#(((also i teared up one and no it was not at one of the songs that were meant to make people tear up djbdnxnx)))

[aquaticmercy]

The Catalyst

Summary : In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, death, trauma, grief, cursing, non-sexual nudity. Lots of Angst. Fluff in the beginning and end. Multiversal Travel.

Word count : 8.9k

Note : This story is meant to resemble a What If? episode. It is an exploration of what would happen to you and Bucky if the other died. I will refer to the main universe (MCU) as Earth-616 because Marvel is stupid and has decided that it’s not earth-19999 anymore. The fic is inspired by the song of the same title by Linkin Park. Also, I hope this story makes sense? Enjoy!

Earth-616…

The bathroom was quiet, save for the soft gurgle of water and the occasional drip from the faucet. 

Bucky sat on the edge of the tub, bare and bruised, watching you with a tired smile.

The gash on his forehead was deep, an angry red against his skin, and his chest was peppered with smaller cuts and scrapes, remnants of yet another mission gone south. You stood in front of him, tilting his chin to clean the wound.

“You’re lucky this didn’t need stitches,” you murmured, focusing on your work.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Bucky said lightly, though you could tell he was exhausted. “I’m practically indestructible.”

You glanced up, narrowing your eyes at him, not finding any solace in his self-deprecating humour today. “No, you’re not, James.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave you that lopsided, charming smile, the one that always made your heart flutter— even when you were mad at him.

“Alright, my love,” you closed the tap. “Bath’s ready.”

Bucky stood slowly, groaning as he stretched. Before you could move away, he pulled you back toward him. 

“Come take a dip with me,” he murmured. 

You looked up at him. “I drew this bath for you—”

“Please,” he interrupted.

You hesitated, only a moment, before nodding. “Alright,” you said. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you off the hook for almost dying.”

He gave you a faint smile as you undressed.

The water enveloped you in warmth as you both sank into the tub. Bucky settled behind you, his legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. You leaned back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers absentmindedly traced his metal arm, feeling the ridges of the plating.

You closed your eyes, but the memory of his bloodied face lingered in your mind. The fear you felt when he walked through the door earlier that day—bruised and battered but alive—still held onto you.

Bucky’s lips pressed softly to the back of your head, pulling you from your thoughts. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured, his voice soothing your worries

You swallowed hard, finger frozen on his arm. “You just really scared me tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, arms wrapping tighter around you.

“Just… be more careful, please?” you said quietly. “There’ve been too many close calls lately. If something happened to you…” Your voice cracked as you drew in a shaky breath. “If I lost you, I don’t think I’d know how to put myself back together.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, grip strengthening on you. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head back, resting on his collarbone. “I mean it, James,” you whispered. “You’re everything to me.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he said, his conviction absolute. “I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”

“You’d fucking better,” tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you managed a small smile. “Or I’ll find a way to drag you back myself.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“Good,” you said, snuggling closer to him. “Maybe that’ll keep you in line.”

He kissed the back of your head again. The water lapped gently around you, the warmth easing the knots in your muscles, soothing the subtle throb in your heart.

After everything you’ve both been through, you were just happy he was here— alive.

•

Somewhere in a distant reality…

In this universe, Bucky Barnes didn’t cry at your funeral.

The rain came down in unrelenting sheets, soaking through the black suit he wore, but Bucky didn’t shiver. He didn’t flinch when the first heavy shovelful of dirt struck your casket, the dull thud echoing in his ears like a death knell. He stood apart from the others, an immovable statue at the edge of the grave, his hands limp at his sides, trembling ever so slightly— His face might as well have been carved from stone.

The sound of weeping surrounded him—your friends, your teammates, people you had saved. Each sob seemed to pierce his skin, sharp as broken glass, but still, Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry.

Bucky didn’t cry when the ground swallowed you whole.

He didn’t cry when Pepper, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, rested a firm hand on his shoulder. He didn’t cry when Sam placed a folded flag in his hands, whispering, “She was a hero.” He didn’t cry when Clint, voice hoarse, muttered, “She saved so many lives.”

He didn’t cry when Tony, uncharacteristically subdued, raised a glass to your memory that night, his hand trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple, Bucky stayed silent. He stared at the drink in his hand until it blurred into nothing.

But when he sat in the shadows of his apartment later, something deep inside him twisted.

He couldn’t stop replaying your death in his mind. Your final words, whispered through cracked lips and choked breaths, were for him. “You’re going to be okay, James.”

You had died saving them— saving the world. You had grabbed the infinity stones away from Tony, you had snapped so he didn’t have to. You did it because you couldn’t let anyone else make the sacrifice— you did it because Morgan needed a father.

But Bucky needed you.

And you were gone.

He had no more tears to give. He had shed them in the days leading up to your funeral, in suffocating quiet of the aftermath. He had cried until there was nothing left inside, until grief turned into a cold, sharp knife that carved your initials into his chest and refused to let him rest.

So he didn’t cry anymore.

But when the world fell away��when the comforting murmurs of others faded and he was left alone in the silence of the apartment you had shared—something inside him broke.

Bucky didn’t cry anymore, but that didn’t stop him grieving.

Bucky grieved like a soldier.

It was disciplined, bordering on mechanical. He scrubbed your presence from the apartment with clinical detachment, packing your things with military precision. Your clothes disappeared into boxes he refused to label. Your toiletries vanished from the bathroom like they had never been there.

He didn’t touch the photos, though. He left them right where you’d placed them. He didn’t move the jacket you always left draped over the back of the chair, didn’t even bring himself to wash the cup you’d left on the counter.

At night, when the apartment grew unbearably still, he would sit in the dark and trace his fingers over the curve of your handwriting in the little notes you’d leave him—Don’t forget milk! He would fiddle with the frayed fabric of the worn shirt that still smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He held it in his hands for hours, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Every mission after that was a blur of adrenaline and violence. As soon as he got pardoned, he threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, his mind a haze of desperation and anger, his body moving like a machine, like no part of him remained human.

He fought like a man trying to outrun himself.

He didn’t care if he made it back, didn’t care if he took a bullet—or fifty. Every blow he took was nothing compared to his own pain. 

But nothing— none of the wounds, none of the cuts he sustained— brought him closer to you.

And when the fighting was done, in between missions when the world didn’t need him, he disappeared, abandoning your shared apartment because it made him think too much of you. He retreated to a remote cabin deep in the woods, a place so far removed from humanity where no one could find him.

No one, except for Stephen Strange.  

—

It had been nearly six months since your death when Strange appeared on Bucky’s porch, his portal crackling in the fresh mountain air.

“Go away,” Bucky growled, not bothering to glance up from the knife he was sharpening. He had gone hunting again, determined not to rely on anyone else for his survival.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the glowing portal and onto the weathered wooden planks. His expression was grim, his tone desperate. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“What do you want?” Bucky’s voice was rough, his patience worn thin.

“It’s not about what I want,” Strange replied. “It’s what the multiverse needs.”

Bucky finally looked up, his blue eyes still sharp but exhausted. He’d been running on empty for months now. You weren’t there to steady him, to breathe life into the fragile space beneath his ribs when the nightmares were too much to bear. You weren’t there to wake up next to him. You weren’t there to pepper him with kisses when he thought he wasn’t good enough. You were gone.

“The multiverse can save itself,” he muttered, turning back to his blade.

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”

Bucky let out a scoff, his hands gripping the sharpening stone. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly, his words landing like stones thrown into water.

The desperation in his voice made Bucky pause. He set the knife down with care, leaning back in his chair to glare at the sorcerer. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Strange wasn’t the type to hold back words, but even he seemed to hesitate. And then he said it—the name. Your name. The one Bucky hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, feeling like an arrow had struck his chest.

Strange pressed on, undeterred. “A version of her exists in another universe. But she’s… no longer her.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

With a flick of his hand, Strange conjured an image: glowing strands of the multiverse weaving together, spinning until a vision appeared. 

It was you—but… not you. Not his version of you. 

Your face was twisted, your body cocooned in violent energy. Behind you, planets crumbled, swallowed by the raw power radiating from you.

Bucky reached out, his hand floating near the image that magic had willed into life.

He couldn’t fully grasp it—this alternate reality where you were alive, suffering, destroying. It didn’t make sense, how this could exist. 

You were gone. You died in his arms. 

The heart that beat for him— he felt it stop beneath his fingertips. 

How could he possibly wrap his mind around this? That a fragment of your soul—some version of you—was out there, breathing, enduring. 

Alive. 

His throat tightened as he tried to speak, to force out even a single word, but he choked on his own tongue.

The multiverse. Or whatever Strange had called it. A few years ago, he’d have laughed it off as some nonsense, he wouldn’t’ve believed it. But after being snapped out of existence and then willed back into it by a handful of glowing galactic stones, Bucky Barnes, man out of time, knew better. 

Now, he’d believe in absolutely anything. Especially if it meant he was believing in a world where you still existed.

“She’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice laced with dread. “A being of grief, capable of destroying entire worlds. If she’s not stopped, she’ll collapse the multiverse.”

Bucky stared at the image, his chest tightening. Was this really you, destroyer of worlds, of universes? 

You couldn’t be capable of this. 

You were kind, you were incapable of harming an innocent soul. He remembered the day a poisonous spider had wandered into the room. You refused to kill it, carefully guiding it out to the garage.

But now, as the memories came flooding back, doubt began to settle. 

He had seen glimpses of another side of you, when you were alive. The fiery rage that consumed you after losing an old friend. The anger you brought into battle, wielded like an iron fist. It had been terrifying—a force of nature that no one could stand against. It was how you wielded the infinity stones long enough to do what needed to be done.

Now, looking at this image Strange had conjured, he wondered if that force had finally consumed you.

“You want me to go after her,” Bucky said flatly. He was certain of it. 

“I want you to stop her.” Strange nodded. “Talk to her. You’re the only one she might listen to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Strange’s gaze was unyielding. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.”

The words hit Bucky like a hammer to the chest. He turned away, gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white. “I can’t lose her again.”

Strange stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. “She would want you to do it.”

Bucky’s voice rose, his eyes filled with tears he would not let Strange see. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“No,” Strange admitted. “But I’ve seen what happens if no one stops her. Entire universes will fall. Countless souls will die. If you won’t do it for her, then do it for them.”

—

Bucky didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, the room blanketed in suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional creak of his wooden single bedframe as he shifted nervously. 

In his hands, his gun seemed to glow under the moonlight filtering through the window. 

He turned it over and over, fingers brushing the worn grip, the faint scratch on the barrel— one he remembered you making during a standard recon mission. You had scratched it, accidentally catching it with your knife. 

You apologised profusely, and he said it was no big deal. 

He then teased you for being too attached to your weapons— how your knives had little personal inscriptions, how you had cared for it like it had a soul. He, on the other hand, said that he felt indifferent to his weapons— said he didn’t want to get too sentimental. 

You laughed, saying he was too dramatic. "It's just a tool, James. You’re the one who decides what it’s for."  

Now, he wasn’t so sure what he wanted to use it for. 

Strange’s words looped in his mind like a broken record: You’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.

The thought of pointing a gun at you made his heart drop. 

He once promised to protect you, to be your safe haven. And now, a sorcerer had tasked him with destroying you in another universe. How could he ever make peace with that? 

How could he pull the trigger on you?

But then another thought struck him: Strange was right. You would want him to. 

You would forgive him if he had to kill you.

You always forgave him, no matter how many times he swore he didn’t deserve it, because you would understand that this needed to be done. If the situation were reversed, you’d do what needed to be done— because that’s who you were.  

You were good— everything he aspired to be. 

If you were alive, if you knew you had turned destructive— you would kill the Catalyst yourself.

As the hours dragged on, Bucky tried to think of another way, to fantasise a different ending for the sick story he existed in. What if there was a chance— however slim—to reach that version of you without violence? To pull you back from the brink and remind you who you were? 

He knew he had to try, but he also knew what failure meant: countless lives lost, entire universes wiped from existence.

If he failed, this universe would be gone, along with all the memories of you. Along with your legacy.

Your sacrifice would be in vain.

He couldn’t let that happen.

The gun in his hands felt heavier now, the future hanging like a noose around his neck. The sun was just beginning to rise when he finally stood.

He had made his decision. 

He didn’t bother to pack much—just his knife, the gun, and the dog tags he always carried, the ones you had once traced with your fingers when you thought he was asleep. 

He knew he needed to do this mission.

Not for the world, not for the universe.

The multiverse could burn, for all he cared. He’s doing this because he knew you would want him to. 

—

When Strange arrived at the cabin, the swirling portal casted an eerie light over his mostly empty living room.

Bucky’s face went grim. He didn’t say goodbye to the cabin, didn’t look back at the life he had built in solitude. 

He never liked this cabin. Never liked this new life— he only went here because it was what you always wanted. You wanted to be away from the city, one with nature. You always wanted to build the rest of your life here. Back then, Bucky had agreed— but now it was just a reminder that he was living a hollow existence without you.

He stepped through the portal. 

The overwhelming surge of energy as he entered the alternate universe was nothing compared to the pain his heart endured.

The world he had stepped into felt like the aftermath of a nightmare.  

The sky was a sickly yellow, streaked with ash and smoke. The sun, barely visible through the haze, poured a dying light over the desolation below. 

Buildings lay in ruins, their remains clawing at the sky. The ground was a wasteland of debris, littered with the wreckage of battles fought long before he arrived.

Ultron's remains were everywhere. His drones twisted, mangled, scattered across the landscape, half-buried in dirt or wedged into crumbling walls, some buried under concrete slab. Their empty eyes stared at nothing— stared at Bucky with emptiness.

Bucky adjusted his grip on his rifle and took a cautious step forward. The air was thick, stinging with the stench of burning metal and organic decay. He moved carefully, scanning his surroundings.

This wasn’t his world, but it was familiar enough for him to navigate through. 

“Strange,” Bucky muttered under his breath, though the sorcerer had closed the portal. He pushed through, putting his Winter Soldier mask on “What the hell did you send me into?”  

—

It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened. In this universe, Ultron had won, but not by slamming Sokovia into the Earth like an asteroid. Instead, his drone army had swept across the world, decimating everything in its path. 

He found more evidence in a hollowed-out bunker near the remnants of what would have been Central Park. His name was scrawled across a rusted memorial wall alongside hundreds of others. His dog tags—this world’s version of them—hung from a nail driven into the cracked concrete.  

Bucky stared at the tags for a long time. He could imagine the moment you had hung them there, your fingers shaking, your heart breaking.  

This was the universe’s cruel twist: in this world, he had died in the battle against Ultron. 

He had been the one ripped away from you.  

The rest of the story came from whispers, fragments of information he gathered from the few survivors he encountered. Most were too broken, too terrified, to speak more than a few sentences, but they all spoke of one thing: the Catalyst.  

“She wasn’t always like this,” one man had said, his voice trembling as he huddled in the corner of a makeshift shelter from scrap metal. “She used to be a hero. Fought against Ultron with everything she had. But when he killed Barnes—”  

His breath hitched, knowing the mask obscured him from this civillian’s view.

“—She lost it. Hunted Ultron down, tore him apart with her bare hands. But then she… she took his parts. Built something with it.”  

“Built what?” Bucky pressed, his stomach twisting.  

“Armour. Weapons. Something stronger than anything the Avengers had. But it did something to her—got in her head, twisted her. She’s not human anymore. Not really. Just anger and grief and—and…”  

“And power,” Bucky finished grimly.  

The man nodded. “She destroyed Ultron. Destroyed his whole army. But she didn’t stop. She just kept tearing down everything in her path. Now she’s… she’s…. If you see her, you run. You don’t fight. You don’t talk. You run.”  

—

That night, Bucky sat alone in the ruins of what would’ve been the Avengers tower. He stared at the fire he’d managed to build. 

The image of you—this you, the Catalyst—was burned into his mind. He’d seen a glimpse of it through Strange’s portal, but now the reality of it was just starting to sink in.

You had always been so full of life, so determined to make the world a better place. How could you be the very thing tearing it apart in this universe? How could you let grief do this to you?  

He clenched his fists. He should’ve gotten here earlier. 

This version of him had failed you. He should’ve fought harder, been faster, or something. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have had to face Ultron alone. Maybe you wouldn’t have—  

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault.”  

He knew he could not control what this universe’s version of him did. But the guilt ate him up anyway.

—

The next day, he found the first sign of you.  

In the centre of the ruins stood a towering monument of burned metal, forged from the remains of Ultron’s drones. It was a grotesque structure, its sharp edges gleaming like shark teeth in the dim light.  

He looked around, realising this would’ve been the Rockefeller Center— where he had taken you on a date, ice skating in the cold winter with Christmas lights surrounding you. 

Bucky approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he studied the details. The surface of the monument was etched with symbols—some binary, some human words. 

This wasn’t just a monument. It was a warning.  

She’s close, he thought, gripping his rifle tighter.

The ground trembled beneath his feet. Suddenly, a low hum rose in the air. He turned sharply, his heart pounding as the shadows moved around him.  

And then he saw you.  

You descended from the sky like a vengeful god, clad in sleek, silver armour forged from Ultron’s technology. It clung to you like a second skin, pulsing with an unnatural light. Your eyes glowed with the same energy, and the air around you crackled with raw power.  

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t breathe. It was you— but at the same time, it wasn’t. It was the face he loved, the lips that once kissed him goodnight, the eyes that soothed him after he woke up from one of his nightmares. Yet something was wrong. This wasn’t entirely the person that had been his world. This version of you was twisted— destruction incarnate. 

But he could not stop the leap of joy his heart made. At least you were alive.

“You’ve come to stop me,” you said, not even lifting your eyes. Your voice echoed unnaturally. It was layered, as if a hundred versions of you were speaking at once.  

Bucky stood his ground, heart pounding as you, —no, the Catalyst— stood still. The pieces of Ultron’s remnants shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, stitched together into a terrible masterpiece that trapped you like a tomb. Your face—once warm and full of life—burned with an inhuman intensity, flickering like a dying sun.  

“I’ve come to bring you back,” Bucky replied, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. Slowly, he took off his mask.

Your expression flickered, just for a moment. As if he was a crack in the armour.  

You recognised the voice. 

“You’re— ,” you whispered, your voice layered and fractured, distorted by grief and the technology that had consumed you. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “You came back to me.”  

The words hit Bucky like a blow to the chest. I did, doll. He wanted to say. I will always come back. 

But he knew this version of you wasn’t his, so he swallowed hard, keeping his rifle lowered.

You froze, your head tilting slightly as you studied him. You weren’t satisfied without an answer. “James?”

Bucky’s heart twisted. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of the person you had been, the love you had shared. 

Kill me now, he thought, before I have to kill you. 

But he knew the cost of that. He knew failing would mean he had failed you. 

“I’m here to help,” he said softly. 

You stepped closer, unsure whether to reach for him— a fragment of your old soul begging you to stop this madness — or strike him down— an instinct the Catalyst had developed. Your glowing eyes traced every inch of him, lingering on the scars lining his face, the haunted look in his eyes. 

Your fingers twitched, and for a moment, you looked lost.  

“You’re different,” you muttered to yourself. “The scars… the way you stand”  

Realisation dawned, and with it, the fragile hope in your expression shattered. You took a step back, the electric storm around you surging to life again. “You’re not my James,” you hissed, your voice bitter.  

Bucky didn’t flinch. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But I know what he meant to you. What you meant to him.”  

“Why would someone else’s James come to me?” you demanded, your voice rising, the ground beneath you cracking with the force of your grief. 

“Because I couldn’t save you in my world,” he said, his voice breaking. “But maybe I can save you here.”  

For a moment, the storm faltered, the energy around you dimming. But then your eyebrows furrowed, hands curling into fist, your grief boiling over into fury.  

“You think you can save me?” you snarled, your armour shifting as weapons emerged from its surface—cannons, blades, and glowing surges of energy. “You think you can take my pain away, make it disappear? You have no idea what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”  

The first blast came without warning. Bucky barely had time to dive behind the concrete of a collapsed building as a searing beam of energy scorched the ground where he had stood.  

“Don’t make me do this!” he shouted, rising from cover and firing a warning shot. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off your armour.

“You came here to kill me,” you spat, advancing the attack with terrifying precision. “Just like everyone else!”  

“No!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he dodged another strike, rolling into a crouch and raising his hands. “I came here to stop this. To stop you.”

“And how do you think that ends?” you snapped, the storm of energy around you growing more volatile. “I know what I am. I’ve seen what I’ve done. There’s no stopping it.”  

You lunged at him, your speed too quick for him to process. Bucky barely managed to block your strike, your armoured fist colliding with his vibranium arm in a deafening clash of metal. The force sent him skidding backward, but he held his ground.  

“I know you’re still in there!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “I know you don’t want this!”  

“I didn’t want any of this!” you screamed, unleashing a wave of energy that knocked him off his feet. “But he left me! He—he died, and I—” Your voice cracked, and for a brief moment, the storm flickered, your grief breaking through the madness.  

Bucky scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t want this,” he said, his voice softer now. “I don’t want this.”

Tears streamed down your face, glowing faintly as they fell. “I can’t stop,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “It’s too much. It’s too—”  

The storm surged again, and Bucky knew he was losing you.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, gripping his rifle tightly. “I’m so sorry.”  

You raised your hands, energy crackling between your fingers, but instead of attacking, you froze. A look of clarity crossed your face—a moment of realisation.  

Bucky lowered his rifle once again.

“You can’t let this happen again,” you said quietly.  

Before Bucky could respond, you turned your gaze to the glowing core embedded in your armour—the source of your power.  

“No,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “Don’t—”  

“It has to end,” you interrupted, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Promise me, James. Promise me you won’t let another version of me become this.”  

“I can’t—”  

“Promise me!”  

His throat tightened, and he nodded. “I promise.”  

A faint smile touched your lips, and then you placed your hand over the core. The energy around you flared brightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.  

And then, a blinding light flashed before his eyes. You cried a violent shriek as you cast yourself into nothingness.

When the light faded, Bucky stood alone in the ruins, the air eerily still. Your body was nothing but ash, armour scattered across the ruins. The glowing core was shattered, its energy dissipating into nothing.  

Bucky dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at the spot where you had stood. He had lost you all over again. 

He had failed you all over again. 

—

Bucky stumbled through the portal Strange had opened for him, his body worn, his breaths shallow.

“It’s done,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. He dropped a silver shoulder piece, a part of your armour—a fractured piece of the nightmare you had become—onto the floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, in the space between them. “She’s gone.”  

Strange nodded, but said nothing.  

Bucky glared at him, his grief rapidly turning into anger. “You knew, didn’t you?” he growled, “You knew she went mad because she lost me. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Strange met his eyes, “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything.”  

“That’s it?” Bucky demanded, his voice rising. “I’ve lost her twice now, Strange. Twice. And I—” His voice broke, and he turned away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.  

No crying today. He’s grieved over you. He’s done. 

No crying, Barnes, he insisted again.

“I wish it ended here,” Strange said quietly. 

Bucky’s head snapped back sharply, his heart sinking deeper in the abyss it was already stuck in.

Strange hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “This wasn’t an anomaly,” he said finally. “In every universe I’ve observed, when you die, she becomes the Catalyst.”  

He stumbled back a step, shaking his head. “That… that can’t be true.”  

Strange’s gaze softened, but there was no comfort in his expression. “It is,” he said. “Her love for you is not only her greatest strength, but also her greatest weakness. Without you, her grief consumes her. It changes her.”

“So what?” Bucky spat bitterly. “You’re saying she’s doomed to destroy the multiverse?”  

“No,” Strange said, his voice firm. “Not if you intervene.”  

“You want me to… to do this again?” Bucky froze, his blood running cold. “To watch her die again?”  

Strange’s silence was answer enough.  

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, wanting to pull them out so badly. “How many times, Strange?”  

“As many as it takes,” Strange replied solemnly. “If we don’t act, the Catalyst will dismantle the multiverse, piece by piece. She doesn’t stop at her own world. Her grief is a hunger—a need to destroy everything, to erase the pain.”  

Bucky sank onto a nearby chair, burying his head in his hands. The thought of facing yet another version of you—of seeing your face twisted by grief again, of failing to save you again—was unbearable. 

But what choice did he have?  

“Are you ready for this, Sergeant Barnes?” Strange asked.  

“No,” Bucky admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his head, his eyes red. “But I’ll do it anyway.”  

— 

Every time Bucky stepped through another portal, he braced himself for the inevitable. Some universes were barely recognizable—worlds where humanity had advanced far beyond what he’d known, some were distant worlds ruled by psychopathic overlords.  

But in every one, you were the same. You met him. You fell in love with him— some evil villain decimated Earth, and this world’s version of Bucky perished in the fight.

When he was gone, your grief forged you into the Catalyst— destroyer of whatever force had destroyed earth, salvaging your victims’ weapons to make you more powerful.  

Sometimes your armour was made from Ultron, like before. Other times, it was pieces of Thanos’ gauntlet, or the living metal of Ego the Living Planet. In one universe, you wielded the shattered fragments of Mjölnir. 

You weren’t even close to worthy, but your grief was so powerful that you had bent enchanted Asgardian steel into submission. 

Each encounter started the same way.  

You mistook him for your James. There was always that flicker of hope in your eyes, that fragile moment where you thought he had come back to you.  

But then you noticed the differences—the scars, the way he moved, the subtle sadness in his eyes. 

And the hope turned to rage.  

“Who are you?” you would demand, furious. “Why do you look like him?”  

Bucky tried reasoning with you every time, pleading for you to stop, to let go of the grief that consumed you. But it never worked. The madness always took hold, and the fight always began.  

In the end, you always destroyed yourself. It’s as if he was doomed to watch— doomed to be a captive audience to your death— over and over and over again.

—

The first time Bucky killed the Catalyst, it nearly broke him.

He had spent weeks, maybe months, tracking you in this icy universe. In this universe, Frost Giants took over. Bucky had been killed somewhere along the lines, and you took Loki’s staff and matters into your own hands. 

When he saw you there, standing in a cloak of fur and leather, you radiated power.

And yet, behind the glowing eyes, he could still see you. The way you tilted your head when you studied him, the smallest flicker of hesitation before you struck.

He had prepared for this. Every movement, every breath, every strike was calculated, the result of months of relentless study. He’d learned how to predict the devastating surges of energy you unleashed, how to exploit the brief seconds when your guard faltered. You were stronger, faster, almost unstoppable—but almost wasn’t enough.

When he finally got to you, he only hesitated for a second before stabbing you.

No. What have I done?

A desperate wail tore from his throat as tears burned his eyes, spilling over like a shattered dam. He cried— for the first time in months— as he watched the light in your eyes fade. 

Bucky knelt beside your dying body, whispering useless apologies as he cradled you in his arms. You looked up at him. You didn’t look at him with grief. Not anger. Not hatred. Maybe relief. Maybe love. 

And then, as life drained from your eyes, the multiverse seemed to hold its breath.

You were gone.

Again.

He had finally convinced himself that he had to kill you. He could no longer endure your suffering. Every moment of your self-destruction had been nightmare fuel—your anguished cries, your desperate screams— It was unbearable. He loved you too deeply to continue watching you suffer.

Now, he was certain— ending your life, giving you a swift death,was the only way he could stomach this mission.

—

The Catalyst was powerful in every universe, but Bucky learned how to fight you better. Most times now, he was able to kill you, to put you out of your misery because he outmanoeuvred you, predicting your attacks like a ghost of every battle you’d ever had. Other times, he got there too late, and you destroyed yourself, unleashing a final burst of power so immense it annihilated your very existence. 

Those times were harder. 

Watching you choose to end it. Watching you fall apart in his arms, whispering words he couldn’t always hear.

Still, everytime, he took a piece of you.

He didn’t know why he reached out to gather the shattered remains of your armour. Sometimes it was a gauntlet, still glowing faintly with residual energy. A shard of the crystalline crown that marked your reign as the Catalyst. Sometimes it was Loki’s scepter. 

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was guilt. He tucked the fragments into his pack and walked away, feeling like he had salvaged a part of you.

At first, he thought it was a way to remember you. The woman you had been, not the Catalyst you had become. But over time, the collection grew into a monument to his failure. Each weapon, each ruined piece of armour was a reminder of what it cost to keep going. To try and save you. To survive you. To kill you.

And still, he couldn’t stop.

The multiverse demanded it. The Catalyst always returned, more powerful, and Bucky would be there, each time, with the weight of a hundred battles on his shoulders and memories of the woman he loved. He’d fight. He’d win. 

He’d lose you again.

And he’d carry another piece of you, knowing it would never be enough to make him whole.

So, over time, missions chipped away at him, piece by piece.  

He didn’t smile anymore. He barely spoke, even when Strange tried to comfort him. His humanity felt like a distant memory, buried beneath the endless cycle of loss.  

Once, in a rare moment of quiet, Strange tried to reason with him.  

“You don’t have to do this alone, Barnes,” he said. “I’ve talked to Clint, Bruce, and Sam. They said they’d help.”  

Bucky shook his head, his expression hollow. “It has to be me. I’m the only one she listens to. Even if it’s just for a second.”  

Strange didn’t argue.  

—

This time, he was so devastatingly close to saving you— it was the only time you had let him reason with you. The only time you had let him talk longer than a few seconds.

In this universe, you had taken the remains of Ronan the Accuser’s hammer, merging it with Kree technology to create an unstoppable weapon. You were a force of nature, cutting down armies and leaving entire planets in ruin.  

Bucky fought you for hours, trying to get through because he saw a chance. His body was battered and broken by the end. But as he stood over you, your armour cracked and your face visible beneath your helmet, you looked up at him with tears in your eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice faint.  

Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he reached for you. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “There’s still a chance—”  

“You’re still my James, aren’t you?” you interrupted, your hand brushing his cheek. “You love me in every universe, the way I love you.”  

“Don’t leave,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave me again.”  

Your smile was soft, bittersweet. “I never really left, James. I’m always going to be a part of you.”  

And then you were gone again, an agonising cry as you self-destructed.

He was alone again.

—

As long as there were universes to save, as long as there was a chance to save you, he would keep fighting—no matter the cost.  

Today shouldn’t’ve been any different.

He stepped through the portal with his usual grim frown, expecting to face another version of you consumed by grief, transformed into the Catalyst.  

But what he found instead… was peace.

The world was whole. The sky wasn’t scorched, cities still stood tall and bustling, and the air hummed with life. It felt… normal. 

And then he saw you.  

You were sitting at a small café on a sunlit street, your hair loose, a soft smile playing on your lips. There was no armour, no glowing energy, no storm of grief around you. You looked like the person he remembered—the person he had loved.  

He died in this universe, too— he knew as much. You had his dog tags around your neck, carrying a piece of him everywhere. 

It took time for him to piece together what had happened, but he eventually got it.

In this universe, Bucky had been the one who took the gauntlet from Tony. He had been the one who snapped the stones.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. 

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than pain. He watched you laugh, the sound a beautiful melody he thought he’d forgotten. 

In this universe… you were happy.  

For days, Bucky stayed hidden in the shadows, watching you from a distance. It was wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed you through your routines—your morning coffee, your walks through the park, the way you waved at the children playing by the water fountain. 

You hadn’t become the Catalyst.  

Strange was wrong, Bucky thought, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. Not every version of you succumbed to grief. In this universe, you had found a way to move forward, to live.  

And maybe… maybe he could, too.  

The thought crept into his mind slowly. What if he stayed? What if he stepped into this world and introduced himself to you? Would you recognize something in him, a fragment of the love you had shared in another life? Could you fall for him again?  

Could he be happy?

Could the two of you put the pieces back together again?

For the first time in years, Bucky allowed himself to dream of a life beyond grief and guilt. A life with you, as he once had.

He imagined walking up to you at that café, asking if he could join you. You’d be confused, maybe a little wary at first, but he’d win you over. He’d tell you about the man he used to be, the battles he’d fought, the people he’d lost. He’d tell you how much he loved you still. And you’d tell him about your James, how similar he was to him. 

Maybe, in time, you’d fall in love with him again.  

But then he saw Steve coming home from a mission.

It was a perfect day— the sun was warm, the breeze gentle, the streets alive with chatter. Bucky stood at a distance, watching you in the park, his heart full of hope, something he thought he’d never feel again.

And then Steve Rogers appeared.  

He walked up to you with that shy confidence Bucky had known since they were kids. You stood when you saw him, your face lit up in a way that made Bucky’s stomach twist.  

Steve pulled you into his arms, and you went willingly, laughing as he spun you around.  

Bucky felt the air leave his lungs.  

He watched as Steve kissed you, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. And you kissed him back.  

It wasn’t fair.  

Bucky's knees nearly buckled, as he turned away. His chest caved in, feeling like his heart had been ripped out and crushed into a million little pieces. The fragile hope he'd clung to for the last couple of days was torn from him as quickly as it appeared. 

Your laughter echoed faintly in his ears, a cruel reminder that chased him as he stumbled toward the portal Strange had opened. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped. 

He was no soldier, no saviour—just a broken man, haunted by dreams that would never be his.

—

When Bucky returned, Strange's eyes lingered on him for too long.

Bucky wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts like he usually was, but somehow he looked…. worse. The exhaustion ran deeper this time, as if the scars were invisible. “You stayed longer than usual in this one,” Strange observed.

Bucky ignored his statement. “You were wrong,” he muttered instead. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unable to meet Strange’s. “She wasn’t The Catalyst in this one.”

Strange froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s happy here, after my death. W-with Steve.” He finally looked up, the emptiness in his eyes enough to make even Strange flinch. “She moved on, and she’s... she’s still… her.

Strange’s eyebrows softened. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone measured, regretful. “But this is the exception, the rule. The Catalyst is still out there.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, but it held no humour. Only defeat. 

He ran a hand over his face before dragging his fingers through his hair. His shoulders slumped under the weight of this endless mission.“I…” he started, his voice strained. “I’m never... I’m never gonna be happy. Am I?”

Strange had no answer for him. 

—

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in Kamar Taj, staring at the collection of armour pieces he had gathered from the other universes. Each shard was a reminder of the battles he’d fought, the versions of you he had lost.  

And now, he had been cursed with the knowledge that not every version of you that lost him succumbed to grief.

The knowledge that you were happy in that world. That you had found love again, and it wasn’t with him. That no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many universes he visited, it seemed there was no version of him that could have you.  

It was cruel.  

You had once told him he was the strongest person you knew, but in that moment, he felt like anything but. He had fought armies of aliens, faced death over and over again, but this… this was too much.  

Bucky clenched his fists, his metal hand creaking under the pressure. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to let out the unbearable weight crushing his chest. 

Instead, he picked up one of the shards of your armour—a jagged, glowing piece from an Ultron world. He held it in his hand, his reflection distorted in its surface.  

“I’m happy for you,” he whispered, his voice cracking, insincere. “Even if it’s not with me.”  

Bucky placed the shard on his shoulder, the first piece of the armour. 

It felt right— like the power of a thousand suns starting to surge towards him.

He didn’t cry. 

He never did anymore.  

Because no matter how many universes he visited, how many battles he fought, how many versions of you he saved or lost, he knew one thing would never change:  

You would never be his again. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you kissing Steve, your laughter echoing in his skull.

Why should they have happiness, when he was condemned to grieve for eternity?  

Why should any universe be allowed to thrive, when his own existence was empty, meaningless?  

He began by rearranging the pieces of your armour he had collected from the other universes. Each fragment gleamed with a faint, residual energy— remnants of the immense power you had wielded as the Catalyst. He spent weeks forging his own armour.

What started as just your shoulder pieces extended to more. 

He reforged the chest piece a version of you got from the Kree, then a gauntlet you ripped off of Thanos when the Infinity Stones had been destroyed. It grew and grew until every piece of him was covered in fragments of you.

When the work was done, he stood before a mirror, clad in the armour of his own making. It was a haunting reflection of yours, humming with fragment stolen power. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him.  

“That’s the point,” he muttered to himself, almost annoyed.  

When the destruction started, the first universe fell quickly.  

Bucky tore through its defences like a force of nature, his new armour amplifying his strength and speed. He dismantled its protectors—heroes and villains alike—efficiently. He left the cities in ruins, their skies dark with smoke, their people screaming in terror.  

No one deserved peace when he couldn’t have it.  

—

Stephen Strange felt the disturbance immediately. The multiverse’s fragile threads started to unravel as Bucky’s rampage spread across realities. 

At first, Strange couldn’t believe it.  

Bucky Barnes, the man who had fought so hard to save the multiverse, was now its greatest threat.  

Strange had hoped that by guiding Bucky, he could break the cycle of grief and destruction. Instead, reversed it. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now The Catalyst.

— 

Strange arrived in a quiet, dimly lit apartment in yet another universe. The air was filled with the scent of coffee and rain, and the sound of your muffled sobs echoed through the space.  

Yet another version of you sat on the floor, clutching a photograph of Bucky—your James—to your chest. In this universe, he was gone, just as Strange had calculated. 

“Get out, Strange.” you demanded, your voice hoarse when Strange stepped through the portal into your living room. Your eyes were red and puffy, so utterly defeated.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the portal and onto the ceramic tiles of the apartment. His face was grim, his tone measured. He called your name to draw you out from the grief, even if only momentarily

“What do you want?” Your voice was raw, your patience long gone.  

“It’s not about what I want. It’s what the multiverse needs.”  

You finally looked up, your eyes sharp with exhaustion. You had been running on empty for months. You didn’t have Bucky here to hold you. To kiss you when you needed him to. To ground you in this existence. “The multiverse can save itself.”  

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”  

You scoffed, turning back to the photo of Bucky you cradled in your arms. “You’ve got the wrong person.”  

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly.

The desperation in his tone made you pause. You set the photo down and leaned back, staring at the sorcerer with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”  

Strange hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

Then he said it: the beautiful name you haven’t heard in weeks— “it’s about Bucky.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice a low growl.  

Strange pressed on, unflinching. “A version of him exists in another universe. But he’s not who you remember.”  

“What does that mean?”  

Strange conjured an image with a flick of his hand, the glowing strands of the multiverse twisting together to form a vision. It was him—but not your James. His face was twisted in anguish, his body surrounded by a swirling storm of energy. Planets crumbled in the distance, consumed by the raw power emanating from him.  

“He’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice heavy. “A being driven by grief, powerful enough to destroy entire worlds. If he’s not stopped, he’ll collapse the multiverse.”  

You stared at the image, his chest tightening. It wasn’t possible. Bucky was gone. He was dead.  

“You want me to go after him,” you said, your voice flat.  

Strange shook his head. “I want you to stop him. Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”  

“And if he doesn’t?”  

Strange’s gaze was unrelenting. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing him.”  

—

In the vast expanse of the multiverse, the roles have reversed but the tragedy remained unchanged. 

Somewhere, in a distant reality, Strange watched the threads of the timelines twist and tangle. He knew the truth, the one neither of you could see:  

That as long as one of you lost the other, the cycle would never break.

•

Back in Earth-616…

After some playful back and forth splashing, you both decided it was time to get out of the bath.

You stepped out first, shivering from the cool tile beneath your feet, grabbing a towel. Bucky followed, water dripping from his hair onto his chest.

He took the towel from your hands and draped it around your shoulders. He wrapped the fabric tightly around you, as if he was protecting you from whatever evil may want to reach you. 

Without warning, he pulled you into a hug. His lips brushed against your damp hair as you closed your eyes, sinking into the safety of his embrace.

After a while, you shifted in his arms, your hands finding another towel that hung from the wall behind him. 

The corners of your lips tugged up in a playful smile as you began patting him dry, earning a soft chuckle from your supersoldier boyfriend. He didn’t stop you— he never could when you insisted on taking care of him. 

So instead, he just watched you with that lovesick expression that made your heart do cartwheels. 

Neither of you spoke; you didn’t need to. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, and your fingers traced patterns along the scars that marked his skin. 

As much as you hated seeing him hurt, you knew that he was safe. And that’s all that mattered. 

Because, in this universe, you were so blissfully unaware of the fragility of this peace, the fragility of your emotions. You remained unaware that in countless other universes, losing each other had broken you both. Unaware that in most other realities, there was no escape from the sadness that came with the death of one and not the other.

But in this one, none of that mattered. Because here, in this small bubble of love, you would keep each other grounded.

So as long as you both lived, you would stay blissfully unaware of the horrors your variants had to endure.

-end.

[paxtito]

and they were roommates

pairings: tara x reader (g!p)

word count: 2717

warnings: smut 18+, masturbating, oral (r receiving), p in v, swearing

summary: tara is out running errands, she’d be gone for hours- or so you thought

a/n: i’m working on multiple request atm— wenclair x reader one and the radiohead song (i’m just listening and reading the song to get an idea atm) also thank you to the anon for requesting this and their kind words!

The dorm is quiet, unusually so, and it’s kind of nice. Tara had mentioned heading out for the day—something about running errands and meeting up with Sam—and while you’re used to the hum of her presence, the silence isn’t unwelcome.

You glance around the shared space. It’s small but cozy, a mix of her personality and yours crammed into every corner. Her side of the room is meticulously organized—her books stacked neatly, her bed made with precision. In contrast, your side looks… well, lived-in. A pile of clothes rests precariously on your desk chair, and your bed is a haphazard mess of blankets and pillows.

You plop onto your bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Without Tara around, you’re left to your own devices—literally. You snort at a meme, sending it to her out of habit.

“That’s stupid,” she’d probably reply, but there’d be a hint of fondness in it.

After a while, you glance at the clock. Noon. The day stretches ahead, and you find yourself feeling restless. You could clean up your side of the room, but… nah. Instead, you wander over to Tara’s desk.

Her books catch your eye first—old classics mixed with crime thrillers and a few surprisingly heartfelt poetry collections. You pick one up, flipping through the pages idly. A note scribbled in the margin catches your attention, her handwriting sharp and deliberate: “This makes no sense. Why didn’t he just leave?”

You chuckle softly. Even in her annotations, Tara’s blunt honesty shines through.

Your gaze drifts to her bulletin board. It’s a mix of pinned photos, ticket stubs, and little reminders. One of the pictures is of the two of you, taken on move-in day. You’re grinning like an idiot, throwing up a peace sign, while she’s glaring at the camera, her arms crossed—but there’s a subtle upturn to her lips that gives her away.

You flop onto your bed, the old springs creaking under your weight. The small TV in the corner flickers to life as you jab at the remote, the sound of canned laughter filling the room. It's some trashy reality show, but it's mindless and distracting—just what you need right now.

As you settle in, your gaze drifts around the room. Tara's side is always so pristine, everything in its place. It's annoying how tidy she is. You, on the other hand... well, your side looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store.

You reach for the bag of chips on your nightstand, tearing it open with a loud rip. The salty scent mingles with the faint smell of Tara's lavender body spray, creating a strange but not unpleasant odor.

You munch away, eyes glued to the screen, as snippets of conversation from the show drift through your thoughts.

"I think I'm going to kill her," one of the contestants is saying, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

You snort. Yeah, right. They're all too busy primping and preening to actually do anything. Unlike the Ghostface killers, they've got no balls.

You check the time again, just to be sure. Tara won't be back for at least a couple of hours. With the coast clear, a mischievous grin spreads across your face. Time to take advantage of the privacy.

You reach over to your bedside table, fishing around in the drawer until your fingers close around the cool, smooth bottle of lotion. You pop the cap open with practiced ease, squirting a generous amount into your palm. The slick, slightly cold sensation sends a shiver down your spine as you rub your hands together, warming the lotion.

With your other hand, you unlock your phone and pull up your favorite porn site. Your fingers fly over the screen as you type in your search, already feeling the familiar stirrings of arousal. A few taps later, and a video starts playing, the sounds of moaning and grunting filling the now-silent room.

You settle back against your pillow, one hand already slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. Your cock is already half-hard, twitching in anticipation. You wrap your fingers around it, giving it a slow stroke as you watch the scene unfold on your screen.

You stroke your cock slowly, teasingly, savoring the building pleasure. Your other hand roams over your chest, pinching and tweaking a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. The dual sensations send sparks of electricity shooting through your body, making your hips buck up into your touch.

On screen, the actress lets out a particularly loud moan, and you match it with a groan of your own. Fuck, that's hot.

Just as you're getting into a rhythm, the door to your dorm swings open without warning. You freeze, your hand still wrapped around your throbbing cock, as Tara steps inside.

"Shit!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene before her. You're sprawled on your bed, pants pulled down, phone in hand, and a sticky puddle of lube on your stomach.

Mortification floods through you, and you frantically try to cover yourself, grabbing a pillow and pressing it over your lap. Your face burns with embarrassment, and you can't meet Tara's gaze.

"I-I thought you said you'd be gone for hours!" you stammer, trying to come up with some excuse. But there's no hiding what you were doing.

Tara stands in the doorway, frozen in shock. Her eyes dart between your flushed face and the pillow. After a moment, she seems to shake herself out of her stupor.

Tara's eyes flick down to the pillow, then back up to your face. Her expression is unreadable, but there's a glint in her eye that makes your stomach flutter with nerves and excitement.

She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The sound seems to echo in the tense silence.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she says, her voice low and teasing. She saunters over to your bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she sits on the edge.

Your breath hitches as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against the pillow in your lap. Slowly, she pulls it away, revealing your straining erection. You whimper at the sudden exposure, the cool air hitting your overheated skin.

Tara's gaze rakes over your cock, and you feel yourself grow even harder under her scrutiny. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Looks like you were in the middle of something," she purrs, her hand resting lightly on your thigh. Her touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so soon," you manage to say, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.

Tara leans in closer, her breath ghosting over your ear. "Don't apologize," she whispers, her lips brushing against your skin. "I think I can help with that."

And then, before you can process what's happening, she's sliding down your body, her hands pushing your legs apart. You gasp as her mouth hovers over your cock, her hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Tara," you groan, your fingers tangling in her hair as she takes you into her mouth. The wet heat of her tongue is almost too much to bear, and you buck your hips, desperate for more.

Tara hums around you, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your body. She bobs her head, taking you deeper each time, her hand wrapping around the base of your cock.

Your head falls back against the pillows as Tara works her magic. Her mouth is a wonder, hot and wet and so damn perfect. You can feel every ridge and valley of her tongue as it glides along your shaft, tracing the veins and swirling around the head.

"Fuck, your mouth feels so good," you groan, your hips rocking up to meet her movements. Your fingers tighten in her hair, gently guiding her pace.

Tara hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. She takes you deeper, her nose brushing against your pubic bone as she swallows around you.

The sight of her, head bobbing in your lap, lips stretched obscenely around your cock, is almost too much to handle. You feel yourself getting close, your balls tightening and your stomach muscles clenching.

"Tara, I'm gonna..." you warn, your voice strained and breathless.

But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she doubles down, her head moving faster, her hand pumping in tandem. She looks up at you through her lashes, her eyes dark with lust and something else, something intense and hungry.

It's too much. With a guttural groan, you explode in her mouth, your cock pulsing as you spill your seed down her throat. She swallows it all, not spilling a single drop, and continues to suck and lick until you're spent.

Finally, she releases you with a lewd pop, sitting back on her heels and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks immensely pleased with herself, a satisfied smirk on her kiss-swollen lips.

You collapse back onto the bed, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Your whole body feels like jelly, boneless and sated.

"Holy shit," you breathe, running a hand through your sweat-dampened hair. "That was... wow."

Tara giggles, the sound low and sultry. She crawls up your body, straddling your hips and leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

You roll over, pinning Tara beneath you on the bed. She looks up at you, her eyes dark and hooded with desire. You capture her lips in another heated kiss, your tongue delving into her mouth to taste yourself on her tongue.

Your hands roam her body, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to caress the smooth skin of her stomach. She arches into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Breaking the kiss, you sit up and pull her shirt over her head, tossing it carelessly aside. Your eyes drink in the sight of her, clad only in a lacy bra. You lean down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of her cleavage.

Tara's fingers thread through your hair, tugging gently as she holds you to her. "More," she breathes, her voice husky with need.

You oblige, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. It falls away, freeing her breasts to your hungry gaze. You take a moment to admire them, full and perfect, before lowering your head to take one pebbled nipple into your mouth.

Tara gasps, her back arching off the bed. You lavish attention on her breast, sucking and nibbling until she's writhing beneath you. Your hand slides down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans.

"These need to go," you murmur against her skin, hooking your fingers in the denim and pulling it down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, kicking the jeans off and leaving her in just a pair of matching lace panties.

You sit back on your heels, taking in the sight of her laid out before you, flushed and wanting. Your cock twitches, already hardening again. You reach down to push your own pants fully off, kicking them away.

Tara's eyes widen as she takes in your naked form, her gaze zeroing in on your erection. "Fuck, you're so hot," she breathes, her hand reaching out to wrap around you.

You grind your cock against her, feeling the heat of her through the thin lace. Tara gasps, her hips lifting to meet yours, seeking more friction. The rough drag of your hard length against her clothed clit sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you both.

"Please," she whimpers, her fingers digging into your shoulders. "I need you inside me."

You don't make her wait any longer. Hooking your fingers in her panties, you yank them down her legs, tossing them aside carelessly. Tara spreads her legs wider, inviting you in.

You position yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her slick folds. Tara's breath hitches, her eyes fluttering closed as you press forward.

You sink into her inch by delicious inch, groaning at the tight, wet heat enveloping you. Tara is so fucking perfect, her walls gripping you like a vice. You bottom out, your hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt inside her.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you pant, fighting the urge to just start pounding into her. Instead, you hold still, letting her adjust to the stretch.

Tara rolls her hips, urging you on. "Move," she demands, her nails raking down your back.

You don't need to be told twice. You start to thrust, setting a steady rhythm that has you both gasping and moaning. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and the creaking of the bed.

Tara wraps her legs around your waist, using the leverage to meet your thrusts. Her tits bounce with every snap of your hips, and you lean down to capture a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard.

"Yes, just like that," Tara hisses, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You fuck her hard and fast, chasing your pleasure and hers. The coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter, signaling your impending release.

You can feel your orgasm building, your balls tightening and your thrusts becoming erratic. But you force yourself to slow down, to focus on Tara's pleasure instead of your own.

Tara's nails dig into your shoulders, her teeth sinking into your neck as she holds on for dear life. Her walls flutter around you, tightening and releasing in a rhythm that tells you she's close.

You redouble your efforts, angling your hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Tara keens, her body tensing beneath you.

You reach between your bodies, finding her clit with your fingers. Tara bucks against your hand, her hips moving in frantic circles as you rub tight circles over the sensitive nub. You can feel her getting closer, her inner walls starting to flutter around your cock.

"Come on, baby," you urge, your voice low and rough. "Come for me."

Tara's body goes rigid, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm crashes over her. She cries out, her pussy clamping down on you like a vice as she comes undone.

The feeling of her coming around your cock is too much. With a guttural groan, you pull out, your hand flying over your shaft as you stroke yourself to completion. Your cum spurts out, painting Tara's stomach in thick, white ropes.

You collapse beside her, both of you panting and sweaty. Tara turns her head to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.

"That was intense," she murmurs, reaching out to brush a sweat-dampened lock of hair from your forehead.

You grab some tissues from the box on your nightstand, quickly wiping the cum from Tara's stomach. She sighs contentedly as you clean her, her body still tingling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

As you toss the used tissues aside, you can't help but let your gaze wander over her naked form. Tara is a vision, her skin flushed and glowing, her hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

But then reality starts to set in. You just had sex with your roommate. Your best friend. What does this mean for your relationship? Will things be awkward now?

Tara seems to sense your thoughts. She sits up, pulling the sheet around her naked body. "Hey," she says softly, reaching out to cup your cheek. "We okay?"

You nod, not quite trusting yourself to speak. Tara smiles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Good," she murmurs against your mouth. "Because I want to do that again. Soon."

With that, she hops off the bed, completely unselfconscious in her nudity. She pads over to her closet, rummaging around for something to wear.

You watch her, your mind still reeling. What have you gotten yourself into?

—

request: where reader and Tara are roommates and reader thinks Tara is out so reader starts to masturbate but Tara comes home early and walks in on reader so she gives a helping hand (a blow job) then they do it yk?

[letsbangts]

end of a day || jjk

⤷ summary: when the day tries to weigh you two down you both are there to lift each other up

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 1.1k

⟶ genre: angst, fluff, established relationship au

⟶ content: boyfriend!jk, stress, crying, & a comforting koo

⟶ warnings: none

↬ a/n: inspired by one of my all time favourite songs end of a day shinee's jonghyun ʚ♡ɞ

↬ a/n2: p.s the italics are the song lyrics & as always let me know what you think i really appreciate feedback :) recommend a song if you’d like and i’ll write a scenario with it like i did with this song!

masterlist

༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄

hold out your hand, wrap it around my neck.

a little below, massage my shoulders.

at the end of a tiring day, even if the sun has already come up

i'm finally closing my eyes

 Sometimes it can feel like there are too many hours in a day. The day has been going on for too long. A day where life felt a bit too hard, where the world got a bit too busy, a bit too heavy and decided to lay its weight upon your shoulders and your heart. A day that all you needed was a hand to reach out to you. It was one of those days for me today, a day that is finally coming to a close as I see the sun going down on the horizon as I make my way back home ready to shut my eyes. Home. The place I could not reach any quicker. It is not the four walls I am racing to arrive to but to him, as he is my real home.

 i close the door to my day later than others

playfully tickle my earlobe

because even though we’ve been in different worlds all day

we always end the day together

I enter my house and close the door also closing the door to my day. Many others have probably retired from their days long before me. I hear the clicking of a mouse an all too familiar sound to me, almost a reassuring sound. And that is when I knew although we were both in two completely different worlds the whole day, my day was just as draining as his. As I walk in and turn to see Jungkook’s tired face and slumped figure still working away, illuminated by his monitor screen I realize his day has been just as long as mine. Seeing him released all the pressure off my shoulders and I can almost release a sigh of relief knowing as always we can end our day together.

your small shoulders, your small hands

become my cozy blanket at the end of a tiring day

For some reason seeing Jungkook today, maybe because of the stress or exhaustion, whatever it is the second I see him a welling feeling emerges in my chest.

“Kook?” my voice shakes out.

He turns his head, not noticing my presence before being absorbed in his work, only ready to go to bed as soon as he’s pleased with his edit.

“Hmm?” as he turns his head his glasses reflect the glare caught from the screen.

We make eye contact and he watches as I approach him. As I walk closer to him he immediately wheels back his chair from the desk making space for me. He opens his arms when he sees my quivering lips and watery eyes, pulling me with his lap. He wraps his arms around my small shoulders, my small hands clutch onto his shirt as I cry into him. With my face buried in his chest, I stain his shirt with my tears, shedding my day. He rubs my back letting me get out the feelings I pent up for hours. He is silent as he embraces me until I hear him let out a deep sigh himself and I suddenly feel like I am comforting him at the same time. For the first time in my day, I finally take a breath of contentment able to relax and Jungkook seemingly doing the same.

you did a good job today, you worked so hard

i hope my shoulders and my thick hands

will become cozy comfort for the end of your tiring day as well

Jungkook pats my head with his thick hands probably stiff from all the clicking and typing the diligent work he always puts into everything.

“It’s okay. You did a good job today. You worked so hard, I know you did.” he soothes me with a gentle voice.

I sniffle and pull back to look up at him. I remove his glasses from his face and place them on his desk. I look into his eyes, red with dark bags underneath them as he stares back at mine, red and filled with tears.

I blanked out as I admired him filling myself with the warmth of satisfaction I get from simply being with him.

i want to naturally sync my breathing with yours 

like water in a bathtub that wraps around you with no space left

i wanna warmly hold you without any space left

I want to end my day with Jungkook. Merge me with him, with his breathing, with his heartbeat, with his movements, his everything, with his very being.

“I missed you,” I say to him “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” He replies hugging me tighter.

“You must have had quite a day as well I shouldn't be crying on you like this.” I wipe away my tears and laugh at my selfishness, burdening him with my tears.

 at the end of my day, filled with awkward mistakes

you, my prize, are waiting for me.

i can’t cry all I want or even laugh all I want

at the end of a tiring day but still, if I’m next to you

like a child, I can whine and then laugh till I run out of breath

i’m not used to seeing myself like this

He takes my face into his hands, cupping my cheeks his thumbs rubbing them back and forth. His gaze is loving as he says,

“No matter what kind of day I have, one filled with accomplishments or one filled with mistakes, once we come together my day can never end on a bad note. You are my prize, you being here with me is all the reassurance I need to know I can get through this day, and the next, and any more that may come. I may be one to suppress my feelings and not express myself fully, I don’t cry all the time or laugh as often as I should. But at the end of a tiring day, I know if I'm next to you, you will let me whine like a child and then you'll have me laughing until I’m out of breath. And it still surprises me after all these years with you seeing myself like that.”

I glide my hands up to his neck and pull him in for a kiss so deep that it feels like we become one, breaths intertwined.

Sometimes it can feel like there are too many hours in a day. The day has been going on for too long. But right now I realize there can never be enough hours in a day for me when I am with Jungkook. So the day can go on for as long as it wants because no matter how long it is I can make it through knowing that at the end of it, I will make my way back to Jungkook.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

you did a good job today, you worked so hard

you are my prize

[lucidbee]

Love Is A Science | Percy Jackson x Reader

Summary: You and Percy have always been best friends you just needed a little push for you to become more.

Word Count: 1.1k

Author Note: Did I write this in the car to eat dry turkey and complain to my family about what tariffs mean, yes. Did I get car sick from writing this also, yes. Not proofread. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Feel free to leave any requests. 

—---—---—‐--—---—---—---—---—---

You and Percy had been friends ever since he came to Camp Half-Blood. You both were always next to each other; if you weren’t, you were talking about them somehow. Every camper could see that both of you were meant to be together. The teasing and questioning were endless. The Aphrodite cabin had a blast creating different scenarios and challenging each other on who could get you two together first. For years the both of you had been denying any claims that you were anything more than friends. Both of you believing that you were just really good friends, companions in battle. 

But after the battle in Manhattan, things started to change, both of you becoming more aware of each other's presence, not wanting to be more than an arm's reach away from each other at all times. Something deeper had started to grow after all these years, something unspoken.

That's where you find yourself, both silently staring into the fire crackling on the beach. You’re wrapped in Percy’s arms, your back pressed against his chest. Before the battle, if anyone had asked, it would have been simply cuddling nothing more, than just a way for two friends to stay warm. However, now if you were asked the same question, you weren’t sure what you would say. It was different now, you didn’t just want to be around Percy anymore, you needed to be around him. You needed to know that he was safe, that you weren’t going to lose him. The possibility of losing Percy opened up feelings you had no idea you had for the son of Posideon. 

You wanted to kiss him, to be held by him, for him to fight every battle with coming home to you as his only goal. You were hopelessly and undoubtedly in love with Percy Jackson. The only trouble was that you had no idea how to bring the topic up to him. You had spent years denying the claims that you were lovers, was it possible for him to have the same change of heart as you? 

The fire crackled loudly filling any awkward silence. You knew you only had so much time to confess your feelings before curfew, if you didn’t do it today you knew you would talk yourself out of it every day to come. 

“Percy?” You call out not taking your eyes off of the flames.

Percy, who is usually quick with his words, had been unusually quiet this whole time. Usually, he would be humming a song, or bouncing his knee to create any sort of noise. Today he looked completely lost in his thoughts. 

“Percy?”

“A daughter of Aphrodite asked me out today,” Percy said looking down to look at you.

Shocked was the only way you could describe what you felt right now. Your heart started to race and your head started to spin, were you too late?

“W-what did you say?” 

Percy sighed before saying “I told her I would think about it.”

More dread filled your body. “Do you like her?”

“Well no, but there is no harm in just one date right?”

Your head was still spinning but your heartbeat started to slow back down, you still had time. 

“Do you like anyone?” You asked.

“There is this one girl, but I don't think she is interested.”

Your heart broke at that moment, you had waited too long. You could have had him years ago but now that you are about to lose him you have never wanted him more. Pain fills your body, and you find it more difficult to breathe. 

“She would be dumb not to be interested in you, Percy.” You say tears filling your eyes.

“Y/n are you okay, did I do something?”

“No, it's what I did,” You say tears strolling down your face.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t tell you how much I love you and now it’s too late.” 

You stand up wiping your tears, needing to separate yourself from Percy. Percy soon follows but keeps his distance.

“Y/n?”

“I should have told you so much sooner, but we both needed time to heal after the battle and I was worried you wouldn’t feel the same way,” You ramble off walking back and forth.

“Y/N,” Percy yells.

Your head swings to look at him, tears still streaming down your face. Percy steps closer taking your hands in his. Both of you keep eye contact the whole time as he allows you time to calm down.

“I love you too”

“You what?”

“The girl I was talking about was you, I love you.” 

“This isn’t funny seafoam, you can’t joke about this, I’m barely holding myself together right now.”

“I’m not joking, in Manhattan, all I could keep thinking about was that I was terrified I was going to die before being able to kiss you.”

For what felt like an eternity you were finally able to breathe. The pain washed away into a feeling of overwhelming joy.

“Kiss me,” You say.

“What?”

“Kiss me, do you not want to anymore?”

“NO,” Percy yells.

Percy quickly takes you into his arms and presses his lips against yours. Your eyes quickly shut, wrapping your arms around Percy’s neck. It was everything you imagined and more, you could have stayed in the position for hours. That was until the sound of a horn being blown in the distance alerting you both that curfew was in a few minutes. 

“I don’t want to let you go,” Percy said nuzzling himself into your neck.

“Then don’t.

Percy looks at you in a confused way, when you finally explain it to him. 

“You’re all alone in your cabin, sneak me in.”

“You are brilliant,” Percy says giving you a light peck.

Percy quickly put out the fire that was still burning beside you, before taking your hand and rushing off of the beach and into cabin number three. You both leave grinning and completely absorbed in each other. Completely not noticing the daughter of Aphrodite and Athena hiding behind the bushes.

“Told you all they needed was a little push to figure out what they were missing out on,” Annabeth said.

“You are a genius and about to be the richest person in camp, we’ve been betting on them for the last four years,” Drew says walking back towards the Aphrodite cabin.

“What can I say love is a science, after all, let me know if you need any lessons.”

“Don’t push it, brainiac.”

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 26: The Other Daughter

Content warning: Sukuna, cannibalism, violence, murder, blood, gore, threats, threats of cannibalism, implied threats against women and children, implied threats against everyone?

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Fallen Paradise - Hocico Stranger Than Kindness - Fever Ray Treacle And Revenge - Frayale

* * * * *

Chapter 25

* * * * *

A month before the union…

“Sukuna Ryomen, I’m here to escort you from here.”

The King of Curses tilts down his chin, his crimson eyes thinning as he takes a long look at the northerner bowing before him. The man is tall and thickly built, carrying the physicality of a warrior, likely chosen to bring him to the snake as a gesture of neutrality.

This so-called neutrality is a disguise, a carefully crafted deception dressed in costume meant to impress him.

It won’t.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Sukuna drones, gesturing toward the clustering treeline ahead, beyond which a vast, empty field stretches. No villages speck the landscape—just flat, open ground. The kind of place where a battle could easily ignite.

It also marks the divide between his territory and that of the Kasai clan—a neutral boundary where north meets south. An ideal setting to negotiate the union of two people.

The northerner turns and moves ahead, pressing through the lush summer greenery, deliberately putting distance between himself and the King of Curses.

Sukuna is well aware this might be a trap. He’s also aware of the weapon the man is concealing. He can feel its presence, secured beneath his kimono.

It’s only a matter of time before the idiot turns to strike.

A foolish mistake.

He’ll kill him anyway, just for the insult of bringing it.

He hopes the man will take it.

Unbothered by the potential threat, Sukuna threads his upper hands into the wide sleeves of his kimono while his lower ones rest lightly, folded against his torso. A tightly fitted underlayer lies below his garment. The summer air steams hot against a solid cerulean blue sky, the day thick with sticky heat. But this extra piece of clothing isn’t meant for comfort or absorbing sweat. Its purpose is far more practical—a barrier between his skin and whatever else he’s about to walk into.

Soon, he is led farther and farther away, from where his mount is tethered to a tree in the forest behind him. Ahead, the open field expands wide, with a lone tent rising from the grass—his destination.

As Sukuna approaches the edge of the treeline, where branches tangle and claw for sunlight, he slows, his red gaze sweeping the area. Only then does he notice—the northerner has vanished.

Of course.

A trap. A fucking trap.

The corners of his mouth begin to hook up.

Then, without warning, the air sings sharp.

In half a breath, the man is behind him, the cool edge of his weapon slicing toward the King of Curses’ neck.

“Keh keh, I see you,” he laughs, stepping aside with ease.

Clang!

The blade misses, driving into the ground and tearing through the wildflowers at their feet.

Sukuna moves, shifting his weight, his lower arms hidden within his kimono while his upper arms unfurl.

“Is that it?! I’ve slaughtered women and children who fought harder than this,” he taunts, that eternal smirk carved into his face widens as he turns fully to face the northerner.

He looks the man over, unimpressed. How could this be the whelp they’d sent to kill him? Sukuna sees only parts—a body cobbled together, not a worthy opponent. 

They’ll need to try harder. To send something better. Someone better.

And he’ll wait for it.

The man snarls, rage transforming his features as he retrieves his weapon from the ground and raises it again. A breeze stirs their clothing, the only movement in the passing calm. 

“Try again,” Sukuna hums arrogantly, his upper arms curving in a welcoming gesture. “Show me another clumsy swing of your blade. I’ll even stand perfectly still for you.”

The way he sees it, this fool has two choices: prove he deserves to stand before him or prove he doesn’t. It’s only fair to offer him this chance before he dies—an opportunity to show his worth. There’s a certain satisfaction in watching someone strain against their limits, clawing for every ounce of potential, only to see what they might become in their finest moment before reducing them to nothing but sliced flesh.

“I’ll tear your grotesque fucking limbs and all your skin from your bones, demon!” the man screams, hatred crawling in his eyes as he charges recklessly.

Sukuna’s mouth widens. The insult tickles him. Those words amuse him. He wants to laugh. To tell him there’s going to be no enjoyment from his cursed bones, but he doesn’t bother.

Instead, he spreads all four arms wide, inviting chaos. 

“Yes, that’s it!” Red eyes shine, flaring open and hungry as the distance between them collapses.

The man runs, keeps coming, feet pounding through the grass, each step fueled by seething, festering hatred. It seems to grow within him like a spreading fungus, consuming reason, leaving only rage. Making him nothing more than a stupid beast unaware of his surroundings.

With impressive velocity, the weapon arcs upward, aiming for its mark.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

The air grows cold.

This will end with one simple flic—

A dull, wet sound punctures the air. The man screams. A protruding icicle erupts through his lower stomach from behind. Pearled droplets of blood splatter across the grass, staining it a vivid scarlet. When he crumbles to his knees on the ground, his shrieking grows in agony.

Sukuna’s smirk fades, pressing into a rigid pout.

“Apologies, Master Sukuna.” Uraume steps forward, having been trailing them, and circles the now-whimpering man, blood pooling from his mutilated gut. “He was rather annoying.”

“Mhm,” Sukuna grunts, his disappointment mild but present as he steps forward.

Lowering his heavy frame, he crouches, allowing his presence to crowd the trembling figure. Inside his layers of clothing, his stomach maw stirs. The mouth ripples open, its tongue laving hungrily across his abdomen, tasting the promise of nourishment.

“Which organ should I consume, hm?” He reaches out slowly, walks his fingers across the man’s chest, then down, taking a moment to press his index into the open wound and feel its warmth. Uraume’s ice now melted from all the hot blood. “How about your kidneys?” 

Groaning in agony, the northerner's mouth opens and closes like a small fish drowning in air.

“Nothing to say? Then how about your lungs? We’ll see how long you last without breath.”

Another suffering whimper. Sukuna slants closer. Through the tiny sliver of distance, he can almost taste the man’s sweat that beads on his forehead.

“Or, let’s make this simple. The heart.” He straightens slightly, tilting his head as though weighing the idea.

Considering the confrontation ahead, that organ feels like the perfect choice.

“Glutting on your heart feels… appropriate.” The monster leans in, his lower right hand gliding to the spot where the muscle beats frantically against the man’s chest. Slowly, he brushes aside the fabric, exposing the flesh. “Any last words?”

“F-fuck you!” The northerner hisses, spittle cresting at his bottom lip.

Sukuna tips his head back and chuckles cruelly.

“Is that all?” he muses, fingertips teasing and applying pressure to the bones, to his sternum. “The flavour of your hatred-filled heart… I imagine it will taste rather sweet.”

Pressure.

The man groans.

More pressure.

Red eyes narrow.

A bit more. And then—crack!

So easy.

The man shrieks and flails. The frantic movements scatter grass and dirt as he desperately tries to escape.

A flick! Another crack as Sukuna severs the bones inside the chest cavity, breaking through and exposing the pulsing organ within. Hands dipping inside, he peels back the ribs like a pair of wings. The man’s blood mists warm and salty over his face. He doesn’t mind. 

Curling his fingers around the trunk of the arteries, there’s another tug. He unwinds and retrieves the heart, dragging it free from the man’s squirming body, the nerve endings dangling soggy between them.

“This is the best the snake could muster?” Sukuna sneers and straightens, the heart dense and warm in his palm. The northerner’s body twitches once before going lifeless, his head falling softly to rest into the grass.

For his ruin. They’ll need to try harder.

Much, much harder.

With half-lidded eyes, Sukuna regards the organ lazily, then raises it to his lips. Mouth parting, his teeth sink into the wet muscle, and he tears.

One bite. He swallows, savouring the tang.

Metallic. Salty. 

Perfect.

He licks his bottom lip and glances at Uraume, blood smearing his chin.

“Come. I’m sure our host is eager to see me,” he says dryly, the heart still in hand as he walks toward the distant tent.

Horses shift and whicker in the field as they approach. Guards, their clothing proudly bearing the embroidered crest of a serpent, stand at attention. Everyone’s gaze follows Sukuna and Uraume wearily as the pair arrive.

Without hesitation, the King of Curses pushes through the tent’s opening. The lack of light inside is abrupt, the air, warm, stagnant, and heavy under the cotton fabric that barely allows a breeze. A few steps inside, a line of men stands braced and armed to the teeth.

At the back, perched on a raised platform beside an ornate silkscreen, sits the bastard—Kasai Takuma—flanked by a man at his left, waiting.

Choking the now half-eaten heart in his palm, Sukuna walks forward.

Everyone and everything falls deathly still.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blood leaks between his fingers, leaving red trails in his wake, soaking into the woven mats underfoot. Reaching the edge of the platform, he stops, towering over the seated man.

It had been seven years since Sukuna was last this close to him. Back then, he had likely been dismissed as nothing more than a calamity. A rare phenomenon that swept across the northern land in a single, brutal night. But now? Now, the snake knew precisely who he was.

And he, of course, remembered what this man had done.

“Lord Sukuna, you honour me with your…” Lord Kasai begins, eyes dancing between the King of Curses’ face and the pulpy mess in his hand. “…presence,” he finishes smoothly, inclining his head—perhaps to recover his composure, or perhaps to conceal the fact that he had just attempted to have him assassinated.

Sukuna remains quiet but raises his eyebrow, making a silent point to get on with it.  

“Well,” the snake clears his throat, gesturing before him, his voice shifting to a formal tone. “Shall we discuss terms regarding our treaty?”

Sukuna lets the heart slop to the ground, where it lands with a splatter. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the mat, leaning heavily on his upper right arm, while his lower arms remain folded inside his kimono. Behind him, Uraume stands in silence, hands tucked neatly into their sleeves, ever watchful.

“Before we begin,” Lord Kasai announces, nudging his head to his right, “there is someone here who is eager to meet you.”

The King of Curses doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His eyes remain forward on the scourge sitting before him, but with the lower right one, he catches the movement in his periphery. Two attendants step forward, their hands reaching to draw back the silk screen that has been sitting idle, hiding something—or someone.

A faint rustle of fabric whispers, marking the newcomer's arrival. Light footsteps follow next—one, two, three of them.

A woman steps into his view, swaddled in the finest silk kimono, colours of pale fabric decorating her.

The faint lantern light plays tricks across her features, shadows consuming half of her face as she bows.

That face.

He remembers.

Sukuna shifts subtly, retrieving his upper arms and folding all four neatly inside his kimono.

“Hello, my Lord.” Gracefully, the woman lifts her chin. “I’m the daughter of Lord Kasai.” Her lashes lower as the corners of her lips curve into a delicate, charming smile—the kind designed to tempt and loosen clothing. “But since I will soon be your wife, you may call me Yuna.”

Silence follows. A weighted quiet.

Sukuna says nothing.

Motionless, he watches as the snake’s daughter kneels tenderly beside her father, directly across from him. She is well-taught and well-mannered.

One might even call her desirable and lovely.

Her fingernails, dyed a soft red to match her lips, catches his attention as she smooths out her kimono. A soft glide to rid the wrinkles. His lower eyes remain fixed on them—watchful of how close she gets, and, more so, of where those vile little fingers might wander. Meanwhile, his upper eyes refuse to leave hers, locking them together in an unbroken stare.

Silent. Both of them, just staring.

Lord Kasai’s voice eventually breaks the quiet, his words droning on and on about treaties and terms and this union.

Sukuna sits and listens, or rather, pretends to.

He doesn’t care about the treaty’s promises—a truce, retention of the land he’s subjugated, a cessation of attacks on the north.

None of this matters.

Why should a piece of parchment—or this man, who took from him—dictate his rule or his fate?

Yet he doesn’t mind. He can sit here, waiting patiently, as he has before. Patient, but waiting impatiently.

What’s a bit more?

“No.”

Or perhaps not.

The single word has Lord Kasai’s brows arching. He glances up from the parchment, narrow jaw tightening to suppress his confusion.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his tone strained, the pretense of respect slipping.  

Sukuna clicks his tongue behind his mouth, and his attention drags from Yuna to the snake.

“No,” he repeats calmly.

The tent falls silent. The atmosphere shifts.

Behind him, the men shuffle nervously. Sukuna doesn’t need to see them to know their hands are drifting toward their weapons. 

He smirks, and with ease, the King of Curses pulls his upper right hand from his kimono and begins to roll the gnarled red muscle on the mat with a single finger. The light pressure bursts it slightly, and a trickle of blood stains the ground.

“I find your devotion to this treaty—this union—fascinating,” he says, freeing his upper left arm and forming a fist to lean his face against. “So devoted, in fact, that you’d offer me the so-called gem of the Kasai clan.”

Over the years, he’s steadily uncovered more and more about this family. Little by little, intriguing details have come to light—hidden truths, darker secrets—things he’s sure they’d rather he didn’t know.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawls, his words flowing smooth and unhurried. “Is it love for your power that drives you to offer your daughter to something like me? Or is it something else entirely?”

Desperation. Control. Deception.

Lord Kasai says nothing.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna lets the weight of the moment hang, then shatters it with a soft, dark chuckle.

“You see, I never knew the ones who spawned me. Never saw their faces or learned their names. And I believe that was for the best. Some legacies, after all, aren’t worth inheriting.”

He offers no further elaboration. The truth of what this man has done is a history Sukuna keeps for himself—one he shares with no one.

“But,” Sukuna continues, his grin widening, blood neatly staining his rows of white teeth red. “I’ve learned something about you and yours.”

The deep grooves in the corners of Lord Kasai’s mouth tighten. Yuna shifts, her hips tilting to adjust her strict posture.

Another bit of pressure, and the heart bleeds again. Droplets drool onto the ground, the mats beneath greedily soaking them up like long-awaited rain.

“And what might that be?” the snake asks tersely.

Sukuna patiently lowers his fist from his cheek.

“You don’t have just one daughter,” he states, holding up a finger. “You have two.” A second finger joins the first.

Yuna stiffens, her hands forming tight fists against her thighs.

Sukuna lets his hand drop to his lap, the grin fading from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, cruel detachment.

“I want the other one. You’ll give me the other one,” he demands harshly.

“No!” Yuna’s polished facade crumbles in an instant, her voice breaking with desperation. “Father, please! You can’t let him do that!”

Lord Kasai silences her with a vicious glare.

“Quiet!” he barks.

Sukuna leans back slightly, watching the spectacle unfold. He takes pleasure in the panic in Yuna’s voice—a sound born of true affection for her sister, however misplaced. Affection she seems willing to cannibalize and twist if it serves her own ends.

“Please,” she begs her father again, her brows tugging together as tears gather. “She’s too soft. She won’t survive him!”

True. But that was, after all, the point.

One of Yuna’s arms extends, her hand reaching for her father in a plea. He recoils, jerking away from her touch. Sukuna’s mouth gleefully widens, much like a wolf’s would.

Almost instantly, Lord Kasai’s hand sweeps back, ready to strike her across the face. But before he can, there’s a sudden movement to his left. A blade is pushed into the back of his neck. 

A warning.

His arcing hand freezes midair.

The man who had been seated quietly beside him all this time—the one who seemed perfectly aligned with the clan head—now steps forward, his blade firm against Kasai’s skin.

Interesting.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man murmurs, voice calm as he presses the metal just enough to draw a line of blood. Yet, under his smooth control, his eyes crack with anger.

Sukuna chuckles.

Their destruction will come from within their own clan.

“A snake consuming itself, indeed,” he spits, a demonic grin splitting his face. “What an interesting little family and clan you have, my Lord.” His four eyes flit between the three, dissecting the tangled web of alliances and betrayals.

He already knew where most of the hooks were buried, where the strings were tied. All that remained was to pull them free—whether all at once or, better yet, one by one. Patiently. Painfully.

For her, not for me.

“Now,” Sukuna hums, leaning back as he draws their attention onto himself. “Do we have an agreement?”

Lord Kasai remains silent, his gaze darting nervously between the others. A thick bead of sweat slithers down his neck, settling in the hollow of his throat.

Pathetic.

It’s Yuna who speaks first.

“Please, my Lord. You can’t have her. Just take me instead,” she pleads, her voice trembling with desperation, though he hears her subtle performance.

Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation.

“It’s your choice, snake,” he comments, his patience wearing thin as he fixes his gaze on Lord Kasai.

He’s tired of their squabbling, tired of her pleading.

There is only one thing he wants.

One tiny, fucking thing.

And he will have it.

His face turns eerily lifeless, his eyes hollow and devoid of pity.

“If you refuse me,” Sukuna continues, “I will return. Not to raze your land, this time. But I’ll finally begin with your clan.”

The man with the blade at Lord Kasai’s neck finally withdraws, stepping back in silence.

“First, I’ll slaughter the women and children. And when I’m done with them, I’ll eat them. Piece by piece.” His gaze sharpens as he leans forward. “A year later, I’ll come back for the men.” A lazy gesture behind him. “Drag them all away, their blood still warm as I consume them before your eyes. And then, finally, I’ll come for you. All of you.” He points to the three and pauses. “By then, your name will mean nothing. And when all that remains of your legacy is a pile of bones, I’ll leave only one alive. So, choose. Do you hand her over, or do I make a feast of your entire clan first? Or—”

He pauses.

Temptation stirs.

A heartbeat passes.

Sukuna leans back, movements fluid, as his lower hands slip free from his kimono, like an insect emerging from its protective cocoon. They come together with purpose. Thumbs extended, index fingers curling downward.

“I could just—”

His middle and ring fingers snap upward.

Yuna swallows. All three of them shift.

“—kill you all…”

Urgent murmurs ripple through the men behind.

“…right now…”

The last two fingers, his pinkies, curl inward.

“Ryōi—”

“She’s yours!” the snake blurts, his words tumbling in haste. “You will have my youngest daughter.”

Yuna's hunches inward with defeat while her lip trembles.

Sukuna bares his teeth in a horrid smile.

Good. He wants them alive. Force-feeding someone incapable of seeing requires… inspiration. Slowly, he lowers his hands, fingers parting, allowing the handsign to dissipate.

“Then it’s settled. You have my word—you’ll have your treaty.” The final words drip from his mouth. Then, he rises, leaving the bloody organ abandoned at his feet, on the ground where he’d sat.

His gaze shifts, clashing with Yuna’s once more. Her eyes flicker, her features cracking. A dangerous, dangerous woman when denied. Hatred twists her face, her jaw tight enough to pulse.

I see you, serpent. I know what you are.

Sukuna’s red-stained teeth curve into another sharp, knowing smile.

And I’ll see you again.

Without a backward glance, he strides toward the exit, Uraume moving silently behind him, their steps a whisper against the mats.

“In one month,” Sukuna calls over his shoulder. “You’ll come south—and bring her to me.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a response.

Stepping outside, the stifling air of the tent gives way to a soft breeze brushing against his skin and garments.

One month.

One more month of waiting.

He can wait. He’s good at it. He’s had seven years to perfect it—patient but waiting impatiently.

Waiting for you. To have you. To keep you.

To see you again.

Though not for the reasons he should.

* * * * *

Moments ago…

“Say that again…”

Standing before you in the grove, the darkness of the trees casts your husband in colours of the earth—hues of ochre, midnight blue, shadows upon shadows. Heavy. Deep. Dark.

Despite the chaotic laughter that had burst from him moments ago, when he lowers his head from the sky, his red eyes flash with new intensity, as if the words you just spoke have woken something ancient—a creature stirring in the depths of a cave.

Hungry. He was hungry.

Sukuna takes a closer step, a slow, heel-to-toe, through the browning grass that crackles under his weight. The sound scrapes against your nerves, goosebumps pebbling up your body. The grove around you seems to grow colder with his approach.

For a fractured heartbeat, you feel as though you’ve been here before.

This. Him. Advancing like this.

You press the heel of your palm into your left eye, trying to retrieve the thought—or memory—but it slips away.

“Say. It. Again,” Sukuna bites out in fragments, his red eyes narrowing, predator to prey.

You drop your hand to your side.

No. He wasn’t hungry.

Bloodthirsty.

Refusing to back down, you swallow your fear and meet his gaze.

“I want you to kill everyone in the Kasai cla—”

His upper right hand snaps out, clamping around your throat and cutting you off. He forces you backward, the rough bark of a yew tree digging into your spine as he pushes you against it. His towering frame eclipses the faint beams of moonlight dappling through the branches.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’re asking of me?” he snarls into your face.

The question throws you—it’s not a challenge to the act itself, but a demand to know if you truly understand the weight of your request.

His lower hands press against the tree on either side, palms sinking into the wood, trapping you. The pulse in your throat pounds wildly beneath his palm.

“Yes.” The word ambles from your lips, unsteady, as you fight to stay steady.

Suddenly, his mouth stretches wide, the corners pulling back, showing his sharp canines press over his lower teeth.

“Do you?” he murmurs.

Slowly, agonizingly, he leans closer to where he has you pinned, his breathing calm, but you can hear it in his chest.

Closer.

Close enough that, for a moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you.

You stare at each other.

“You want to watch me tear apart your entire clan?” he breathes, bringing his face before yours, mouth parting. “Watch them split belly to groin? Watch them scream, crawl, and bleed as they die?”

Your mind empties when the hand at your neck moves to the back of your head, wrapping the length of your hair tightly around his fist. He yanks your head back, baring your throat, and presses his pelvis into you. A sharp breath escapes your lungs under the force of his dominance.

“Is this truly what you want?” His voice drops as he jabs two fingers into the top of your sternum.

Another hidden question.

“Yes,” you repeat, breathless.

“Say it again.”

“Yes.” Stronger this time.

His four eyes study your face, his gaze starting at your lips and ending at your eyes. You feel the stare. It bores into you, searching, looking, waiting for something—hesitation, weakness, doubt? You almost want to shut your eyes and look away, but you don’t.

“Why should I give you this?” He cocks his head as he asks quietly, mustering you.

Why?

Why?

Because if you do this, my father and Onishi will die, and this nightmare will end.

Because if you do this, I’ll finally be free—from them. From you.

Because if you do this, Yuna will be safe and unbound by expectations or duty.

Because if you do this, perhaps I can grasp a life of my own.

But that is too much honesty to give him.

“Because you’ve seen how I’m treated,” you say instead, your words clipped, emotion tucked tightly away. “My father—”

The abuse. The anger. The hatred. The shame. The regret.

You stop yourself.

Bottle it up. Don’t let it out.

The anger you feel, the hatred you feel.

“It’s what I want.” Your voice steadies, cold and unemotional, erasing any doubt.

What you’re asking for, the betrayal, the magnitude behind it.

His jaw tightens, his eyes steady in the dark, as if trying to see through you. To find even the smallest crack.

“I want this.”

Kill. Take. Find.

Another pause. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

“If I do this, there’s a condition,” he drawls, twisting your hair tighter in his fist, the strands scraping against your scalp, your head tipping back painfully.

“I’m listening,” you breathe through clenched teeth.

He urges you closer. The space between you shrinks to nothing. If you leaned forward, your lips would touch.

“A vow will be placed between us,” he coos before his upper left hand sinks to grasp the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing along your hip bone. “One to be called in at a time of my choosing. And when that time comes, you will give it to me.”

A vow.

Shit.

A terrible feeling rises in your throat, sinking deep into your stomach.

Telling him no means your father lives. Onishi lives.

Telling him yes means binding yourself to Sukuna. A contract with the King of Curses—a gamble you cannot win.

It's stupid and reckless.

But what choice do you have?

Do what needs to be done.

Your sister’s voice, in your head.

Maybe you can escape him before he enacts it.

“Fine. I accept,” you say calmly, forcing the words that seal the pact. “What is it you want from me?”

His grin splits wide, patchwork shadows from the grove draping him like a second skin. His lower hands drag away from the tree, slipping to the small of your back. He pulls you forward, urging you to step closer, as you move through scattered leaves while he moves backward. Each step guides you toward the grove’s center, where he finally stops. You stop with him.

He stares down at you. Scarlet eyes burning against the dark. 

Again. That feeling from before.

Leaning down, his mouth brushes against your ear, making you inhale deep into your lungs.

“You have no idea the things I could demand of you in exchange for what I’m about to do,” he whispers lowly, dragging his lips across the curve of your ear, and your knees threaten to fold. “But for now… you’ll have to be patient.”

Your pulse races as he pulls back, releasing your hair. The cage of his arms falls away. Without another glance, he turns and strides toward the edge of the grove.

For a heartbeat, you hesitate, then gather the hem of your kimono and rush after him, following his shadow out of the grove and back toward the compound.

Silently, through the garden, you trail behind him.

Then, inside, you spill into the corridor.

Quiet.

Where is everyone?

The two of you begin to move through the dim passageway, the same one you walked not hours ago when it had been a chaotic mess of people. Now, it’s nothing more than a deserted stretch of wooden floors and walls. Abandoned. Painfully silent.

No drunken revelry, no shameless fucking, no voices.

But it always seems to happen this way—on nights when everything holds its breath, waiting to exhale.

Just like seven years ago, on his arrival.

And now, he’s coming again. Death is coming. And it’s with you at its back.

Traitor.

A harsh wave of nausea rolls from your stomach to your throat. You fight the urge to vomit and swallow it back down.

It doesn’t matter if they brand you a traitor. None of that matters now. What matters is what’s about to happen.

You let a spark of fire in your belly grow, burning away your doubt and fueling your focus.

I’m doing this for her. Then she’ll take care of me, like she promised.

Walking ahead of you, you watch as Sukuna’s upper arms reach for his burnt umber obi, untying it in a single fluid motion. Behind him, his lower hands tug the rest of the garment free. It slips away, revealing the expanse of his tattooed back above dark hakama. He casts the cloth aside without a glance.

Your eyes climb upward, drawn to the motion of his shoulders. His gait is mesmerizing—brutal in its rhythm, each step a controlled shift of limbs and muscle, coiled and efficient. The sight of him sets your blood rushing in your ears, your heart knocking against your ribs.

An inexorable force.

At the corridor’s end, the attendant from before startles at your approach, their eyes widening.

“Get the fuck out,” Sukuna commands, flicking two fingers toward the open garden door.

They don’t hesitate, vanishing in seconds.

Alone, Sukuna turns and kneels before you. The floor creaks faintly under his weight as his hands abruptly part the front of your kimono, revealing your legs.

“These come off,” he murmurs, tapping your footwear with two fingers before sliding his hand to your tabi socks. “These as well.”

Holding your garment open, he watches you slip your feet free from your footwear, nudging them aside. With trembling fingers, you bend to remove your socks next, leaving them discarded on the ground.

Without warning, his lower hands grip the hem of your kimono and tear the fabric in a seamless motion, splitting it to your ankles. The ruined ends are tossed carelessly to the floor.

“What was that for?” you ask, your toes wiggling against the cool wood as you try to ground yourself.

“Bit of advice.” He sets the remaining fabric back into place. “Don’t step into enemy territory with loose ends like that. You’ll need to run.” He rises to his feet, towering above you, and you follow his movement with watchful eyes. “It’s a liability.”

You nod faintly.

It makes sense.

He straightens with a smirk.

“Besides,” he adds smoothly, “we can’t have you scrambling around, slipping and taking a tumb—”

“Don’t fucking say it.” You interrupt with a nervous, broken laugh. His mouth twitches, amused, before he leans in to gather your hair, tucking it neatly into the back of your garment.

Another loose end secured.

“Thank you…” you mumble quietly.

His eyes soften momentarily, turning almost gentle.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” His fingertips brush your abdomen, his hand splaying wide, pressing just enough to feel its rise and fall. His gaze locks onto yours, serious now. “And stay out of my way, or you’ll become a stain like the rest.”

You swallow and nod.

That wouldn’t be a problem.

Sukuna taps the scabbard hidden in your obi.

“You won’t need that either,” he remarks smugly.

Your eyes flick down to his hand, then to your own gloved ones.

Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth—why you were sent to him in the first place, chosen over your sister, the better choice for a wife, and what you really are, how you were sent to kill him.

He pulls away, stepping toward the door. His hands reach for it, and goosebumps pull up along your skin.

“Wait.”

He pauses, casting you a piercing sidelong glance, the swell of his tattooed shoulder partially obscuring his face.

It stops you cold.

The words stick lost in your throat.

What if the truth leads to your death at his hands? What if he sees this as a betrayal? You’ve been living at his shrine under a guise, all the while carrying this secret.

The risk feels too great.

You swallow back the words, letting the secret fester. It’s for the best—or so you tell yourself. Yet, deep down, a voice whispers that you’ve chosen self-preservation over honesty. One day, you might regret it.

Not if I’m gone.

“The name you want is Onishi,” you say confidently, lifting your chin and giving him exactly what he came here for.

There’s a pause.

All four of his hands twitch.

“Broken nose?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Was that your doing?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna’s nostrils flare, and a feral satisfaction washes over his face.

“He dies first,” he growls with heavy aggression.

Then he turns and, with a brutal motion, flings the doors open.

Bang!

The sound crashes through the corridor, making you jump.

Sukuna steps in.

Every head within the main hall turns. Every conversation dies.

Don’t forget to breathe.

Inhale.

Gracefully, as though he owns the space, the King of Curses stalks deeper inside. His four arms hang relaxed, his bare upper body bathed in the pulsing light of the stone lanterns lining the edges.

The concubines scattered across the room—some partially naked, others entwined with men—understand the danger immediately. Quietly and smoothly, they gather themselves and retreat, slipping out through the far-left corner of the room.

Exhale.

Bare feet tapping softly against the floor, you step inside after him, keeping your distance as he commanded. You take your place at his back, standing slightly off to his right.

Joining him.

A slow, creeping horror descends over the room. Faces twist, expressions collapsing into ugly shapes of dread.

No one moves. No one speaks. 

And the ones who know you? Their eyes scream with murderous accusation.

Strange, how once upon a time, that might have hurt.

Your eyes cut away, shifting to Sukuna. He stands motionless, his four eyes sweeping over the crowd of roughly forty people. One of his fingers taps rhythmically—he’s counting again. But then his gaze thins, narrowing as confusion gives way to cold realization.

He snaps his head toward you.

“This is not everyone,” he hisses. “There are some missing.”

Your eyes dart around.

He’s right.

Your sister is gone, as planned. Likely long gone, riding away on her horse.

Good.

But Onishi… Onishi is missing, too. So is the black-haired woman who deliberately bumped you earlier. And the entire Zen’in clan.

Still, most of your clan and another remain present.

Suddenly, Sukuna steps closer, his upper lip peeling back in a snarl.

“What the fuck did you do?” he growls, his voice just shy of a shout. “Where the hell is she?”

She?

You shake your head, unable—or unwilling—to answer.

If he thinks that killing everyone in your clan, means he’ll get to your sister, he’s blind to who you are. You would rot all four of his arms off before he could lay a single fucking finger on her.

Inhale.

Your eyes dance back to the room, finally locking onto a lone figure seated at the other end.

Father.

He rises to his feet. His hawkish eyes have never been forgiving, and he looks at you like you're unworthy of even existing.

You incline your chin defiantly. Remembering every vile word, every scornful strike and every hurled insult. Twenty-five years of malice for this man.

Sukuna’s attention shifts. He turns, aligning his body with your gaze, directing it toward the man you’ve silently cursed a thousand times over.

But something happens.

Something you didn’t predict.

Something Sukuna might not have either.

Because from where you stand—beside the greatest threat in the room, the greatest threat in Japan—you had expected the command to be for everyone to rush the King of Curses.

But you are wrong.

So fucking wrong.

Your father’s arm stretches out, a single finger lifting—not to point at Sukuna, but at you.

You. His daughter.

Sister. Protector. Tool. The last one, no longer.

Your eyes dart to Sukuna’s. His burn with bright, hot, unforgiving rage.

Exhale.

His energy unfurls, snaking outward, filling the room with oppressive, suffocating weight.

The loud clang of frenzied metal vibrates through the air as everyone present throws themselves to their feet, drawing their weapons in unison.

Inhale.

A stillness settles over the room. The hounds are waiting, their eyes trained on their master and you, their prey.

They wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And—

“Fucking kill her!!!”

Teeth agape, your father screams the order.

You forget to exhale.

Sukuna moves.

And all hell breaks loose.

[nabinabipumpum]

CAN I BE THE FIRST? - 08ᴹⁱⁿʲⁱ ˣ ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Pairing - Kim Minji X f!Reader

Genre - Fluff, angst, written + smau

Synopsis - Y/n always tried to manage on her own, especially with the family she had, but after becoming a trainee she realized that not everyone hated her. After the debut she still tries to deal with her feelings, but everything becomes even more confusing after having to approach NewJeans for better coexistence in the company.

Warning - mention of mom and daddy issues, self-acceptance problems, mention of homophobic parents, Y/n is starting to accept herself

Previous | Masterlist | Next

3 weeks ago…

You looked up at the ceiling as you listened to the music on the speaker.

All kinds of thoughts went through your head, in the end you weren't actually listening to the music.

You didn't understand why it was so hard to just accept and be who you were, you were forcing yourself to be someone who wasn't you, someone you didn't want to be, just to please someone who never cared about you.

You ignored some of Minji's messages, giving the excuse of being busy with the schedule for your first comeback and she understood that. At least that's what she said, because she didn't understand why you responded to Haerin and Dani every day but not her, were you just busy when it was her?

You also avoided her in the company corridors whenever you could, you almost bumped into each other a few times but you avoided it, but she noticed and it was making you confused.

It turns out that you exchanged common dreams and some nightmares for just dreams with Minji, the two of you in the bookstore, in your room, on the beach, on the company roof, you dreamed about her confessing or vice versa and now you didn't know what do it or say it to.

You heard a few knocks on the door before the familiar girl came in with a can of pringles, “for you,” Miya smiled and you sat up as you watched her sit on the edge of the bed and hand the object to you.

"Thanks."

“You look sad.” You looked at her for a few seconds.

I shouldn't say anything. She is my friend. I should trust her. Maybe she will help me. Maybe she'll fake it. She's the only one who will listen to me.

“Kitty?” she snapped you out of your thoughts “Tell me what’s going on, everyone has noticed how distant you are.”

“I…” she encouraged you to speak and got closer when she saw that her voice would sound low “I think… maybe… no, it's bullshit.”

"No! If it bothers you then it's not bullshit, trust me, I'm here to listen to you.” She intertwined her fingers with yours and squeezed lightly, you looked down and then the sheet on your legs seemed more interesting than looking directly at her.

“I think I like Minji… but, we’re from the same company and… that’s stupid, I shouldn’t, it’s wrong.” you felt your eyes burn and your voice cracked during the last words.

“Don’t say that, there’s nothing wrong, look at me.” It took you a while to finally look at her, now the tears were rolling down your cheeks and you sniffled lightly. “It's not wrong that you like her, maybe it's even a good thing, she might like you too.” You denied it and put your head in your hands.

“They’re going to fight me, mom said I was going to hell.”

“You don’t even believe in God.”

“Coming home is hell.”

A few seconds of silence between the two of you, just the music from the speaker playing low and you cried even more when a NewJeans song started playing. Miya patted your head and sat down next to you, her arm wrapped around you and you relaxed a little. Why were you so scared?

“You’re already home, no one can hurt you here.” you remembered your parents’ last visit and how you were almost shaking at being so close to them again “It’s okay that you’re not straight, everyone is on your side, we want to see you happy.”

“Right.” you sighed and wiped away some tears that were still sliding down your face “I just… this is weird…”

“Take your time.” You nodded and placed your head on her shoulder.

“Thank you… for being here.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” She smiled and squeezed you a little tighter, you nodded “It’s going to be okay.”

“How are you sure?”

“Your life has been bad enough, it’s time for you to be happy.” you didn’t have time to process her words “Come on! Get ready and let’s go out.”

“But we have to sleep in three hours.”

“You don’t have an option, get changed while I call the others.”

Taglist: @gtfoiydlyj @cloudinwjns @yncoreee @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @ourlovesarang @saysirhc @yuyuy90 @he------len @vrtualstar

[dovalore]

parkour civilization but i think way too deeply about the fighter layer

lore and design thoughts under cut

oh yeah, buckle up for this one

design notes - apf

ah yes, emf's species my beloved (i will not stop interpreting skins as them) ex1 ex2

apf's albino, so his eyes are bright red and his fur is completely pale

also yes, that's his full name here, it's not an abbreviation of anything

but he also answers to ghost if that helps

which kinda leads me to my next point, in a way. i associate this song with him (caution: loud)

the other song i associate with him is this (SPOILERS FOR FFXIV DAWNTRAIL) (specifically the third story dungeon) (you will not escape my love of ffxiv even in parkciv)

his tail isn't broken, its just kinked and has been for his entire life

despite looking like they could snap off if you pinch them, apf's horns are actually really sturdy

fighter boots have spurs on them, kids get a trainee version that have a stud in the back instead, y'know for safety reasons

wears dark clothes to make himself stand out less, the sleeves of his hoodie got progressively more tattered until he got sick of trying to stop them from falling apart so he tore them off himself

he uses bandages to substitute their absence, if he wraps them just firm enough, they won't get caught and tear on things as often. probably. he's making do

his tail isn't wrapped because it restricts its movement too much, which is dangerous when he uses it for balance

he does have two eyes, but he's also got a long ass fringe that seems to almost always cover one of them

design notes - seawatt

he's just a little guy!

there's not too much going on with his appearance at the moment, but he is wearing the same necklace as he is in this, it's just being covered by his paws (i also don't... really have an actual design in mind for it so it's still just kind of a vague thing)

lore

meta: initially it was just gonna be present apf, but then i thought about naphia's animation and i was like, yeah! let's add his past version as well, why not include seawatt? he's in the video and a fighter too, then it kinda just has a domino effect from there (i am deeply unwell about parkour civilization)

the colour of the effect particles around present apf is specifically F82421

apf's parents disappeared when he was still small, but he was taken care of by the adults around him, seawatt's parents included

apf and seawatt are roughly the same age and have been friends basically their entire lives

because of his upbringing, apf sees basically everyone as family, so everything he knows about the world and parkour comes from his family

one of the more prominent figures in his life is ms ami, his (and seawatt's) mentor. her lessons were absolutely vital to his development as a fighter and later on, his survival after the fighter layer was erased

seawatt might be the the one that introduced brewing stand jumps to the series, but even his considerable skill with them pales in comparison to apf's. granted, he didn't have to use them in life or death situations as often as apf did, so the gulf between their skill level really only becomes a thing post erasure

of course apf knew that his layer was going to be cut off from the rest of parkour civilization, everyone there did. but he couldn't just leave them there to fend for themselves, especially not when most of the people who took care of him as a kid were growing too old to do parkour

the difference between him and seawatt is that he understood why it had to be this way because he happened to be there when the champion briefly returned to say goodbye to an old friend

so after the layer was wiped, apf spent most of his time scavenging for food and blocks, most of the former would be given away to the people he was looking after

as time passed, he didn't have to push himself as far to look for food because... well, the number of people he cared for gradually dwindled, be it from natural causes or... other reasons

by the time seawatt returned to the fighter layer, there was only one person still being watched over by apf

he didn't get to see them before being taken to the master layer though, so he has no idea if they're alright. he'll ask to go back once he's able, though

design note i'm putting here instead of up there because it has more context now: yeah, he was designed to look unfriendly despite being the exact opposite of that. just like our first impression of this guy and then like, actually knowing what he's like in the series

not entirely based off the fact that he gave his last piece of steak to evbo when he went to face the parkour villain, but remembering that particular detail while drawing kind of just solidified this specific image of him in my mind as someone who really cares for others despite everything

[iamchickenhearmesquawk]

I absolutely love when movie musicals utilize that they are in a different medium (screen as opposed to stage, which means we can utilize closeups and cuts that physically aren’t possible on a stage, at least not in the same way) while still using the things that makes musicals what they are (choreography, using song to give us a unique look into the characters perspective or move the story along in a different way also not being embarrassed that they are a musical)

Spoilers for the wicked movie kind of

Like that ozdust ballroom scene in wicked was perfect, and being able to give us closeups (or that shot with Glinda wiping away her tears???) and camera focus (I’m not a big film person so my language may be wrong and I’ve only seen it once, but from what I remember most of the crowd is like, out of focus) and also is a perfect example of what dance can communicate in musicals. The connection they make together by dancing transcends words.

I was wondering if they’d keep it or not and I’m so glad they did and it also felt more sincere than how it’s played on stage (I feel like on stage elphies dance is purposely played for at least a few awkward laughs)

Also the one time Glinda gives up her comfort and status for someone else hngfnshagag

[leslietheluna]

✨"Never forget your dreams!"✨

Puyo puzzle pop my beloved🥺

[Also- here's a Timelapse! If I recall correctly, total time I spent on this was 10 hours😭]

[starbuck]

“No, I don’t want news… There’s no news about this song.”

— John Darnielle while attempting to google the lyrics to “Store” on an audience member’s phone

[skunkes]

,

[coconut530]

[cynical-canidae]

When your card declines at therapy so they bust out the bridge of Oldies Station.

[skitskatdacat63]

"Bring on The Dancing Horses"(x) - Echo and The Bunnymen × Ferrari Drivers

[grimalkinmessor]

Separated At Birth AU Anon got me thinkin' thoughts....

Like melancholic yet spiteful "exotic dancer" Yoichi and his newest client, who seems to have recognized him on sight despite Yoichi having never met him before....

[befuddled-calico-whump]

no, she can't come to the phone right now. yeah, she's crying over the music videos in her head