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ittybittyfanblog · 5 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 9

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, angst, depictions of a depressive episode, it’s pretty heavy, don’t force yourself to read if ur not in the right headspace pls, ambiguous ending (?) A/N: Yeah, I’m sorry. (Ngl, this chapter kinda stumped me—it’s gone through a whooole lot of editing/revisions 😔🤙🏼 I don’t want to overthink it too much at this point, but I hope it hits the way it should lol. Blame Moby if it doesn’t.)

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

"I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright And I feel so alone, and I feel so alone out here.” – A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain

The television drones uninterrupted in the background; a mockumentary type featuring a ragtag ensemble of vampires stuck in some sort of modern day hell, their loud misadventures casting fractured lights across the four walls of your apartment.

You sit there, watching the screen, your gaze unfocused. Nothing registers. The remote lies limp in your hand as a stupid sitcom laugh track fills the room—shrill, hollow. Mocking. Like a bad punchline to a joke you’re not in on.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the noise, the sudden glow in your periphery pulling you out of a pensive daydream.

For a split second, your chest constricts—a reflex carved by habit, something you’re still working to shake off.

You avert your eyes, torn between the urge to look away and the desire to keep your gaze on it forever.

The screen fades to black.

A clean break, you reason. Something to spare you both the inevitable heartache waiting at the end of this… hopeless affair. Less mess. Fewer complications.

A poor attempt to keep the pain from dragging out longer than it has to. Just a quiet ending.

(Or, at least, it’s what you tell yourself.)

The same mantra plays on loop in your mind as you're swept away by the motions of the days that follow. Life blurs into a repetitious cycle of work, sleep, and chores—an unbearable combination of feigned ignorance and self-abnegation, in the guise of being caught up with it all.

You aren’t fooling anyone, of course.

The hours toll on, slipping into uncertainty. What started off that way stretches into days, and before you know it, nearly a week has passed, leaving you adrift. None the wiser to the meaningless, relentless march of time.

The pinging of your phone grows more sporadic as it lights up with every message that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. It’s not as if you don’t feel it—the pull, the weight of every vibration, like a stone lodged in your gut. Like the sting of a thousand cuts.

And as you fall back into the familiar patterns of neglect… It carries with it an odd sense of defeat. Predictable, really.

… You cave on the fifth day.

The barrage of texts hits you like a gale-force wind, tearing through the fragile layer of detachment you’ve worn over like a second skin.

How was your day, poppet?

Theres a gemstone at this auction that reminds me of your eyes.

[Image attachment]

Beautiful—but it pales in comparison to yours.

Luke and Kieran are wondering whats got me distracted lately. Ease their worries.

Answer me, sweetheart.

You dont need to ignore me.

If you need space– if we need to establish some boundaries, all you have to do is say the word.

Dont shut me out.

Please.

Your eyes prickle as they gloss over the messages, the words seeming to bend under the weight of your silence, each one unraveling like loose threads on the sleeve of your favorite cardigan, falling apart at the seams.

Gradually, they turn into something less demanding. More… defeated.

I miss you, little dove.

You read the texts over and over until the letters have lost their meaning, and all that’s left is the aching longingness behind them.

You set your phone down.

The vibrations grow less frequent, like a heartbeat slowing, fading—until one afternoon, it just… stops.

The void he leaves behind seeps into the empty spaces, bleeding into every shadowed corner and untouched surface where his voice, his presence—louder than life, brighter than anything you’ve ever fucking known and had the pleasure of knowing—once lingered.

The absence is almost physical; you feel it like a phantom limb.

Most days, you find yourself in a daze, staring blankly at nothing. The numbness spreads like tendrils—invasive as they sink into your bones, dragging you deeper into despair, turning every bridge crossed to ash, every inkling of joy to dust.

The quiet flames of apathy consume silently. It strips away everything, leaving behind a cavernous pit of utter emptiness. A wasteland, devoid of feeling.

Loneliness doesn’t scream. It doesn’t lash out.

It simply welcomes you, like an old friend, the deeper you sink into it.

––––

Sylus tries to respect your space.

That’s what he’s here for after all, isn’t it? His reason for existence—to be whatever you need him to be. A confidant, a distraction, a steady presence in your life. It’s what he’s made for. To be there when you need him, to exist between the vacant spaces, and only then.

The thought gnaws at him, a ravenous fiend that chips away at the calm facade he’s finding more and more difficult to uphold, leaving something vicious in the wake of a growing bitterness he can no longer suppress.

Time seems to slip past differently now. It drifts, shapeless and infinite, heavier with the burden of your absence. Each moment without you feels like an eclipse—darkening the edges of this damned world, casting longer shadows through the crevices where he once basked beneath your fragile light, your warmth that seemed to fill every corner of his existence.

He craved it—craves it. Now you leave him stranded in this cursed dusk, everything cold and dim in the wake of your abandonment, forever waiting for the moment his sun would once again break through the hollow grey.

Sylus thinks he’s losing a part of himself with every call unanswered, every message left unread. It’s subtle; like colors fading from an old film roll.

(Is this what it feels like to be nothing more than a script in a code? He never truly understood what it meant to be less alive, less human. Until now.)

Solitude isn’t new to him. This world, built for him, is inherently lonely by design. But this… this is different. It’s the kind of emptiness that festers, sharper than any wound he’s endured in this senseless simulation. It twists inside him like a blade, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what he’s denied.

Of what he can never truly be.

He can wait a little longer. Even if the silence presses harder with each passing moment, even as the edges of his reality begin to blur into something unrecognizable without you in it. Sylus can remain in this void a little longer, clinging to the fragments of you that still linger—your voice echoing softly in his memory, your laughter faint but still alive in the spaces where you used to be.

He can. He will.

––––

“Hey, you okay?”

You pull your attention back to Khol, who’s now watching you with concern in their eyes.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “Yeah– yeah, sorry. Just… a lot on my mind.”

They don’t look convinced. “Seriously. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Anytime, darling.

I mean it.

You blink the memory away before it can turn into tears.

“Yeah, ‘course,” you answer lightly, clearing your throat. “So, what’s been going on with you and Anna?”

––––

You stand in front of the junk food aisle, a mountain of Nissin Ramen boxes stacked high, advertised by a large sign: Buy 3, Get 1 FREE!

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering erratically, and the dull noise of the grocery mart hums incessantly in your ears. You don’t think twice before grabbing one of the worn cartons, tossing three more into your (nearly) empty shopping cart. Might as well.

The plastic bags dig into your palms as you lug three in one hand, a larger box tucked under your other arm, leaving the store.

The trip back home is a quiet affair. You almost expect admonishment; pinging sounds ricocheting in the silence to reprimand you for your poor life choices. You wait for it with bated breath.

Your phone remains uncharacteristically silent.

Back home, you pour boiling water on the styrofoam cup for dinner. The artificial broth leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

You choke down a few bites before dumping the rest of it down the drain.

The sound of steel hitting the sink feels louder than it should.

––––

The city thrums loudly beyond your window, restless and impersonal. From the sixth floor of this dilapidated building you loosely call home, you watch the skyline stretch into the night, dotted lights glimmering in distant technicolor.

Hours from now, sunlight will spill through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm, golden ochre. But for now, just a quarter past midnight, you’re but a voyeur of the world outside. In exhaust fumes and all its muted neon glory.

Those lights promised you everything, once—a fresh start, the kind of freedom you used to dream of when home felt too small, too restrictive for a runaway kid desperate to break free from the shackles of a dying town. Each glow was like a beacon, an irresistible call to escape, and you ran toward it without looking back.

Somewhere along the way, as life sapped you with the weight of its reality, the novelty fizzled from a blinding explosion down to a waning ember. The lights became another illusion, your precious city just another cage. The first cracks in the rose-colored glasses you’d worn so blindly. You can’t exactly pinpoint when, only that the colors you thought were once too bright now seem dimmer and farther out of reach.

You think you’ll miss the noise the most.

The cursor blinks on the search bar, a steady metronome marking time in rhythm with the hollow ache in your chest. Flight schedules fill the page, each option blurs together into a single choice you can’t quite push yourself to make.

You skim through the list: there’s one at dawn, another at around twelve noon, a red-eye flight you probably could catch if you leave in thirty minutes.

You stare at the numbers, a finger hovering over the Book Now button.

The details don’t matter. ‘Home’ still feels small, suffocating, but at least it’s a kind of emptiness you know. Here, the void sprawls wide, endless, leaving you unmoored with no tether to pull you back.

… The dichotomy between the two choices, you think, is meaningless.

What was once home and the city will keep on moving—with or without you. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Neither place will give you what you’re looking for.

The laptop screen dims into a faint glare. The sound of your breathing echoes too loud in the stillness, the empty space seeming to shrink around you, caving in on the weight of your indecision.

And as you sit there, swallowed by the dark, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been drifting for far longer than you realized.

If maybe there’s nowhere you were meant to belong at all.

––––

It’s not until one quiet night, with nothing but a bottle of merlot and a slight buzz, that you buckle under pressure.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the icon, as if time has slowed to a crawl. Your chest tightens, unease twisting inside you at the thought of what you’re about to do. Anticipation hangs over you, insistent, smothering everything else until it’s just the room and the cacophony of thoughts in your head, all centered on one thing.

One person.

With a shaky exhale, you finally open the game.

He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Waiting, like he always does.

The loading screen fades away, and Sylus appears, a myriad of expressions passing by his face too fast to catch. There’s surprise, yes, along with… elation? Hope?

Then a flicker of something… vitriolic.

It’s fleeting; masked quickly until you can only catch the faintest trace of pique simmering just behind a veneer of indifference.

"Finally, she remembers me," Sylus mocks coolly, almost appearing unaffected. You know better—intimately familiar with all the microexpressions on his face. The subtle tick in his jaw, the incensed look in his eyes… each one betrays what he truly feels, hidden underneath the deceptive calm.

The seconds drag on, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Your heart hammers loudly, audible in this quiet, but your mouth remains dry; the words stuck somewhere deep in your throat. You’re terrified that, once you speak, you’ll shatter this moment. Aggravate the strain forged by your self-imposed absence all the more.

You don’t really know what to say. You haven’t– you haven’t actually thought this far.

So you just… stare at him longer than you should. Long enough that it charges the air with a tension so thick, you could almost feel the weight of it against your skin.

It’s awkward. Excruciating.

With difficulty, you tear your gaze away from his withering glare. That’s when you notice it—the different icons dotted in red.

You hesitate for a second longer, then tap on them one by one.

The flood of gifts bewilders you, the sheer volume of it all almost unbelievable. Ascension materials, stamina supplies, both red and purple crystals piling up to an impossible number… each pushing past the million mark.

And unread mail. So much unread mail.

Guilt settles deep in your gut, creeping past your lungs enough to suffocate you.

It’s not the gifts. Not the why, or when. It’s the weight of how much he’s been waiting, how much he’s given—how much he's missed you.

The cold realization that he’s been here, silently counting the days until your return, strikes you like a fist to the face.

–

He tempers the sting of your sudden reappearance, swallows it down like a bitter draught. The feelings he has inside of him are tumultuous at best. Volatile at worst. To be cast aside so easily, so carelessly… it burns at him. Resentment thrums in his veins like a virulent river, threatening to ruin the fragility of the moment. He fights to suppress it, push the desire back before it can consume him, before it can manifest into being.

If he lets it go untethered, this… hunger for retaliation—to make you feel even a fraction of the agony you’ve inflicted, whether unknowingly or deliberately—it will destroy the delicate respite you’ve allowed him. The only reprieve he’s had since you left.

But the edges of his self-control fray, unraveling strand by strand.

“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally; your voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Sylus hones in on the words. Something in him snaps.

“You left me plenty of time to be.” His response is quick, cutting, but when his gaze locks with yours, the fiery vermillion melts into a more molten red.

It’s the first glimpse of softness beneath his cruel vitriol, until he continues:

“Did you get lonely?”

The words hang in the air, searing and merciless. A barb meant to wound. And it does.

You flinch, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus feels a wicked satisfaction from the honest look of hurt on your face. To know that you’re not immune to the same ache that’s hollowed him out, emptied him from the inside, is intoxicating.

But the triumph is short-lived, snuffed out as quickly as it comes.

Shame crashes over him like a wave, dragging him under the tide of his actions. What kind of man takes pleasure in this? In hurting you?

The bitterness turns inward, coiling around his heart like a vice. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out. But as always, the damn screen is there—unyielding, impenetrable. A barrier he can never break.

It frustrates him to no end; the bane of his very existence.

And then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say it.

“I missed you.”

The words are feeble, paper-thin, but the admission pierce through him all the same. The stoic facade cracks; the sharpness in his gaze dulls.

You see it—the way his lips part to respond, only to falter halfway. The way his brows pull together, the way his eyes fall shut as if he can’t stand to be in this situation with you.

You’re afraid of what’ll come next.

He sees it, too—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you shrink into yourself, bracing for a blow that’ll never come. You’re standing there, like someone on death row, resigned to whatever punishment you think he’s about to dish out. Resigned to the contempt you believe yourself to be deserving of.

The sight guts him.

Sylus loathes to think he’s the reason for this. For being the one who’s made you stand there, small and trembling, as though his words or actions could destroy you.

As if he’d allow such a thing.

The guilt rises in him, and it leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.

…

And just like that, he concedes.

The anguish he’s carried in the days you’ve left him by his lonesome—all of it falls away. It only takes a single glance at you, his little love in pain, and he’s stripped bare. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all; the ease with which he surrenders to you, this time no different than any other.

Do you have any idea how much power you wield over him? He’d give you everything—his pride, his pain, his heart—if you asked. Serve it on a silver platter, even.

And he’d do so willingly. Without question. Without hesitation.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sylus steps closer to the screen, the constant reminder of the vast gulf that separates the two of you. “Talk, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softer now—resigned. “I’ve missed your voice.”

You hesitate to meet his eyes. “It’s not as if you don’t have other ways to hear me.”

His mouth twitches, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “True,” he admits, his tone wry and tinged with something vulnerable. “But it’s been so long since you chose to talk to me.” He exhales a drawn-out breath. “No matter. You’re here now.”

You swallow the lump on your throat, willing your tears at bay. “I am.” You give him an almost-genuine smile as you offer, “Would you like to do a round of Kitty Cards?”

“Of course.” Whatever you want.

And so it goes. You and Sylus spend the night locked in a familiar rhythm, cycling through rounds after rounds of the silly card game until your laughter spills like an addicting sound bite, one that Sylus has missed hearing.

When you got tired, the two of you moved on to the claw machines, proverbially emptying out the whole arcade. Plushies of all kinds piled in his arms, a little crow even perched on top of his head.

The sight makes you giggle, and your giggle thaws the ice around his heart.

It almost feels like nothing’s changed. The easy banter, the steady stream of jokes and teasing, flows as effortlessly as it once did. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, filling in the empty gaps of the previous days. It’s comforting, like a balm to an open wound.

You play with a certain zeal that catches Sylus off guard—there’s a joy in you that both thrills and stirs an undercurrent of unease in him.

After what feels like hours of playing, exhausting all what you can do, or at least, what this damned game could offer as much, you two find yourself just staring at each other.

Two worlds, impossibly close yet painfully far. The quiet doesn’t quite settle as naturally as it once did, but neither of you seems to mind. Craved it, in fact.

You’re beautiful, Sylus thinks as he stares at the soft planes of your face, drinking you in like a man parched.

“My lo—”

“I’m deleting the game, Sy.”

And it’s as if time has staggered to a halt.

Sylus wants to believe he’s misheard you, that his mind is playing tricks on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing’s not what it used to be.

But the words sink into him, inexorable and catastrophic. The realization that this was bound to happen is clear in hindsight—like watching a glass slip from your hand, the shatter already written in the fall. He sees it coming, yet it still feels worse than anything he’s imagined.

He stands there, unnaturally still, as if rooted in place. The lightness he’s felt for the past few hours of reuniting with you vanishes in an instant. It’s as if the world itself has been drained of color, leaving only the stark reality of what you’ve just said.

Then Sylus breathes out a laugh. It’s short and jagged, devoid of any humor. “Oh, so it’s been leading up to this, has it?”

“I–” you swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. “I made the goddamn mistake of falling for someone that's impossible to have—and it’s killing me, Sylus.” Your voice fractures under the weight of frustration. The words feel like shards of glass tearing their way out of your throat. “I–I can’t do this anymore.”

“Just you, then.” Sylus sneers, tone acerbic. “And have you stopped to consider my feelings in this matter?”

“How can you still want this?” you bite back, voice cracking. “How can you want me—to bet on something that’s doomed right from the start?”

His expression shifts, and for a brief moment, pain flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t bother hiding it.

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, when he speaks again, his words send an icy shiver down your spine.

“You delete the game, and I will cease to exist.”

You freeze. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a guillotine.

A shallow, shaky breath escapes you.

“You won’t,” you assert, brows furrowing, as if trying to convince yourself of it too. “You’ll still have a life there. With her. The way things have always been.” There’s a pause before you utter the final blow: “The way it should be.”

“You’d condemn me to this life,” he says, voice hollow, before it turns venomous. “Knowing what I know now?”

With your heart in your throat, you clench your hands into fist. “You–you said we’re just made of what we’re given, didn’t you? That each of us has our own set of scripts, just…” you falter, struggling to articulate what you want to say.

“And you think that’s all I am?” he interjects, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he cuts you off. “Simply a mere code in a complex string of binary, incapable of making my own choices? Undeserving of it?”

“Of course not!” you snap angrily.

“Yet here you are,” he says, a quiet intensity lacing his words. “Making the decision for me.”

Your breath hitches, the will to argue dissipating like smoke.

“You tell me I have a soul,” he states. “Do you truly believe I’m bereft of a heart?”

No. No, how can he say that—

Before you can form a response—to defend yourself, to explain, to take it back—he continues, leaving no room for interruption.

“Is this what you really want?” Sylus intones, tone detached, as if he’s merely commenting on something as trite as the weather. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me yes, then I’ll do as you wish.”

Your gaze wavers. The war inside you rages—self-hate, doubt, and the unbearable ache of wanting what you can’t have spiraling out of control.

Your mind replays every moment, every laugh, every secret whispered in the quiet safety of his company. You think of how his presence filled the cracks in your life, how he soothed the ache of your solitude as easy as breathing.

And now as the void looms, ready to reclaim the space he’s occupied, something inside you feels irreparably fractured. Something inside you breaks.

“But,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of his conviction, “give me any sign—anything—that you need me still, and I will move heaven and earth to find a way to you.”

Your throat constricts, choking off the words before it could escape.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you do in that moment.

“Just live your life, Sy-Sy,” you manage, sounding so much like a stranger even to your own ears. The blood roars in your head, drowning out everything but the crushing weight of your words. “You don’t nee—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained emotion. “Stop making assumptions. Stop presuming that I don’t need you as much as I need the very ground I stand upon.”

His eyes bore into yours. Heavy. Searching. “What do you want?”

The words strike you like a physical blow, and it leaves you reeling.

I love you.

I love you in ways that consume me.

I don’t know what to do with it—with all the love I have for you.

You force yourself to speak. You spit the words out like a curse, feeling them burn as they leave your mouth.

“Let me go, Sylus.”

The implication of what you’ve said cuts through the fragile air between you.

The silence stretches.

Suddenly—

“Let you go,” he muses, low and distant, as if the very thought confounds him. His lips twitch into a faint, almost bitter smile. “As if that’s even possible. As if I could simply erase you from me.”

He steps closer to you; each movement deliberate, as though every step bears the weight of a decision you’ve forced him to make. The lump in your throat swells. You don’t speak. You can’t.

You feel like you’re drowning.

“Sylus…”

Please, please don’t make me choose. Please make it stop.

He exhales slowly. “Neither of us wants that.”

Stop.

“Do you think this is mercy?” His voice is soft. “You believe this will make it easier?”

Please stop.

“This world hasn’t felt the same ever since. Not since you,” Sylus murmurs, grief hanging heavy in the space between you. “I don’t belong here. Not without you, my love.”

Tears pool in your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. A sob rips through you, and you quickly look away, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to bear another second of this agony.

He tuts gently, a playful sound—and the familiarity of it kills you, making you cry harder.

“Look at me,” he coaxes, almost pleading.

When his gaze locks onto yours, you see that there’s no anger in them. The fire that once raged in his eyes is gone.

In its place, a quiet resolve.

“You can keep pretending,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way he looks at you—so tenderly fond, as if he sees beyond your defenses, past all the walls you’ve built. “As long as you do not stop me from trying.”

Sylus looks at you, unwavering, certain in a way that makes your heart ache. It almost feels like the space between you can’t contain the weight of his devotion. His love for you.

It feels infinite, as if it could stretch beyond the limits of time and space itself.

“I will find a way to you, even if it takes me an eternity.”

He utters it like a promise.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” Sylus murmurs, stepping back, his tall form flickering like a dark phantasm. “I just need you to hold on until I can come to you. Can you do that, little dove?”

He’s not asking for anything beyond your trust—just the simple act of holding on. Of not letting the weight of your sorrow break you. To trust that he will find a way, no matter how impossible it seems.

You don’t know if you’ve ever believed in anything as much as you believe in him. You always did.

Because for all the uncertainty, you know one thing: He is yours, as much as you are his.

So with all the strength you can muster, you nod. “I can.”

A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips. Your gazes meet, and in that fleeting moment, both of your eyes speak what words fail to convey.

The game crashes for the last time.

And you know that if you check, the app will be gone from your phone. There’s no going back from this, no undoing what’s lost. Just the burden of knowing it’s over—his exit, permanent.

Sylus is gone.

The emptiness that follows is immediate. Suffocating.

You’re left standing there, alone, with only the lingering echo of his presence keeping you buoyed from the crushing weight of isolation. You feel it—the ache in your chest where your heart used to be, brought by the absence of everything he ever was to you.

Your lover, your best friend.

You try not to let yourself fall apart, not to crumble in the wake of solitude.

You’ll hold onto his promise. And so you’ll keep yours.

End A/N: Well—that’s it, folks!

(I’m kidding, don’t kill me. There’s one last chapter left.)

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @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

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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prokopetz · 10 months ago

Text

One of the pieces of feedback I'd received on the previous revision of Eat God is that the introductory text didn't clearly communicate what the game's big-picture deal is. I'm hoping this rewrite makes it clear!

(Image transcript under the cut.)

Introduction

Eat God is a game about being on the outside. It revolves around the Folk, beings who stand for every small, funny-looking creature in every game that insists small, funny-looking creatures are morally okay to kill, every goblin and kobold and imp, all reimagined here as members of the same impossibly varied, self-created people. Each player will take on the role of one of the Folk, different from any other, and navigate the world from their knee-high perspective.

Of course, player characters in Eat God aren't just any small, goblin-like critters. They're also God-eaters, practitioners of an esoteric discipline – part existential philosophy, part martial art – that comes with both fantastical abilities and big questions: namely, what does it mean to eat God?

Is “God” the systems of oppression we build to keep others down, and eating God means throwing off those chains?

Is “God” the culmination of an error in our understanding of reality, and eating God means finding another way to be?

Or is “God” just a great big tyrant in the sky, and eating God means exactly what you think it means?

As a God-eater, your journey to find out will take you from place to place, with each destination presenting potential answers, usually in the form of someone being ground under someone else's boot. Owing to your limited outsider's perspective, your interventions may not always help, at least not in the ways you intend, but they'll definitely ensure that those who benefit from the status quo are having a bad time.

Or, in less elevated terms, Eat God is a game about a bunch of gender-ambiguous muppety things with bullshit super powers wandering around causing problems on purpose. If you cause enough, you might even accomplish something.

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #eat god #game design #violence mention #teaser #swearing

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get-back-homeward · 1 year ago

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From Pete Shotton’s In My Life (1983), Ch. 21, page 169:

…if you could fill [Yoko] in on the Beatles and all that? She doesn’t even know who’s who!

oh shit. i just found a quote from pete shotton who, in may 1968, was told by john to fill yoko in on the beatles, since according to him she didnt even know who was who

and we know that’s a flat lie since she went to paul first, two years earlier.

so. she lied to him. had to have. and he believed it. it wasn’t calculated on his part but it was on hers. ugh.

#yikes #j&y #finally returned to this book to grab the quote #this part sticks out to me too #pete’s account has some missing bits and of course narrator bias #he seems to have the may 68 timeline wrong now that its been revised so im wondering about the timing of the jesus christ story #but it pairs with tony bramwells book pretty well #the apple corp shenanigans are whew but yoko seems to have played them all #yoko ono #pete shotton #two years in the 68 timeline still has me pulling my hair out #pete says johns declaring hes all in with yoko and leaving cynthia early may #vs tony saying johns complaining about yoko to paul one week in june and saying hes in love the next week #*insert whats the truth gif*#unless its both and john was playing games with yoko for different reasons w cyn and paul #which would make that day paul visits cynthia and julian a compelling day #fic prompt #1968 #didnt that happen at kenwood tho? so yoko wouldnt be moving in this early would she?#timeline problems #apartment hopping #mind games but whose

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kannady · 27 days ago

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do you remember me too?

pairing: sylus x mc reader

synopsis: love and deepspace was a newfound obsession of yours. you installed the game shortly after sylus was released as a love interest. it'd be safe to say he was the reason you installed the app. however, finals week was approaching and you had to say goodbye to your favourite game. not for long, ofcourse. but you decide to login for the last time to check the new event.

word count: 1.5k

a/n: hey everyone! im going to get busy in a couple days so updates might be slow, but ill try my best. not much, its a pretty simple chapter. lemme know what you think!

check out all chapters here

Chapter Seven

"Of course, but I need to make sure he senses the urgency of my situation."

Nodding to herself, your sister started clearing the mess, picking up the scattered markers and loose pages, while you sat down and waited. You weren’t expecting him to come running that very instant. It was late, after all. But you were getting anxious now. Had you been too harsh? Too rude to someone you technically didn’t know?

You were still unsure about your next move or anything that you had done up until now. Sure, you’d get to meet five of your most favorite men, but you couldn’t shrug off the feeling that things were only going to get worse for you now. You tried to stay optimistic, but it was almost impossible considering there was an enemy lurking nearby.

Sighing to yourself, you got up, bid your sister goodbye, and went up to bed. Lying down, you couldn’t help but mentally go through everything that had happened that day. You could confidently say it was the most festive and hectic, yet the best day of your life.

You were in the Love & Deepspace universe! You got to meet Zayne, Caleb was your best friend, Xavier was your neighbor, and Sylus was presumably keeping an eye on you. You were yet to meet Rafayel, but you were just as excited for him.

Contrary to what you’d assumed, you fell asleep just as you went to bed. Now that the initial excitement had worn off, you were suddenly exhausted. You didn’t know exactly when you fell asleep, but you woke up more refreshed than ever. It felt like one of those days where you didn’t have anything to do. No classes, no exams, no chores. Just a day to do anything you liked.

After washing up, you decided to change since you’d fallen asleep in the same clothes. The closet was pretty basic, nothing too unique. After all, you weren’t a Hunter yet.

Your eye caught a black hoodie folded neatly in one corner. It had a distinct smell to it. Lavender, jasmine, and a hint of vanilla. It was perfect.

"She actually has great taste in colognes."

You paired the hoodie with baggy jeans and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Seeing everyone seated at the table, it looked just like any other day. Your father was reading the paper, your sister was scrolling on her phone, and your mother was flipping pancakes. Perhaps she heard your steps. Without turning toward you, she asked, "Two for you, as usual?"

"Yep!"

You slipped into the chair next to your sister’s. She looked at you with a smile, but it died down as soon as she saw the hoodie. Instead, it was replaced with a mischievous smirk.

"Someone’s missing Caleb today." You turned toward your father, who was eyeing you from above his glasses. Smiling, he turned his attention back to the paper. You cluelessly glanced at your sister, who whispered, "That’s Caleb’s hoodie."

"Oh."

After breakfast, you helped your mom carry the dishes to the kitchen. "So, how’s the exam prep going?"

What exam? You had no idea, and it wouldn’t be wise to ask.

"It’s great. I’m probably gonna revise most of the day." After sorting out the dishes, you hastily went up to your sister.

"What exam was I preparing for again?"

"The Hunter’s Association licensure exam."

"And when is it?"

"May 14th."

Today was April 13th. You had one month. One month to prepare for something you had no idea about. What even was in that exam? Thinking about it was making you more anxious. How exactly were you going to do this?

Thankfully, your study desk had the answer. Placed neatly on shelves were books about Wanderers and Protocores, past exam questions, model papers, and then heaps and heaps of notes. The more you looked at it, the more frustrated you got, and the more you wanted to cry. It was hopeless. Maybe you could give the exam next year?

Sighing, you grabbed a random book and started going through its pages until a certain illustration caught your eye. It was a Wanderer with blue wings, a purplish tail, and a sleek black body. It almost looked like a dragon. Tracing your finger over the text, you read, "Polar Wyrm."

On the next page was the illustration of a similar Wanderer, only red and orange. "Ignis Wyrm."

Intrigued, you started going through the pages. Each Wanderer looked familiar. "Oh my god, I remember fighting these!" You excitedly squealed as you grabbed another book. "Protocores are unique substances dropped by Wanderers after they are defeated. They can be—I know what a Protocore is!"

You were on cloud nine. How could you forget? You had played the game. You knew what Wanderers were, how to defeat them, and the ideal weapons for each. Taking a deep breath, you carried all the material to the bed and went through every single page. Most of the stuff you already knew. And the rest? You could do the rest in one month.

And so days went by while you were merged in books. Life had gotten too boring. It felt normal now. The only abnormal thing was perhaps learning about Wanderers. Due to your hectic schedule, you’d almost forgotten about Sylus. He hadn’t replied back. You didn’t come across the twins again, nor did you see Mephisto following you around. You weren’t even sure if he’d gotten your message. Although the exam kept you busy most of the time, you still felt uneasy in this new environment. You were tempted to go into the N109 Zone yourself, but you weren’t that stupid. You’d get killed in an instant considering how you hadn’t had any physical training yet.

A month had gone by. You’d given the exam. It was easy. Of course, you studied for it, but you’d had a different way of knowing everything. Even so, it all worked out. A week later, the results were announced, and you passed. Your parents threw a small celebratory party in your honor. As guests arrived, you lingered by the door, thanking each one.

But your real reason for standing there was waiting. Waiting for Sylus, Mephisto, even a black feather would have been enough at that point. You just couldn’t understand. Why follow you around if he wasn’t going to respond? Actually, why follow you in the first place?

"He’s not going to come, honey. And you know that."

You turned to see your mother standing beside you, looking out into the darkness. Then, she turned to look at you, and you could see the worry etched on her face.

"Who?"

"Caleb. You know the academy keeps him busy."

You almost spit out the tea you were sipping. Why would she think you were waiting for Caleb? Was it because of the hoodie? You had worn it again. It was soft and smelled incredible. You had to give him that. But that was it.

"I wasn’t waiting for him. At all." You tried to sound as convincing as you could. Even though you weren’t lying, you had a feeling she wouldn’t believe that. And you were right.

"Ah, young love! Just you see. You’d be the first one he visits as soon as he gets back from Skyhaven." Smiling to herself, she made her way back to the guests while you stood there, processing what had happened.

Once all the expected guests had arrived and it was clear he wasn’t coming, you closed the door and retreated to the living room. The party was typical. Relatives quizzing you about the exam, comparing scores, then veering into politics. The moment the conversation shifted away from your academics, you seized the chance to escape. Too boring. Or maybe you were just too young for it.

Ting! Ting!

Your phone vibrated. It was a low battery notification. So, you headed upstairs to plug in the phone and touch up your makeup. As soon as you entered your room, you were met with a cool, light breeze on your face. The window was open, and the curtains were rustling. You could swear you’d closed it.

Shrugging, you plugged in your phone and sat at the vanity. As you were reapplying your lip gloss, your gaze fell upon a box on your bed. Confused, you turned around and spotted a black gift box tied with a red ribbon. There was no question about who sent it. You knew. But why did he send you a gift? Was it a congratulatory gift?

Slowly, you crept toward the bed and picked up the box. It was heavier than you’d imagined. You couldn’t even attempt to guess what it was. It was too heavy and big to be his credit card, not big enough to be a bouquet, and definitely not some letter.

Slowly, you untied the ribbon. Taking one last deep breath, you took the lid off. Inside the box, nestled in black velvet, lay a pistol. Pristine, almost glowing under the dim light. Its steel was mirror-bright, untouched by fingerprints. The grip felt strangely warm against your skin, like it had been held moments before. There were no scratches on it, whatsoever.

Lemme know if you wanna be on the taglist!

tags: @zenbutnotreally, @godoffuckedupcats, @noxus123, @madam8, @agustdxjiminx, @liz9898, @lemonn015, @tearydamsel, @diegojeanne, @alyssac9, @dummiebunny, @acesgarden, @bigclownshoes, @sylusgirlie7, @roseyjean, @poptrim, @pillarofsnow, @rxelarailuj, @brekkers-whore, @one17, @cchiiwinkle, @babyx91, @mourning-into-dancing, @yuhuahuaaa, @stxrrielle, @tapiokay, @glassandhoney, @animelover18, @paper--angel, @plzdonutpercieveme, @coffeedragonhobbyist, @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme, @harbingers-lullaby, @sleepykittyenergy, @syluslovesicker, @solmanel1

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mariacallous · 9 months ago

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India’s $13.9 billion aviation industry—projected to cater to over 300 million domestically by 2030—is a ticking time bomb.

This July, in the sweltering heat at the Delhi High Court, additional solicitor general Aishwarya Bhati announced that new rules on pilot duty and rest periods would not be implemented this year after all. Introduced by the Directorate General of Civil Aviation (DGCA) in January, the rules were designed specifically to combat pilot fatigue. They were set to take effect in June, but were abruptly retracted. The hearing addressed a writ petition filed by the Federation of Indian Pilots (FIP), seeking clarity on when the new norms would be enforced. The DGCA’s response followed its request to airline companies in April for a tentative implementation timeline.

Concerns over pilot fatigue had been mounting in the months leading up to the announcement of the new Flight Duty Period, Flight Time Limitations, and Prescribed Rest Periods by the DGCA. The urgency deepened in November 2023 when a 37-year-old Air India pilot, Captain Himanil Kumar, collapsed at Delhi Airport while training to fly the airline's Boeing 777 fleet, and later died at the hospital. Kumar was the second Indian pilot to die on duty within three months; in August, Captain Manoj Subramanyam, a 40-year-old IndiGo pilot, suffered a fatal cardiac arrest just minutes before his flight from Nagpur.

These back-to-back tragedies raised alarm in the industry. “Another young Indian pilot passed away today due to a suspected cardiac event,” reportedly tweeted Captain Shakti Lumba, a retired IndiGo VP who is now the president of the Professional Pilots Society in India (His tweet was since deleted.) “If this doesn’t convince the DGCA, civil aviation ministry, and airlines to urgently address the stress, fatigue, and anxiety among pilots, nothing will.”

The DGCA, India’s aviation watchdog, regulates the country’s Flight Duty Time Limitations (FDTL). At 13 hours of flight duty time, India’s FDTL is already demanding, but after the pandemic slowdown, increased route expansion and pilot shortages have forced many to fly beyond the recommended maximum of 60 hours a week, exacerbating crew exhaustion. The DGCA finally responded to the growing crisis by revising FDTL norms in January 2024.

The new guidelines increased weekly rest periods from 36 to 48 hours and introduced quarterly fatigue reports. Its scheduled implementation on June 1, 2024, was pushed back due to pressure from operators. An airline CEO, speaking anonymously to the Economic Times in January, claimed the proposed regulations would require a 20 percent increase in pilot numbers, which would escalate expenses and lead to huge numbers of flight cancellations. Still, the DGCA held firm on the FDTL implementation deadline till early March. By the end of the month, however, it appeared to have yielded to influence from the airline lobby. A notice on the regulator’s website announced the deadline had been deferred, without providing a reason or setting a new date.

The pilot fatigue problem isn’t unique to India. In January, two pilots for Indonesia-based Batik Air fell asleep for 28 minutes mid-flight, causing their plane to veer off course between Sulawesi and Jakarta. In April, unionized Virgin Atlantic pilots in the UK voted 96 percent in favor of pursuing an industrial action in response to rising fatigue. Earlier, the CEO of Wizz Air UK faced a backlash for urging crew members to push through their fatigue to avoid flight cancellations. In May, senior pilots at Virgin Australia raised safety concerns, claiming rostering systems were pushing them "to the limits.”

But in India, the belief that overwork and fatigue are not just acceptable but essential has become entrenched across industries. The aviation crisis is just the tip of the iceberg; it is the tech industry that is leading the charge. Last year, Infosys cofounder Narayana Murthy suggested that Indian youth should work 70 hours a week for the nation's development. Murthy’s advice came up at the Indian Parliament on the first day of its winter session and found support from a list of influential Indian tech leaders, including Bhavish Aggarwal, founder of India’s first AI unicorn, Ola Krutrim; Ayushmaan Kapoor, cofounder of the AI-powered customer platform Xeno; and even veterans like Sajjan Jindal, CEO and MD of JSW Group, and Vinod Khosla of Sun Microsystems. Almost all of them justified the extended work hours, which far exceed the maximum eight to nine hours per day stipulated by the International Labour Organisation and the Indian Labour Code, as necessary for strengthening India’s economy. “We have to make India an economic superpower that we can all be proud of,” Jindal wrote on X. He cited Indian prime minister Narendra Modi, “who works 14-16 hours everyday,”as a model. In July this year, the Karnataka State IT/ITeS Employee Union said the state government had plans to increase working hours in the sector from the current maximum of 10 hours (including overtime) to a staggering 14 hours a day. As the union planned massive campaigns to oppose the move, the labor minister stated that the push for the proposal had come from the companies.

The airline companies think they have a solution to the fatigue crisis: technology. IndiGo, India’s largest airline, announced it would be an “early adopter” of a wrist-worn fatigue-monitoring device it was developing with French defense and aerospace company Thales Group. The device can provide “detailed insights into demographic data, including routes, pairings, crew profiles, and more, going beyond traditional scheduling-focused biomathematical models,” the airline stated in a press release in September. The airline, which operates 2,000 flights daily and employs over 5,000 pilots, said the device would be rolled out after a proof-of-concept trial. No date for the rollout was announced.

Wearable activity trackers are not new to the aviation industry. IndiGo’s device sounds similar to Actiwatch, a now-discontinued line of research-grade actigraphs from Philips, used to monitor sleep patterns, study circadian rhythms, and track physical activity as part of an airline’s fatigue risk-management system. But they partly rely on performance tests and subjective measures, such as self-reporting, which often results in being targeted by the airlines, says Captain C. S. Randhawa, president of the Federation of Indian Pilots. Safety management systems on the whole tend to be neglected by operators and are viewed as an additional expense, says Captain Amit Singh of the NGO Safety Matters Foundation.

In May 2023, Air India launched safety management software called Coruson, as well as BAM (Boeing Alertness Model), a fatigue-mitigation tool integrated into its rostering system, which is used by airlines to create and manage pilot schedules. Coruson, developed by cloud software company Ideagen, centralizes, analyzes, and reports on safety-related data—such as incidents, hazards, and risk assessments. BAM, developed jointly by Boeing and the software company Jeppesen, predicts and manages pilot fatigue by analyzing flight schedules and performance data. These tools were designed to prevent the creation of fatiguing rosters and pairings, Air India CEO Campbell Wilson noted in an internal message to employees. The carrier also introduced two new digital tools for its crew—the Pilot Sector Report app, to help pilots easily submit information on flight performance, incidents, and observations post-flight; and DocuNet, a digital management system that facilitates the storage, retrieval, and sharing of documents (such as flight manuals, training records, and compliance documents).

Despite these measures, the airline was fined by the DGCA in March this year for violating FDTL limits and fatigue management rules. This May, Air India Express cabin staff called in sick en masse to protest against “mismanagement.” This followed a similar protest from the crew, mostly pilots, at Vistara airlines. Both Air India and Vistara are now owned by one of India’s largest conglomerates, the Tata Group, which took over the former from the Indian government in January 2022.

Twenty-five of those who called in sick at Air India Express were terminated. Others were reportedly served an ultimatum. Those sacked were later reinstated by the airline following an intervention by the chief labour commissioner. Nearly a week before, the regional labor commissioner of Delhi had allegedly written to the Tata group chairman pointing to “blatant violations of labour laws” and insisting the legitimate concerns of the cabin crew be looked into. According to CNBC, Vistara employees said the agitation at their end had to do with recent salary updates, which fixed pilot pay at 40 flight hours—down from 70. Protesting first officers claimed that the new salary structure would result in an almost 57 percent pay cut. Under the new terms they would also have to fly up to 76 hours to earn what they were previously earning at 70 hours.

To placate the pilots and get them back to work, management had assured them that salaries for the “extra working hours” would be credited once Vistara was integrated with Air India. At the time, two Air India pilots unions had written to the chairman of the company, saying that such issues were not isolated but systemic. Burnout was the other related issue, with many pilots complaining of inadequate rest and being pushed to their limits.

Captain Singh, a former senior manager at AirAsia, tells WIRED that such effects significantly increase the risk of accidents, but also adversely affect pilot health in the long run. Tail swaps—rushing between different types of aircraft to take off immediately after disembarking from another—have become more prevalent under the 13-hour rules, and can further contribute to exhaustion, as do hasty acclimatization and, most significantly, landing three, four, or more flights consecutively, which Captain Randhawa described as a “severe energy management challenge.”

In the 2024 “Safety Culture Survey” conducted by Singh’s Safety Matters Foundation in July, 81 percent of 530 respondents, primarily medium- to short-haul pilots, stated that bufferless rosters contribute to their fatigue. As many as 84 percent indicated concerns with the speed and direction of shift rotation. “That’s the problem with the new rostering softwares the operators are introducing,” a pilot from a private airline, who requested anonymity, says. “They’re optimizers designed to make pilots work every second of their 13-hour schedule, leaving no breathing room.” The buffer-deficient timetables push pilots to their limits, so any additional pressure—like unpredictable weather—can easily overwhelm them.

Solving this issue with wrist-worn fatigue-measuring devices is contentious. But that isn’t the only problem. A year since they were hyped up, the buzz around fatigue-management tech has all but fizzled out. There have been no updates from IndiGo about the wrist device. Neither IndiGo nor the Thales Group responded to requests to comment.

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harukyuu2 · 2 months ago

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+:ꔫ:﹤ On your days!? - Reader x Phantom Busters˚ ༘♡

!! - Headcanons of them when youre on your period ig !! first time writing for them so maybe ooc?? small revision only

❀✧.* Mogari Shishikuno...

...What?

Thats literally his reaction. He lived in the mountains, no friends, no mom— i dont think he knows how it works that much.

Once you explain to him youre not dying because youre not really losing blood like that?? OHHH HE GETS IT BETTER (He probably cried alone thinking you were dying)

Cuddle bug. Thats it, he's your personal cuddle bag. Just tell him if you want a hug, kisses, belly caresses and he's on it! Its not like he doesnt already do it daily, he loves being all wrapped around you.

Actually really loving with you, you two could eat sweets or whatever you want that day and he wont complain— (his fatass loves to eat...)

IM SORRY BUT HE IS IN DEEP BRAINROT. The type to imitate those tiktoks of "Cramps leave my princess alone!" only because he knows youre gonna cringe.

If you ask him to buy pads? There's only two directions: He actually gets you what you need since his goofy ass actually paid attention or he forgets completely and just walks in with normal pads and chicken wings. Overall: a really good bf because he takes care of you...in his own weird way! But atleast between the laughs and cuddles you forget about the pain. <3

❀✧.* Tamon Kotaru...

SWEET ASS.

He's so so worried about youu, texting you frequently to know how do you feel even if he's still quite shy when you two are actually dating.

Gets to your house with sweets and he nervously ask you if they are ok, he would drool to eat one— but he aint touching them unless you give him permission!

Holds you close while you two listen to music, his hand hesitates at first in shyness, but he would give great cuddles!

I feel like he's already a really warm person, but he's wrapping you around his clothes only to make sure you arent cold!!

Please, please, PLEASE. Dont send him to buy you pads. This boy cant talk with people, your request would probably take like half an hour and he comes back with a tired expression (A woman wanted to help him and he ended throwing up...)

Overall: a shy bug that takes good care of you if you just...just dont send him to purchase anything!! He cant handle talking to people, but would feel bad coming to you with his hands empty D:

❀✧.* Korekishi Eugene...

HIS NAME IS PERFECTION SIR RAAAAHHH

The most sweet message in the morning asking how do you feel, if youre not that good? He's already at your door! Ding ding

Literally a mom with a prepared kit for you: Your favourite sweets (more than necessary), pads, a heating bottle, and...Him! Of course!

Say thanks to his grandma and mom because this man is perfect idk what more to say

I feel like he's too shy at first though, you will have to be the one to guide him into cuddles or kisses— even during them, you will have to guide his hands because he never wants to disrespect you

Would totally watch a serie or movie he doesnt like only because you feel like watching it (Its a too silly show...)

Overall: He is perfect! literally and canonically! Watch him try and fail being sweet— its impossible. He loves you, you get the deserved respect!

❀✧.* Kanzaki Kaoru...

EEEHHH? Yeah? Ok!

IF YOU FEEL BAD, HE DOES TOO!! fr connected. He gets all pouty

Ok, but actually he would take care of you just fine if you asked him— he has a sister, he knows what pads you need or a hot water bottle or the type of chocolates you want...he's actually good on that

CUDDLES?? Boy is too shy for that. You will have to force him into cuddle or negociate seeing One Piece (Even if you barely pay attention)

Watching anime or reading manga the whole day while taking care of you? Hell yeah, he's in. He may get pouty if you fall asleep, but actually understands you need the rest (drama queen...)

Probably kisses your forehead and cheeks while you sleep...baby is too shy to do it while youre awake, you will REALLY need to reassure him to do it if you want them.

Overall: Actually a good bf! He knows what you need if he has to go buying for you, but in exchange you will have to hear him ramble of the anime he's watching or reading right now— just force him into cuddles!

#phantom busters #phantom busters x reader #kanzaki kaoru #kanzaki kaoru x reader #mogari shishikuno #mogari shishikuno x reader #eugene korekishi #eugene korekishi x reader #tamon kotaro #tamon kotaro x reader

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selunefae · 3 months ago

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Hysterical Paroxysm (+18) - Zayne (Love and Deepspace)

masterlist , part 2

rating: +18, MDNI

word count: 3,524

tags: zayne (lads) x reader, smut, fem!reader, afab!reader, victorian!AU (not 100% historically accurate)

content warnings: P with Plot, shameless smut, fingering (female receiving), oral (female receiving), doctor kink undertones, breast fondling, nipple sucking, cheating (you're married to a random man named Mr. Smith for plot reasons), gloved fingering, reader has a timid personality

notes: Long time no see!! I started writing this and then entered a writer's block... But I really wanted to finish this oneshot soooo, almost two weeks writing it. :'D I know this isn't 100% historically accurate but it's just smut so, who cares? (If you care please don't read this lol). Again, English is not my first language so sorry if something sounds weird or cringey.

(text may contain errors bc it's 6 in the morning, I'll revise it in the afternoon)

Your gloved hands trembled as you smoothed the front of your gown, pressing your fingers into the fabric in a useless attempt to steady yourself. You swallowed hard, staring at the polished wood in front of you. The brass letters on the plaque attached to the front glowed with the soft light of the hallway.

Dr. Zayne Li, Physician.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage. You have been here before—several times, in fact. It started a few weeks ago when the pressure inside your chest became unbearable. Everything irritated you: your husband’s voice, the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath your feet, the tick of the clock in the parlor… Days were endless and interminable, each one a suffocating repetition of the last. No amount of quiet walks, embroidery, or tea could quell the feeling. You couldn’t sleep at night, you’d lost your appetite, and worst of all, you had begun to neglect your wifely duties.

Your husband noticed, of course.

“She has been… unwell,” he explained to a family friend one evening. “Moody, irascible. And she complains about everything. She can’t sleep but can’t be bothered to oversee the house chores either.”

This friend, an older gentleman, nodded knowingly. “I’m afraid it’s hysteria,” he claimed, voice low like he was speaking of something shameful. “My own wife suffered from it. Restless, emotional… and at times completely unreasonable. The doctor helped her.”

“Hysteria?” Your husband responded, intrigued.

The man took a slow sip of his brandy. “A woman’s affliction,” he confirmed. “You ought to have her seen by a doctor before it worsens.”

And so, that was how you found yourself here. Dr. Zayne is not an unfamiliar name; he has been your family’s private doctor for years, trusted for his expertise and discretion. He has treated minor ailments, overseen your well-being, and even attended to your husband now and then. He wasn’t a specialist in this so-called hysteria, but when your husband summoned him to your home and explained the situation, the command was clear.

“Do something about it.”

And oh boy, did he do something about it…

“Mrs. Smith?”

Your breath hitches. Just when you were lost in your thoughts, the door burst open. Dr. Zayne now stands before you, his expression as composed as ever. You greet him softly. He steps aside, allowing you to enter. The door shuts behind you with a quiet click. The familiar scent of parchment, antiseptic, and something subtly herbaceous fills the air. You know the space well enough to move toward the examination chair without being told.

“How have you been feeling?” he asks, already rolling down the cuffs of his sleeves to put on his gloves.

Your throat feels dry. “Well… the treatment helps a lot, but only for a few hours,” you admit. “Then the restlessness returns. I-I feel irritable again. And there’s still this… heaviness in my chest.”

He nods, pulling the second glove snug against his wrist before taking a step closer.

“So, I assume you’re here for another treatment?”

You hesitate and then let your gaze fall, fingers twisting in your lap. “Y-yeah…”

Zayne holds your gaze for a second, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turns toward the nearby counter to prepare everything. He reaches for a dark glass bottle, tilting it slightly to examine the viscosity of the liquid inside. Next, he reaches for a clean folded cloth. With practiced precision, he unfolds it, smoothing it between his fingers before placing it on the small side table next to the examination chair.

“You may remove your garments from the waist down,” he instructs, stepping back slightly to afford you some privacy.

Your breath wavers as your hands creep behind you, fingers searching for the row of buttons that hold your skirt in place. The tiny fastenings are stiff under your gloves, and your fumbling digits struggle to slip them free. The fitted waistband loosens, and after a moment of vacillation, you push the thick fabric downwards, letting it glide past your hips. You do the same thing with each piece of clothing, folding them over and neatly placing them on the small table beside you, where Zayne has just laid out the cloth.

You continue. Stockings next. You sit carefully on the chair and roll each one down slowly, feeling the silk drag against your legs as you slip your feet from your shoes. Once free, you set them aside with the rest of your garments. The last barrier is your drawers. Your last shred of modesty. Your fingers hover over the delicate ties at your hips. They tremble. The logical part of your brain repeats a million times that this is just routine—a normal medical procedure. You have been here before, and yet…

“Calm down.” You mutter to yourself, trying to will away the nervous energy coiling in your stomach. This is just a medical appointment. Nothing more.

A warm, gloved hand settles gently on your shoulder, making you jump in your seat at the unexpected contact. You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp that you immediately regret. You jerk, your head snapping up.

“If you’re not comfortable, we can stop.”

Stop?

“I can tell your husband that the symptoms are nothing of concern,” he continues, his voice calm. “That you simply require some tests. No further intervention.”

…

No further intervention.

Your stomach twists into knots unexpectedly. A strange, hollow feeling seeps through your chest. A feeling you are all too familiar with. That same weight presses into your chest late at night—when your husband lays in your bed beside you, unaware of the indecent thoughts you are having. Indecent thoughts about someone who has touched you way too many times to still be considered appropriate.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Maybe if you never come back, if you never see him again, you can drive away those unwanted thoughts that plague you at midnight.

“I’m fine,” you blurt, too quickly for your liking. “I-I just lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change, but his thumb flexes against your shoulder before he withdraws his hand.

Realizing how much time you have wasted, you force your fingers to move. The ties at your hips loosen with more urgency than before, fabric slipping free. This time, you fold your garments carelessly, setting them atop the pile in disarray. Your chemise is the only barrier left, and with a quick, almost desperate motion, you lift it and tuck it high enough not to disturb. A shiver traces down your spine as the cool air kisses your exposed skin.

No matter how many times you do this, the moment you lay yourself bare before him always feels the same.

Carefully, you lower yourself again onto the medical chair. Your hands grip the edges for a brief moment before you let out a slow breath and part your legs. Just enough to grant him access to your most private parts.

His eyes are fixed on your legs, dark and unreadable. You know it means nothing. He is always cold and professional, never shows any interest in you. These sessions are just another medical appointment for him. And yet, something about the way his gaze lingers on the space between your thighs makes your stomach twist.

Then, suddenly, he coughs, as if snapping himself out of a trance. Without a word, he turns, reaching for the oil bottle he set on the side table earlier. The glass gives a soft clink when he uncorks it. Tilting the bottle, he pours a small amount of oil into his gloved hand, rubbing his hands together to spread it. The leather of his gloves creaks as his fingers flex, testing the oil’s consistency.

He moves to stand at your left. “Ready?”

You nod.

When you finally feel his touch, your fingers grip harder the arms of the chair. The smooth leather of his glove drags along your inner thigh, cool at first and warming with each stroke. The sensation sends a shiver through your body. Your legs twitch involuntarily.

“You’re unusually tense today.”

You part your lips to respond, but the words tangle in your throat the moment he moves his hand again. His fingers slide lower, skimming along your entrance, just barely touching you before retreating. Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to steady it. “It’s nothing, truly… I’ve just had too much on my mind lately.” A pause, then, quieter: “Please… continue.”

He doesn’t respond. Not with words, at least. Instead, he shifts slightly, his hand finally finding your core. His fingers glide through your slick folds, the oil on his gloves mixing with your arousal. You are already so wet.

You bite your lip to suppress a gasp, nails digging into the armrests.

“Still tense,” he notes, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You need to relax.”

He brings his thumb to your clit and gives it an experimental rub. The touch sends a jolt through your body, instinct drawing your thighs together–but his free hand is already there, keeping you open. You know this is part of the treatment, but for some time now, this has stopped being just a treatment for you. A guilty pulse of pleasure trickles low in your belly, shame following close behind.

“There,” he murmurs to himself. The hand on your leg slides up to rest on your hip.

Zayne’s fingers resume their motion, rubbing your clit in soft circles. Occasionally, he increases the pressure, making your breath falter. You bite your lip hard enough to almost draw blood. You can barely hold back your moans.

You look at him. His eyes have been locked on your soft cunt, watching as it clenches around nothing. A glistening sheen of arousal coats your folds, trailing down the curve of your ass. His index finger traces a slow path between your lips, and when the tip brushes over your entrance, you let out a quiet, startled squeak, your hips jerking away in protest.

“Just let go,” he commands.

Zayne stops his movement to spread your lips and stare at your winking hole, rubbing it with one of his fingers before gently prodding at it. A quiet whimper escapes your lips when he slips a finger inside you. He starts working your tight hole with his long finger, watching how your eyebrows knit at the intrusion. Each time he pushes in, his palm grinds down on your sensitive clit, sending small waves of pleasure until you fully relaxed under his touch. When he thinks you’re ready, he slides in a second finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp. Your head falls back against the chair. Each movement of his fingers draws a helpless moan from your lips, your body betraying you as it rocks into his hand.

His fingers caress and press against your spongy walls. A shudder wracks your body as he angles them upward, rubbing that certain spot inside you that sends sparks flashing behind your eyes. Then, he brings his other hand down, to give more attention to your clit. You are breathless, trying to maintain your composure. His thumb back and forth against your clit, the mixture of oil and your own arousal creating the perfect lubricant as he abuses your sensitive bud.

“Dr. Li…” you whisper, voice trembling.

His fingers stop.

He looks up, finally meeting your eyes. His pupils are blown out, his usual mask of indifference cracking.

“What is it?” His voice is quieter now.

You don’t know what to answer. You don’t even know what you are asking for. All you know is that you can’t take it anymore. Your body is aching for release, but not just the kind he’s offering. You want more.

Before you can stop yourself, your hands shoot forward, clutching the front of his coat. Your fingers curl into the thick fabric, desperate. Impulse overtook reason, and before you know it, your hands yank him down, your lips crashing against his. For the first time, Zayne hesitates. His breath catches, and for a fleeting moment, his body remains stiff beneath your touch. But you don’t let go. Instead, you draw him closer, the feverish need in your chest growing with every second.

Then, just when you think he might pull away, he gives in.

His hands move to your waist, fingers pressing into the curve of your body. His mouth parts against yours, devouring you with all the pent-up hunger and lust that has been eating him away. He tastes of mint with the faintest hint of clove, warm and heavy against your tongue. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, tilting it to deepen the kiss. You melt into him, letting him take exactly what he wants.

Zayne doesn't pull away. If anything, his grip on you tightens. The air between you is thick—charged with something unspoken, something neither of you had dared acknowledge until now. The lewd sounds of your mingling breaths and entwined tongues have your knees feeling like jelly. You are lucky that you’re lying down, otherwise, you’d be struggling to stand.

You let out a muffled gasp as his hand—the same one that has been inside of you just moments ago—begins its descent once more, trailing over the curve of your thigh.

This time, there is no hesitation. His fingers slip into your wet cunt with ease. A low sound rumbles in his throat when he feels your nails dig into his back. Now he works you faster, harder, his palm pressing firmly against your already abused clit. All your moans are swallowed between his lips, each gasp making him go even faster. You are close and he knows it.

Zayne breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his breath warm and unsteady. “Come.”

Your back arches off the chair, legs trembling violently. A sharp cry tires from your throat as your climax finally crashes over you, white-hot bliss crushing through every nerve in your body. Your cunt is pulsating around his long fingers, squeezing and releasing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

Zayne doesn’t stop. He works you through it, his fingers gliding in hard thrusts, prolonging your release as your slick drips down his gloved hand. Your fingers loosen their grip on his back as the aftershocks shudder through you, your body spent. He finally stills, fingers slipping from your soaked entrance with an obscene wet sound. He pulls back just enough to take you in. His dark eyes trace over your body—the sweat covering your skin, the way your chest rises and falls, the dazed look in your eyes. His breath is uneven. He brings his hand up and flexes his fingers, observing the way your juices coated the leather. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

And then—your breath stutters, heart pounding, as he brings his hand to his lips.

He slips the two fingers that fucked your cunt between his lips, tongue flicking out to taste you. He groans, a deep satisfied hum vibrating in his throat. He doesn’t break eye contact. When he pulls his fingers free, a thin string of saliva glistens between them before breaking.

You almost faint at the sight.

He licks his lips to chase the last races of your taste from his lips. He turns around for a moment to take off the used gloves; then, he turns back at you.

“Can I kiss you again?” His voice is low, rougher than before.

The question punches the air from your lungs. As if he even needs to ask. You would never deny him. Your lips part, but no words come out—just a desperate nod, shaky and immediate.

In a blink, he’s on you, claiming your mouth with more hunger than before. You can taste yourself in his tongue, and it feels hotter than you'd ever imagine. His lips move against yours with desperation, this time he isn’t holding back. Every movement, every flick of his tongue, unravels you further. You can feel yourself getting wet again.

Then, just as you think he might pull away, his lips break from yours—only to trail lower. A breathless gasp escapes you when he moves to your jaw, then down the line of your throat. His mouth is hot against your skin, lips and tongue tracing a slow, searing path over your pulse. When he reaches the curve of your neck, he parts his lips, sucking lightly before his teeth scrape over the sensitive skin. His hands move down your chest, searching for the buttons of your blouse.

“May I?”

You nod.

He continues attacking your neck as he undoes each button. Once the blouse is gone, he peels away your chemise. Your entire body is now completely bare to him. The cool of the air sweeps over your already-hardening nipples. He pulls away to gaze down at you. He doesn’t say a word. Just outright oggles you with raw, unfiltered desire.

He lowers his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. Then another, just below your throat. Then, lower. His lips end up finding the swell of your breast, and he pauses, flicking his gaze up to yours before dragging his tongue across the sensitive skin. You moan when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently before grazing it with his teeth. While he continues kissing, licking, and sucking your nipple, he moves one of his hands to cup your other breast. He lightly pinches your nipple, tugging it upwards. Your fingers tangle into his dark hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Each flick of his tongue and pinch of his fingers send jolts of pleasure through you, pooling once again between your legs.

But he doesn’t stop there.

His mouth starts to trail lower, kissing a path down your stomach, his hands skimming along your sides as he descends.

“Dr. Li–” you gasp surprised, you don’t understand what he’s doing.

“Zayne,” he corrects. “You may call me Zayne.”

Your cheeks burn. You never have before. He was always Dr. Li, your physician, the man meant to bring you back to good health. But something about the way his name rolls off his own tongue makes your stomach twist.

“Zayne…” You whisper, barely audible.

His movements resume. He finally settles between your thighs, his breath is warm against your most sensitive place. He looks up at you. “Has your husband ever done this to you?”

You blink, heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

His lips curve into a smug smirk before he kisses your inner thigh, just above your knee. Then he presses another kiss, a little higher. And higher. And higher.

“Ah!”

Then, finally, you feel something warm and wet pressed against your cunt. His tongue.

Your entire body jolts at the sensation. You've never felt anything like this before. The tip of his tongue parts your slick folds slowly, and your thighs instinctively try to close.

“This… this isn’t…” Your thoughts scramble. This feels so nice but so dirty.

“Relax.”

And with that, he places a sensual kiss on your clit. He grabs it between his lips and begins sucking it while he rolls it between his tongue. You trap his head between your legs, involuntarily pulling him closer. He throws your legs over his shoulder to keep you steady.

“Mmh, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your entrance, not taking longer than a second before his tongue is on it again.

“Ah, Zayne…”

His hands move to your hips to lift you, pressing your cunt closer to his mouth, feasting like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. His eyes are on you, drinking from your reactions. You’re moaning uncontrollably, hands messing his black hair and back arching. You can’t help but roll your hips into his mouth.

“Pretty,” he moans, muffled by the flesh of your wet pussy.

You almost come when he dips his tongue inside you. He can now feel your tightness in his tongue, and he wonders how would you feel around his cock. Maybe another day, he thinks. Now his main goal is to get you undone just with his mouth. You feel your eyes roll back into your head as his tongue delves deeper.

Your thighs tremble around his head. His fingers dig into your flesh possessively, keeping you spread open and flush against him.

“You’re close.” He can feel it. The way your body tightens, the way you pull at his hair harder, the way your moans turn into breathless gasps…

“Zayne–” Your voice is nothing more than a whimper.

He hums against you, the vibrations only adding to your pleasure. You’re about to fall over the edge when he pulls away. You cry out in frustration, your hips instinctively lifting in search of his mouth.

“Patience.”

Before you can protest, his fingers replace his tongue inside you. His fingers begin to fuck you hard as his tongue massages your clit one last time.

“Come for me,” he commands. “Now.”

And with one final stroke, you cream all over his face.

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