#Hanger Project

[astrum99]

Do you think bugs fall in love?

Their small bodies host even tinier brains. Built to crawl through soil and rocks bigger than itself. Running on a simple software bouncing between eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate.

V1 is smarter than a bug. It must be. It’s a war machine, so it must be. Its programming is complex enough to fry several motherboards; the internals are heated from constant, unrelenting processing needs. If it updates its optical data intake to any greater degree than these rough, messy polygons, it’d surely perish from the overwhelming information.

V1 is built to kill first, survive second. To be fair, survival would ensure more killing, so it’d be more effective. Moving through the battlefield, culling lives, drawing blood. Perfectly aligned with its programmed objectives, then.

Gabriel is smarter than a bug. He must be. He’s an angel, so he must be. He’s one of the best soldiers in the heavenly realm. Armour and swords glistened with pride and justice. He sees all. He judges all. His loyalty and perfect track record have earned him a high rank within the order. Leaving behind the creaturely "it". His light burns hot and bright within his constitution.

Gabriel is built as a messenger of the Father, then a judge of Hell. To be fair, the role of a judge was assigned to him by the council, so he supposes that his placement can be summed up as the bearer of the divine authority to bring right to all other creatures. Perfectly aligned, then.

Bugs… Well, they’re the same. I suppose. Small beings. Running pre-programmed orders derived from centuries of evolution: eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate. No role. No responsibilities.

Bugs are built naturally and fully, unlike humankind; but formed and ready to go within seconds from their births, like machines and angels.

So. Do they live?

When the machine and the angel escape their chains, do they see themselves in bugs?

Bugs are born to live, temporarily, fleetingly, yet live nonetheless. Do they, then, deserve to live, freeing and meaninglessly. No role. No responsibilities.

So. Do bugs love?

Do they learn that they can go beyond their basic structures? Do they see their own reflection in each other’s compound eyes? Do they recognize each other’s bodies, scents, heat? Do they feel the desire for closeness?

To flutter wings like a dance of waltz. To brush antennae like butterfly kisses. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

To move through the sky in battle, in passion. To clash swords and fists and bullets. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

The same cells in the same blood coursing beneath the same suit of exoskeletons.

Machine, angel, bug. Boiled down to the barest essence of existence; crisp simplicity.

To live, to love.

[gamebunny-advance]

Goat (Sketch)

So, I'm probs not gonna do anything too special for the anniversary this year. I just didn't plan for it.

But, I did recently make this sketch for a personal project I'm working on. Will I finish it? Who knows. Y'all should know better than to expect me to finish anything I start.

[flyingshibainu]

behold, temporary kim kitsuragi

(pardon the low quality picture)

[vikenticomeshome]

Flash Game Retrospective: "From Heaven to Hell: The Cries of Lost Souls" (part 1)

I've been looking back at Flash games that I remember playing several years ago. One game series that comes to mind immediately was called "From Heaven to Hell: The Cries of Lost Souls". It was made by a developer that goes by a couple of names. They go by "Flash Dreams Studios" nowadays. However, they have also gone by "Lonely Boy16", "lifeisadream52", and "Michael Hernandez".

The protagonist of the series, Henry, is dealing with grief on the anniversary of his mother's death. For reasons unclear, he wasn't allowed to see her in the hospital to say goodbye. He plans to visit her grave. And then, one morning, he wakes up to discover that something strange has happened in his home.

The first chapter was released back in 2006. The second chapter was split into two parts and released in 2008. Then, the series sat without updates for about 10 years. The third chapter was released in 2018. However, it was very short, and it ended on a cliff-hanger. The developer has plans to re-make the games in the Unreal engine and tell the rest of the story.

A short demo for the remake of chapter 1 was released with a new title, "A Havens Descent: Cries of Distant Scars". However, development is currently paused in favor of an unrelated game, "Tracks of Denial". The last communication from the developer in 2024 indicated that they wanted to use the experience gained from "Tracks of Denial" to learn what they needed to know for the FHTH remake.

I want to talk through the games (including the Unreal demo) and give my thoughts. The series is a big point of nostalgia for me. This will spoil the series, of course. Mind you, the games have been out for several years now. As I said before, the story ended on a cliff-hanger, so only the developer can tell us the final story. Plus, if the Unreal engine remake is developed, it could have story differences from the flash version.

So, let's start with Chapter 1: Home Alone.

We start with a journal entry from Henry.

Dec. 19

It's almost been a year since I last saw you. It's different not having you around here... You allways [sic] loved Christmas. It gave you and I lots of hope in our hearts every year ... together. There's just a few more days left... I'm not sure what I will do but I will come see you ... The weather looks like it's getting pretty bas. But hey it's getting late, I'll write more tomorrow....

Love you and miss you,

Henry

And then we get some narration.

Henry then leaves his lamp on while falling asleep in his bed giving thoughts to memories of his mother. The nightmares get worse over night. But as soon as Henry wakes up in the morning, he then looks around the room and has a feeling as though something is wrong....

We wake up to the sound of someone or something knocking on the door.

It's snowing outside.

We proceed into the living room. All seems normal so far.

To our right, we find a locked room, our mother's old room. Henry: This is her room... I haven't been in her room ever since the day she passed away...

Henry: Strange... I don't even remember locking this door. I must of put the key somewhere...but where?

We are startled to hear the knocking again. Henry: ... ?!... What was that? ...

We decide to read the book that we found on the coffee table.

The English text on the first page is as follows:

Upon the heavens of the world, there rests darkness that lays deeps [sic] in the pits of restless souls. Leading paths of good or evil stand in every corner waitng [sic]. Gods of the depths of hell await their come by thy one gift that shall be enternal [sic] - the soul. Resting and waiting for their days do awaken. The day when all will be free, the doors shall open to thy slef [sic] and release and fate which no other has even receved [sic] before.

The section on the second page, which is in the Wingdings alphabet, is translated to English here.

❄︎♒︎♋︎🕯︎●︎●︎ ⬧︎♒︎♋︎●︎●︎

♑︎♓︎❖︎♏︎📬︎ ⬧︎♒︎♋︎●︎●︎

❒︎♏︎♍︎♓︎♏︎❖︎♏︎📬︎

☝︎□︎□︎♎︎ ♑︎♓︎❖︎♏︎■︎

⧫︎♒︎♏︎■︎ ♓︎⬧︎

❒︎♏︎♍︎♓︎♏︎❖︎♏︎♎︎

☜︎❖︎♓︎●︎ ♓︎⬧︎ ♑︎♓︎❖︎♏︎■︎

♌︎◆︎⧫︎ ♓︎⬧︎

◻︎◆︎■︎♓︎⬧︎♏︎♎︎📬︎

Tha'll shall

give. shall

recieve [sic].

good given

then is

recieved [sic]

evil is given

but is

punised [sic].

The final section on the second page, which is in English, is as follows:

The ones who shall obey this rule and will live thier [sic] way eternaly [sic] for all time.

The next page features a single word in the Wingdings alphabet, which is translated here.

♒︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎

hate

The page is also marked with symbols. We get a fingerprint, followed by a slash mark, followed by another fingerprint, and followed by one final fingerprint.

The next page features another single word in the Wingdings alphabet, which is translated here.

◻︎♋︎♓︎■︎

pain

The next page features another single word in the Wingdings alphabet, which is translated here.

♒︎◆︎❒︎⧫︎

hurt

The next page features another single word in the Wingdings alphabet, which is translated here.

♍︎❒︎⍓︎

cry

The next page features another single word in the Wingdings alphabet, which is translated here.

●︎□︎■︎♏︎●︎⍓︎

lonely

The final page features more Wingdings, which are translated here.

⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ⬧︎□︎◆︎●︎ □︎♐︎ ♐︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎

the

soul

of

fate

Since someone was knocking earlier, we go to the front door and look outside. Nobody is there.

We go to the kitchen.

We observe the clock in the kitchen, as well as the words written upon it.

Henry: The clock has stopped at 7:00

Henry: "At Every Hour A Soul Is Lost"

Henry: I don't remember this on it...

The kitchen cabinet is locked.

We turn to face the living room, and we see the TV remote sitting on the divider between the kitchen and the living room.

Henry: Hm. Guess the cable is out. Must be the power.

Henry: I don't feel like watching tv right now anyways.

We turn to face two doors. One leads to the bathroom, while the other leads to the basement.

We remember that the door to the basement is jammed, and we contemplate breaking it open.

Henry: The downstairs door has been jammed for a while.

Henry: I'v [sic] never really needed to go down there though..

Henry: The knob wont [sic] budge or move at all.

Henry: Mabe [sic] there's something around here that I can use to take off the knob.

I've hit the image limit, so I will pick this up in another post.

[inafieldofdaisies]

Far Cry 5 (2018) | Replay in 2023 | Scenery appreciation (vol. 35) | The Seed Ranch: Hanger (part 1)

[dollphinwing]

OoO

Embroidery file here!

[project-retina]

Holy shit, Phoenix, I’d ask you to sit down if the ground wasn’t so… eugh. Shouldn’t you tell him about your whole leg situation? It looks… bad.

Oh, yeah. I probably should’ve brought that up. It does hurt like hell... and yeah, i think it's still bleeding? I mean i wrapped it up so...

Eh. I’m sure I’ll be fi-

phoenix proceeds to faint, most likely due to blood loss. whoopsie!

THIS IS A SEGWAY INTO A TIMESKIP (I DONT KNOW HOW TO DO THESE SMOOTHLY)

[maddogmp3]

i have done a little bit of everything today, which is better than doing nothing!

[graysongraysoff]

Okay no one's allowed to make cute clothes anymore!!!! My closet is at capacity we need to cease production of cute clothes!!!!!!

[cerealmonster15]

I have all this yarn and like none of it is orange or yellow who am I…..

[mothbaaalls]

my creation ... i don't like him (lighthearted)

[vikenticomeshome]

Flash Game Retrospective: "From Heaven to Hell: The Cries of Lost Souls" (part 2)

This is my second post in my retrospective of the game series "From Heaven to Hell: The Cries of Lost Souls".

When we left off, we were aware that something wrong had happened in our house. We've been hearing knocking, but nobody seems to be there. We cannot get into our mother's old room, as it has been locked. The power is out. Now, we are considering breaking down the door to the basement, since it is stuck.

Let's continue with Chapter 1: Home Alone.

We decide to check out the bookshelf in the living room.

There is a box on the shelf with something leaking out of it.

We look inside.

Henry: There's a key in here? I'v [sic] never seen this box here before.

Henry: It says "Cells" on the key

We decide to take the key and try it on the cabinet.

Henry: The key fits into this small lock?.. Thats strange

Henry: But why does it say "Cells" on it?

And now, we have a sledgehammer for the jammed basement door.

Henry: I knocked the door knob off.

Henry: What's this cell door doing here?

Henry: There's a lock on the door.

Henry: The key fits perfectly.

Henry: I'll leave the hammer here.

Henry: I found a flashlight.

We can see the stairs heading down into the basement.

As we enter the basement, we can see a table and a bookshelf. More troubling is that the basement wall is lined with prison cells, all locked. There is something on the floor in front of each of them, possibly blood.

Editors Note: When I played this game years ago, I remember each cell door having Wingdings on the central bar. However, this version doesn't have them. I discovered that there is an older version of the SWF that had the Wingdings, so I will include screenshots and translations from that version.

Cell #1:

●︎□︎■︎♏︎●︎⍓︎

lonely

Cell #2:

♍︎❒︎⍓︎

cry

Cell #3:

♒︎◆︎❒︎⧫︎

hurt

Cell #4:

◻︎♋︎♓︎■︎

pain

Cell #5:

♒︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎

hate

Well, this is all very strange.

There is some sort of panel on the wall above the table. There are four buttons underneath a set of four symbols.

Using the clue from the book from earlier, we pick the first, third, and fourth buttons, which reveal a switch.

Pulling the switch reveals a mechanism behind the panel, as well as a shotgun.

We pull the lever.

Henry: What is this lever for? I heard a noise to my right.

Henry: Theres a shotgun here. I'll take it. I might need it later...

Now, there is a noise coming from behind the bookshelf. We move it.

Henry: What's this door doing here? ...I'v [sic] never seen it here before...

What the hell is that thing?!

Whatever it was, it is dead now. We can proceed to the next door.

Henry: Great, another locked door. I don't have the key or anymore bullets. I need to go back and get the hammer I left upstairs.

Just then, a light turns on behind the door, and we hear something like footsteps.

And so, we finish Chapter 1.

Our protagonist, Henry, is a bit odd, isn't he? He had no reaction to the blood inside that box, and he had no reaction to the blood pooling under the jail cells. And yet, based on his reaction to the cell door behind the regular basement door, he had no idea about any of this. Was his mother hiding all of this?

And what the hell were those monsters at the end?

This game was mostly about exploring the house and reading the story, with light puzzle-solving and light FPS combat at the end. The later chapters have more FPS combat.

This chapter was pretty short. I enjoyed the story that they were setting up here.

[stealchain]

ive successfully converted my niece to a vocaloid fan

[ang3ltine]

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— "𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇" - Bob Reynolds x freader x platonic thunderbolts

Golden Retriever x Black Cat trope

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

a.n - This is a short scenario that got me all giddy while writing this, so I hope you Bob fans enjoy this as much as I did!

Warnings - minor spoilers! trauma, nightmares, making out, hickeys & yearning Bob! Lots of fluff too

A few months had passed since the 'incident' on the streets of Newyork where almost half the city was engulfed in complete darkness.

You mostly blamed this on Valentina since she pushed her ideals of the sentry project onto Bob. Now you, along with the others tried your best to make him feel welcome and wanted, despite his 'minor' flaws.

Now that you all moved into the newly refurbished Avengers tower, you had to adjust to your new life. This was never part of your agenda but you're one to complain.

Especially since you got the chance to dote on a certain brunette, who you undeniably cannot ignore since he's always trailing after you wherever you went.

Yelena had introduced you to Bob properly after the whole incident and he's been glued to your side since then. You were more on the nonchalant and cool girl type while he was the polar opposite.

But he still admired you nonetheless. Not to mention, you also get endlessly teased by Yelena and the others.

More so than usual when she noticed that Bob tends to follow you around more than her now. Not that she cares, she was more than happy that he was trying to get closer with someone else other than her.

Yelena had joined you in the main kitchen after training together. You reached into the refrigerator to bring out your bottle of water when she asked an unexpected question.

"Do you like Bob?" She asks straight up, catching you offguard in the process.

"As friends? Yeah ofcourse." You muttered underneath your breath then took a chug of your water.

"Pshh friends? Friends don't eyefuck eachother across the room." She mused while leaning against the refrigerator door with an amusing smirk.

You choked a couple of times while Yelena pats your back before adding another comment. "It's okay! No need to feel ashamed."

"What're you talking about??"

"Okay maybe not, but you two would still make a cute couple." She mused while flashing you her iconic smirk.

"Oh...I don't know about that 'lena. He's just someone I care about alot you know?"

Before you could carry on the conversation, your eyes shift past Yelena's shoulders. Sure enough, Bob was awkwardly standing in the hallway.

"I uh - I didn't hear anything."

Yelena steps back to let Bob in before mouthing a quick 'goodluck' to you. God that girl was going to be the death of you.

The only times he wasn't with you was when you went on missions, which is when he'd spend most of his time in the tower with Alpine.

After a gruelling and unbearably long mission, all you wanted to do was to take a shower, eat dinner then go to bed.

"Ugh...Ava, what time is it?" You groaned while rubbing your temples to somehow lessen your headache.

Ava, along with you and John were on the quinjet, which was preparing its landing sequence on the helipad of the tower.

She glances at the time on her watch before answering with a yawn. "It's a little past midnight."

"You think anyone's awake right now?" John joins in on the rather dull conversation. The ship was on autopilot and had finally landed when he finished his sentence.

"Mhm I highly doubt it," you replied with a strained voice as you stretched your limbs. Almost every inch of your body ached, and your muscles were extremely sore.

As soon as the hatch opened, you dragged your tired body through the hanger. The endless corridors of the living quarters almost made you lose your mind, but you breathed a sigh of relief when you finally made it to your room.

You hesitated for a moment, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Figuring it was just you being paranoid, you swiftly flung the door open, only to find a familiar set of eyes blinking back at you.

Bob stood almost a feet away from you with a pillow in hand, the poor man had flinched at your sudden appearance. Almost immediately, he let out a string of '"sorry's'' since he invited himself in without your permission.

"Hey-- Bob, it's ok. You can stay in my room as long as you like." You say in a hushed tone while placing your hands on his shoulders, rubbing them gently so he'd calm down.

He found it hard to focus on your face as his eyes shift downwards in shame. "I just... I wanted to talk to you as soon as you came back."

"We can talk-" you intercept almost immediately. "But would you mind if I took a shower first? Then we can talk afterwards ok?"

Bob finally lifts his eyes off the ground to look at you before nodding. "Uhh yeah... yeah, I can wait."

You reached up to ruffle his slightly messy hair before retreating to where your walk-in closet was. Bob took the leisure of sitting back on your comfy bed as his eyes followed your every move.

"Ah, this will do," you muttered to yourself while fishing out your sleep shirt and a pair of shorts. Except, it looked bigger than usual?

"Oh right uhm, I think that's mine..." Bob mumbles hesitantly when you notice that it was, in fact, not yours.

Bob had the tendency to leave his belongings scattered in your room, including his large sweatshirts. He'd vist you almost every night since he'd constantly have nightmares, and you would comfort him whenever you could.

"You wouldn't mind if I wore this would you?" You turned around with the sleep shirt pressed against your chest to show it off. It was a deep blue navy colour, simple, yet comfortable.

"Uh yeah! Go ahead." Bob replies with open arms and his usual widespread grin. You returned the smile before grabbing your towel and headed into the washroom.

You quickly scrambled out of your suit and chucked it into the laundry basket to wash later. Bob could hear the sound of falling water through the doors of the washroom as he looked around.

That's when he realised he made quite a mess while waiting for you. So he took his time going around and picking things up from the floor to put them back to the right spots.

After half an hour or so, you stepped out with the towel around your neck after wringing out excess water from your hair. You had the power to control the wind, so it was easier to dry your hair, which was awfully convenient.

"Bob? You here?" You called out after noticing that he was nowhere in sight. The lack of response concerned you as you frantically searched your room for the man.

You finally found him in the far corner of the room, huddled with one of your plushies and was fast asleep. The racing of your heart only quickened once you hear him mumbling your name in his sleep.

"Oh Bob..." you shook your head amusingly as you bent down to his height to lightly shake him awake. It only took a few seconds before he stirred, you felt bad for doing so but you didn't want him to sleep on the floor.

"Do you wanna sleep here tonight?" You asked quietly since he was still half asleep, trying to process what you were saying. He nods his head after a while, placing the plush toy back where it was in the pile before reaching his arms out for you to grab.

You do just that and lead him towards your massive king sized bed. Just earlier on today, you had changed the sheets to satin ones, so it was even more comfortable than usual.

The lights were dimmed but not completely off since you learned the hard way that Bob hated the dark. So you switched on a nightlight by your bedside for extra light just in case.

Bob settled into the crispy sheets that had been untouched since your arrival. He scoots over a bit while you slipped in next to him.

Although, you two were in quite an awkward position after a while. Since you had to prepare a schedule for the next day, he was pretty much beneath you. You were struggling not to crush him while he only made things worse. His arms were wrapped around your waist to pull you closer to him so he could soak in your warmth while you worked.

"Sorry Bob, just give me a few more minutes." You sighed while typing away on your phone. Bob only hummed in response while burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"By the way...do you want to talk about the nightmare that you had?"

"Mm...yeah." Bob replied with a muffled voice as the vibrations tickled your skin, making you squirm slightly. "Alright, tell me what happened."

That's exactly what he did. You listened carefully as he mentioned all the bad things that he had seen in the nightmare.

That's one of the reasons why Bob admired you. You were straightforward with him but caring.

Many would think that sort of activity was only reserved for relationships. Which was partially true, you in fact, did harbour feelings for him. But you chose to keep them to yourself.

What Bob needed was someone who was patient and not pushy. For now, you were content with just being 'friends.' Even though it was far more than that.

It was around 7am in the morning by the time you awoke. The soft golden rays of sunlight shone through the blinds of your room, giving your room a soft glow.

Little did you know that a blonde haired assassin had come to your room during the night to ask you something, only to find you with your limbs entangled with Bob's.

Yelena being Yelena, took the opportunity to snap a few pictures on her phone before leaving. Already planning on using them for blackmail or to tease you whenever she pleased.

Speaking of Bob, he was fast asleep as you peer down at him. You became quite flustered since his face was fully pressed against your chest. He probably thought that it was his pillow, yet you were too afraid to move him. Instead, you opted to run your fingers through his dark chocolate locks.

They were soft, as usual, but still, you tried to detangle his hair gently since there were a few knots. It wasn't long before he started to stir, causing you to freeze in the process. You move away from him slightly to give him some space as he slowly processes where he is.

"Morning sunshine... did you sleep well?" You whispered gently as he peers up at you through his lashes, his eyes still heavy with sleep. His voice was hoarse while he spoke,

"G'morning...yeah I slept well, and you?"

"Ahh, me too..." You responded while brushing stray hair away from his face, it had gotten slightly longer than before. Which gave you the idea of maybe trimming the front bangs later on, with his consent, of course.

Your fingers lingered on his cheek for a brief moment, before retracting your hand. Bob was disappointed to say the least when he felt the warmth of your hand no longer present against his skin.

"Let's get freshen up and head down for breakfast. How does that sound...?"

Bob nods in agreement after rubbing the sleep from his eyes while you slowly got up.

He found himself practically swooning over you while he observed the way you stretched, letting your hair fall across your shoulders. Sure it was messy since you had just woken up, but to him, you looked heavenly.

You felt him staring but you chose not to think much of it. Bob's cheeks had a slight hue of red when you did manage to look back down at him, bringing a small smile to your face at his bashfullness.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bob immediately shook his head before you positioned yourself above him. You reached down to place one hand on his cheek to feel the light stubble against your skin.

This time he doesn't let you retreat that easily as he tugs you down gently. A bold move indeed, especially for you.

At first you weren't sure how to respond, the air around you suddenly felt awfully scarce as you were beginning to find it hard to breathe.

Even though he was the one who had instigated the sudden act of intimacy, he too grew a sense of shyness.

To test the waters, he lean in closer, bumping your nose against his and letting your lips hover over his. Your eyes flickered from his lips back up to meet his. If anything, you were more than happy to back away if he felt uncomfortable.

But Bob did want this, so he took the initiative to press his lips against yours. You let out a surprised sound before melting into the kiss.

His lips were slightly chapped, but that didn't bother you. You smiled against his lips as he was struggling slightly, honestly you didn't blame him. He probably hasn't kissed anyone for a while.

But eventually he got the hang of it. He picked up the pace while you struggled to keep up. Turned out he's a quick learner since he copied the way your lips moved against his.

You wasted no time reaching to the back of his neck and slipped your fingers into his dark hair pulling him in impossibly closer.

Soft whimpers escaped his mouth in between each kiss while you soaked in every one, pushing him to kiss you deeper. Sighs and moans of content or pleaure are passed between both your lips and his. The two had to fight to not entirely lose yourselves completely within pure bliss.

You nipped his bottom lip slightly before leaving a soft trail of kisses from his mouth down to the side of his jaw.

"Hm? What're you doing?" He drawled while your lips leaves his briefly, almost bringing out another whine as he feels you lightly kiss the juncture of his neck.

"Mhm, just need you - ," you hummed against his supple skin. You left open-mouthed kisses against a specific area on his neck before gently taking his skin between your teeth to leave a mark.

The feeling was too overwhelming for him yet he found himself bringing you in impossibly closer while you worked. After leaving a significantly dark hickey on the side of his neck, you move back towards his lips.

Which he happily accepts. Head tilting the side, his hot breath mingling with yours, he kisses you with much fever.

Yet keeps it sweet and gentle at the same time. Lightly sucking on your bottom lip while running his thumb against your cheek.

The kiss was filled with raw emotions, all the times that he wanted to tell you of his true feelings were poured into it. You too shared the same amount of passion when you deepened the kiss even further.

Sadly, the need to breathe was apparent after what seemed like forever. You flutters your eyes open before pulling away to take in Bob's appearance. He looked so effortlessly pretty.

His cheeks were rosy and wet from his tears and hair was disheveled, but he still managed to look perfect to you. Before you could say a word, some unexpected words leaves his lips.

"I...I love you," he whispers while you processed what he just said. A small rush of warmth filled you at the sound of those meaningful words as you fought back the urge to kiss him again.

"I love you too..." you whispered before dipping your head low to pepper his face with kisses, making him laugh in the process.

"C'mon sleepy head, let's wash up." Bob reluctantly accepts the offer and tugs the end of your shirt while following you into the washroom.

He was still trying to recover from the small makeout session as his legs almost felt like jelly as he walked. Which was new for him.

An array of skincare products lined up before him as you reached into one your drawers to bring something out. You had given him one of your waterproof headbands to wear so that his hair wouldn't get in his face in the process.

One of the reasons why you did a skincare routine specifically for him was because he enjoyed the feeling of being pampered by you.

So it was no surprise when he leans into your touch with excitement while you applied the cleansing foam on his face. A satisfied grin played on his lips while you rubbed the product into his skin, making you feel all giddy inside.

After the two of you washed up and got dressed, you then made your way to the kitchen to have breakfast.

Not even a second went by when Ava gave you one of her snarky remarks as soon as you walked in with Bob in tow.

"Ahh the couple's here to join us." You rolled your eyes playfully at the sarcastic comment as you turn to face the women in question.

Little did she know that she was, in fact, telling the truth. But you weren't going to give her that satisfaction.

"Oh shush, you're just jealous that I'm not giving the same attention to you." You retorted with the same amount of sass.

"Wow, Touche." She responds while sipping her coffee.

"Bob? Do you want pancakes?" You turned your attention back to the brunette who was patiently waiting for you.

"Yes please," he replies with a tight-lipped smile, already feeling shy from Ava's comment of referring to you both as a couple.

"Pancakes it is then."

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @perdidosbucky-yyo @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @starktonyx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @starstruckfirecat @adventure-awaits13 @milkbean69 @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

[ittybittyfanblog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not… really." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You preen at the praise.

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

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

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

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

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

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

––––

You get the job.

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

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

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

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

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

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

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

––––

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

–

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

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

–

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

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

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

–

A single flower has bloomed.

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

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

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

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

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

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

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

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

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

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

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

“Hey! Wait up!”

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

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

You blink. Wait, what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Honestly? Work.)

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

Um.

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? He any good?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Smooth.

––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

-

-

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

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

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

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

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

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

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

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

––––

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

Below, the small city stirs.

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

Your hometown. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

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

"Ah! Cat!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

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

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

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

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

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

"Go ham," she quips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

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

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

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

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

Something tightens inside your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in that instant, you understand.

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

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

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

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

She glances up at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a gamble.

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

But this is different.

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

He had no reason to—until you.

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

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

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

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

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

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

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

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

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

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

Above, the sky erupts.

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

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

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

He exhales. Then winces. 

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

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

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

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

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

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

––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylus smiles.

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

It feels like home. 

____

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

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira