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ittybittyfanblog · 16 hours ago

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god emmy i live for the play-by-play commentary 🤧💕 i get so giddy seeing which parts you liked most HEREHEEHE 🫶🏼 they're truly in their honeymoon arc, i fear it's going to get sickeningly sweeter from here on out 💖 ...... unless ?

TOJI WILL MEET HIS INEVITABLE DEMISE IF READER DOESN'T HIDE HIM FROM SYLUS (death by "casual" collision indeed 😭)

(now as for the "other thing"… i plead the fifth. you'll just have to wait and see 🙂‍↔️)

Error 404: Spin-off – Pt.3

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized, what a chad. (That’s it, that’s the plot.) Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language and fluffy whatnots A/N: Domestic bliss, my love. (Also, a pivotal character returns.)

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

It’s the third Sunday of July, and the little studio you’ve called home for over half a decade is almost barren—save for the large TV box and two overstuffed suitcases lined up by the front doorway.

You give the place one last good once-over. The space looks almost unrecognizable without all the clutter, and what's left are ghosts of what's lived here: the mysterious stains from accidental spills, the unsightly dings and old dents on the walls, and the tiny holes left behind from all the picture frames and random posters you’d tacked up over the years – some with bits of sticky residue still clinging on, bound to take a chunk out of your safety deposit.

There’s a pang that comes with seeing the space this empty. And it’s only natural, of course, to feel a little something—more than a little something—for a place you’ve gotten used to looking at every single day, day in and day out.

The excitement is there, too. But for now, you let yourself sit in this last dredge of nostalgic reminiscence as your eyes scan the empty expanse in front of you. A quiet goodbye to the home that held your life—your noise, your mess, all the short triumphs and breakdowns that made up your twenties.

Goodbye, weird water stain on the ceiling. Goodbye, suspiciously cold corner that’s definitely not haunted. Goodbye, goodbye.

From the corner near the doorway, Maru yowls his complaints from inside the plastic confines of his portable prison.

“If you weren’t such an escape artist, I could just carry you, you know,” you remind him with mild disdain. He meows louder in response. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go join your dad upstairs.”

With a laundry hamper balanced in your arms and the harping furball slung over one shoulder like a disgruntled (fluffy) backpack, you head for the fire exit, left of the hallway, and painstakingly make your way up to the eighth floor.

You and Sylus are officially moving! … Into a unit two floors above.

It’s a brand-new chapter of your lives – a big step you’re taking together as a couple, even if the literal distance is only a few meters away from where you started.

You’ve had this conversation with him maybe a handful of times over the past two months. It was a mutual decision for the most part; your current place barely has room for one person and a cat, let alone a six-foot-five behemoth of a man with shoulders as wide as the doorframe. To his credit, Sylus had adjusted with all the patience of someone who didn’t mind sharing what was essentially a miniature version of his old walk-in closet with you.

But even you have to admit, watching him try to navigate the cramped layout of your studio felt a bit like watching a mountain lion pacing in a cage the size of a shoebox. You’d said as much one night—offhandedly, more rueful ribbing than anything, while watching him sidestep around the kitchen with the awkward grace of someone used to bigger spaces.

He didn’t take it badly. Just smiled, and asked if you were finally ready to move. You were.

The two of you had only just started scouting for apartments around the area when you spotted the flyer for a vacant unit taped to the corkboard by the lobby entrance. You weren't really expecting much, but it was the closest option out of the six you’d listed in your notes app, and both of you figured to might as well call the number. Next thing you knew, you were pencilled in for an inspection later that same day.

And the unit turned out to be surprisingly spacious.

More than you expected, honestly. A proper two-bedroom. Seventy-one square meters internal, with its own separate laundry room – already equipped with a dryer, no less.

The place looked relatively new, or at least recently renovated, with its fresh coat walls and neatly grouted bathroom tiles. The living area had enough space for a sofa, a proper dining table, maybe even a bookshelf in the corner—and room for a lot more.

You were eyeing the second bedroom, already converting it into a shared office space of sorts in your head. One side for you, one for Sylus, divided by the wide sliding window centered on the back wall. The afternoon light filters in quite nicely, and you couldn’t help but imagine two matching desks with a dark walnut finish beneath where the sun hits, or maybe a long one you could share, with enough space for both of you to work without feeling cramped.

Perhaps a corkboard and some ambient floor lights, even a little gaming set-up that’s more than just a corner of your bedroom, too.

Further along the viewing, the middle-aged realtor rattled off other features to sell it: a brand-new dishwasher, the very good central heating, the AC (“–and the living room has its own air conditioning unit,” “Oh… wouldn’t that be expensive to run?” “It’s a split-type unit, Ma’am,” “Ah–?” “More cost-efficient than ducted systems, sweetie.”) that had you hemming and hawing, not quite ready to say yes to the very first option you’d seen (and liked). Besides, it was on the steeper end of your budget, and the one in Belmore also looked promising, with a cheaper monthly rent, so...

But then you saw the balcony, and suddenly, you got tunnel vision.

Fourteen square meters. God, it’s big enough to bring out a cozy outdoor sectional, and oooh, you’re already picturing fairy lights strung along the railing, maybe some candles. Not to mention, the few potted plants you’ve managed to keep alive could finally get some actual sunlight out here. They might even thrive for once, the little stragglers.

You can already see it: cold brews in the morning and a smoke, lazy afternoons paired with a glass of bubbly. Evenings cuddled up under a blanket, the view of the city as far as the eye can see.

A whole, private nook for yourself and Sylus. (And Maru.)

The sun had just started to sink, bathing the horizon in a soft, golden wash that only happens for less than thirty, maybe forty minutes at most. You checked the time—5:23.

The light stretched long and low across the terracotta tiles, warm against your feet, drowning your sight in a pretty amber. It felt serendipitous.

(Or maybe you were just looking for a sign. Either way, you took it for what it is.)

Sylus saw the way your eyes sparkled and merely chuckled, wasting no time to inquire about the next steps in applying for the lease.

It’s an exciting prospect, and you can’t help but feel a little giddy—more than a little giddy—at the idea of moving into a newer place like this, but you’re trying to stay realistic.

You’ve been freelancing for the past two years, with your part-time gig at the bistro helping to fill in the gaps. And you’re still not quite sure what Sylus does – apart from a conservatively vague answer relating to tech, which always has you side-eyeing the annoyingly inscrutable man before his usual redirection.

You’re well aware that getting approved isn’t guaranteed; not with your less-than-stable income situation, the questionable lapses in Sylus’ “employment” history, and especially not for a unit this nice. Unless they’re factoring in your long-standing tenancy, the chances aren’t as foolproof as you would’ve liked it to be.

Still. Before the week was over, you got the call. You’ve got the place.

You were half-listening in as the agent droned on about the earliest available date to move in, the initial deposit and the four-week bond, and when you’d be by to pick up the keys. Your smug-looking partner answered on your behalf, since you were practically a sitting duck at the time, bewildered that the both of you actually managed to get approved.

So now you’re here, in the final stretch of hauling your things up to your new (!!) apartment, one you now share with the love of your life, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. (If only your son shared the same sentiment, but alas.)

Although, alongside the excitement and joy of securing the place, a tiny part of you can’t help but wonder how it all happened so fast… and if Sylus had some weird hand in making it happen.

You don’t want to sound ungrateful! Really. But the process went by a liiiittle too smoothly, a little too conveniently for your taste. Enough to have you throwing suspicious glances at your boyfriend. And knowing him… well.

There’s also the matter of not fully understanding what his current job entails, damn it. Or how the very basis of his existence somehow manages to bypass a whole bunch of legalities. A part of you is always half-prepared for the CIA, or even NASA, to come barging in on your door one of these days. Oh god. You’ve got six fake aliases prepared and not a single convincing cover story rehearsed.

(You’re sure you’ll be able to get a straight answer out of the—former?—criminal mastermind. Eventually. Past all the evasiveness, one way or another.)

You already consider the new place a luxury. But for Sylus, it might just be a rung above a complete hovel. There’s that small, persistent anxiousness you haven’t quite been able to shake—since day one, if you're being truthful. Like you’re in The Truman Show, playing house with someone who’s used to penthouse suites and jetting the world at the drop of a hat, and now forcing himself into adjusting to your version of reality for weeks on end.

Sometimes you wonder if he’s just… rolling with it. Humouring your bouts of domestic enthusiasm while quietly yearning for his old in-house wine cellars, his boundless riches, and his floor-to-ceiling, ballistic-grade glass windows. You worry, sometimes, that he’s merely settling. For your sake.

But he’s never given any sign that he��s anything less than content with the life you share now, so you let the thought settle quietly in the back of your mind. Something to unpack another time.

As you round the corner, you spot the door at the end of the hallway half-open. You grin.

Jogging the short distance, you adjust the basket in your arms and rap your knuckles lightly on the wood, already pushing the door wider with the tip of your toes.

“Package for a Mr Silas?” you sing-song. “Heyo, Mr Sil– whoa, okay. Careful with those guns out, sir. Are you aware that it’s a criminal offense to be packing that much heat in this part of the state?”

The ‘Mr Silas’ in question snorts, feigning exasperation as he glances at you over his shoulder.

And what an immaculate shoulder it is.

The sleeves of his grey crewneck are rolled high past his biceps, framing the thick lines of his arms as he hauls three stacked boxes in one hand and a duffel bag under the other. The front of his shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to the hard cut of his chest, while the humidity has curled a few dark strands loose at his temple. The high points of his cheeks are flushed pink from the muggy air drifting in through the open windows, and suddenly, you’re having very specific thoughts about breaking something in the house just to watch him fix it.

Shirtless—what, who said that–

You didn’t know you had a thing for sweaty, blue-collar, but: hello, sailor.

Fuck, physical labor looks good on your man. You’re his biggest fan.

He sets the boxes down with practically no effort, turning toward you with one brow raised. “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start charging hourly.”

“If I ask nicely,” you suggest, shameless in your ogling, “will that warrant extra service?”

“Always for you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You giggle. He just shakes his head, fond.

You plop Maru down with a thud, setting the hamper beside the rest of the boxes by the wall. Simultaneously, fishing out your teal Aquaflask and a face towel, you unzip the pet bag—an orange blur rockets out, making a beeline for the open bedroom. No doubt to hide under the bedframe, where the double mattress had already been set down sometime earlier in the move.

You cross the room and gesture for Sylus to lean down.

“C’mere.”

He complies wordlessly, bowing his head so you can brush the damp strands of hair from his forehead. You dab at the sweat across his brow, carefully wiping down the side of his neck.

“You should rest for a bit,” you tell him. “You’ve been at it since this morning.”

You twist the cap off the water bottle and bring it near his mouth.

“Drink.”

Obediently, he tilts his head and drinks, steadying your hand as he finishes almost all of it in one go. When he pulls back, he exhales, smacks his lips, and leans in to steal a quick kiss. “Nearly done, my love. Just the suitcases and the TV left, hm?” You hum in affirmation. “Last two trips, then.”

“I’ll help with the suitcases?”

“If you want,” Sylus shrugs, then gestures loosely toward the bedroom. “Or maybe start unpacking some of the lighter stuff? The linens for the bed, perhaps.”

You squint at him. “I am strong enough to carry things too, you know.”

He grins, reaching out to flick your nose. You wrinkle it on instinct, and he smiles like that’s exactly the reaction he was waiting for.

“I know, sweetie.”

Then he flashes you a warm look. Entirely too tender for what comes out of his mouth next:

“I just figured you’d want to start with the bed, since I plan on eating you out on it later.”

You gape at him, making an indignant swipe in his direction—but he’s already sidestepping, laughing low as he smoothly ducks out of reach. His palm catches you squarely on the ass in passing, a sharp little smack that makes you yelp.

By the time you spin around, he’s already halfway to the door.

“Incorrigible,” you mutter under your breath as you dutifully head for the bedroom.

After fixing the bed – tucking in the fitted sheet, haphazardly throwing the duvet over, fluffing up the pillows against the headboard as a stray paw randomly swats at you from the ether – you move on to unpacking a few more boxes stacked in the corner.

You pull out your lava lamp, still wrapped in newspaper, the collapsible room divider, and a mix of vanity knick-knacks: perfume bottles, your ‘handmade’ ring holder vaguely shaped like a lily pad, a small fake cactus. You start setting them out, arranging things in little clusters, nothing short of organized clutter.

Not long after, you hear the front door swing open again and the wheels of your suitcases rolling in across the floor.

You poke your head out. “Need help with the TV?”

Sylus calls back, easy as ever. “I’ve got it.”

You shrug and return to your pile, pulling over a battered box that’s clearly been around a while – dusty, half-caved in, multiple layers of yellowing tape stuck on top of each other that you slice through with a key. Must’ve been one of the bigger ones you’d kicked under the bed ages ago, out of sight, out of mind.

Inside lies a heap of forgotten things: high school mementos, faded ticket stubs, a cracked snow globe. Your college diploma. Trinkets and letters, old birthday cards from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Little gifts and odd collectibles that haven’t seen the light of day in a long while.

You sift through them slowly, your fingers brushing over paper and plastic, worn edges soft with time. A bittersweet feeling creeps in as you fall headfirst into the slightly treacherous rabbit hole of your past lives.

That’s how Sylus finds you: cross-legged on the floor, holding a Toji Fushiguro Funko Pop that Khol got you for Christmas nearly a decade ago.

You glance up and find him standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed in open scrutiny at the figurine in your hands.

You hold it up helpfully. “Look, it’s Toji.”

“Who is that.”

Your brows furrow. “You don’t know Toji?”

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” he replies, flat and slightly surly.

You let out a soft, curious little “huh,” turning the toy back into your lap, absently stroking your thumb over the vinyl hair. “He’s a character from this anime I used to obsess over. Khol gave it to me as a gift.”

“That’s nice, but he isn’t real, sweetie,” Sylus intones wisely, zeroing in on the way you’re caressing the plastic toy a little too ardently. “It’s not healthy to lust after fictional men.”

“I–” You pause, eyes widening in realization. “Wait. Are you jealous?”

“Cease the thought,” he deadpans. “There’s simply nothing to be envious of. He isn’t even alive.”

“You’re jealous!” you exclaim gleefully, eyes lighting up as Sylus strides over and drops into a squat beside you.

“Aww, don’t pout,” you tease, mock-gentle. “You’ll always be my favorite, promise. Even if, by some divine miracle and another fluke of fate, Toji somehow—mmph!”

Sylus cuts you off with a firm kiss. Quite rudely, in fact. But the heat behind it more than makes up for the lack of manners.

When he pulls back, you’re left blinking, slightly winded. While you’re still reeling, he casually plucks the figurine from your hand and pulls you up onto your feet. “Come now. Back to unpacking.”

You end up back in the living room, settling onto the floor beside Sylus as the two of you start rifling through the rest of the boxes. Your whole life, folded and crammed into fairly neat, packaged pieces, just waiting to be taken out and slotted into the bones of this new home. Your new home.

You’re elbow-deep in a tangle of extension cords and bubble wrap when Sylus pauses mid-reach beside you.

He huffs out a sharp laugh. You glance over just in time to see him pulling something long, red, silicone, and alarmingly familiar from the depths of a nondescript box.

“Alright, now where are we placing this one—”

Motherfucker. You lunge forward and snatch the dildo out of his hand before he can even finish speaking. “Keep your hands off Big S.”

“Big–” He starts, then cuts himself off, scoffing in amusement. “I’m off by an inch, sweetheart.”

You sniff haughtily, clutching Big S with what little dignity one can muster while holding a massive rubber schlong. “He kept me company on those long, lonely nights before you showed up, so put some respect on his name, thank you very much.”

Sylus opens his mouth, then pauses—looking genuinely thoughtful for a moment.

Finally, he nods, solemn. “Okay.”

“…Okay?”

He smirks at you, holding out a hand.

Warily, you pass it back. He sets it delicately on the edge of a pile labelled: Essentials.

“Maybe we’ll find the proper time to commemorate him later.”

Huh?

The smirk widens. “In his honor, sweetie.”

Oh.

- - -

By the time the bulk of the unpacking is done, the apartment has started to resemble something partially lived-in; boxes are half-emptied, some of which lay deconstructed on the floor. The remaining daylight outside spills in through the windows, dust motes floating in the gold of the afternoon.

You can’t help but notice, as you're stacking plates and cutlery on the island counter, that Sylus’ share of belongings is quite modest compared to yours.

Most of his things easily fit into one corner, almost swallowed up by the rest of the mess that surrounds it. A few changes of clothes—mostly denim and dark leather—a sleek black laptop, and some paper files that have already disappeared somewhere into the second room.

Mixed in with the rest are a couple of objects that catch your eye. Not because they’re particularly flashy, but because they’re familiar.

There’s the iconic brooch you recognize from the game; the ruby stone center glinting under the light, ringed in tarnish-proof silver and his signature crow insignia. You’ve held it before, more than a few times, delightedly turning it over in your fingers with his—amused—permission.

Then, the silver glasses. The first time you caught a glimpse of him wearing them in your periphery, you let out an involuntary squeal and immediately dropped whatever it was you were doing prior to this titillating discovery. You spent a full hour circling him like an overexcited hawk—prodding, staring, unabashedly fawning at your unfairly hot boyfriend as he kept typing away on his computer, indulging your whims with nothing but resigned fondness reserved only for you.

You gesture at the pile. “So, just those?”

His gaze lingers, briefly, on the second drawer of the dresser a few feet away. You don’t notice.

Sylus hums noncommittally as he zips his bag shut. “More or less.”

There’s another thing, you’ll realize later. Small enough to fit in a palm. Tucked away somewhere out of sight—for now.

He pulls you in his arms as the sun starts to dip lower in the sky. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the usual creaks of the old building. His chin rests atop your head, and the two of you sway to the tune of some inaudible rhythm.

“This isn’t what you’re used to,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

“Not quite, no.”

Maru finally emerges out of hiding, cautiously padding out into the open. His nose twitches as he starts sniffing his way around the new place, tail flicking as he makes his rounds, like a fat little sentry inspecting the perimeter.

You hesitate. “You’re happy?” With this? With me?

He squeezes you tighter in response to the unspoken question.

“Yes,” Sylus says. “I am. Very much.”

And it’s enough, you think, eyes dropping shut as he presses a kiss into your hair. More than you could ever ask for.

End A/N: Yes, it’s the monster cock. Neither enemy nor foe. Mayhap?? Even a surprise tool that will help them later.

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

#ILY ty homeslice 🥹🫶🏼💕#error 404 #love and deepspace fic

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