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shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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through the fire | sylus

synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in red—the color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne.

content : soulmate!au, unrequited love, angst

You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.

Zayne.

So small. So cruel. So final.

Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.

“Why is it his?”

The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads zayne #lnds #zayne love and deepspace #l&ds x reader #lads sylus #sylus x non mc #sylus angst #zayne angst #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #zayne x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x reader

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hungrydata · 8 days ago

Text

Ok so, ik I'm busy, but I can't NOT talk about the new episode. So...

SPOILER WARNING FOR EPISODE 5 OF THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS

I won't write an essay now, but holy gosh moly. This episode was great. And I hate that it ends with a cliffhanger. But it makes sense since Goose said that eps 5&6 were focused on both Jax & Ragatha, so they are very likely tied together (hopefully we don't have to wait another 6 months, but you also can't rush art of course)

I also don't want to break down the episode, there are people who can do that way better than me. I just wanna talk about some fun stuff.

First of all, I tried my best to figure out what everbody's saying here (Only Jax is subtitled in english, however the other two are as well in other languages, so I used them if I had difficulties with what they're saying):

everything I am not 100% sure about or was roughly translated via the different language subtitles, is written in brackets

JAX: I very much did not enjoy that one in the slightest. If we ever do anything even close to that again, I'm getting violent, and I'm going to kill Ragatha.

GANGLE: Uh... I... don't really think it [brought out the best in me], even if it [was the cause of my mask].

RAGATHA: Oh, I really do not think [I was that innocent at] that time, I [did release] (?) some things I normally never say.

I know that some of this is not accurate or something is missing, but it's really difficult to understand what Ragatha and Gangle are saying. Therefore if you know anything, help is very much appreciated!

_______________________________________________

Now I wanna talk about rather obscure stuff. Like Kinger being right handed. I never posted anything about it, but I discussed with my friend about what each circus member's dominant hand was (bc I was bored, can you blame me?) and while I still think that the animators just use whatever looks good and can bring the message across the best (like Gangle sometimes drawing with her left hand and with her right hand, based on what perspective we view her, or how basically most characters use their left and right hand for difficult tasks equally, just so that the viewers can see it better, and it's probably easier to animate as well if you don't have to think about it)

Anyways, Kinger is right handed confirmed to me. (Jax is left handed, tho I need to rewatch all episodes and shorts on Glitch's channel to get more information about that, same with the other chars, tho I'm 98% convinced that both Jax and Gangle are left handed, tho that might just be delusion idk)

Btw the Anime and Intermission section were beautiful. Now we know why it took so long, but it was definitely worth it.

Also RIBBUN AND MAID DRESS HALLELUJAH!

ngl this looks funny

I feel like the shippers are going crazy with this one, especially people who ship Funnybunny (and the Bunnydoll Nation is either in shambles or enjoy it as much as the time Ragatha got deep fried.)

As a Ribbun enjoyer, I am definitely eating the toxic crumbs up like Jax did eat Gangle. Also thank you Goose for giving us so many great catchphrases that I am going to use from now on.

Also, THE LORE. And why can I genuinely relate so much with Jax. Why. Idk how to feel about this. And he actually cares let's gooo!

And I gotta say. Love the beef between Jax and Ragatha, and I also like the friendship between Jax and Pomni that slowly but surely develops. I also like the detail that here, Pomni votes against the maid dress. I could imagine that she just thinks it's childish, but it's also a sign that she knows Jax would hate it and wouldn't want to stir chaos.

ALSO HE SAID THE LINE HE SAID THE LINE!

You detached it yourself, idiot.

Welp I'm outta pictures to post here. There's alot more like Jax having a friend that looks like a frog, and Goose mentioned in one post that the person that abstracted before Kaufmo was called Ribbit (yk, like the sound a frog makes). I thinke there's likely a connection. And considering that Pomni was supposed to be a frog first, maybe that's how Jax and Pomni also will become closer friends. Can't wait for the next episode

And knowing what Goose said, it's not gonna be a wholesome one. After all, even tho 5&6 are split between Ragatha and Jax, this was still the Ragatha episode, and the next one will be "more centered" around Jax. I'm scared.

Also as much as it pains me, I think Gangle will be the one to abstract. The fact that she didn't have an evil doppelganger and with the teaser of her symbol loading, it's too much of a coincidence to not happen. Pls don't Gangle you're my baby ;;-;;.

(so much so to "not an essay" lmao. "Not an essay" my ass)

Also. DaY 172 bc yes

#the amazing digital circus #tadc episode 5 #tadc #tadc episode 5 spoiler #tadc spoilers #tadc spoiler #tadc theory #pomni #jax #ragatha #kinger #gangle #zooble #ribbun #funnybunny #bunnydoll #i won't tag every character x character here now I already wasted too much time writing this

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txttletale · 8 months ago

Note

"you, specifically, are a bad and evil person that all my posts are written to condemn" this is not what i said. i'm sorry for not being clearer. i just feel like everyone in this space, not just you, look down on people who live in the first world as people who willingly don't change anything about how the world works when it's just not that simple. i know you all love to combat this and say otherwise but it will never change the simple reality that for some people it really is very hard, if not impossible, to do anything politically, for a variety of reasons. i'm disabled, i live in a remote part of the country, and i'm bad at talking to people. i don't have the money to just move to a population center or get lessons on how to speak to people. i can't do anything and i feel like every time you or one of the other communists on tumblr talks about the imperial core, i feel like i, personally, am being held to an unreasonable standard that i would not hold anyone else to, if i were in one of your situations. obviously i want things to change. i don't want genocide to be a thing that's constantly happening, i don't want my country to have its tendrils dug into every other country, i want socialism and eventually global communism, and if i could do anything meaningful-- anything at all-- to achieve those goals i would be working on that. but right now that just is not the case for me, and i feel like i'm not alone in that either. i just wish you had like a smidgen of empathy for some of the people living here who don't fit into your stereotype of what a member of the imperial core looks like-- i'm not even trying to say that sarcastically, it genuinely feels like you all don't see us as human. like nyanguard especially seems to think of us as incapable of saving ourselves, and one of the reblogs to my first ask just said they "like to imagine that (i'm) crying as i type this". how am i supposed to react to that? is this how all of you feel about people like me? would your feelings about me change if i lived in another country, or would you find some other excuse to talk down to me? is it really just the country i live in that's the problem, here? i'm not trying to accuse you, i'm asking this question genuinely.

i know it's tempting to respond to this with a snarky comment but please just try to understand where i am coming from. i really am willing to help if i can.

i don't think any marxist seriously has a political theory of imperialism that amounts to "citizens of the imperial core simply choose not to do anything because they are all individually bad people". i mean the whole point of marxism is that economic relations are the ultimate drivers of historical change, not abstract psychological or moral qualities of people.

i'm sympathetic to your situation! the imperial core is a very atomizing place to live, and there are places and situations where there's just no practical path to getting organized and taking meaningful political action in the near future. however, your problem here is:

i feel like i, personally, am being held to an unreasonable standard that i would not hold anyone else to

nobody is posting about you, personally. like at the end of the day you have to learn to either not take posts like that personally or just block everyone who makes them to manage your own time on the computer vis a vis niceness--i don't think it's the responsibility of me or any other communist to constantly provide asterisks and carveouts that we're not talking about the Good Ones Who Have Extenuating Circumstances when we talk about the usa and its material political base.

& in the same way that you ask for empathy for your situation i would ask you to extend a level of understanding to people whose homelands and countrymen and communities have been devastated by US coups and sanctions and invasions, that they have as much a right to express the rage and fury and hurt of that cultural legacy as you do to express your own sadness about your own situation. imagine, for example, how you would feel if your grandparents could not reliably get medicine because of us sanctions. & of course the correct target for these feelings are not random usamericans--but these posts are also not serious politcal platforms, they are venting from people who live their lives under the weight of empire.

if you think what they're saying is unfair to you, then you need to develop the ability to say 'well, i understand why they would feel that way' and move on. like i understand why you are upset, and i don't say this to be dismissive, but as real advice: it is not fair (especially to bloggers from the global south) to essentially rest your happiness and self-worth at their feet and demand that they validate you.

genuinely, i hope this helps. it's all i really have to say on the matter.

#ask

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dailyrothko · 2 months ago

Text

It's a Rothko.

Why the hell didn't Dale say that?

$10,000.

So it's smudgy squares?

That's interesting.

Two possibilities--

either Cooper loves it,

and you have to love it,

like in an "Emperor's New Clothes" situation,

or he thinks it's a joke

and you'll look like a fool

if you pretend to dig it.

People like him pretend

they understand this.

Maybe he has a brochure in here,

something that explains it.

I don't think it's supposed to be explained .

I'm an artist, okay?

It must mean something.

Maybe it doesn't.

Maybe you're just supposed to experience it.

Because when you look at it, you do feel something, right?

It's like looking into something very deep.

You could fall in.

That's true.

Did someone tell you that?

How could someone tell you that?

This is pointless. Let's go.

On September 7th, 2008, the tv show Mad Men aired an episode which featured a painting by Mark Rothko and the characters reactions to it.

As I always do with things I like that get unexpectedly pulled into the mainstream culture, I approached the first viewing with good deal of trepidation. I was just waiting for someone to ruin a thing I love.

Luckily, I thought they did a pretty good job. The reactions and situational elements rang true for me: A rich person buying art and people wondering if the inspiration was financial or aesthetic and viewers having same kind of disparate reactions to it we still see today.

The popular Med Men subreddit proclaimed that the painting was not a real Rothko but just something in that style, however this was not the case.

The actual painting is Untitled (Four Reds), painted in 1957.The producers of Mad Men secured a scan from the Rothko Foundation to make a facsimile from and were very careful about getting it as right as possible. As so often we see a cinematic representation of abstract art clearly painted by an amateur, I believe this attention to detail was key for the verisimilitude of the drama. One can imagine how wrong it could've gone.

Many people tell me their Interest in the art of Mark Rothko came from watching this episode and that it provided an important, if circuitous, entrée into abstract art.

1- Mark Rothko, Untitled (Four Reds), 1957 Oil on canvas Leeum Museum of Art, Seoul, South Korea © Kate Rothko Prizel & Christopher Rothko / ARS, New York 2-3 Screenshots and dialogue from Mad Men, "the Gold Violin" 2007 Directed by Andrew Bernstein Written by Matthew Weiner, Jane Anderson, and André Jacquemetton © Lionsgate, Weiner Films. American Movie Classics.

#mark rothko #markrothko #rothko #daily rothko #dailyrothko #abstract expressionism #modern art #abstraction #colorfield #ab ex #colorfield painting #mid century #mad men #the gold violin

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bradleysass · 2 months ago

Text

stairs - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 953

There were only four people in the library that evening, and Evan was determined to keep it that way.

It wasn’t that he hated people—he just found most of them offensively loud when he was trying to focus, and his creative writing essay wasn’t going to write itself. Professor Figg had given them the prompt a week ago: "Describe longing without using the word ‘longing.’” Poetic, vague, and annoyingly difficult.

He’d written and crossed out three different paragraphs, each worse than the last. His parchment looked like it had survived a duel.

Across the table, Barty was curled over his own essay like it had personally insulted him. His quill scratched in uneven bursts, and he muttered to himself every few seconds. Evan knew better than to interrupt—Barty was the kind of person who would hex your ink well into your lap if you broke his concentration.

Still, he couldn't help glancing up every now and then. Just quick peeks. Just in case Barty caught fire from sheer rage or something.

But then again, Evan always peeked.

And that was the problem.

He’d never meant to fall into this—whatever this was. Watching Barty during class, knowing his moods by the tilt of his mouth, finding himself gravitating toward the same corner of the common room or the same side of the Quidditch pitch. It had started off casual. Passive.

Now it felt like something else entirely.

Barty let out a sigh and dropped his quill onto the table. “This is stupid.”

Evan hummed. “Agreed. That was true before we even started.”

“No, I mean—” Barty waved a hand over his parchment like he wanted to set it ablaze. “She’s asking us to describe something abstract with more abstraction. How is that supposed to help us write better?”

“She said it was about ‘emotional depth.’”

“She reads too many books about ghosts kissing.”

Evan snorted. “Better than your usual genre: tortured rebellion with a side of petty crimes.”

“Petty?” Barty echoed, scandalized. “I’ll have you know my crimes are very serious. High quality.”

“I’ve read your essays, Barty. You spelled ‘melancholy’ as ‘melan-collie’ once.”

“That was a metaphor.”

“It was a dog breed.”

Barty grinned at him, triumphant and completely unrepentant. Evan tried not to smile back. He really did. But Barty had that effect—the chaotic charm of a wildfire that knew it was beautiful.

They went quiet again, the scratch of Evan’s quill resuming as he rewrote his second paragraph for the fourth time. This one was… better. Maybe. He compared a heartbeat to a clock and tried not to cringe.

Then he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Barty tilted his parchment slightly to the side, muttering a line aloud.

“And still I walk down endless stairs / hoping someday you’d notice so I could stairs at you…”

Evan blinked. Paused.

“Did you just say ‘stairs’?” he asked.

Barty didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“You used the wrong ‘stare.’”

“No, I didn’t.”

Evan leaned forward. “You meant to write ‘stairs’ twice in a row?”

“Sure did.”

“Barty.”

Barty finally glanced up, slow and deliberate, his eyes catching Evan’s like he’d planned this moment. He always looked at people like he was trying to peel back their layers. Evan hated that he wanted to be stripped down like that.

“I used the exact one I meant,” Barty said calmly.

Evan crossed his arms, dubious. “You meant to say you wanted to stairs at someone?”

“I was hoping you’d notice,” Barty said, voice lower now, his smirk widening, “so I could stairs at you.”

The air caught between them, a silent pause suspended by implication.

Evan stared at him, speechless.

Barty just shrugged like he hadn’t just broken the Geneva Convention of flirtation.

“You’re unbelievable,” Evan muttered, trying very hard to look back down at his own parchment and not at the way Barty was still watching him. “You can’t just weaponize bad grammar to flirt with me.”

“I can. I did. It worked.”

“It absolutely did not.”

“Then why are your ears red?”

Evan slammed his quill down. “Because you’re annoying.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—!”

“Evan.”

He looked up again, reluctantly, and saw it—Barty, leaning forward, elbows on the table, a single eyebrow raised. Not smug, not teasing. Just… looking. Really looking.

And Evan didn’t look away.

Barty tilted his head slightly, and his voice dropped a decibel. “It wasn’t just a line, you know.”

“What wasn’t?”

“The stairs. The staring.” A shrug. “The hoping.”

Evan’s heart skipped so hard it tripped over itself.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something, joke it off, deflect with a sarcastic quip. But Barty was still watching him like he’d just handed over something fragile.

Evan didn’t know what to do with something fragile.

But he could try.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he said finally, but his voice softened around the edges.

Barty smiled. “That’s a yes.”

“It’s a ‘maybe I like stairs.’”

“I’ll write you an escalator next,” Barty promised, and it sounded so stupidly romantic Evan had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling like an idiot.

They returned to their essays, not speaking, but something had shifted. The silence was less sharp now, more like a blanket thrown over both of them.

Eventually, Barty shoved his parchment across the table.

Evan looked down. The last line had been rewritten.

And still I walk down endless stairs, Hoping someday you’d notice me there— So I could stare, not stairs, but truly see, The boy who makes a mess of me.

Evan glanced up.

Barty shrugged. “Figured I should fix it. For Figg.”

Evan smiled.

“I liked the first version better.”

#rosekillermicrofic #rosekiller microfic #rosekiller #marauders #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #microfic

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meatsaint · 5 months ago

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Stupid girl.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Summary: On Christmas Eve, Michael found himself alone, stuck in the quiet of his room, with no invitation to the Christmas party that everyone else was attending. He tried to distract himself, dive into something—anything—to kill the time. But it would’ve been easier if your arrogant, fucking beautiful face didn’t keep invading his thoughts.

Warnings: This will be Michael Gavey alone and bursting with need. Solo masturbation, nipple teasing, choking, whimpering, loud moaning, dirty talking.

By now, Michael swears he can see the letters burned onto the backs of his eyelids, etched onto the scratched lenses of his glasses. He’s been reading, re-reading, poring over the same pages for what feels like hours—not out of necessity, but out of sheer, exquisite boredom. Studying is beneath him; he doesn’t need it, not like the pathetic little plebs cluttering up Oxford’s hallowed halls. Especially not the ones fawning over Felix at tonight’s insipid Christmas party.

Not that Michael was invited, of course. NFI—no fucking invite. But who cares? Honestly, the idea of enduring that brain-dead circus of undercooked intellects is enough to make him laugh. Felix and his preening flock of hangers-on, spilling cheap wine and flinging around half-baked opinions as if they’re profound insights—God, it’s all so unbearably tedious.

Michael knows better. He's smarter than all of them combined. He doesn’t need their pathetic approval or their pitiful attempts at camaraderie. He's better than this. Smarter than this. And frankly, he knows it.

But even geniuses have their weak spots—turns out, he’s still human after all. The real issue? That old adage about idle hands being the devil’s workshop might as well have been written for him. And in his case, the devil wasn't some abstract concept—it was you. Yes, you. That insufferable, magnetic little thorn on its side, always lurking just out of reach. He couldn’t shake you—not in the university hallways, and apparently not in the supposed sanctity of his dorm room either.

What the fuck is your problem, anyway?

He’d clocked you from the start. And no, it wasn't because of your perfect face, or your body that made his stomach twist in ways he'd rather not name. It wasn't your eyes, either—though they had a way of locking onto him, melting his resolve with the precision of a surgeon. Nor was it how you always looked a little undone when you showed up late, messy but effortlessly captivating, like you weren't even trying. And it certainly wasn't the rare times you smiled—God, that smile—that fucking gorgeous, infuriating smile that seemed to light up the entire room and derail every coherent thought in his head.

Although, if he’s honest, he’s got a sneaking suspicion all of those things had more to do with it than he’d like to admit.

It was the way you were good. Not just good, but obnoxiously good. The kind of good that felt like a personal affront. You always seemed to know the answers before the question had fully left the teacher's mouth, every word perched smugly on the edge of your tongue, just waiting for the perfect moment to make everyone else in the room feel like an idiot. You weren’t mediocre—not in your looks, and certainly not in your intellect. And it drove him mad.

It wasn't a passing irritation, either. It burned. Deep. It clawed at him that there was nothing he could label you—no snide insult to fling your way. Idiot? Hardly. Loser? Not a chance. He couldn't even resort to the old “stupid, spoiled rich girl” trope, because like him, you were a scholarship student. No silver spoon. No trust fund.

There was nothing. Not a single flaw for him to latch onto. And that—more than anything else—infuriated him.

It was irritating him now—gnawing at him, scratching under his skin—until he threw the book back onto the wobbly table in front of him with a sharp slap of paper against wood. He let himself pause, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, feeling the ache of his body sink into the uncomfortable chair. His hand drifted to his face, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could squeeze out the tension gathered from hours of relentless reading. The release was brief—his hand dropped back to his lap with an exhale that was equal parts exhaustion and frustration.

And, of course, his mind began to wander. It always did.

He could still remember the only real interaction he’d had with you—back in those first few weeks after you’d arrived. Something stupid, trivial, forgettable. Except not for him. His brain, that obstinate bastard, clung to it like a dog with a bone.

The hallways had been chaos that morning, teeming with bodies and noise. Probably Felix and his band of sycophants stirring up their usual mess. He'd been trying to slip through, and apparently, so had you. He hadn’t even noticed he was behind you until it was too late.

The memory alone made his chest tighten. The smell of your hair, warm and clean, had hit him first, flooding his senses. Then the heat radiating from you, so alive it was almost unbearable. And finally, the proximity—too close, close enough to make his pulse hammer.

He’d had to touch you, his hands finding your hips without a second thought as he maneuvered past. “Excuse me,” he’d murmured, low and quiet, just beside your ear. And then your eyes—those fucking eyes—turned to his, locking onto him with an intensity that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

He remembers how, in that fleeting, charged moment, your bodies pressed closer together as he tried to move past you. How his hand lingered on your hips just a second too long, how your warmth seeped into him like some addictive, forbidden drug. And then, as he finally squeezed by, your hips brushed against his.

Holy shit!

The contact felt a jolt straight through him, lighting up every delicious, traitorous nerve in his body.

Michael bit his lip, the memory still fresh and alive, thrumming through his body like a pulse he couldn’t control. It was pathetic, he knew that. Laughable, even. And yet, there it was—the way it made him feel then, the way it was making him feel now. His gaze dropped, and he caught sight of himself: the loose black shorts he’d thrown on for the night already tented, his shirtless torso rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The bridge of his glasses slid slightly down his nose, slick with sweat.

He could hardly believe it, how turned on he really was—how something so fleeting had embedded itself in him like this.

A low, involuntary sound escaped his lips as his head fell back again, resting against the edge of the chair. His hips shifted weakly, thrusting upwards in a desperate, almost instinctive rhythm, finding nothing but empty air. Torturous. Completely maddening. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair with white-knuckled determination, keeping himself grounded, holding back from giving in entirely.

No, not yet. He wanted to make it last, draw it out, at least for this fleeting moment. Since you were already so deeply in his fucking head, he might as well let himself indulge in it.

Slowly, so achingly slow, he let his hands drift from the arms of the chair, sliding up over his body. His fingers brushed against the flat of his stomach, gliding up to his chest, his touch igniting a shiver that made his back arch instinctively. Every inch of his skin felt alive, buzzing under his fingertips, alight with sensation.

And then you were there again, haunting him. He could see your hands in his mind—how effortlessly you wrote, quick and precise, how sometimes you’d press a fingertip to your lips to wet it before flipping to the next page. The memory crawled over him like fire, his skin burning with the thought of you, your face painted vividly behind his closed eyelids. Every inch of you felt so close, tantalisingly within reach—if only in the merciless confines of his imagination.

His fingers found his nipples, hardened and aching, and he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, a shock of pleasure coursing through him. His hips lifted sharply, pressing against the frustrating barrier of his shorts, seeking some kind of release. A low, slurred groan escaped him, unrestrained, sweat dripping from his temple as his mind spun with thoughts of your smile—wicked and teasing—and your teeth, perfect and dangerous, that he was certain would leave marks he’d never want to forget.

Fuck. It was too much, all of it. Too much and not enough.

"Fuck, I'm so hard," Michael mumbled to himself, the words slipping out into the emptiness of the room, perhaps picturing how you'd react if you knew how much he was aching for you.

His hand finally ventures down, sliding under his clothes to free his erection into the cool air. He gazes at the precum beading at the tip, a clear sign of his arousal, almost laughing at how insanely turned on he is by the mere thought of you. A smile curves his lips, followed by a quiet chuckle. He's so wound up, it's almost absurd. With his thumb, he begins to circle the sensitive head of his cock.

"Oh, yeah," Michael whispers again, his lips parting, eyebrows knitting together as waves of pleasure wash over him. "Yeah, yeah, that feels so good." His words fade into the air, his other hand still on his chest, giving the nipple a sharp twist, heightening his sensations.

His breathing becomes labored, the pleasure intense yet unfulfilling. He craved you, only you. His hand moved to his mouth, thumb slipping between his lips, tasting himself, a moan echoing from deep within as he fantasized it was your essence he was savoring. He longed for the taste of your pussy, to dive between your legs with abandon, to explore every inch of that perfect cunt he imagined you possessing. The thought of you riding his face, using him for your pleasure, made his desire spike to new heights. He wanted to be the one to make you shudder, to feel your thighs clamp around his head as you took what you needed from him.

Withdrawing his hand from his mouth, he spits into his palm, the saliva making his hand slick, ready to simulate the wetness he'd bring out in you. His fingers then wrap around his erection, eyes rolling back as his hand grips him at the base, a silent moan parting his lips.

"Oh fuck," he murmurs, overwhelmed by the sensation, the throbbing of his cock almost punitive in its intensity.

Taking a deep breath, he begins to stroke himself, his other hand gripping the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. His hips buck in rhythm with his hand, up and down, the mental image of you vivid in his mind. He imagines how snug you'd feel around him, how it would feel to stretch you with his thickness, to dive deep and watch your expression shift from clever to needy. Would you take all of him without protest? Would your moans fill the room? Would tears of pleasure brim in your eyes for him? Just the thought sends tremors through his legs.

"You're so tight," he vocalizes, not fully understanding why he's speaking it aloud, but needing to make the fantasy more concrete. "You little smug bitch, I want to fuck you so bad, so bad..." he repeats, almost like a mantra.

His hand accelerates, the pace frantic as he watches, his gaze fixed on his own arousal. His cock, slick with saliva and precum, is a mess, the head engorged, veins protruding like they're about to explode. He imagines himself thrusting into you, coated in your essence, shining with your desire. His chest is covered in sweat, his legs trembling, his toes curling in ecstasy.

"Oh fuck, I need you, please," he begs, as if by some divine intervention, you'd hear and materialize right there. "Please, please make me cum, please..." His plea, though soft, reverberates around him.

The hand that was clutching the chair moves to his throat, his grip tightening, a statement of need. He imagines it's your hand, while you ride him, those perfect breasts bouncing before his eyes. He craves the suffocation, the breath taken away by you and your sharp mind. His fingers press harder into his throat, moans escaping as muffled sounds, his other hand now punishingly fast, the veins in his forearm standing out with the effort.

"I'm cumming, fuck..." He cuts off his own words, his grip on his throat tightening further, not allowing his hand on his cock to slow. "Cum with me, fuck!" The words are barely audible as his body surrenders to the climax.

His eyes roll back, and he quickly moves the hand from his throat to cover his mouth, muffling the scream of pleasure as his release hits, cum spilling onto his stomach, his thighs clenching in desperation, his whole body tense with the image of you in his mind. Everything fades into numbness, except for the vivid image of you, the thought of fucking you.

Michael’s body slackened in the chair, sliding lower as his arms fell limp at his sides. His head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. When he glanced down, he saw the mess he’d made—his stomach sticky, his skin glistening with sweat, strands of hair plastered to his damp forehead. He was a wreck, a pathetic disaster, and all for someone who would never know.

A stupid grin crept onto his lips as his eyes wandered to the ceiling, a long, heavy sigh leaving his chest.

“I hate you so much,” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible. A part of him almost wished you could hear it, wherever you were right now. Then again, maybe it was better if you didn’t.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head shaking faintly from side to side as that ridiculous smile lingered. Yeah, he hated you. Hated the way you got under his skin, the way you took up space in his thoughts without even trying. But, God help him, he should probably thank you—for making Christmas Eve marginally more interesting than the stale, lifeless pages of his books.

Stupid girl.

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #saltburn #michael gavey x you #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond #smut #x reader #whining

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apocalypticwafflekitten · 2 months ago

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Moonlight Psychopomp

Vampire!Perpetua x Reader

A/N: I was listening to Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier when this thought came into my head. This was supposed to be a little blurb idea I was gonna throw into @papathe5th’s askbox but it became a full fic of its own, so here we go! Also! The lovely divider is by @wrathofrats!

Original Imagine/Summary Thingy: Imagine being there when Perpetua gets turned and sort of ushering him into his “afterlife”.

Warnings: Major Character Death-ish. It’s nothing too detailed, but he technically does die. Very Mild Gore - mild descriptions of blood, nothing super detailed. Originally written with she/her pronouns, but changes to be gender-neutral, so let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Word Count: 2k

I don’t have any other works for Perpetua at the moment, but if you like my writing, you can check out my Masterlist!

You liked to walk through the woods that backed up to the Monastery. The old abbey was such a secretive place - all mystery and compelling quietness. You liked to nose around the grounds, catch sight of the men who lived there, listen to the tones from the abbey’s organ.

You almost didn’t come tonight. The smattering of snow falling should have convinced you to stay home next to your heater and fireplace. Really, it shouldn’t have been snowing at all, but Spring seemed to come late this year. Even in mid-April the winter chill had yet to leave your hometown.

But you wanted to listen to the brothers sing. You wouldn’t be able to hear much, but if you got close enough, you could make out the melodies and harmonies drifting through the windows during the Easter vigil mass.

But as you creep closer to the tree line, out of the densest parts of the forest, you see a dark, lumpy shape laying on the forest floor.

A smarter person might have changed course and avoided whatever consequences might come from investigating a dark, lumpy shape laying on the forest floor. But you were curious. It was that curiosity that led you to spy on the Monastery to begin with - that curiosity that led you here tonight. So of course you listened to that before you ever listened to the rational part of your mind.

As you draw closer to the shape, you try to make out what exactly it is. Granted, it’s dark. The sun set ages ago, so you can’t see well to begin with. But you still try.

However, it’s not the shape of the thing that finally tells you what it is. It’s what you step in.

You don’t hear it at first, but after a few steps, you notice a squelch beneath your shoes that isn’t made by crushing snow. Looking down, you can’t quite make out what exactly is different about the forest floor - only that there’s some liquid or goo shining in the dim moonlight. You bend down to investigate, but before you can kneel, you’re overcome by the metallic smell. Blood.

A thick trail of blood leads up to and puddles beside the shape. And as you look down at what appears to be shredded fabric, you catch a glimpse of what is laying beneath that fabric. Your heart plummets when you realize what - or, rather who - you had stumbled upon.

He’s one of the brothers of the monastery. Even without the robes, you’d know. You had seen him around the grounds during previous visits, often catching him hiding in the open courtyard or wandering close to the forest while scribbling something in a notebook. He was your favorite to watch. Not just because he was handsome, which was nice, but really, it was because he seemed so out of place - like the pious life grated hard against him - like something about him being there just…wasn’t right. And yet there he was.

But as he lays here, he looks nothing like the man you’ve watched before. His robes are torn to shreds. His skin an ill pallor that’s beginning to sink in upon itself. Most of all, he just looks…wrong - like he’s lost something about himself. Something fundamental that no one would ever choose to lose.

You kneel beside him, pull his body into your lap and let the weight of his upper body rest on your legs. And only then do you notice where the puddle of blood beside him comes from.

Blood still trickles from the wounds and though you try not to jump to conclusions, the two punctures on his neck tell you enough to guess what happened to him.

“You poor thing,” You whisper, adjusting his body so his head can rest in the crook of your elbow, “What happened to you?”

You nearly jump out of your skin when his eyes creak open just the smallest bit. You’re not even sure he actually did open his eyes. It could have been a muscle twitch or something. But you force your arms to still, to continue holding him against your rapid heartbeat.

But he knows. The second he heard your voice his body jolted alive, fighting to hang on just a little longer. Just enough to finally see you.

You were really here - the one who kept coming back to spy on the monastery. He could finally see more of you than the brief glimpses he had caught before. He could finally connect the dots on the rough sketches he’d been scribbling in his notebook. He could finally meet you.

But everything is hazy. And his whole body hurts. He doesn’t even know where he is anymore or how he got here. But he can hear your voice like a beacon of clarity that pulls him back down to earth.

As you speak, the moonlight streaming through the trees bathes you in a silver halo, so much so that it seems the moonlight comes from you. You are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he wonders for a moment if he’s even worthy of looking at you.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’re still here with me. But I’m sorry it happened like this. I’m sorry you were alone.”

“I’m not” he yearns to say. The words push up against the back of his tongue, but his throat is dry and he can’t make his lips move. So he looks into your eyes, hoping you can see the little flicker of his soul behind his eyes - hoping he can somehow tell you with his eyes that he knows you’re there.

Fuck, he knows. Moments before this, when he lay alone in the snow he had been afraid - shivering and shuddering, feeling the cold sting against his skin where that thing had ripped his robes (he wonders briefly how much of his body you can see). But then you found him and pulled him against your body and let him feel warmth again.

And as he looks into your eyes now, all of that fear is quelled. All the blood, all the cold, all the pain - it melts away and is replaced by something warm and comforting within his chest. Your eyes hold everything good in the world just above him. Just looking at you is enough to soothe his every ache.

He takes a final moment to memorize your face, a final deep breath - willing his chest to move one last time, then goes entirely limp.

Your arms jolt out to carry all the weight of him once more. And for a moment, you just sit there, holding his still body in silence.

You don’t know what to do. You’re certain a man just died in your arms. A man you hardly know in a dark forest backed up to an old Monastery in the middle of a vigil mass.

As you look down at his blank face, trying to think of what to do, you’re overcome with pity for him. To die almost alone on a cold night is not the death this man deserved. You can feel tears for him welling in your eyes and as they fall, you pull his body to your chest, hugging close the remnants of this poor man before setting him on the forest floor.

You can’t bury him. You don’t have a shovel, nor do you have the strength to dig a grave for him. But something tells you that even if you could, you still wouldn’t bury him. There’s no explaining it, but something about him just doesn’t feel…done yet. It’s absurd. There is no breath. No pulse. Even the blood trickling from his wounds has stopped. And yet, you know you wouldn’t bury his body.

So you do what you can. You pull the collar of his robes up against the wind and prop his body against a tree, well guarded in a dark corner of the forest. You slip your coat off and lay it over him - hoping that if you’re correct and he’s not quite done yet, that the coat will keep him warm.

Just before you stand to leave, you cup his cold cheek in your hand, cradling hope and comfort against his hollow skin. And into his ear you softly whisper: “Whatever comes for you now, poor one, I hope you find happiness, whatever that means for you.”

And then you were gone.

The ministry is still a little overwhelming. Especially today.

The ministry halls - normally quiet and calm - are bustling with veteran Siblings racing to welcome new initiates. He’s supposed to come meet them this evening too. It’s one of his first official acts as Papa. And yet, he finds himself scared - worried, even, that he will somehow fail even this simple task.

He turns his eye to the corner of his desk. There’s a framed sketch there. A sketch of you. The one he’d viciously scribbled moments after he woke up, perched against a tree. It was one of the only things he remembered when he woke in that cold forest.

He’d ripped his notebook and pen from the pocket of his shredded robes and finished the sketches of you he had started weeks ago.

And now he keeps this one with him - framed and close no matter where he goes.

He often looks to you when he needs strength. Even if it‘s just a sketch of you, it’s enough to help him through anything. You’d saved him once before and so many times after that, though you’d never know it.

He dreams about that night often. Every week at least. Flashes of the initial attack have come back slowly over the years. That, he’s not entirely grateful for. But he remembers some things that are good enough to balance out the nightmares. He remembers that he was doing a last check of the grounds before the vigil mass when he was attacked. He remembers hoping to see you in the trees and thinking that if he saw you again he might invite you inside - just for mass. Just to meet you. And most of all, he remembers you and how the moonlight shone from you and how you’d guided him into his afterlife with your kind, comforting voice.

He’s been looking for you. Ever since that night he’s looked for you. Honestly, at this point he’s not even sure you’re real. Maybe you had been an angel. Or a demon. Or some figment of his imagination. But that’s never stopped him from looking for you. And if there was one benefit of his sudden promotion, it was that he had some level of power to look for you. He would be going on tour soon and in every venue, in every city, he’ll be looking for you - hoping, praying to Satan that you’re real.

As he looks at the sketch of you, he feels that same warmth he felt the night you saved him - the one that melted over him when he looked into your eyes. It’s reassurance enough that even if he’s scared, he can survive - he will survive.

And later that night, when he steps into the sanctuary to meet the new initiates, his breath catches in his throat and time stops altogether.

You’re here. You’re actually here. You’re not some figment of his imagination. Even obscured by the formal habit for the ceremony, he knows it’s you. You may have aged in the fifteen years it’s been since you held him, but he knows you. He would know your eyes, your voice, even in death or whatever comes for him now. You’re here. You’re real. And you’re just as beautiful as his hazy memory recalls. The moonlight shining upon you through the stained glass windows gives you the same silhouette as that night; the same silver halo. A message from God or Satan or something beyond either of them. One that says “Look at them. I’ve brought them to you.”

And in that moment, he is filled with the most radiant, blinding happiness he’s ever known.

He finally gets to meet you.

#this came to me like a fever dream #I haven’t written a fic this quickly in sooooooo long #what can I say?#I’m inspired by the Purple Creature Man #papa v #papa v perpetua #papa v x reader #papa v perpetua x reader #vampire perpetua #vampire perpetua x reader #vampetua #vampetua x reader

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