool

- every person who goes “oh you speak ASL” and then immediately thinks about thay sentence and kind of 404 errors out as they realize you cant speak ASL

- the tiny middle aged mexican woman who has worked the store at my school the entire time ive been going there who knows me because i always go there for caffeine and snacks, and manages to always communicate with me despite a couple language barriers and will often berate me if i dont get water with my caffeine or if i dont get food, and who also wishes me happy holiday for every holiday that comes around, and was also very visibly worried when i had to rely on a cane for a few months

- my painting professor who always takes so much pressure off because hes so blunt, when i came in with a cane everyone danced around asking about it and he walks in and goes “what the hell happened to you??”, the most recent thing that made me laugh is we were talking and i was using TTS and as we are walking into the studios he goes “im gonna go talk with Ronnie, give your thumbs a break” and then we both started laughing

the worst interaction ive had

- had one of my professors numbers which happens sometimes because it makes life easier and she texted me out of the blue saying she “had a dream she was at my wedding and i spoke my vows” with heart emojis and i did not know this woman at all and i was like…what the fuck…not only is that unprofessional but also ableist

lastly shout out to my friends who translate for me purely off lip reading who dont know ASL

[space-was-an-artistic-mistake]

"Nature will always win in the end."

A skin idea for John Doe! Bee swarm is one of my favorite Roblox games ever and I wanted to combine it with my current favorite Roblox game!

Info:

Trail is now Goo and still dangerous to walk though

Digital footprint is also Goo

Corrupt Energy's spikes look like Vicious Bee's with flowers at their base

404 Error is unchanged, if anything the amulets will glow a bit

Has a custom chase theme and LMS

Chase: Spoiled Honey - A more intense remix of Stick Bug's theme

LMS: Wasps - An Ant Challenge remix

Just the skin lol

[mysticdoodlez]

*cracks knuckles and neck* Alright, time to get back in the game.

Okay, so we got the band member’s deletion of Instagram. Every five days, a member deleted their posts (except Jolly, but he probably got thrown off because of the change in timezones and it took Noah beating him over the head with his ugly slides to remind him to do it). So five days from Jolly’s SUPPOSED deletion date, we got the band’s Instagram wipe. Oh, and the website with their CUSTOM 404 ERROR MESSAGE. Not the typical Error 404 Site Not Found message. So that’s proof that this isn’t the usual “They’re deleting everything because some of their fans have gone way too far” like some people are accusing us of.

So moving on to today… *takes a drag of a cigarette and exhales loudly* It’s been years since I’ve had to deal with an alternate reality game…

So the Poppy video. The V.A.N video. The whatever you want to call it video. What the fuck is V.A.N?

It’s not the band’s AI. That’s M.I.N.D., the best character of the comics, easily (besides Jolly’s bathrobe, but I digress). M.I.N.D. stands for Meta Index Native Database in the comics (or Memory Induction via Neural Data in the Just Pretend music video).

Though it could be argued that M.I.N.D. is not DIRECTLY under the employment of the Bad Omens, because the Rule Maker is aware of M.I.N.D., as shown in the first page of CONCRETE JUNGLE: THE GREY.

But in CONCRETE JUNGLE: ARTIFICIAL SUICIDE, Noah does mention having a new phone, called the VAN i2. He pairs its system with the car’s, essentially loading M.I.N.D. into the car’s computer. MR92381 is either the VAN i2, or M.I.N.D. before being paired.

So there’s the comics. Let’s go to the website now.

It’s no longer the custom 404 message. It now says “V.A.N HAS TAK3N OVER ACCESS OF THIS SITE”

So why is the “E” in “TAKEN” a “3”? None of the other “E”s are “3”s. Is something happening in 3 days? At the time of this theory post, it’s still the 21st of January, so that would put something happening on the 24th, which doesn’t match up with their “every five days” routine.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU COOKING, YOU TRENT REZNOR WANNABE.

[digiluxo]

How to fix Page Not Found error for a website?

To fix a "Page Not Found" error (404 error) for a website, follow these steps:

1. Check the URL

Typo or Mistake: Double-check if the URL entered is correct. Often, this error occurs due to a small typo in the web address.

URL Structure: If you recently changed the URL structure or renamed pages, ensure that the new URL is being used.

2. Redirect Old URLs

If you have changed URLs, set up 301 redirects. This ensures that old URLs automatically redirect users to the new pages. This can be done through:

.htaccess file (Apache): Add a rule to redirect old URLs to the new ones.

301 Redirect plugin (for WordPress): Use a plugin like "Redirection" to manage redirects easily.

CMS settings: Most content management systems (e.g., WordPress, Shopify) allow you to set redirects in the admin panel.

3. Restore or Fix Missing Pages

Check Your Server: Sometimes the page could have been accidentally deleted or moved. Ensure the file is available on the server and the correct file path is being used.

Recreate Pages: If the page was removed intentionally, consider recreating it or setting up a custom 404 page to guide users.

4. Update Internal Links

Check for Broken Links: Use tools like Google Search Console or third-party tools like Screaming Frog or Dead Link Checker to find broken internal links and update them.

Fix or Remove Links: Update internal links to point to the correct, existing pages, or remove them if the page no longer exists.

5. Check the Server Configuration

Web Server Logs: Look at your server logs to identify where the problem lies. It may be a misconfigured server issue.

Content Delivery Network (CDN): If you’re using a CDN, make sure it’s properly syncing with your server and not caching outdated pages.

6. Clear Browser and Server Cache

Clear Cache: Sometimes, browsers cache error pages. Try clearing your browser cache and check again.

Clear Server Cache: If you're using a caching system (like Varnish or a plugin), clear the cache so the server fetches the updated pages.

7. Custom 404 Page

Create a User-Friendly 404 Page: Even with all the fixes, some 404 errors are unavoidable. Create a custom 404 page that:

Apologizes for the error.

Provides links to popular pages, categories, or the homepage.

Includes a search bar to help users find what they were looking for.

8. Use a Plugin (For CMS users)

If you’re using platforms like WordPress or Shopify, install relevant plugins that automatically handle 404 errors, check for broken links, and even redirect pages.

9. Check Your Sitemap

Ensure that your sitemap is up-to-date and includes the correct URLs for all active pages. Submit this updated sitemap to Google Search Console to ensure search engines can index your site properly.

10. Monitor with Google Search Console

404 Errors Report: Regularly monitor the 404 errors reported in Google Search Console. This will help you track broken links or missing pages over time, so you can address them quickly.

By following these steps, you can minimize and eventually fix any "Page Not Found" errors on your website, ensuring a better user experience and maintaining SEO health.

We will help you. visdit digiluxo

[kt-n00b]

So i love the YAAI noli skin and really want custom voicelines for it (maybe if i hope a lms too)

But i mostly made these as a test. Enjoy! (i'll most likely make more)

Transcript:

Stunned

"Did you think you could close me that easily?"

After using teleport

"Local idiots in your area!"

Void rush wind up

"Can't stop won't stop i can't stop"

Ground Slam

"You've won, Click here for floor."

Any kill

(Voice: KreekCraft) (Video: roblox as we knew it... is dead)

"hahaha ooh- i'm gonna cry."

(Voice: Scott The Woz) (Video: It Came from the Nintendo eShop) "Re-Re-Really?"

Idiot 7n7 kill

"Is this a clone? lets find out!"

"Error 404: Idiot not found"

"Idiot- Idiot- Idiot- Idiot- Idiot- Idiot." (said really fast)

[taybatwo2]

Monster High Skullector M3GAN

Mine came in wonky, the little Mattel Creations’ customer service form I filled out keeps turning up Error 404 when I go to submit it and their offices are closed for the day.

Even one side of her lip is printed higher…drats…

She has some extra plastic on her right mask eye hole.

and removing her mask reveals how off her whole face print was.

[spark-hearts2]

QUESTION TWO:

SWITCH BOXES. you said that’s what monitors the connections between systems in the computer cluster, right? I assume it has software of its own but we don’t need to get into that, anyway, I am so curious about this— in really really large buildings full of servers, (like multiplayer game hosting servers, Google basically) how big would that switch box have to be? Do they even need one? Would taking out the switch box on a large system like that just completely crash it all?? While I’m on that note, when it’s really large professional server systems like that, how do THEY connect everything to power sources? Do they string it all together like fairy lights with one big cable, or??? …..the voices……..THE VOICES GRR

I’m acending (autism)

ALRIGHT! I'm starting with this one because the first question that should be answered is what the hell is a server rack?

Once again, long post under cut.

So! The first thing I should get out of the way is what is the difference between a computer and a server. Which, is like asking the difference between a gaming console and a computer. Or better yet, the difference between a gaming computer and a regular everyday PC. Which is... that they are pretty much the same thing! But if you game on a gaming computer, you'll get much better performance than on a standard PC. This is (mostly) because a gaming computer has a whole separate processor dedicated to processing graphics (GPU). A server is different from a PC in the same way, it's just a computer that is specifically built to handle the loads of running an online service. That's why you can run a server off a random PC in your closet, the core components are the same! (So good news about your other question. Short answer, yes! It would be possible to connect the hodgepodge of computers to the sexy server racks upstairs, but I'll get more into that in the next long post)

But if you want to cater to hundreds or thousands of customers, you need the professional stuff. So let's break down what's (most commonly) in a rack setup, starting with the individual units (sometimes referred to just as 'U').

Short version of someone setting one up!

18 fucking hard drives. 2 CPUs. How many sticks of ram???

Holy shit, that's a lot. Now depending on your priorities, the next question is, can we play video games on it? Not directly! This thing doesn't have a GPU so using it to render a video game works, but you won't have sparkly graphics with high frame rate. I'll put some video links at the bottom that goes more into the anatomy of the individual units themselves.

I pulled this screenshot from this video rewiring a server rack! As you can see, there are two switch boxes in this server rack! Each rack gets their own switch box to manage which unit in the rack gets what. So it's not like everything is connected to one massive switch box. You can add more capacity by making it bigger or you can just add another one! And if you take it out then shit is fucked. Communication has been broken, 404 website not found (<- not actually sure if this error will show).

So how do servers talk to one another? Again, I'll get more into that in my next essay response to your questions. But basically, they can talk over the internet the same way that your machine does (each server has their own address known as an IP and routers shoot you at one).

POWER SUPPLY FOR A SERVER RACK (finally back to shit I've learned in class) YOU ARE ASKING IF THEY ARE WIRED TOGETHER IN SERIES OR PARALLEL! The answer is parallel. Look back up at the image above, I've called out the power cables. In fact, watch the video of that guy wiring that rack back together very fast. Everything on the right is power. How are they able to plug everything together like that? Oh god I know too much about this topic do not talk to me about transformers (<- both the electrical type and the giant robots). BASICALLY, in a data center (place with WAY to many servers) the building is literally built with that kind of draw in mind (oh god the power demands of computing, I will write a long essay about that in your other question). Worrying about popping a fuse is only really a thing when plugging in a server into a plug in your house.

Links to useful youtube videos

How does a server work? (great guide in under 20 min)

Rackmount Server Anatomy 101 | A Beginner's Guide (more comprehensive breakdown but an hour long)

DATA CENTRE 101 | DISSECTING a SERVER and its COMPONENTS! (the guy is surrounded by screaming server racks and is close to incomprehensible)

What is a patch panel? (More stuff about switch boxes- HOLY SHIT there's more hardware just for managing the connection???)

Data Center Terminologies (basic breakdown of entire data center)

Networking Equipment Racks - How Do They Work? (very informative)

Funny

[approxydoll]

404 not found exception: an exception indicating that an application attempted to access a resource that could not be found. in the context of a web server, this means the server could not locate a file that was requested by the user. a 404 not found exception typically means that a web application is trying to access a url that does not exist on the server or does not point to a valid resource. this can occur when the user clicks on a broken link or tries to access an outdated resource. it can also be generated programmatically by directing the user to a url that does not exist. this exception has no special meaning. it is simply returned to indicate the resource could not be found. the client application may handle this exception in whatever way it sees fit, including displaying a custom error page or logging the error this exception does not indicate that the user does not have permission to access the resource. for that, see the 403 forbidden exception. invalid resource exception: raised when a specified input resource is invalid. this may be raised as a subclass of the 400 bad request exception. this is typically raised for problems with file input resources, or anything else that is not a url.