a/n: don't know what hit. not sure when or how this will continue. skimmed through, not thoroughly edited.
plot: your daughter, emerus, is getting married -- which means that you're having to see sylus more and more, despite having been separated for the last decade of so. to be honest, you're not sure if you're ready for that. (middle-aged parents reader x sylus that are legally still married but have been separated for years)
TW: mentions of divorce, growing old, reader and sylus are both going through it, vague descriptions of the past, slight cliffhanger
wc: 4.1k
Sylus knows this is a dream. Anyone who knew the man would know that he would never be found in a state of denial of anything, even after all the years that have passed. But when it comes to you, all logic is thrown out the window.
“A-che, let’s go!” your voice calls out, and he turns towards the sound with a foggy mind. He observes in morose silence at the endless field of tarus flowers before seeing your figure at the top of the hill, your hand beckoning him over.
He can indulge himself one more time, right?
Each step is like trudging through muddy waters, as if his strength and stamina had left him long ago. Sylus can see your growing impatience, but he starts getting nervous – you don’t seem to be any closer than you were minutes ago. He’s been walking for a while now, so why does it seem like he hasn’t made any type of progress?
Sylus is nothing but persistent – after all, he would go to the ends of the Earth for you. He needs to walk for eternity with you as the end goal? Absolutely no shadow of a doubt that he would do so. But he is tired. “Hold on,” he tries to call out to you. There is no sign that you heard him, and he can see the liveliness from earlier start to fade away. “Please wait,” he says as he tries to pick up his speed, finally able to break out into a full run. You’re finally getting closer, and excitement pricks at his skin.
When you look away from him, the excitement dissolves into panic. He knows that gesture, that posture all too well. More familiar than he’d like to admit, but it will never cease to haunt him after all these years. Don’t walk away from me, his mind races, matching the gait of his sprint. Not again, please–
“I’m tired of waiting,” you confess after a heavy, burdensome sigh. “I’m tired of waiting for you to come to me.”
“Sweetheart, I–” His chest seizes. He can’t remember the last time he felt so out of breath, like his lungs were going to stop working at any second.
“You only kept me close when you wanted. I thought–” You pause to sniffle, and Sylus’s heart shatters at the trail of tears down your cheeks. “I thought I could wait forever, but I can’t.” Your voice grows softer, your airway closing up more and more. “I love you, Sylus.”
Fuck, why can’t he run any faster than this? This wasn’t a dream. This was his worst nightmare on repeat for the nth time. And it always ends the same exact way – the same look, the same hair, the same scene, the same pandemonium, and the same cadence in your last words.
“But I have to go.”
And even though your parting sentence is the quietest you’ve been, it’s the loudest he’s ever heard you.
As he blinks away the sweat and grime, the sunset bleeds into darkness, hard edges etching between shadows of, what he realizes now, the furniture in his bedroom. No trace of light exists aside from the sliver that peeks through the blackout curtains to his right. It takes another blink to recognize the line of shelves along his wall, filled with vinyls and tomes and photo albums. The occasional picture frames that have collected dust serve as decoration and less painful reminders of the life he once had. But his favorites sit on the nightstand closest to him — one of you, another of you and him, and another with your daughter when she was a toddler in his arms.
Sylus slips out of bed with care, leaning behind to stretch out his back. He’s starting to feel the weakness in his knees, a sure sign of time and age. In the bathroom, his reflection stares back at him – always known for his sharp jawline, angular features, bright, crimson eyes, yet they appear softened before him.
It’s expected, really. The beauty of youth would never last forever, even for someone like Sylus. Crow’s feet are more prominent, wrinkle lines beginning to show, his hair having lost a part of its shine sometime ago, and the skin around his neck is starting to loosen. A silver fox, many would call him. Over the years, a number of people – young, older, and similar aged – have approached him with attraction seeping through each gesture. But then they glance down at his left hand, and the mix of platinum and obsidian that sits on his ring finger is everything they need to know. At that time, most of them politely back out, but a fair share find it as a challenge. After all, why would a married man sit alone at the bar like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders?
Sylus rejects their advances with aloofness and curt words, and they happen so often that his usual bartenders have to fight their hardest to hide their snickering. Never once have they suggested to him to take the ring off – well, except for one who had no knowledge of Sylus at all, and nobody had warned him before his first shift. Needless to say, that bartender made sure to never ask again and keep to themselves because they’d do anything to not be on the other end of their boss’s withering glare. Occasionally Sylus will step behind the bar, which ends up being a treat for everyone with bigger tips. In fact, someone had once recorded him make some drinks with little spurts of working flair, and it got popular enough that his own daughter sent it to him, signed by, “omg dad, someone recorded you!! you’re viral now LOL 😂😂” and “i suggest you not look at the comments, just fyi, but a lot of people were disappointed by your ring hahahaha”. When he had decided 30 minutes afterwards to finally reply, she slid in a “and yes, i sent it to mom” with a screenshot of their text conversation.
Your way of trying to redirect the conversation brings up a corner of his lips for half a second. He remembers the indescribable pain in his chest when you came back together for the first time for her birthday (the guilt trip one that started a tradition), and he had noticed the ring was no longer perched on your left hand. His own had glistened under the bright lights, the contrast of its metal to the color of his skin making it stand out even more. Maybe you had seen it before he slipped it off in secret and tucked it into his pocket. Maybe you had noticed the way he instinctively kept his left hand in a pant pocket so he could fidget with the band, knowing that it would never be lost. Since then, he’s only ever taken it off when he knows you’ll be around. You had moved on, and that was something he had to live with.
(Maybe if he hadn’t tried to spend so much effort making sure he wasn’t caught staring at you, he would’ve noticed the way you seemed to always have a hand by your neck, fingers messing with the necklace chain hanging around it for the very same reasons.)
His own text conversation/thread with you sees very little activity. His daughter, who again, is getting married (where oh where did the time go?), had set up a group chat with the three of them under the guise of needing them to coordinate on things when needed. Sylus initially offered to take care of the entire cost of the wedding, one that you rejected with a curt text before delineating what you were planning to pay for, including percentages of items like the cake, the deposit for the venue, the cost of having an open bar, her wedding dress, and more. And perhaps his asking again if that really was okay came off just the littlest bit (like, really, infinitesimal) condescending, because you had not responded well: “If I said I can take care of it, then I can take care of it, Sylus. I’ve been setting money aside specifically for this event.”
“Very well”, he had responded, as well as ignored the banner appearing with a message coming separately from his daughter with five eye-rolling emojis. Sylus has always wondered where her sass came from, and he likes to think it’s a good blend of him and you.
His smart watch vibrates on his wrist, causing him to blink his way out of his reverie. It displays an alert to remind him that his daughter’s final dress appointment is in the next couple of hours, and he sighs. He never went on the previous shopping trips, leaving it to you and her. When she had been born, you had mentioned on several occasions to him that you would both rue and cherish the days you’re rifling through racks of silk and organza for her. He hadn’t wanted to ruin those moments, but after five seconds of begging from his daughter to at least come to the final fitting, he relented. She had made sure that you were already aware he was coming, and that there was nothing you could do about it. After one more look in the mirror, he dips his head down, turns on the sink, and starts his morning routine.
Sylus pulls into the parking lot of the boutique about five minutes before the scheduled time. Stepping out, he scans the area to see if anybody else had shown up early and notices your car parked a few spots down. His daughter’s car was nowhere to be seen yet. A nervous tic shot through him. Alone? With you? Without their daughter as a buffer?
He lets out a slow exhale, almost psyching himself up. “It’ll be fine,” he murmurs to no one as he slams the car door closed. “I’ve been through business deals hairier than this,” he continues to reassure himself, and that everything would be fine. So fine. He sees you at least twice a year, what’s the big deal now?
One last breath, and he swings the door open.
“Ah, and you must be the father! I could tell the resemblance right away,” the attendant greets in a cheery voice with an outreached hand. Sylus gives a small smile in agreement and shakes their hand.
“Her mother is here already, I’m presuming.”
“Yes, she arrived just a few seconds before you,” they say as they lead him into the main atelier. He immediately spots you sitting on a couch, your perfume still lingering in the air where you had walked before him. “Your daughter was so excited to have you today. It’s a shame you never came before!”
“I had some meetings,” he lies in a practiced fashion. “And I’m sure there’s nothing I could really contribute.”
“Oh nonsense,” they say, “Emerus mentioned you were quite the stylist yourself.”
“Nothing compared to her and her mother, I assure you,” he quips.
Your eyes finally meet his own, and part of him wants to die.
You’re just…just so beautiful. Age has only made you more elegant, regal, untouchable, every bit the paragon of a goddess in his eyes.
“I’ll go back to the front and wait for her there! Make yourself comfortable, help yourself to some champagne or water over there,” they chime, waving a hand over at the drink station before disappearing back around the corner.
Breathe, he reminds himself like a teenage boy confronting his crush for the first time. “How have you been?” he asks in a soft voice.
Did he sound nervous? Could you tell?
“Good, and you?” you respond with a small smile of his own.
“The usual,” he shrugs as he sits on the couch a comfortable distance away from you. Under normal circumstances (normal circumstances as in when you were all still living happily under one roof many many years ago), he would have pressed himself right up against you, slung an arm around your shoulder, and given you a peck on your temple with a squeeze – all of which he hasn’t done for over a decade now, so this isn’t new.
The twitch in his fingers to do just that isn’t new either. Even now, after all this time.
Silence wedges its way between you two as he searches for anything to say. He doesn’t get to hear your voice enough, so it sends him for a loop every time he does hear it.
“Is she happy with it?” he decides on asking, staring at the dress sitting on one of the busts by the wall of mirrors.
“Very,” you respond, warmth flooding your voice. “She couldn’t wait for today.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
“Ma, ba!”
Both of your heads swivel towards the sound of your daughter’s voice. He waves as she drags her maid-of-honor along, and he bends down for a hug when she gives him a hug after one to you. “Thanks for coming, Dad,” she says in his ear, her voice also warm and soft like yours, her mother’s.
“Of course,” he replies, pulling back and taking a good look at her. “Aiya, wǒ de nǚ'ér zhēn de yāo jié hūn le. Zhǎng dà le.” [Aiya, my daughter is really getting married. All grown up.]
“I’ve been grown,” she sasses back in a playful manner, no real annoyance evident in her voice at all. “I’m excited for you to see the dress!”
“Well he can’t see it if you stay out here. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”
Whether it be luck or a curse, he’s left to his own devices as the two most important women in his life plus one of their best friends and the attendant from earlier disappear behind the changing partition. They speak in hushed voices and giggles until Emerus calls out, “Alright Dad, I’m coming out!”
He sits at attention and waits patiently for her to step on the raised platform and smooth out any wrinkles she sees, aided by you and your maid-of-honor. When they deem it perfect, she flashes him a bright smile (she truly is your daughter, he muses). “Well, what do you think?”
Sylus is already nodding before he can say anything, but any words that would’ve left his mouth are stuck in his throat because the sight before him is familiar. The design of the dress isn’t the exact same, but it’s enough to send him flying back down memory lane to the day when he stood at an altar and impatiently waited for you to finally be close enough and call you his wife. Those words begin to actively choke him, and his eyes shimmer just the slightest at the sight before him and the ghost of his past, all colliding into one.
“Beautiful,” he manages to say before looking over at you. “Gorgeous,” Sylus adds on with his gaze still stuck on you, as if to ask, “Are you seeing this as well? Do you remember too?”
Sylus pays no mind to her friend and attendant now talking through the details and last minute fixes, especially since you’re walking back to his side now. His eyes follow you, and it’s quite pathetic how touched he is when you place a hand on his arm. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you inform him. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”
He can only hum in understanding, still so incredibly fixed on you and your hand. It burns him, through cotton and all, and he takes in the wrinkles around your knuckles.Your nails remain unblemished, which means you’re in good health at least. In his examination, he spots a few strands of white amidst your locks. Had you two still been together, he would have you sitting on the bed in front of him, holding a pair of eyebrow tweezers and digging through to pluck those out at your behest. It would’ve become a nightly routine, something to laugh at and look fondly on when there are too many gray and white hairs to bother with. He always thought he would grow old with you.
Two pats on his arm bring him back to his cruel reality, and when you finally look up at him, it’s like you know what he was envisioning, wishing for, longing for. “I’m going to help them out,” you tell him before walking away, and his finger twitches again. Your steps that widen the already gaping distance between you two continue to carry you away from him, but they are different from the steps he had seen behind his eyelids just this past night. You weren’t leaving leaving him in this case, and that’s more than he could ever ask for.
(“I’ll wait for you, I promise. I don’t want anyone else.”
“You don’t need to, Sylus. I’d understand if you did find someone else.
“I mean it,” he emphasizes again. His hand cradles your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek. In a hushed, broken whisper, “I can wait for an eternity, and I will if I have to. There is no love purer than mine.”)
-
When your daughter had announced to Sylus that she was done fidgeting with the dress, you had immediately trained your gaze onto him, gauging his reaction. Since her teenage years, Emerus had always expressed how much she loved your wedding dress, and that she wanted to find one just like it whenever she gets married. Even then, you had already told her that her taste in fashion may change over time, so it would be completely understandable if she wanted something completely different. But here you are, ten-or-so years later, seeing it with your own eyes. And you wondered if he would be just as affected as you were the first time she tried it on.
(That night, you had gone home and rewatched the video that was made of the wedding for the first time since the separation. Needless to say, your eyes were extremely puffy the next morning.)
Based on his stunned expression, you knew he was thinking about your wedding, but which part specifically? Was he thinking about your first dance? Your first kiss in front of a crowd when you two were officially announced as husband and wife? How you looked walking down the aisle?
When he glanced at you, your breath hitched. The unguarded, desperate, longing look was more apparent than you had ever seen, and you most definitely noticed how the crimson in his eyes seemed to shine too brightly before he blinked. It was difficult to fight off your own tears as the world around you fell away. All that mattered was him and the frayed, red string of fate between you two.
“Gorgeous,” he had said, and his voice alone commanded you to walk toward him. Nothing could stop you from approaching him with a comforting hand on his arm. The warmth of his skin sears you through his sleeve, and you allow yourself to be selfish by leaving your hand there. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you told him, voice on the verge of shaking like a leaf. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”
His gaze was glued on your hand long enough for you to awkwardly pat his arm twice before pulling it back. Maybe he was uncomfortable. Were you being too familiar? Did he think you were sending mixed messages? Were you sending mixed messages?
Do you dare to allow yourself to believe that Sylus misses you as much as his eyes seem to say?
No.
“I’m going to help them out,” you say before returning to your daughter’s side. Emerus gives you no time to think before asking for your opinion on a last minute stitch in the back. On the inside, you mentally slap yourself twice, once on each cheek. This isn’t about you. It’s about your daughter and her wedding, even if she is swathed in a near-replica of your dress. “Any tighter and you’ll be left with no room to breathe,” you warn. “It’ll be a long night, and you’ll need what little time you have to eat to get through the whole thing. The dress won’t be falling off, so I think you’ll be okay without it.”
-
Just because you've known for a while now what the cost of the dress would be, doesn't mean you can't wince a little when you tap your card on the credit card terminal. And yes, you've been prepared for this for quite some time, but it doesn't stop you from lamenting over how expensive weddings can be. Yet when you turn and see the blissful smile on your daughter's face, it makes it all worth it.
You can't help but be drawn to the man standing next to her. Sylus stands by with all the fatherly fondness the universe has to offer and more. Rays of sunshine come through the window, partially obscured by the wedding dresses out on display, and they highlight the faint wrinkles around his eyes. For years, you thought it would be impossible for him to age even the slightest, having been blessed with phenomenal skin and the drive to keep up a regimen consisting of adequate exercise, a healthy diet, and a skincare routine. Even in the early days of Emerus’s infancy when she would wake in the night, he only looked a little tired on the worst days while you looked like you got tossed around in a tornado before being spat out onto the ground.
An old daydream creeps in, a flashing sight of entwined hands, wrinkled and sunken in with age, but no less full of love and adoration. They take slow but steady steps along the trail in a plain filled with flowers and blooms. It was the peaceful ending to a life that you once thought was finally in your hands. But you ruined it all, and there was no one to blame but yourself.
Along the way somewhere, you felt that Sylus had stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve for you to see. It was apparent – radiant almost – for everyone else, especially your daughter. And after she turned ten, you noticed that Sylus was quieter around you, a little less expressive.
By no means was he a neglectful husband – in fact, he was almost perfect. He knew your favorite flowers, your favorite foods for each emotion you could possibly think of, never missed an anniversary or events when a plus-one was expected. But those anniversary dinners became quiet affairs, soundscapes of silence filled by metal against ceramic. Passionate nights dissolved into faux serenity. Tucking you under his arm began to feel mechanical, as if he was too kind to ever tell you that, in actuality, he wanted some distance and space in bed at night.
He did not return until the night you brought up the separation, but it was too late at that point. You were stuck too deep in the black hole of your envy and greed, your selfishness and immaturity (which therapy would tell you a couple of years later that you were not, in fact, selfish or immature), to feel worthy of Sylus’s endless apologies that you didn't think he needed to give. No matter how much he tried to reassure you that he would fix everything, to shoulder the burden of picking up the pieces of your shattered soul, you couldn't find it in yourself to accept it. How could you?
Sylus turns to look at you. Out of habit, you steel yourself for what is to come – the guarded look in his eyes, the slight tensing of his shoulder, his smile thinner and more muted.
But seconds go by without him doing any of the sort. The affection he regards you with sends you back to the early days of your relationship, the never-ending honeymoon era that held up against the removal of your rose-tinted glasses. They almost seem to beg you in earnest – for you to understand, to accept that after all these years…
Another LIST! Of what I love about Non-MC stories!!!!
1. She goes against fate. The LIs are fated to MC in multiple lives, while NonMC is not. She has chosen to go against what was a love story or tragedy to be written for her love and actively chooses to love despite not being tied to him in a past life.
2. She isn't the center of his world. Usually, MC is the center focus of the ML's world, their reason for being. Their air, conflict, and resolution. Everything. However, because she isn't the center of their life, she helps move their world into a new light and direction that isn't focused on a past tragedy, a future regret, or anything. She invites them into her world, and they slowly allow their own to become bigger too.
3. Her tragedy is not that she wasn't loveable. I keep seeing people throw NonMC away like she didn't truly deserve their love or that her was some sort of less than. NonMC's tragedy is that sometimes fates hold and past histories are stronger than she is and WAY stronger than HE is. Her tragedy is that she loved, knowing that there was a love they had that grew stronger with time away. Who can surpass a dead lover? Or a lover who has come back to life? To rewrite their regrets while undoubtedly making her regret her own self. That is her TRUE tragedy.
4. She's so funny! In ways that are so opposite of her LI, sometimes that you wonder how they got together in the first place. Which is exactly what makes their dynamic so fun! MC is a mirror to her LI but NonMC is sometimes the opposite or adjacent or even parallel to him in fun combinations.
5. Because despite it all, she's the main character of her own story and if her LI wants to be apart of it then GREAT. But if not, she can and will move on!
So please, don't stop making her stories! But please do put some respect on her name fr. She ain't no Debby downer woe is me, I'm an unlovable mushroom. She's so much more.
Did the author have gotten inspired by A03 angst taggs....cause what is this?????
For a sec. I thought the last chapter will put emphasis on how society changed (but most likely not) its views upon ethics of ,, Hero Ranking System" ; ,,The Theory of Singularity" that stand behind the ambition and consequences of many antagonists (both anime and movies); a little Easter Egg on Horikoshi's next work 😳 etc.
Cause what were put in use 60 pages of chapter ?????
That all of them drifted on their own path ....we already guessed, envisioned and written at least 10000 works on AO3 of that 🤧
the parallel,,,, pls,,,, i can’t believe this,,, look at deku, how strong he has become,,,, look at the HERO he has become,,,, he’s become the hero you want to see coming to save you!!!!
The Twisted Wonderland anime is confirmed to be an adaptation of the main story!! The animation will be handled by Yumeta Company x Graphinicia and can be streamed on Disney+.
Seasons 1-3 have been greenlit. The first season, Episode of Heartslabyul, airs in October of 2025!! 🌹
Seasons 2 and 3 are dedicated to Savanaclaw and Octavinelle, respectively. No dates have been announced for those yet.
UPDATE: According to this tweet from Yana, it sounds like the anime will be an adaptation of the comics/manga adaptation.
It's something that I'm going through right now ......for short, I don't wish it upon anyone no matter how annoying they are to me 🤧
Like what is mainstream right now ?
Aside ,,DanDanDan" and ,,Raise wa tanin ga ii" (no way I'm gonna use that mediocre title in English, it literally washes away the meaning that was put into the whole plot) have no idea what's streaming right now...😶
look at the places where the ochako's plushie was stabbed.
a knife near her stomach, representing the stab she took in their fight, and a knife in her heart. this could mean the love that himiko feels for her, and also ochako's suppressed feelings.
And not only Ochaco plushie....the other three are stabbed in the name of her LOV comrades.
Izuku gets a stab for Shiggy cause (if it was because of Izuku's inability to understand Toga's feelings I think he also could have got a stab in the heart).
Endeavour gets a stab for Dabi cause.
And Hawks gets a "traitor branding" stab in the chest ( let's not forget that Twice died by getting stabbed in the spine, so it's reversed like in that Code Giass quote ...." The enemy stabs from the back but the "friend" will stab from the front" ).
Also the shape of the knife kinda remind me the shape of Hawks feathers that he used to kill Jin Bubaigawara (so like here Toga is returning the favours to her "friend").
I think I’ve officially outgrown tumblr fanfics, it’s hard to find decent new stuff that isn’t just another smau full of poorly written characters that are nothing like their original personalities. For fandoms like Jujutsu Kaisen all the men are written like Toji=mean+horny, Sukuna=mean+less horny, Gojo=teasing+horny with little to any more depth. Or like Tokyo Revengers where most of the guys are given the same personality depending on if they’re categorized as confident or quiet. Then they make all dom-leaning characters talk with a forced accent that they definitely do not have, sometimes it’s a blaccent other times it’s a lot of “gi’me” instead of give me or “ya” instead of you. Its gotten to a point where they straight up just won’t say full words and I cannot describe the visceral ick it gives me lol. Don’t get me wrong I’ve been able to find good stuff on here before and I don’t doubt that there are good writers in these fandoms, it’s just getting harder to come by. I stopped using Wattpad for similar poor writing and it’s sad to see it happening here now.
Edit: I don’t plan on replying to the ppl reblogging this bc most of them are not approaching the conversation with the same level of maturity as I have.
If you think that having a blank blog means that you’re not able to give criticism as a reader then you’re just wrong idk what to tell you. That’s the reality that comes with writing and posting your work, that by no means justifies stuff like harassment or bullying, but that’s clearly not what I’ve done. Sorry if you took my opinions personally bc you have a 👀certain👀 taste in fanfic and smut tho lol
They do have a reasonable point , cause of this cause I often reach a point where I can't stand a character in some show no matter the plot relevance, despite that by "canon" they are depicted 180° differently by possessing complex traits with deep meaning to enrich their life purpose.
Yes that's one reason why authors labels the written character in their works with warning as "ooc ";" headcanon";"fancanon";" you are responsible for your own consumed content" -so the readers won't get mislead. But if this is one end of the stick, where to find the middle part ?
Due to simplification of a character by possessing 2 -3 dull straight traits with NSFW context , I couldn't even immerse myself in fandoms like Haikyuu! ,Tokyo Revengers and AOT, don't even wanna start barking on JJK .
I'll never watch Blue Lock, not because it's an sport anime (not like it's first of it's kind), but because I won't find any good written work beside character analysis made by fans and theory enthusiasts
I'll be chewed and spat without any remnants of bones
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