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woahjo · 7 months

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The People We Became (Bakugou x Reader)

masterlist | ao3

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Summary: Zombie Apocalypse Au.

The world fell apart almost a year ago and you refused to go with it. Left alone and to your own devices in a world full of monsters, where the dead come back to life, you believe that maybe surviving isn't living.

When Katsuki finds you alone in the woods and on the precipice of collapsing from exhaustion, he decides to bring you back to the house his group calls home. Against your better judgement and hesitancy to become attached, you decide to stay. In this world, everyone has lost someone. No soul is spared the violence, and you start sleeping with Bakugou Katsuki to dull the ache. Somehow, peace finds you anyway, but not without sacrifice.

Chapter Content Warnings: fem!reader, gender neutral pronouns, strangers to lovers, violence typical of zombies, blood, gore, romance, slow-ish burn (for the emotional stuff), angst, kissin', questions of identity, loss, grief, graphic depictions of death and/or violence, mentions and descriptions of starvation/exhaustion typical of an apocalypse setting, very slight implications of possible sexual violence typical of an apocalypse setting, derealization, depersonalization, weapons (guns, blades, and traps), loss of identity

All content warnings can be found on ao3 with the rest of the series.

Word Count: 14.4k — 53k total on ao3

A/N: it's finally done... i'm sweating. i screamed. i cried. i bled. you know the drill. i am posting this a little differently than my other fics and series. only the first chapter will be posted here on tumblr (this post), with the rest of it broken up into chapters and posted on ao3.. purely because it was originally meant as a one shot and i don't like posting chapters on tumblr. it's not built for that and im tired. anyway, im nervous this is my new baby and im pretty sure my soul is somewhere in here. if u read this, pls come tell me what you think.. it fuels me. enjoy, cry, sweat, or whatever else you do when you read. as always, thank you and i love you.

Two hundred and seventy six. It’s been two hundred and seventy six days since the world completely went to shit. You don’t really count the initial outbreak. The initial outbreak was relatively contained once people found out about it. You quarantined. You stayed inside. All it really took were a handful of idiots. Someone selfish. Someone who panicked and ran instead of facing the world honorably, and that was it. It only took days to lose almost every semblance of a normal life and a week to lose everything else.

The light of your fire is dim, embers burning low as you sit in a foldable chair beside it. The chair is from a friend, someone you’re not with anymore and who went somewhere you couldn’t follow, and you've got a metal spatula in your hand. You're not sure why you grabbed it when you fled, but panic does weird things to the mind. You absentmindedly wonder why you’ve brought it along with you all this time. There’s no logical reason for you to tote the thing around. A friend had told you how strange it was that you thought to toss it into your bag and continue carrying it. This, along with a few other oddities, are all you managed to take from your house when the world fell to ruin. Everything else are things scavenged along the way or from people you'd met, joined, and lost.

Maybe it’s because the spatula is somewhat normal, like somehow when you cook the game on your makeshift tin over your shitty fire, you can pretend you’re in your kitchen. A smash burger sounds good right now, with grilled onions on a brioche bun like the ones from the place by your apartment.

The night is near silent and trees creak and crack like the hulls of great ships under heavy pressure, but the birds don't sing and nothing in the crowded wood you're taking shelter in makes a sound. Well, except for you and the gentle crackle of your fire.

It’s easy to miss the noise that used to irritate you when the world goes quiet. You used to hate the sounds and lights of passing trucks when they’d cross on the street below your apartment window. Now, you’d do anything for the familiar comfort. The world is so dark and quiet, like it’s holding its breath and waiting for this to be over. The silence is almost too much, so loud that it hurts your ears. You huddle closer to the fire, craving its quiet sound. Focusing on it lessens the anxiety of the other noises. The ones you don’t want to hear.

Your head is on a swivel. It has been for months. Ever since the outbreak, ever since the dead rose and began consuming and infecting the living, you've kept watch. A paranoid, never ending cycle that you suppose—if left on your own—will burn itself out. You swallow thick and return your attention to the fire, watching the tree line just in front of you for any hint of movement or monsters.

A branch cracks just behind you. A swift sound, followed by rapid footsteps. You stand, quickly turning your head, only to see a figure a few feet away from you. They move quickly and the dancing light of the fire obscures their features from view. Their eyes, most importantly. You can always tell if someone is dead or alive based on their eyes and the sounds that their joints make. In this light, should this stranger have that milky white film over them, you wouldn't be able to tell.

You make a small noise, something between a whimper and a shout, as the person comes to a stop in front of you and holds a flashlight directly into your face. You squint, panic in your veins as your eyes adjust as best they can to the sudden assault. It takes you a moment to realize that there is a gun pointed directly at your forehead. The living. This person is alive. You're not sure yet if encountering one of the dead would have been worse.

"Shut up and drop your weapon," he says in a hurried voice. It's aggressive and threatening. It comes from deep in his chest, like somehow fear has gripped and mutilated it into something violent.

You raise your shaky hands to your head quickly at the order, screwing your eyes shut in the beam of the flashlight.

"It's not a weapon!" you shout, voice cracking. "It's a spatula. It's a spatula."

The words are rushed and heavy, fear seizing your chest as you look down the barrel of the gun. The flashlight turns off, sending you back into the dark. Your eyes fight to adjust, catching the firelight that glints off of the barrel, and you begin to makeout the man’s features. He's big, blonde under the grime, you think. A man, not the best thing to encounter alone at night in times like these.

You see him hesitate for a moment, eyes darting between you and the silver kitchen item in your hand. You drop it quickly, hoping to appeal to his humanity.

"Do you have a weapon on you?" he questions, voice a little less urgent.

You shake your head in response and then shakily look beside the chair, choking out the word “ground”. There's a knife there and a pistol with no bullets. You're a poor shot and you had run out of ammo the previous week. He glances at it, the gun still raised at you, and sidesteps to grab the two items. When he does, he cautiously lowers the weapon and you start to lower your trembling hands.

Then, as if struck by some realization, the man stomps towards the fire and you jump as he does.

"The fuck are you doing lighting a fire this late?" he says angrily, opening the clip of your pistol. "And with no fucking bullets. Those things may be dead, but they can still fuckin' see. That's a good way to get yourself killed."

He stomps out the fire as he talks, urgently stamping out what's left of the low-burning logs.

"I didn't think there were many in the area," you justify, furrowing your eyebrows as you step away from him.

"And that's a risk you want to take?" he says indignantly. You wonder briefly what business he has worrying about you.

"What do you want?" you snap, "My food? Weapons? Life? What is it?"

The man scoffs, "Jesus, none of that. I don’t want your shit."

You narrow your eyes and take a step back. One thing this world has done is remove trust from every chance encounter, and that was already hard enough when the place was sane.

"Not all people who camp out in the woods are good," he says. "But I sure as shit didn't expect to find someone like you alone lighting a damn fire. Stupid."

"There were others," you say indignantly, like somehow that makes it better. "Force of habit, I guess."

The man pauses for a moment as understanding passes between the two of you. It's a relatable feeling. Everyone has lost someone now.

"Got a name?" he asks.

You hesitate in giving it to him and the pause causes him to roll his eyes. “You want me to call you Idiot-with-no-bullets instead?”

You give him your name and the man nods as if he likes the sound of it, turning it over in his head before inhaling.

"I'm Katsuki," he furrows his eyebrows. "You're alone?"

You nod, swallowing down the grief that pushes at your throat.

"Wasn't always," you respond, "but yeah. Now, I am."

He nods his understanding.

"Come with me."

"Where?" you say instinctively, a defensive edge to your voice. Katsuki looks at you as if you’re stupid, or maybe it's pity, like you're a wounded animal. Probably both.

"Where the fuck do you think?" he retorts. "We've got a camp a little ways from here. I saw your fire from the watch post we have stationed."

You look at him like he's a little crazy for even thinking to bring you. Kindness, especially the selfless type, is so rare now and you find it difficult to believe that he’s willing to take you there at no cost.

He scoffs and rolls his head over his shoulder. "Look, we've got men and women," then he pauses. "Used to have children. We're not gonna hurt you. World's gone to shit, do you really wanna keep at it alone?"

He's probably right. You've been alone for weeks now, exhausted for longer, and though your common sense tells you not to go off with a strange man in this kind of world, the promise of rest is far too tempting. You nod and glance back to your camp. A measly collection of supplies haphazardly put together. You suppose that it doesn’t look so promising.

"We'll come back for it when it's light," he says. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend longer in these dark ass woods than I have to."

"Okay," you say. The presence of another person both sets you on edge and makes you feel the press of fatigue even more. A gun's barrel on your nose followed by the promise of safety and you're going with him? You must be stupider than a horror movie protagonist. "Do you take in a lot of strays?"

Katsuki looks over his shoulder and you think you see him smile a little at the phrase.

"If that's what you want to call it," he says begrudgingly. Then, with a softer tone of voice, barely noticeable with the quiet whisper you both have been speaking at. "I'm sure the others won't mind one more."

You nod a little and follow him through the wood, stepping over obstacles. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark, but you feel unsteady on your feet. Everything you’ve ever learned about this world tells you that maybe you shouldn’t go with him. What if they’re dangerous? It’s easy to lie about women and children, about a community that doesn’t exist. Or worse, it’s easy to fool yourself that where you are is good, but you don’t know yet if he’s the type to delude himself. He doesn’t seem it.

The two of you walk for what feels like forever, even if it is only a little over half a mile. Your feet have been aching for days and every step you take feels like a blade into the heel. Katsuki seems steady, his gun secured at his hip and a large knife in his dominant hand. He doesn’t have the flashlight out, but he seems sure-footed and takes every step in stride, as if he’s too heavy to be swayed by any missed step.

As you move, you can barely make out his back in the white tank top he wears. You use it as a landmark, following the glowing white as it catches the light from the moon. Like chasing a ghost through the trees.

Then, the wood eases up. The trees grow sparse and the suffocating humidity of the forest eases into a more breathable, open-air breeze. Katsuki steps out into a clearing. It’s relatively small, for how large the world is, but it’s some of the most open space you’ve seen in a while. The feeling of stepping out into the tall grass, where you’re both visible to any wandering thing, sends a rush of fear through you.

By the edge of the clearing, there’s a small house with a short steeple. It almost looks like a Christian church, but you get the sense that it’s likely a barn. That must be the watchtower and you wonder just how good the view of the forest is from up there if Katsuki managed to see the light of your fire. How many other people had seen your fires over the weeks and not made it out to confront you? How close had you come before to safety or annihilation?

"Hey!" a girl's voice calls. "He's back!"

In the near distance, you can see a large and dimly lit house. It looks a little worn down, but soft and hardly noticeable light emanates from it in a way that makes it seem inviting.You can’t make out its exact silhouette and night blurs just how broken-down it is, but you can tell that people live there in the same way you can tell when someone has just left a room.

Someone runs across the field to you both. It looks like a man and a woman, maybe around Katsuki's age. They move quickly through the tall grass and for a moment, the urgency that they move with frightens you. You worry that your presence will ignite some protective sort of panic. You linger back, letting Katsuki grow a little farther from you as they call out to him.

“Yeah, yeah," he half-shouts, no longer seeming to care about keeping quiet. Guess that's what happens when there's a group. "I found the fire I mentioned."

The two come to a stop in front of him, resting their hands on their hips as they catch the breath they lost.

"We started to get a little worried," says the girl. She's pretty, with big eyes and curly hair that looks like it probably used to be dyed. "You've been gone for a while."

"Well, I'm back," he says.

"And you brought a friend," the other man says, sounding shocked. His tone is noticeably kind. The boisterous type of kind and when he smiles, you can see that he has sharp canines. His hair is straight, sticking out in different directions, and tinged with red in this light.

"More like an acquaintance," Katsuki says. “I found them in the woods with a fire and an empty clip. Felt like their blood would be on my hands if I didn’t bring them back.” The red-haired man gives him a telling look and Katsuki scoffs in response and turns to the girl. "Get them settled, Mina, will you?" The girl called Mina nods and Katsuki takes off toward the house without another word.

"You're lucky," she says, pausing when you flinch as she steps closer. "You're gettin' the last solo room in the place. Kirishima, is it set up?"

Kirishima shrugs his shoulders. "You'd have to ask Izuku. He'd know all about that, but I can go check."

Mina shakes her head and turns her attention to you, giving you a quick once over with her eyebrows pulled together.

"You must be tired.”

When you nod, she gives you an empathetic smile and motions for you to come with her. "We'll fix that. You hungry?"

"What do you think?" you manage, saliva pooling in your mouth. "Do you have food?"

"Plenty," she smiles. "not quite enough for leftovers just yet though, don’t tell anyone."

You smile awkwardly. Who on earth would you tell?

"Sounds like a good deal," you say.

You follow Mina up to the house. Around it, there are a few parked cars. They look like they could pull out at any moment, and through the dust covered windows, you can just make out supplies in the back seats as you pass. In the distance, you can see the fuzzy silhouette of the barn you’d assumed was a watchtower in the dark of the field and you figure that maybe it used to be a place to keep livestock.

Mina doesn't say much to you as you pass through the field, and when you walk into the door, the first thing you notice is a large group of people seated at a dining table. They all look up at you when you enter and it's with a bit of shock that you register their faces as healthy. Well, healthier. These people live well. Something stirs in your chest, both anxiety and excitement at the thought of possibly having found somewhere safe. They blink at you for a moment, exchanging looks that all end up landing on Katsuki.

"This is the group. Well, most of us," Mina says pleasantly and with a light huff. "That's Izuku, Denki, Ochako, Sero, and you already know the handsome guy on the end there. Kiri's probably checking to see if the room is half decent.." They all greet you with a glad murmur. "Group, this is..."

She looks at you expectantly. When you tell them your name, you can't help but look at Katsuki who already knows it. He raises his eyebrows unconsciously and turns his attention to the glass in front of him.

There’s an awkward pause as you stand in the doorway, suddenly conscious of just how dirty you must look. Remnants of an older world, you suppose. No one really worries about things like that anymore.

“Uhm…” you search for something to say, but your people skills seem to have left you.

“You’re okay,” Mina says lightly. “Plenty of time to get to know you when you’ve rested and had something to eat.”

Mina sits you down at a chair that she pulls in from the other room. It doesn't match the other ones in the dining room, but you suppose no one is really thinking of the decor in their house anymore. It's only now that you realize the house has electricity.

"You have power?" you say incredulously, looking at the center light in the dining room on its low setting.

"Mhm," Mina hums as she sits down next to you and spoons a helping of vegetables onto your plate. "It's got a generator. We got lucky finding this place. I don't think many of us would be alive if we hadn't."

Those listening in the group nod their affirmation.

"It draws from well water too," she adds. "With the right care, the place practically runs on its own. Hard work but what isn't nowadays?"

“Like you do any of the heavy lifting," Sero scoffs across from her.

"That's not fair," Katsuki adds with a slick smirk, "you know damn well none of our vegetables would be so well socialized if she didn't use them like a damn diary all day."

The group laughs a little and Mina rolls her eyes and sits back in the chair. You avoid looking at anyone, shoveling the food into your mouth. You’re salivating an almost embarrassing amount, struggling to eat at a normal pace. There’s something about food cooked inside, about the way food tastes when you can smell it wafting in from the kitchen.

"Don't worry," she turns to you, as if you’re at all concerned with the implication that she doesn’t do much work, "they know we’d hardly have vegetables at all if it weren't my job to tend them. I used to garden quite a bit before all of this."

Sero tosses her a sideways glance and you get the sense that maybe it isn’t just her doing it.

"Mina does a lot of the garden stuff," Ochako pitches in, her voice hesitant. "We all sort of just do what we can."

You can’t really keep up with the conversation and instead just blink at her for a moment before turning back to your food. Maybe that’s rude, but you don’t have the energy to consider it. There’s food in front of you. Food that doesn’t taste like it’s been poorly slaughtered or rotting in a cabinet for months.

The group at the table with you shifts back into what you feel is their normal conversation and you watch them through your peripheral. You can’t relax yet, maybe you never will. Always on watch with your guard up.

They pass the dishes around the table, plates going from hand to hand over mismatched sets of silverware. The action feels strange to you. Your chest squeezes at the thought. Just a few weeks ago, you’d done this around a fire with the people you loved. You’d passed a too-hot-to-touch pot around a circle of friends, laughing quietly at the little moments of joy you could find. It feels far away now and jealousy rouses beside hope as you sit.

“So, where did you come from?” Izuku at the end of the table asks.

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s talking to you and there’s an edge to his voice that has everyone at the table sitting up with curiosity. You stare at him for a moment, exhausted and defeated and unable to muster the words.

“Leave them be,” Katsuki says, looking up from his plate. “They just got here. They’re probably freaked out.”

The table goes a little quiet, a hush falling over it. You look around as glances are exchanged before Mina stands up quickly and quietly claps her hands together.

“I think,” she says with an awkward laugh, “it may be time for bed.”

Mina turns to you. “I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

You nod, standing up and turning to the group with furrowed eyebrows. You want to thank them, to tell them that you’re grateful for the meal and their kindness, but the words don’t come. Instead, you meet Katsuki’s gaze, grateful for the intervention, but suspicious at such forthcoming kindness. He scoffs a little and turns away.

—

“It’s just up here,” Mina says as she guides you through the house.

You pass rooms with their doors ajar. They are lived in, with unmade beds and glasses of clean water on nightstands. It’s like something out of a life gone by, with a few less amenities. You can imagine a family moving through this house. Girls in school uniforms calling through the halls about a stolen hair clip. Now, you picture these people doing that. Living and not just surviving.

“The bathroom is across the hall,” she says. “You can take a shower if you want. I’ll leave a towel and some clothes in there just in case.”

You nod.

“No worries if you don’t,” Mina adds in a whisper. “When I first met everyone, I didn’t undress to bathe for days so… take your time. We won’t be offended.”

She shuts the door behind her when she leaves and you stumble back onto the bed, shocked by just how soft it feels after spending weeks on the floor. It’s not much, but it’s nicer than anything you’ve experienced in the last nine months, and there's a working shower. You haven’t had a shower since everything fell apart and the layer of grime on your skin is so thick that you can feel it. You haven’t felt safe enough to properly wash since you’d lost the rest of your group, only stopping to rinse your body in streams you pass if the thought occurred to you. The idea of running water and a shower is near euphoric.

You probably shouldn’t. It may not be wise to shower tonight. You still don’t know these people or what they’re capable of, but the temptation of being clean is too great and as soon as you hear Mina close the bathroom door and walk away, you hurry across the hall on the balls of your feet.

The bathroom looks old and the sink is white porcelain, eggshell now with a lack of care. The shower has a bathtub in it and though it’s cloudy, there’s a mirror over the sink where you catch the first clear glimpse you’ve had of yourself in weeks.

You don’t know who you’re looking at. The person in the mirror is nearly unrecognizable. Their eyes are wide and frightened, wild like an animal’s, and their face is covered in a layer of grime that looks like it can never be washed out. Their hair is unruly, sticking out in some areas and matted down with blood in others. This is a person you’ve never seen or met before. Someone you would have avoided only a year ago if you’d ever encountered them.

You reach up to touch your face, running your hand over the dried blood that has made a home on the underside of your jaw. How long has it been there? Have you always looked so unwell? So sick in mind and body? The promise of a shower grows unbearably pleasant.

The knob squeaks when you turn it, screeching as the pipes hum and clang to life. Water spits out in a few bursts before raining down from the faucet and hitting the back of the tub in a steady thrum. It sounds a little bit like music to you, constant and heavy, and it gives the impression of normalcy as you begin undressing.

The fabric of your clothes sticks to your skin, peeling from your body in an unbearable and disgusting way. You don’t look at your body in the mirror. In fact, you avoid it entirely. Not recognizing your face was enough, but your body—a part of yourself you never really recognized—would drive you over the edge.

Then, you pull the shower curtain back and stick your hand under the water, stepping into it fully with a deep sigh. The water is lukewarm. They probably turned off the heater to conserve power and allow the main generator to function for longer. That’s fine. Beggars can’t be choosers and everyone is a beggar nowadays. Besides, it’s warm enough outside that the water isn’t too cold as it is. In the winter, you probably wouldn’t be able to shower and the pipes might freeze entirely until the following spring.

There’s a normalcy that you settle into as you wash your body. You return to muscle memory, running your hands over your skin and scrubbing the grime out. It’s simultaneously like the first shower of your life and as if you’ve been doing it every day. You return to a state of pleasant, familiar humanity as you wash away dirt that has built up for weeks. You feel as it pours off of you, see it run down your body onto the porcelain of the tub and swirl down the drain. It’s dirt and dried blood that has been caked onto your skin. You worry that even after washing, it will leave a permanent mark.

The person in the mirror when you get out of the shower is in stark contrast to the person who went into it. They’re someone that you recognize. You could almost convince yourself that nothing ever changed. Your water-soaked skin is so familiar to you, that you could be getting out of the shower and dressing to go to work. If it weren’t for the look in your eyes, you could have fooled yourself. Something undefinable has changed in you, something that you will carry with you forever. You glance at yourself in the foggy mirror and think that there is no going back.

The house is quiet when you dry yourself and open the bathroom door. You step across the hall on the balls of your feet, careful not to make any noise, and when you push the bedroom door open, you do a visual sweep to make sure that it’s safe out of habit.

Your body is exhausted. You are so thoroughly tired that you think you could collapse at any moment, but when you sit down on the bed in your fresh clothes, you find yourself restless. This place is new to you and you’re unsure if the safe feeling is your mind playing desperate tricks on you or the real thing. The lamp by your bed is on, casting a yellow glow across the bedsheets and the dark wood furniture. Come to think of it, you didn’t get a good look at the house when you came in and the thought starts to bother you as you stare at the closed door to the hallway.

Someone could be behind it. They could be waiting for you to lay down, to sleep, before doing something awful. You almost feel guilty for thinking this way about them. They’ve fed you, given you a shower, given you fresh clothes. Luxuries you weren’t sure even existed anymore, yet you’re sitting here doubting them, wishing you had your pistol or knife.

The bedroom door creaks as you open it. You wince, nervous that you’ve disturbed the quiet peace of the house and that everything will come crashing down as quickly as it seemed to come together. The hallway is dark, save for some light coming from under two doors at the end of the hall. One of them turns out as you creep past it to the stairs, and you hear the distinct sound of box springs squeaking as someone crawls into bed. You let go of the breath you’d been holding, straightening up as you relax into the late-night environment.

The house looks old even from the inside. It gives the impression of having once been dirty and in near disrepair. There are dust stains and dull spots that no amount of scrubbing could get out. You can almost picture how this place may have looked when they found it and it’s entirely possible that it had been abandoned before the actual outbreak. Someone run out of their home for lack of money. What a trivial thing now.

The stairs are sturdy, probably held together so well by the foundation of the house, and they’re made of dark wood. They’re steep too, the kind that a baby or old person might trip over, and you hold the railing to calm the shaking of your legs as you slowly feel your way down. You can see the light on in the kitchen from around the corner, spreading out onto the floor of the old fashioned drawing room. Dishes clink in the kitchen, like someone is washing them, and you jump a little at the noise as you creep around the corner.

Kirishima is standing at the sink with his back to you, whispering something to someone beside him. The expanse of his back is broad, moving every time he goes to run his hand over the dish in front of him. Then, he turns to look at you and you see Mina pop her head around the corner.

“Oh,” Kiri says, “did you need something?”

You shake your head. “Not really, I just couldn’t sleep.”

Kiri nods sympathetically as if he knows the feeling. “Well, you look like you feel a little better at least.”

You pad over to where he’s doing the dishes and Mina offers you a soft smile and a knowing look. It all seems so normal. Doing the dishes, whispering quietly as they do. Something about it screams a kind of humanity you haven’t experienced in a long while, even with your last group.

“Are you sure we can’t get you something?” Mina says, furrowing her brows.

“Why are you all being so nice to me?” You ask. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“Is there some reason why we shouldn’t be nice to you?” Kiri says over his shoulder.

“No,” you shake your head. “I just think it’s reckless, that’s all. I could have been anyone.”

Kirishima and Mina exchange a look. They glance at each other, like they’re debating on saying something, and then Kiri turns and rests his palms on the back of the sink. He looks at Mina.

“We don’t usually decide to do this so quickly,” she admits. “We’re friendly, but nobody’s that friendly anymore.”

Kiri nods his agreement and you listen quietly, trying to determine if they plan to toss you back out into the woods in the morning.

“But, Katsuki doesn’t usually bring people in,” she continues.

“He’s a little more closed off than the rest of us,” Kirishima adds. “He’s a good guy, just takes a while to warm up, is all.”

“Mhm,” Mina says.

“What does that have to do with me?” you ask. “This is nice and all, but I’m sure you get why I’m wary.”

“He’s a good judge of character,” Kiri adds earnestly. “He doesn’t bring people in often, but when he does, he’s usually right.”

You nod, not quite understanding. Sure, you don’t plan to do anything terrible. In fact, you’re content to accept their kindness and stay, if they’d let you. Anything is better than being alone, but their blind trust in one man’s judgment of character makes you uneasy.

“He was alone for a really long time,” Mina adds. “A lot of us were. I got lucky meeting Kirishima early on, but Katsuki’s luck was a little less fortuitous.”

“So you all just… happened upon each other by chance?” You ask.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mina says. “It was me and Kiri for a long time. Just the two of us. We’d found Izuku and Katsuki together a while later, but they didn’t seem to like each other all that much. We still haven’t really figured that out, especially because they’re so close now. Ochako and Sero ended up cornered together by accident. We found them just before we found this place, and Denki just sort of showed up here one day and promised to fix the generator in exchange for safety. That was months ago. We’ve been like this since.”

“So you’re all strays,” you say and Mina laughs a little and looks at Kiri.

“Sure,” she says. “We’re all strays. There were others too. Shoji. Jirou. She was Denki’s girlfriend.”

“I’m sorry,” you say with a frown. It feels pointless to apologize for the dead, if you get caught up in it, you’d be apologizing forever.

“Don’t be,” Kiri adds. “But best not to bring her up. It was pretty recent and Denki’s only just started to get over it.”

You swallow thick and nod a little.

“Anyway,” Mina says, “we can’t really explain it. We just trust him. We trust Katsuki. That’s all.”

“Hm,” you hum, understanding that to a degree.

You trusted the people in your group. If they believed in someone, you were willing to as well, so you suppose you can understand a little where they’re coming from.

“What are you talking about,” Katsuki rounds the corner, walking into the kitchen and putting his water bottle under the sink.

“Nothing really,” Mina says.

Katsuki furrows his eyebrows and then looks at you. He gives you a once over, taking in your new clothing before scoffing lightly.

“Don’t you look cozy,” he says. “You get settled?”

“When can I go get my stuff?” You ask.

“Someone’s eager,” he says through lightly gritted teeth. “Didn’t I tell ya we could go in the morning? Besides, what’s there really to miss in that lot of junk?”

“Katsuki!” Mina quietly chides.

“I have things I care about there,” you say. “Things I’m not ready to lose.”

Katsuki blinks at you for a second before swearing under his breath. “We’ll leave when you get up in the morning.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” you say, frowning a bit at his sour attitude.

“Like hell,” he scoffs. “What if the dead are waiting back there for you?”

“I made it this far on my own,” you respond.

Katsuki nods for a second. “I’m going. Come find me in the morning.”

He walks off and around the corner. You hear him go up the stairs, followed by the distinct click of a bedroom door shutting.

“Don’t pay too much attention to that,” Mina says. “It’s past his bedtime.”

“You’ll get used to him,” Kiri adds.

“Right,” you say, swallowing down your frustration in favor of trying to be appreciative of the help. You sway on your feet a little and then steady yourself. “I’m going to go to sleep. Thank you for the meal and the bed.”

Mina and Kiri nod, but you don’t stick around to hear a response. Fatigue creeps up on you. It ambushes your senses and you go from feeling dream-like to delusional in a matter of moments. You make your way up the stairs, your body feeling heavy as lead, and wobble your way into the bedroom they’re letting you stay in.

When your head hits the pillow, you’re out. The world around you fades to dark and just before you sleep, you swear that you can hear the sounds of cars passing on the highway. A busy night, Saturday maybe, and people go about their daily lives outside of the window the way that they always have. They live, never the wiser to just how quickly things fall apart and how little it takes for our humanity to leave us.

—

Mornings in this place are boisterous. The sun coming through the lone window in your room wakes you up and you can hear the calls of busy people getting to work outside. There are voices from the porch out front that your window looks over and though you can’t see them, you get the sense that they’re having a pleasant conversation.

As you rouse, you come to the realization of just how exhausted you’d really been. They probably saved your life by bringing you to this place, feeding you, and offering you a bed. In hindsight, it’s easy to see just how little you had left in you. You get the sense now that you’d been running on an empty tank for days, slowly coming to an inglorious, gruesome, sputtering stop.

Things seem a little clearer, like the sunlight is somehow less bleak than it had been the days previous and you feel a little bit like you have a new lease on life. There are no big emotions, no swells of hope or humanity just yet, and you dread the moment you are rested enough to let grief consume you. Right now, you can’t feel it, but there is a fear in you that as you get to know these people who live relatively beautifully in an ugly world, it will weigh you down so much that you’ll never be able to outrun it.

You wonder if they’ll let you stay. They very well may not, even with the way they were talking last night. Strangers are more dangerous than they’ve ever been and if they ask you whether or not you’ve killed someone, you refuse to lie to them. Sitting up on the bed, you mull over the very real possibility that you could be back out there on your own again in a matter of days and you don’t even have that many good acts under your belt to plead your case. You’re just a person and you’ve done what you needed to in order to survive. Now, you’re not sure if that’s enough.

You swallow thick, wandering over to the mirror on the dresser. It’s fogged, though less than the bathroom mirror, and you can make out your features a little better than you could last night. You feel a bit more sane, though you still don’t recognize the frightful and distrustful look in your eyes. Like a wounded animal. Inside your head, you acknowledge that you are completely different from the person you were two hundred and seventy seven days ago.

The voices grow louder as you climb down the stairs, more secure on your feet than you felt last night. You can hear them talking about the generator, as well as a name you don’t recognize.

“He should be back by now,” a woman says. “Shoto’s never gone longer than a day or two, max.”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” another woman says with a worried bite in her voice. Mina, maybe? “We’re only a few hours into the day. He probably got holed up somewhere.”

“Someone needs to go look for him,” a man says.

“And what? Risk getting yourself killed?” the first woman says. “No, it doesn’t make sense. We need you here.”

“You’d rather we leave him to die on his own?”

“No one’s fuckin’ dying.”

You recognize Katsuki’s voice.

“He’s perfectly capable of going on a gasoline run,” he continues. “He’s done it before.”

“I should have gone with him,” says the same woman.

“On that leg? You wouldn’t have made it halfway to town, let alone there and back,” his voice raises a little. “Don’t be stupid. He’ll be back.”

You clear your throat and step around the corner. The group turns to face you quickly at the sound, their eyes wide for a moment before relaxing. You can’t sneak up on anyone nowadays.

“Sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Is everything okay?”

It’s not your business, but you ask anyway, wondering for yourself about the safety of Shoto.

“Fine,” Izuku says, shaking his head. You recognize him to be the one who'd vouched for going after their friend. Katsuki takes a step away from the broad man as he says this. “Nothing for you to worry about. Did you rest?”

Izuku smiles gently at you, his chest inflating a little at the question. The movement broadens his shoulders and you realize that he stands almost a head taller than Katsuki. You look briefly between the two of them before nodding.

“I did,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Nothing wrong with a little hospitality now and then,” he smiles and you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows at the distinct hesitance in his voice.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the woman standing across from Izuku says. “I’m Momo. Sorry I wasn’t there to meet you last night. I’ve been a little under the weather.”

You introduce yourself to her and glance down at her leg. Her ankle is swollen and wrapped in a bandage. Her sneaker laces are untied at the top to make room for the swelling and you can see that she’s guarding that side of her leg.

“Is it…?” you grimace, taking an instinctive step away from her. You almost feel bad for it, but sometimes good people make bad decisions when loved ones get bit.

“No,” she says quickly, “no, it isn’t. Caught an edge in an old chain link fence on the property a couple days back.”

Momo smiles slightly at you as if to reassure you. She’s really beautiful, with thick dark hair pulled back into a somewhat messy ponytail. Her eyes are bright, like she’s engaged in lively conversation, and you find yourself feeling a little sad for her. She’ll need medicine soon, if they can get it. Infections set in easily these days and you get the sense that even she knows that she may not have long without it. Maybe that’s something else their friend Shoto set out to find.

“I assume you’ll be wanting to go get your supplies?” Katsuki says, cutting the conversation short. Maybe he could sense the sour turn of thoughts.

“Ready when you are,” you respond with a nod.

Katsuki glances at Izuku, who gives him a slightly disapproving look.

“Someone get them something to eat,” Katsuki says. “...I’ll get my shit ready.”

“Fig jam…” Mina mumbles as she motions for you to follow her to the kitchen.

You oblige her, not exactly jumping to turn down a meal. She walks you into the kitchen and opens up a cabinet, where she pulls out a jar filled with a dark and seed filled paste. It’s a jam, sealed in a jar that looks older than what’s inside of it. The seal breaks open with a pleasant pop.

“This stuff is so good,” she says to you over her shoulder, pulling out a package of crackers that have likely gone stale. “You won’t believe it.”

She spreads the jam on a few crackers and sets it in front of you on a plate, pushing it across the counter towards you.

“It’s fig jam,” she says with a smile. “Homemade.”

You look down at the plate, your mouth watering at the prospect of something sweet like this. It’s been so long since you've had fresh jam. It could be as long as 10 years. You don’t think you’ve had it since you were a kid, when jam came easily and you preferred the processed brands at the supermarket to the ones your mom used to make sometimes.

You raise the cracker to your mouth and stuff it in with little grace. The sweetness spreads across your tongue as soon as you bite into the stale cracker. It fizzes and pops almost, the sugar melting across your tongue as the seeds crack softly between your teeth. The smile that hits your face is completely involuntary and though you know that nine months ago, this jam wouldn’t have been much, today it is something extraordinary.

Mina nods a kind of girlish agreement, like the way people used to when they had their friend try something at their favorite restaurant.

“We got here in the fall. I want to say late October or early November?” she offers. “We were starving and there wasn’t enough food to feed all of us. By that time there were like… nine of us.”

You listen as you eat your crackers.

“This place was in such an awful state,” she laughs. “I mean, really terrible. But, it was big and there was a fig tree in the back. A little thing, probably only a few years old and it had fruit on it. We ate so many of them that if the world were normal, we’d have sworn off of them forever. When we realized that the house actually had some old food in it,” she interrupts herself “-nothing good, canned stuff mostly- we decided to jar up the rest of the figs so that they didn’t rot.”

She smiles at you like it’s a pleasant memory, but you can only think about how hungry they must have been. Your stomach growls as you eat.

“I know it doesn’t sound like much,” she says, “but for some reason it’s a really nice memory. Honestly, we’re lucky we didn’t die.”

Mina laughs a little.

“I mean,” she continues, “we didn’t even clear the area before we started pulling at the figs and throwing them into our mouths.”

You tilt your head at her and furrow your eyebrows with a small smile.

“You’re really forthcoming with information.”

“You just seem a little hesitant, is all,” she answers.

“Can you blame me?”

Mina shrugs her shoulders but doesn’t really offer an answer. You assume it’s because she can’t, because Mina has the same doubts everyone carries with them in this world. All of the what ifs people would think about before they slept have become more prevalent than anyone would have ever liked.

“The jam is good,” you say, trying to be friendly in the same way she is. “Even if it is months old.”

“Things keep well in jars,” Mina defends softly, smiling a little as she gets another out of you.

This place feels like a little slice of paradise. A blessing from whoever lived here before and kept a garden stocked with vegetables. From someone who lived in an old house with stables and well-water, who kept canned food past its expiration date. It feels almost too good to be true, like these people live in a bubble bound to pop.

“You ready?” Katsuki thuds into the kitchen with an empty backpack slung over his shoulder.

You turn, startled by his sudden appearance and nod as you quickly finish chewing the last cracker. Katsuki furrows his eyebrows as he watches the way you scarf it down.

When you stand from the table, Katsuki turns on his heel to make for the front door and you follow with a light step. Mina says something about staying safe, but you don’t respond, glancing once over your shoulder at the girl.

It’s strange, the world has made you wishy-washy and uncommitted. You never used to be like that, never so distrusting as to second guess someone’s kindness the moment your back is turned to them, and you’re certainly not the type to be friendly one moment and closed off the next. Now though, you find that doubt creeps in easily through cracks and any foundation that didn’t exist before, seems to be swallowed before you can finish building it.

Katsuki leads you back across the small clearing you’d come through the night before. It looks different in the day, almost romantic, and it lacks any of the ominous feeling it had the previous evening. He steps over mounds in the dirt from moles and gophers that have made lawns their new home and you try to mimic his steps, sinking occasionally into a particularly soft patch of dirt. Every now and then, Katsuki glances behind him to check that you’re still there and you offer him a forced smile that he never returns.

You catch up to him when you hit the trees, sticking close at his side like something will come and take you away if you’re not. It’s unintentional, but you don’t have a weapon on you. Your knife is back at your makeshift camp, along with the unloaded pistol and your trusty spatula.

“How do you know where we’re going?” You ask in a whisper.

Katsuki tosses a look at you over his shoulder. “I’m good with directions.”

His tone is clipped, like he’s pissed about something, and your expression sours at it. Sure, you get it but it irritates you to some small degree. You hadn’t asked him to come along. In fact, you’d have been fine getting back here to collect your stuff on your own. You’d have asked for a knife and set out without a second thought, if only because being alone in the woods with some guy was less preferable than doing it by yourself. Of course, some guy also probably saved your life, but you’re not quite ready to relinquish your trust completely.

“Thanks for coming,” you decide. A peace offering.

Katsuki doesn’t answer and you furrow your brows a little bit. You wonder if he’s always been like this or if the end of the world brought on the loss of his manners.

Then, he stops, taking you by the arm and pulling you down beside a bush. You gasp and he puts his hand over your mouth to silence you. There’s the urge to bite him, to catch the fleshy bit connecting his thumb and pointer finger between your teeth and bite down till he bleeds, but you stop when you catch what he’s looking at.

Two of the living dead crouch by a tree, clicking their tongues as they eat something just out of sight. You furrow your eyebrows, eyes widening at the horror of it. For some reason, seeing them always brings about a round of momentary shock. You’ve yet to let go of the hounding thought that they used to be people and sometimes have to reorient yourself to the world you’re in now.

You catch Katsuki’s eye behind you, his calloused hand still clasped over your mouth, and nod your head. It’s a silent communication that you’ve seen what he has and he removes his palm from your face to grab a knife tucked into his belt, passing it to you quickly.

The two infected haven’t noticed the two of you yet, but they will soon, if only by the smell of your flesh which has yet to rot. You hear Katsuki let out a breath, as if to calm his heart, and do the same. There’s time to look at them like this and you’re struck by how human you can pretend they are in your head. Well, you suppose they were human once, now they’re a disease using someone’s skin as a mask.

Infected people aren’t quick, that’s one thing to be grateful for. Back when the outbreak first started, the CDC had released information on what to look out for in those who might have contracted the virus. The first was obviously a bite wound from another infected person, but you can tell from other symptoms. Early symptoms are average. Body aches, fever, lethargy, and delirium. All things you might see with a nasty flu. Then, infection of the wound site, twitching, foggy eyes—like low-grade cataracts—that develop within a matter of hours or days, severe disorientation, aversion to food, insomnia, with the final symptom being a coma that no one ever wakes up as themselves from.

These are the symptoms that people are conscious for. The ones they feel. The sickness that people tried to nurse others back from. There is no coming back though, not alive at the very least. The virus attacks the nerves throughout the brain and body, that’s what causes the twitching and convulsions. It’s what ultimately kills us, and it's what they think causes the bodies to come back.

Most infected will crack when they move. It’s the cartilage breaking down as the bones grind together and crack as they’re weakened from the marrow out. They twitch like rabid animals, unable to keep masterful control of their bodies because they are run like puppets from the brain stem. You don’t know if they think. If somehow the people they used to be are still in there, unable to stop themselves from consuming and spreading the virus to others. All you really know is that they twitch and click, functions of the brain that still remain. Tiny impulses sent through the synapses. You imagine it to be like the way you twitch when you sleep, an arm here or a leg there, the way someone might call out with their voice to a room with no one in it.

Maybe the infected think they’re dreaming. A nightmare that they never wake up from, like those of us who have to put them down. You could see it as a mercy from that perspective. You have an easier time rationalizing putting a knife in someone’s skull if you convince yourself that they’re silently begging for it.

Katsuki shifts his weight and looks at you. He mouths the words no guns and you nod, briefly wondering where the fuck he thinks you could have gotten a gun from.

Then, you kick off and run with Katsuki towards the infected. They don’t really have time to begin moving towards you both. You’re faster than them, but you hear the crack of their legs as they stand from their crouched positions, pulled in at the idea of their next meal.

Katsuki takes the farther one, sinking the knife into the soft spot of its temple with relative ease. You switch yourself off and take the one closest only a few moments later, sending your blade through the top of its skull. That happens to you when you have to do this. You turn yourself off for a bit, just so that you don’t have to remember the way it feels to hit the soft part of someone’s brain. You didn’t used to do that, only starting when you realized that there’s no going through this world anymore without it.

Katsuki wipes the blood on his pants. It’s brown, no longer oxygenated, and the area around you begins to reek. You notice, but for some reason the smell of decomposition doesn’t register in your brain and you continue on behind him.

There are a few beats of silence, save for twigs breaking under your feet, before Katsuki speaks up.

“You okay?” It’s barely above a whisper and you wouldn’t have caught it were you not listening for the distinctive crack of human bones.

“Yeah,” you say, continuing forward.

The campsite rounds into view and in this light, with your full night’s sleep under your belt, you can see just how pitiful it looks. A tent that you’d hastily put up before nightfall, the remains of your stamped out fire, the folding chair which has since been knocked over, and your weapons on the floor covered by a few leaves disturbed by the wind.

You snatch them up and move to grab your backpack out of the tent. The inside is shitty too and your torn sleeping bag hadn’t even been rolled out yet. You pick up the bag, returning to the folding chair as Katsuki begins to take down the tent. The polyester and nylon blend zips together as he makes quick work of folding it. Then, he kicks some dry brush over the remains of the fire, like he’s covering your tracks.

“The next person that comes through here might not be alone,” he says plainly. “And they may have more bullets than you did.”

“Right,” you respond. Your voice sounds a little far off and you settle your backpack on your shoulder in one quick motion.

“Got everything?”

You nod, following him as he heads out in the direction you both came from. The two of you pass the bodies of the infected you’d killed. The smell has permeated the air, lingering like how it does in cities, only less pungent. Their fogged eyes stare blankly at nothing, expressions plain and unreadable. You pass and try not to think much about it.

Katsuki is a few feet ahead of you and he doesn’t glance back to make sure you’re following. You could leave now and never get attached to these people. You could head off in another direction and never have to think twice about it. No more worrying about who you could lose, about who’s next to become one of the sick masses. Just you by yourself. Then, when you finally kick the can, someone else can put you down the way you did to those strangers.

Is there really a point to it anymore? To community or living in general. No one is as they once were. Does that make it fantasy to live in their beautiful bubble? Could you even find it in yourself to pretend again, to make nice and play house in that place? They saved your life, sure. They fed you, clothed you, bathed you, but for what point? Tomorrow, you could end up back in the woods, lighting fires with twigs you found in the brush, paranoid that someone would find you or the fire would spread.

You watch Katsuki’s back as he moves, shoulders shifting with each step. His shirt is stained, white turned eggshell from the wear and tear of time. It seems so off to you that he looks relatively clean, like he lives well.

Fear strikes you as you realize that your rambling thoughts have merit. Anything you fear now has become real and loss is so tangible to you that you can squeeze it in your hand. They could turn you out. Tomorrow night you could begin the starve and step all over again, moving from place to place, talking to yourself, filling your hours with paranoid thoughts like these that plague you when you’re alone. Is that worse than loss? If you’re alone long enough, you’d probably forget what you’re missing. Losing anyone else could make the wound fresh. For now, the hunger wins out.

Katsuki jogs ahead of you to get to the house. Momo is on the porch waving him in and he hurries up the steps and bursts through the front door. As you approach, you can hear voices, some of which are relieved, others hurried. When you enter the room, you find a man standing there whom you’ve never seen before, Shoto maybe.

“A plus one,” the man looks up, tilting his head at you in an odd way.

“Katsuki’s,” Kiri says with a low smirk.

Shoto’s eyes widen as he peers at his friend, clutching what looks like an injured shoulder. Katsuki just huffs his irritation.

“Well, that’s rare,” Shoto says.

“What’s rare?” Katsuki spits. “They were in the woods with a fire. What was I supposed to do? Let ‘em die?”

“Maybe,” Shoto says, a light smile creeping onto his features. Then, he turns to you. “What’s your name?”

You give it to him and he nods his head, tilting it at you again.

“How long are you staying?”

You’re not sure how to answer that question. In fact, no one is, and it feels like more of a test than it does a genuine inquiry. Kiri and Mina exchange a glance and Katsuki tosses a somewhat dirty look towards Shoto. Ochako gives Shoto a knowing glance and Sero and Denki shift uncomfortably on their feet. Then, Momo clears her throat, spurring Izuku to say something.

“Shoto,” he says. “You’re probably hungry, you should eat something and lay down. Ochako? Could you take a look at his shoulder?”

“Sure,” the girl says softly, giving a closed mouth smile to Shoto as she takes him by the arm.

She glances at you as she passes, almost like she’s too embarrassed to look at you fully in the face. You suppose this is what happens when people are forced to think about whether or not they will potentially leave someone else to die. It’s like the trolley cart question and though in this case there is always the possibility of a better outcome, it’s not likely in this world.

“Just until I’m rested,” you add with a small tilt of your head. “A few days.”

Shoto looks at you over his shoulder and gives you a small smile. It’s funny, you can see kindness there. His actions aren’t kind, but you can feel that he has kindness in him, though his rudeness stems from something different than Katsuki’s, you think. Like he’s strange in some way.

“I’ll start on dinner,” Sero says. “Kiri, give me a hand.”

The group disperses and you head upstairs without speaking to anyone else. A few days to rest and then cut the first people you’ve spoken to in weeks loose. What sort of idiot gives up something like this to avoid a little awkwardness? Not that you necessarily had your mind made up. You wonder briefly if you’ve just sealed your own tomb.

—

After dinner, you go upstairs to sleep after eating as much as they would offer you. Your stomach has ceased its constant growling and the shakiness that comes with hunger has receded almost entirely into the background. The bed is soft, with a slight dent in it from whoever slept in here before. The thought unsettles you that they’re probably dead now, but you try to push it from your mind as you steel yourself for what comes within the next few days.

You had volunteered yourself to leave. To what? Save yourself the embarrassment of pleading? Did you even want to plead? Why are you regretting not asking to stay? These people don’t know you, what trust can you have built with them in only a few days? Your skin crawls at the expanse of possibilities in front of you after so many weeks without any.

You think that if you let yourself walk away, you’ll probably die. You’re out of bullets and don’t know where to find any food except by luck. You can try to catch prey, but prey hides whenever infected are around, and they’re everywhere nowadays. It’s spring, water wouldn’t be a problem, but running water has its clear comforts. Then, there’s the possibility of loss. You’d come to care for these people if you stayed, you know it.

You furrow your eyebrows and look at the ceiling. There’s really no choice to be made. You’ll let them make it for you, even if you don’t know them. It’s their house and you won’t walk in uninvited or try to take it. You’re not about to become a monster just because the world is full of them now.

The darkness grows and your eyes drift to the dim light wandering in under the crack of the door. Hushed voices whisper in the living room, you can hear them. It’s a heated discussion, lively, but deliberately quiet. It’s been hours since everyone went to bed, yet you get the impression that many people are chiming in. You’re too nosey to leave it be.

You open the bedroom door silently, turning the cool knob with a wince as it clicks out of place. When you peer into the hallway, every upstairs bedroom door is open with the room empty. The light is coming from down stairs and around the corner, and you can see shadows move as you inch closer to the source.

You pause at the top of the stairs, knowing that they creak, and crouch by the bannister to listen. You’re out of sight. The only way they’d know you’re listening is if you made a sound, but you won’t. You’re good at being quiet.

“We don’t even know them,” someone says in a rushed whisper. “We don’t know what they’ve done before.”

“Everyone’s done things they’re not proud of now, Shoto,” a woman adds. It’s Mina. She’s spoken enough to you that you recognize her voice.

“I agree with Shoto,” says another woman, her voice higher pitched. She sounds guilty and her voice is tight as she speaks “We have no clue who they are. They could be dangerous.”

“You mean like me, Ochako?” A man adds. “I could have been dangerous.”

The group grows quiet for a moment.

“No,” Momo says. You recognize the cadence of her voice. “Shoto might be right, Denki. It’s been nearly six months since you got here and the world has changed a lot. We don’t- we can’t know for sure.”

“Can we really know anything for sure?” Another man adds, Kiri.

“What about you guys?” Shoto says, presumably to the rest of the group.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m hesitant, but I don’t know either.”

“Jesus,” another man with a baritone voice, harsher than the rest. That’s Katsuki, the first voice you’d heard of the group. “You guys make me a little sick.”

“That’s not fair,” Ochako says.

“No,” he interrupts. “It is fair. You guys want to… what? Send them back out there to die?”

“It’s not like that,” Shoto says.

“It is like that,” he says, raising his voice and then lowering it back to a whisper. “You didn’t see them when they got here, Shoto. They- they didn’t look… shit. The rest of you, you saw them. You really want to send them back out there to fuckin’ waste away? I don’t know about you all, but I won’t do that to a person.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Katsuki’s right,” Izuku says with a bit of conviction, like he’s finally made up his mind. “Sending someone out there alone is a death sentence. How does doing that make us any better than the people we’re trying to protect ourselves from?”

“What if there are more of them?” Ochako says quietly. “What if they’re not alone?”

“Trust me,” Katsuki says, “They were alone.”

“But what if they’re not?” She insists at a whisper, a bit of shame creeping into her voice. “What if people come for us?”

“See?” Shoto says gently. “There are so many what-ifs.”

“That works the other way too,” Mina adds.

You don’t listen to hear the rest of their conversation. They’re going to run themselves in circles debating about you. They’ll go around and around and land on whichever argument ends with the most votes. They’ll convince each other of one thing and it will happen totally out of your control.

The bedroom door shuts with a low click that makes you wince again. You think about the people who went to bat for you and the people who didn’t. You don’t blame those who opposed. You’d have probably reacted similarly if your old group were still alive and you understand very clearly why they do it. One person’s stupid reaction can be catastrophic and they don’t know enough about you to be certain that you’re not one of those stupid people. It’s how the world went to shit in the first place and though nine months ago you’d have surely condemned someone for making the same decision, you know that fear has warped humanity beyond comprehension. You didn’t get it until you lived it.

Still, Katsuki’s humanity feels intact somehow, more so than yours at least. His response is something you probably never would have said under the same conditions and you can’t help but feel some sort of fondness bloom in you for him. Call it connection, gratefulness for his willingness to stick his neck out for you, a trauma response. You still feel it. Mina and Kiri had said that Katsuki was a good judge of character and that’s why they were willing to back him. You wonder briefly if maybe Katsuki sees something in you that you don’t recognize in yourself anymore, or maybe something you don’t expect other people to recognize. What is it that he wants so badly to protect?

Someone stomps down the hallway, heavy boots against the old creaky floors. You hear the steps recede down the hallway, maybe a door or two down, before it shuts quickly. The sound makes you wince and you listen as the house grows quiet and then hums quietly with the sound of others coming upstairs a few moments later. Someone pads to the end of the hall, pushing the door open.

You hear a woman’s voice, so muffled that you can’t make out what she’s saying. Then, you hear the sound of a man’s affirmation before the bedroom door shuts and the visitor moves back down the hall to a separate bedroom. Information passing through the house.

Someone is moving around in a room below you and you figure that there are probably bedrooms downstairs as well. From the outside, you’d never guess that the place could house ten people. Inside though, the bedrooms are small. That’s probably why so many can fit. You’d guess that the place used to have multiple generations living in it, or maybe even rented out rooms to people for a few months. It sort of has a boarding house feel to it, like many people have come and gone even before people stopped staying in one place.

That’s a good thing to call it, the boarding house. It certainly has that sort of feel to it, many of its spaces undeniably communal.

You turn over in the bed, facing the bedroom door. The lights have gone out completely now and the house is quiet save for the occasional creak or thud from someone preparing to sleep. It’s been a long while since the sounds of living have been so prevalent near you. You’re eased by the sounds of the house settling, a familiar reminder of what living used to be. Your group had been on the road long before you lost them and the comforts of an interior are almost overwhelmingly nostalgic. You’re better rested to notice it now and shutting your eyes, you savor the feeling.

—

“Need some help?” You say.

Denki turns around, grease smeared across his nose where he likely wiped it with his dirty hands. He’s holding a wrench in a glove so tattered that it hardly counts as a glove anymore. He looks startled, amber eyes widening before he uses his forearm to brush stray hairs out of his face. The rest of it is pulled up into a messy ponytail, revealing the moist back of his neck.

“Oh, sure,” he says, a bit surprised. “Do you know how generators work?”

He crouches back over the machine and you step up behind him.

The machine is rusted near the bottom and between the exposed winding pipes. Its paint has chipped away, leaving the weather-damaged metal open for you to see. On the side, a fan-like piece spins slowly in circles and the machine whirs and sputters softly as it… generates power, probably.

“Not quite, but an extra pair of hands is always helpful,” you say softly, passing him a tool he’d been reaching for. “Did it break?”

“No,” Denki says, “but it’s probably on its last legs. The thing’s almost as old as we are, probably older, so it’s good to tune it up a bunch.”

You hum your agreement, tilting your head as you stand and watch him work.

You’re not necessarily comfortable with Denki, but he feels like a safe person for some reason. Maybe it’s because he’s got a sort of ditzy, non-threatening vibe to him. You can almost distinctly picture him tripping over his own feet and something about that makes you feel considerably safer than someone who wouldn’t. That and he was the first person you’ve come across this morning who you don’t think distrusts you too badly.

“Are you dodging something?” Denki smirks up at you from his crouch.

“Who on earth would I be dodging?” you snort a bit defensively.

“Shoto,” he says with a light smile. “He put you in a tight spot the other day.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “It wasn’t anything he didn’t have a right to ask.”

“Right, but it sure was rude, huh?”

Denki laughs to himself a little and you’re surprised by how easygoing he is. You subconsciously begin to categorize him with Mina and Kiri. The dichotomy of this group baffles you a bit, but you can certainly see all nine of them as a collective. Tightly knit and well acquainted with the habits of others.

“Oh!” He exclaims, “I have something you can do for me.”

You tilt your head.

“There’s a bucket over there,” he says, pointing absentmindedly to a shitty plastic bucket against the side of the house. “We use the water from the creek as coolant. It’s not factory grade, but it does the trick. You wanna go fill it up and bring it back for when I’m done tuning this thing up?”

You furrow your eyebrows, not sure where the creek he’s talking about is.

“The creek is just over there,” he points behind the house to the edge of the treeline. “I know you can’t see it from here, but if you walk in a straight line, you’ll hit it. Katsuki should be down there too, so you can use him as a landmark.”

When you don’t immediately answer, Denki whines a little.

“I mean,” he says, “I’d go myself, but-”

“I’ll do it,” you laugh a little and Denki seems surprised that you do.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’d like to pull some weight at least while I’m here. Plus, I offered.”

Denki mumbles his pleasure and you walk to the bucket without another word and set off in the direction Denki pointed. You’re much more willing to go out to the treeline now that you have a knife back at your side.

The walk to the trees is longer than it looks, like how sometimes the horizon looks like something you could reach out and climb up onto. The walk stretches with each step you take and you become a little more understanding of why Denki didn’t want to do it himself. But the walk is actually pleasant, the warmth of mid May collecting evenly on your skin as the humidity grows more intense with the sun.

You wonder what Katsuki would be doing by the creek. Maybe he’s fishing, or crouched over himself sharpening an arsenal of knives that you think he might keep in a roll attached to his belt sometimes. You’re not sure why, but Katsuki sort of has that expression to him. He’s handsome, but the scowl projects something hostile that makes him seem unapproachable.

As you cross through the middle of the clearing, you could almost imagine that this is a normal day. Humidity collects on your skin, making you sweat a little as you dodge gopher holes and soft spots of dirt. It almost feels like summer camp, if it weren’t for the looming idea that you’re contributing to something you may not be a part of. Denki’s attitude though, has you hoping for a more favorable outcome, if you want to call it that.

You’re only a few steps into the line of trees when the earth dips into a sand-lined ravine. The trees leave room for the sun to beat down on warmed rocks, making the area seem brighter with their subtle reflection of the light. The noise of the creek drowns out the sound of your footsteps and you shuffle toward where the earth flattens just before the water starts. A little ways to your right, you can see Katsuki sitting on a rock in the sun, his hands dipped into a large bucket. You narrow your eyes as he pulls what looks like a cloth out of the water, rubbing the fabric together before dipping it in the cool water of the creek.

As you approach, you realize what it is that he’s doing. It’s laundry. On the other side of him, you can see a bin of what look like dirty clothes and water-soaked clean ones. Talk about misjudged character.

“Katsuki,” you say as you approach him, the bucket still empty in your hand.

He squints up at you, shifting his face so that it's in your shadow.

“You’re still here,” he says plainly, returning to his task.

“Clearly,” you respond, watching as he runs his fingers over the next piece of clothing in the bucket.

“Why are you down here? Did Denki pawn the generator water onto you?” He says, like he’s somewhat frustrated. “He does that shit to anyone he can.”

You shrug your shoulders and continue to stare at him.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” He huffs out.

“You’re doing laundry.”

“Yeah?” he furrows his eyebrows and looks at you. “So?”

“Nothing,” you say. “I just didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah well,” he stops for a moment like he’s struggling to find the words. “It needed to be done. Figured I might as well.”

“How progressive of you,” you joke with a straight face.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes and sighs, not justifying your comment with a response. You find yourself smiling a little bit.

“If you’re going to linger, sit down and do it,” he says. “You’re creeping me out.”

You oblige him and sit down on a rock next to him, far enough that you’re not touching, but near enough to hear him if you speak in a low voice. For some reason, you feel a sort of kinship with Katsuki. You’d thought longer than you’d like to admit about his willingness to vouch for you and find that you want to live up to his expectation of your goodness, even if it’s not what you believe yourself to be anymore. Maybe it’s because you’ve slept well the past few nights and feel more like yourself, but there’s a certain casualness to conversing with him that you enjoy. He’s not looking at what you could be, but rather what you’re showing him that you are. His lack of doubt in that is something you find relatively attractive.

You watch his arms out of the corner of your eye in between gazing at the treeline and the sky. Your field of vision catches on them, his sleeves cut short to expose his biceps, a bit muddied near the elbows where the mud has begun to stick.

Katsuki doesn’t seem all that bothered by your presence, but now and then you’ll catch the sideways glance he gives you, almost like he’s trying to figure out exactly why you’re lingering.

“How long have you been with them?” You ask, more as a way to fill the silence.

Katsuki’s hands pause as he thinks about answering, then, they continue their steady pace.

“A decent amount of time,” he says. “I met Izuku first, probably in November just before Mina and Kiri. The rest came later.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

“No offense,” you start, “but you don’t really seem like the group type.”

“And you don’t seem like the type who’d be alone,” he retorts, like your statement was stupid.

You press your lips into a tight line, not really knowing how to respond.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head a little.

“Were you?”

“What? Was I sorry?” He furrows his eyebrows at you.

“No,” you shake your head. “Were you alone? Before Izuku.”

He goes silent. You’ll take that as a yes, but you regret asking a little. It had just slipped out. If someone were to ask you something like that, you’d probably react the same way. That’s just as well, you don’t really need to know him like that anyway.

You wonder briefly if anyone does. He seems closed off, but Mina and Kiri spoke about him a few days prior like they knew him well. Well enough at least to allude to a history you’ll likely never be privy to. Then there’s Momo, who whispers little things to him that he answers in kind. Curiosity gets the better of you, if only to tease.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” you ask and Katsuki’s response is to rest his elbows on his knees and let out a dry laugh.

He turns his head and looks at you from the side. “And what the fuck are you asking me that for?”

“Just curious,” you say. “Is it Momo?”

“Momo?” He makes a sour face at you. “Yeah, right.”

“She’s pretty,” you say.

“Sure is,” he responds dryly. “If you’re into the mom type.”

“What? You’re not into moms?” You grin a little and Katsuki furrows his eyebrows at you.

“So you do have a personality,” he scoffs a little.

There’s a pause. You haven’t felt this in a while. The feeling of bonding with someone new, compatibility on the human level that feels nearly instant.

“I’m kinda serious though,” you say, tilting your head down to catch his eye. “Do you?”

You’re leaning a little closer to him now.

“You seen any nice restaurants to take a person out to these days?” he questions, clearly a little frustrated with you in the way someone gets when they’re a bit amused.

“You don’t have to take someone out to a restaurant to fuck them, you know?” You laugh a little.

Katsuki’s lips part and he swallows like his mouth has gone dry.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, looking away from you. “I’m a romantic. Sue me.”

He’s just full of surprises, isn’t he? You find that you’re captivated by this feeling, this humanity, that exists in him. It’s something alive between you both, something left behind from the old world, and you crave it the same way you crave food.

Katsuki continues scrubbing the clothes, rubbing the fabric together and then dunking it in the bucket before plunging it into the freshwater creek. You’re not sure why you do it, but the next time he looks at you, you kiss him.

It’s not as if you like him, but it’s something to feel. Some remnant of the butterflies you used to feel on dates and the kiss makes you feel like you could be close to human again. You pull away almost as soon as you put his lips to yours and you can tell that the expression on your face is one of surprise.

Katsuki blinks for a second, looking at you with his brows knitted together. The expression doesn’t leave him as he places a wet hand on the side of your face to kiss you again. It’s an anxious kiss, confused and slow but—like someone riding a bike for the first time in years—it quickly becomes something familiar. Muscle memory that you both let yourselves sink into.

You can feel his expression as he kisses you, something between confusion and desire, like his own actions are perplexing. You feel the same way, hesitant, but reaching in the dark for the promise of some sort of normalcy. You want to feel like a person again. You haven’t felt it in so long and you push yourself against him as the ache swells in you.

The two of you continue like this for a moment, Katsuki’s fingers pressing lightly into the skin of your neck. You moan softly as his tongue slips into your mouth, taking a sharp inhale at the sensation of skin on skin. The sound of the creek drowns out the clicking of your mouths, but you can feel the way he hums into your mouth. They’re little sounds, involuntary ones driven by the nervous, desirous feelings inside of you both.

Then, Katsuki pulls away, swallowing thick as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. You appreciate the way they look. They’re swollen, anxious to continue and keep forgetting where you really are. He drops his hand from your face with a sigh and almost seems like he comes back to himself. You do the same, moving back into an upright position.

“Denki will want that water soon,” he clears his throat and motions to the empty bucket by your feet.

“Oh,” you say, laughing a little. “Right.”

You stand, dusting off the back of your pants and dunking the bucket into the water. It sloshes, the liquid hitting the back of the plastic with a satisfying elastic sound. You begin to walk away without another word, heading down the way you came to climb up the gentler part of the slope.

“Hey,” Katsuki calls softly. “You should stay. We talked it over last night. You can if you want to.”

The last part, he says facing the wash, his hands moving as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You don’t respond, knowing that the obvious answer is already yes.

Dread settles in your stomach. It’s an icky, swirling feeling that threatens to make you double over. You climb up the bank, the water in the bucket sloshing as you move through the trees and enter the clearing. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, growing as you leave the cover of the trees. You probably wouldn’t have kissed him if he’d asked you that earlier.

The boarding house comes into view and you can see Denki sitting beside the generator, conversing with who appears to be Shoto. They turn and Denki waves you down, Shoto turning away and starting around for the front of the house.

Denki jogs to meet you, taking the bucket from your hand. You flex your fingers as the weight is removed, wincing a little at how stiff they feel.

“Jeez, what took you so long?” Denki laughs and with your new information, you understand his willingness to be friendly with you a little better.

“I asked Katsuki for his life story,” you respond dryly, following him back to the generator.

Denki looks over his shoulder and laughs at you. “Did he tell you?”

You pause for a moment, watching as Denki unscrews something and pours the water in.

“Nope,” you say. “Not a thing.”

Click Here to go to the second chapter and find the rest of the series on ao3. The remainder will not be posted on tumlbr, but please feel free to reblog!

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader smut #mha smut #bakugou fanfiction #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #apocalypse au #tw.violence #tw.blood #tw.loss of identity #tw.derealization #tw.depersonalization #tw.exhaustion #cal.writing #char.bakugou

835 notes · View notes

runariya · 15 days

Note

🥸🤫☠️ : JK

He wants something 🤫 as down payment before he lets u inside safe haven (a place where survivors go to seek refuge)

(yandere+smut+apocalypse) part of the prompt game pairing: metro inhabitant!Jungkook x survivor!female reader genre: apocalypse!AU, S2L, yandere-ish? warnings: survival after nuclear fallout, dark creatures, denied prostitution for safety, Jungkook is whipped from the start so that should suffice for yandere, foul language, smut, oral (f. receiving), squirting, JK comes in his pants, fluff, lmk if I forgot smth (still hate writing warnings) word count: 3.239 (upsiiii)

a/n: I couldn't rly make JK more yandere without it feeling a bit too dub-con, so I hope that's alright 💕 also it's heavily inspired by the trilogy '2033' by Dmitri Gluchowski (and to my Russian readers: Московское метро выглядит так круто на фотографиях в интернете, надеюсь, однажды смогу его посетить☺️)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’ve been wandering for what feels like years, though it could be months, or perhaps just weeks; time’s an abstract notion now, in this world broken to pieces and baked under a nuclear sun.

With each step you take, the weight of exhaustion and your protective suit presses harder against your bones, but you don’t let it stop you. The world may be a dying beast, choking on its own ash and poison, but you still walk through it, a lone ember that refuses to snuff itself out. The remnants of cities whisper ghost stories to you as you pass, their bones twisted metal and crumbling concrete, charred earth for flesh. The wind sometimes hisses through the ruins, carrying tales of survivors—others like you, fighting, scavenging, enduring—and sometimes it’s silent, as if even the air is holding its breath for fear of what’s out there in the deep silence of the aftermath.

The black creatures—those twisted silhouettes of the apocalypse—roam the earth like shadows unbound from their hosts, moving through the poisoned fog with an unnatural grace that chills your very marrow. They are things of nightmares, remnants of the old world, perhaps, mutated beyond recognition by the fallout or born anew from the hatred that festers in the radioactive soil.

Their eyes, if they have any, are voids, consuming light and hope in equal measure, and their movements are barely perceptible until it’s too late, until they are upon you, whispering your end in a language only the dead would understand. They hunt relentlessly, not for sustenance, not for survival, but as if driven by some primal force deeper than instinct, a desire not just to kill but to erase, to wipe away the last remnants of humanity like dust from the pages of a forgotten book.

And you—battered, exhausted, teetering on the edge of oblivion—cannot rest, not here, not ever, because even in your sleep they find you, crawling into your dreams with their inky tendrils, reminding you that peace is a luxury no longer afforded to the living outside of shelter.

Your gas mask, an old friend now, covers your face like a second skin at this point, the filters clogged and heavy with days of dust, radiation, and fumes. You’ve noticed the way it pulls in air with more effort now, as if it’s trying to remember how to breathe.

You check the filter again. It’s nearly gone, the little red marker ticking closer to empty with every breath you take. You’ll have to find something new soon or you’ll suffocate on the very air that should sustain you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to find shelter. In those early days, the optimism hadn’t yet drained from your veins and the desperation to belong somewhere, anywhere, had clouded your better judgment.

There had been men—those ones with teeth like wolves, eyes like death, always leering, always demanding. You’ve had to pull your knife more than once to remind them that your body isn’t for sale, that safety shouldn’t cost that much. That death, perhaps, is a kinder alternative to what they would have asked of you.

You can still hear their laughter sometimes, echoing in your skull—mocking, cruel. You had fled from them, from their dark gazes and cruel hands, from the taste of fear that licked at your throat when their eyes lingered too long on your body. Better the damnation from outside than their promises of protection.

But today… today you find yourself at the mouth of the metro. The entrance yawns wide like a secret, and the shadow of it draws you in, as though it’s reaching out for you. Your steps falter, but only for a moment—just long enough to recognise the hesitation in your chest, the uncertainty gnawing still on your mind. The thought flickers briefly across your consciousness—what if the people down there are like those others? What if all you find is more violence, more degradation, more proof that humanity has shed its last skin and become nothing more than base instincts and brutality?

But the mask is running low, and you can feel that desperation is creeping back into your bones, burrowing deep. You tighten your grip on the strap of your pack, pushing the fear down, burying it beneath a layer of resolve. You’ve come this far; you won’t turn back now.

The entrance is quiet—eerily so, as you push the tall hermetic door open and step inside, closing it quickly after. You glance around, eyes scanning the wreckage for signs of life. There’s nothing at first, just the silent exhalation of wind and the low hum of the distant, underground world. Then, movement.

You hear him before you see him—a soft shuffling of boots against stone, the faint click of a weapon being cocked. You freeze, instinctively tightening your grip on your knife as he steps into view.

Tall. Taller than most of the men you’ve encountered in these forsaken times. Muscles sculpted from necessity, sinew and strength coiled beneath his clothes like a waiting beast. He’s staring at you through the mask, gun raised, the barrel pointing at your chest. For a second, neither of you move. Then his eyes flicker downward, just for a moment, taking you in, assessing, like all the others. You brace yourself for what’s to come.

But it doesn’t come.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice low, barely more than a growl. His weapon doesn’t waver, and his expression is hidden behind a mask, eyes glinting through the cracked visor.

You hesitate. There’s a moment where you think of running, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only the metro behind him, and the world ahead, both full of uncertainties, both as equally capable of destroying you. You suck in a breath, let it fill your lungs like a final goodbye to the stale air in the mask, and then you reach up to peel it away from your face, your skin sticking to the rubber for a moment before it falls loose.

The air tastes strange on your lips—metallic, sharp, almost alien after all this time behind the mask. You lift your eyes to his, half-expecting some sort of reaction, maybe disgust, maybe lust. But instead… there’s something different there, something you hadn’t anticipated. His gaze softens, though his grip on the weapon remains steady. He stares at you as though you’re something out of place in this hellscape, something fragile, a curiosity more than a threat. His gun lowers, just slightly, but his eyes don’t leave your face, as he too rids himself of his mask.

He’s younger than you thought. Ink spills across his skin—tattoos that ripple over his arm, dark lines twisting around muscles. You catch a glimpse of two piercings through his lip when he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out, and then his lips curve, ever so slightly, not quite a smile but not quite hostility either.

“Shelter,” you say, your voice rough, the words like stones scraping against the back of your throat. You cough once, clearing the dust away. “I need shelter.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, his gaze wandering down your frame, but it’s not like before—not like the leering stares of the men who sought to take more than they were willing to give. This is different. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, as though the mere fact that you’re still standing here, after all this, after the end of the world, is enough to stir absolute disbelief in him.

“Alright,” he says, after a pause that seems to stretch out longer than it should. “We’ll see.”

He gestures with his head, motioning for you to follow him into the metro. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before stepping forward. The air inside is cooler, the shadows deeper in the few flickering candle lights, and for a moment, you think you can almost breathe easier.

“Wait here,” he says, nodding towards a bench half-buried in dust. “There’s a process. Need to fill out a form.”

You blink. A form? The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh—almost. But you’re too tired for laughter, too worn down by the world to even consider the possibility of joy. So, instead, you sit with an exhausted plop. You watch as he disappears for a moment, hear the soft scrape of papers being shuffled, and then he’s back, clipboard in hand, a pencil poised like a weapon in his grip.

He doesn’t sit down. Just stands there, towering over you, his presence impressive but not oppressive. You glance up at him, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel exposed—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes you feel seen for the first time in a long time. It’s unsettling.

He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the clipboard. “Name?”

You give it to him. He writes it down, slow and thoughtful.

“Age?”

Again, you’re honest, coughing right after. He writes again, his eyes lifting to your face between each question as if checking to see if you’re lying, or maybe just to remind himself that you’re real.

“Where did you come from?”

You answer, though the place you once called home feels distant, like something from a dream you can’t quite remember. His pen scratches the paper, and you almost lose yourself in the sound of it, that soft, repetitive scrape, the only noise in the otherwise still part of the metro.

“Any medical conditions? Injuries?”

You shake your head, your body numb to the aches and pains that have become part of you, the exhaustion that’s settled into your bones as permanent as the sorrow for the destroyed outside world.

He writes.

The questions continue. And all the while, his eyes keep returning to you, scanning your face as if he’s trying to commit every line, every shadow, to memory. You can feel his gaze lingering on your skin, not in a way that makes you want to shrink or hide, but in a way that makes you want to ask why he’s looking at you like that, why his lips keep twitching into something that almost resembles a smile, sometimes a pout.

After what feels like an eternity, he finishes writing, his pen stilling against the paper. You think he’s done, that maybe this bizarre interaction will end and you’ll be allowed to rest, to sleep, to breathe for just a moment.

But then he clears his throat again. And this time, when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Something you can’t quite place.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and the air between you feels too much like outside, chocking and not fit for you.

You stiffen. You feel that old familiar dread curling up inside your chest again, clawing at your ribs. You’ve been at this stage before, the formality of it, the false promises of security, of kindness. The moment where it all comes crashing down, where the mask slips and you’re left standing there, alone and defenceless against the greed, the hunger that always lurks just beneath the surface of those too desperate to remember what it means to be human.

He sees the shift in you. You know he does. You see it in the way his brow furrows, the way he toys with his lip piercings as though he’s searching for the right words, something to say that won’t make you bolt for the hermetic door. He takes a breath, and for a moment, you think you might run, you think you might grab your mask and take your chances with the toxic air outside because anything—anything—might be better than this.

But then, he speaks.

“I—” His voice falters, and you see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His grip on the clipboard tightens, the knuckles going white. “I want to… I want to eat you out.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. You blink, stunned, and for a moment, you’re not sure you heard him correctly. Did he really just—?

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to process the absurdity of it, the strangeness, the unexpectedness.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, almost pleading. There’s no threat in his posture, no demand. Just… want. Raw and unfiltered. Like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t even be allowed to ask, but he can’t help himself. His breath is shallow, and you can see the way his hands tremble slightly, the tension in his body like he’s bracing for you to reject him, to walk away.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should get up, leave this place, leave him behind, leave all of this strangeness and vulnerability and run back into the wasteland where at least the dangers are known, where the air is poison but the intentions are clear. But instead, you sit there, frozen in place, your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at him.

He’s not like the others. That much you know.

He’s so painfully handsome, a rare sight in this broken world, and it’s been so long—too long—since you’ve felt the heat of another body, since before the fallout turned everything to pure survival.

So, when the chance arises, when you catch the hunger in his dark eyes and feel the thrumming ache in your own bones, you seize it like a lifeline in the endless wasteland. Your fingers tremble as you pull the zip of your protective suit down, the rough fabric parting like a sigh, and you free your legs, peeling it off your lower half. You shift on the bench, boots still clinging to your feet as you raise them to rest beside you, and open yourself to him, your legs spread wide, exposing your cunt like a silent offering, need pulsing through your veins.

Jungkook barely hesitates. The clipboard thrown, clattering to the ground behind him, forgotten, his focus now laser-sharp on the sight before him, his eyes flickering wildly between your face and the growing wetness glistening between your thighs. He steps forward with a pull that feels almost sacred, falling heavily to his knees as if the ground beneath him is the only place he belongs. His warm, calloused hands trace their way up your bare legs, the roughness of his skin sparking something primal under your own.

He leans in close, close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your slick skin. He takes a deep breath, inhaling you, and the word falls from his lips like a prayer, “Fuck,” and then he’s there, tongue pressing into you with a hunger that’s suffocating, lapping at your cunt as if he’s desperate to prove himself worthy of it, as if he knows exactly how lucky he is to be granted this wish.

A moan escapes your throat, unbidden, as his tongue forces its way into the tight heat of your hole, your hand reaching instinctively for his dark hair, fingers threading through the strands as you push your hips into his eager mouth. The sound that rumbles from deep within his chest vibrates against you, a groan of raw pleasure that seems to send waves of newfound pleasure coursing through your body, arousal dripping from you, coating his tongue.

“Taste so good,” he rasps between breaths, his voice rough and broken with want. “Fucking angel sent from heaven.” His gaze flicks upward, catching yours, his eyes wide with disbelief, adoration simmering beneath the surface despite the fact that you’re strangers, despite the fact that the world outside has crumbled to nothing.

You find yourself moving against him, riding the flat of his tongue, his fingers dancing over your clit in a rhythm that feels almost divine. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh with a kind of desperation, as though he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll disappear, that this will vanish like a dream.

“Yes,” you cry out, breathless and shaking, as he finds the perfect pace, the perfect pressure, his mouth and hands working together with an almost agonising precision. And neither of you can tear your eyes away from the other, locked in this frantic, desperate exchange of need and lust and something deeper you can’t yet name.

He gives you everything—every ounce of affection and euphoria you’ve been deprived of for months—and you can feel it in the way his own body trembles, the way his hips move mindlessly against nothing, rutting into the air as though he’s just as desperate to be filled with pleasure as you are.

“I’m close,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair, pulling him harder against you, urging him on, desperate for more, for him to push you over that edge.

And he listens, his tongue working with relentless skill, circling your clit with a pressure so precise it almost drives you mad, and then you feel it—your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, shockwaves rippling through your body as you squirt onto his tongue, something you’ve never done before, the surprise of it lost in the haze of pleasure. Jungkook groans beneath you, greedily lapping up everything you give him, cleaning you with his mouth like he never wants to stop, his hips stuttering forward as he spills into his pants, caught in his own silent climax.

“Fuck…” he moans thickly and long, collapsing against your stomach as your legs tremble and fall to the floor, muscles too weak to hold them up any longer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the silence between you filled only by the sound of your ragged breathing, the disaster of the world momentarily forgotten. But eventually, he pulls himself together, straightening up with a sheepish grin, adjusting his pants which are now damp with his own release, his expression cringing just slightly.

You quickly dress again, pulling your suit back into place, feeling a flush of heat creeping into your cheeks. There’s an embarrassment there, sure, but not disgust—not even close. If anything, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction, of relief, and you catch yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him, that he isn’t bored now that his hunger has been sated.

But as you reach for your pack, Jungkook’s voice breaks through the quiet, and he gestures for you to follow him deeper into the metro, his arm draping casually around your shoulders as if he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he says, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes bright with something that looks almost like joy—something you haven’t seen in anyone since the fallout. “You can stay with me if you want.”

There’s a pause, your heart skipping a beat at his offer, and you hesitate only for a second before whispering, “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.”

He beams down at you, stars shining in his dark eyes like you haven’t seen in months, and he takes the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Good,” he says softly. “I’d like that too.”

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caputvulpinum · 2 months

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It's funny. Maybe it's the way and the place I was raised but Spanish is, and always will be, the holiest language of Roman Catholicism. Ecumenical Latin, Greek, even Aramaic, the original languages the Bible was written in--I get it, I really do. But I wasn't raised in Christianity reading, hearing, singing Ecumenical Latin, Greek, or even Aramaic. And while a lot of it was in English, I'll admit, my strongest memories of my time in religion will always be in Spanish.

There's this musicality to it that I don't think I know how to fully comprehend how I can explain. Because it isn't about the musicality, really, though religious Spanish is a beautifully lyrical language. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's that I hardly speak any Spanish at all. I would often go to Spanish mass with my best friend growing up because we'd hang out on Saturdays and I'd go back home Sunday afternoon--after I went to church, of course. I didn't comprehend the language in the slightest (though I learned some through rote repetition, of course). But hearing the passion, the adoration--in the truly Biblical sense of the word--of the voices of the (my) abuelas around me raised in song, Señor, ten piedad, Cristo, ten piedad, Señor ten piedad de mí? How could I forget that in my life?

Maybe it's the history of it, y'know? Maybe it's the little ember of Marian heresy I'm convinced exists in the heart of it. Sure, Jesus and the Father and all that, but I mean, it's practically sacrilege to act like it isn't the Mother who rules the house of God in Guadalupe, right? I still remember the smell of the tamales I was too picky to eat. Every week for years. After a certain amount of time it became habit and sublimated, misplaced pride rather than any actual desire to not try them. I still never did, though. Somewhere inside me there is a little boy who made his first friend in the world and a second family refused to let him try and pretend that he wasn't that. Maybe one day I'll forgive him for not knowing any better and being too scared to try new things. Who knows? Maybe one day he'll forgive me for growing old. I tried pizza for the first time a couple months ago. Twenty-eight years of fear and pride and resenting all the other little boys for loving something but hating me. It's just bread and cheese and pepperoni, kiddo. Ain't nothing to be afraid of. Ain't nothing to be afraid of.

#my writing #my poetry

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gildedkrone · 10 months

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As long as you're next to me, just the two of us

request from somebody asking for military reader with internalised homophobia. john price x male reader

"You really ought to not blow your cigar smoke onto me, you know?"

The warm embers of spent tobacco, an all too familiar sight in the dark, starry night, and he's smiling, albeit faintly. He takes an audible suck of air, and the embers glow brighter and fade into a dull orange.

"Thought yer used to it by now," Price blows the hints of something scorched gently across your nose and you fan the smoke away with a flick of your hand.

"I don't smoke, John." He blinks and nods to take another chuff of the cigar as you look away then back at him.

He says he knows. Infernally glorious bastard of a captain and he's content with the warm tranquility settled into the space and the cigar is the last thing the mind's got time for. On the rooftop, the stars are ever distant in the cosmos’s grasp and he moves to lay with his back to the railing, almost close enough to touch. But he doesn't come any closer than that and a healthy distance remains between you and him.

"How many years has it been?"

Five. Five years since he appeared in his lieutenant uniform with SAS patches sewn neatly onto the vest and now? Now, he's a captain of a famed task force and chasing a terrorist halfway across the world with a short break in between his ever-growing catalogue of missions. The rank suits him well, suits him and his beard nicely as he grew into the man standing before you.

All's well. If all's well, then why does it feel as if there's a divide between you and him?

"You know," his head angles towards you when the silence fills with murmurs, "I never did congratulate you on your promotion, John."

"Never too late to do so, sweetheart."

"You call everyone that? Bet your lieutenant wouldn't take it well. That mask—"

"Not him." The words are scented with woodsy, "Nobody else gets to be a sweetheart." And he's saying it so sincerely, it’s impossible to doubt the truth and intensity in his words.

"Exceptions? You're not being fair, captain."

He scoffs and you take the time to admire his visage with a subtle lean towards him. The left eyebrow hitches a little, then it falls back to its place and he's smiling warmly as the cigar burns away in crumbling ashes falling to the wind under the pale moonlight.

"How's your love life? Still seeing Sandy?" The sudden change of topic and you cock your head slightly and he grimaces slightly to have felt some sense of chagrin at poking the sore wound in your heart.

"We broke up a month ago." He lowers the cigar, "She just, didn't want to be in a relationship with a military man, you know? All the absences made her mad and she just ... left."

"On a Thursday afternoon."

He listens so attentively; he's reminiscent of the cadets under your care when they first arrive at sergeant bootcamp. A little awestruck and very much eager to learn and get going and you lean in closer for a look at the new-ish scar marring the area above his eyebrows.

"You've gone and hurt yourself again, eh?"

Fingers brush across the region of his face gently as his face is pliant in your hands and tilts with each nudge to facilitate your examination of his new battle scar. Eventually, you release his face and he runs a hand through his scar absentmindedly.

"You datin' again?"

"No such luck. Tinder's trash these days. All you'll ever find are people down to fuck and run. 's not much better on the other dating platforms too."

"Just women?" The parting of your lips and nothing comes out; the words don't come as they should.

"Just women. I-I ... I’ve never considered other men, John."

"Why not?"

It's a moment of confusion—you entertain his queries about manhood and love. What do you say to that? It's a minefield of emotions and memories tangled with barbs and spikes laden with the flags of youth and curiosity shaped into a spitball refusing to be verbalized.

"I don't think another man could ever love me. And ..." The forgotten cigar in his hands dull and the soft cerulean eyes are gently imploring you to continue, "I ... well, it's wrong and I ... don't know if I can do it."

He nods empathetically and you lean back into the railing to find fleeting interest in the moon. How did the conversation morph into this weird mess of clunky and awkward conversations?

"Well, I have a problem when it comes to dating." Oh? Go on, and he does go on.

"I met a man, and I don't know if he fancies me the way I fancy him."

"Really? I'm glad for you, John. What is he like?"

It's cute how his brows furrow slightly when he's in deep concentration and he says—valiant and resplendent. The vigor of the sun, the ferocity of the lion, and the tenacity of the stars.

"Valiant? Resplendent? You must really like him to hold him at such a regard."

"It's not an exaggeration, lieutenant."

Who had managed to capture John's heart to such a degree? You lose interest in the moon to lay the brunt of your attention on him. His eyes dart away into inkiness night then back at you and its kept steady as a sniper's hands in a high-tension scenario.

"Have you tried telling him? About how you feel?"

"You have tips? ‘M not sure quite how to break it to him."

He seems mildly amused by the chuckle and you regale him with strategies and tactics to win over the mystery man Price loves so much. Everything you’ve learnt from the trashy romance novels stashed in your drawers never to be seen any other service personnel. Even if they would never find their place with another man.

"So, a hand grasp and a head tilt, lots of eye contact, and a heartfelt confession? It’s certainly shorter than the list on the web.”

“Mmhm, it’s that simple.”

He asks if you would entertain his request to rehearse it. You humor him and step away from the railing to face him head on. He clears his throat and warmth envelops your hand in a hand shaped like John’s. His body posture is open and inviting, and he’s putting in the effort to treat it seriously.

His hands clasped with yours is so damn warm and fiercely domestic, and his fingers are gentle when they tilt your head upwards slightly. Something in your heart twists slightly at the endearment in his eyes; you’ve been privy to aggression, bloodlust, and anger in them. But not this. Blood hammers in your ears and you keep your face schooled in blasé calm even if his grasp is uncharacteristically soft and yet, harbored the love he had in his being.

“I love you, sweetheart.” The words are painful to hear on ears not meant for them and instincts are warring in your head in tumult.

You cough gently to realign his focus with the moment.

“Yeah, so, that is how you do it, John.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“That’s what you would say that to the man you love so much.”

His throat swallows harshly and his hand remains on your chin. He eyes search for something, and he says it again.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

What is he doing? He cuts you off before you can start.

“I’m saying it to the man I love.”

Whiplash. Whiplash at the revelation as your lips part to reveal hollow words and empty reconciliation of the revelation and your thoughts. No. This—

“I mean it. Whole heartedly. Fully.”

“John … I—I can’t love you, not—”

“I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

“Why? Why the fuck would you choose me? Of all the men and women in the world and you’ve gone and loved the one person who can’t give you anything! John, why?”

His hands are still clasped around yours and laced around your runaway heart. Don’t leave.

“Because it’s what the heart wants, love.” He tugs you in closer and in a moment of stupor, you feel the warmth emanating from him against the chilly night.

“It’s wrong—” And by god, it’s so fucking hard to tell him why it’s wrong when he’s looking at you like that. All worried and desperate to alleviate whatever you were feeling.

“I don’t want to be the fool who dies with a million regrets. And this is fixing it.”

He’s so close but he’s waiting for permission to breach the last barrier of that defensive wall built around the wastelands of the heart. He wipes away the tears which had formed, and soft lips are all you can feel when he closes the gap. Plush, soft lips press against yours and his embrace is all encompassing even as your eyes are shut to close out the world. He comes into view when warmth of his lips disappears and shakes rattle your body in his arms.

“I’ll be here for as long as you want me, sweetheart.”

He means it.

“’m not leaving, unless you tell me to.”

“John, I … I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out together. Me and you, we will find our way as a unit. Together, we’ll do it together.”

He is deadly serious again. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“No … I—I don’t want you to leave. I’m so fucking scared, John.”

“I’m here.” He is here. His hands on your back are proof of his existence in a world bending into a pinpoint of focus that is only John and his features and his exhales on your cheeks. What were you supposed to say? Or do?

There’s no need to do anything.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough of a promise for you that everything is going to be ok—if it's John, and this was fine, more than fine. Your nod is what John needed to bring your foreheads together.

“Thanks fer trusting me, love.”

The hints of tobacco smoke don’t smell as acrid as they did a while ago and the night isn’t so cold anymore. Not when he wears his heart on his sleeves and draped over you in the moonlight.

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist

#fanfic #cod mw2 #captain john price #john price #john price x male reader #john price x reader #male reader #x male reader #x reader #price fanfiction #cod x male reader

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lost-in-lamentation · 1 month

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a nod back to this post by @fayendere.

a/n: i can't even call this a real fic so idk drabble one shot rrrhaahdsndakdjsjs either way. btw op i know i'm so sorry i'm like ages late but still, i had to deliver something.

content: ticklish lucifer! silly little fluffy moments. open ending take it how you like teehee haha

lucifer × gen!reader (you/your).

you notice it for the first time when your hand curls around the small of lucifer's waist, a gentle touch tracing his side as you sneak behind him to get to the doorway of the kitchen. lucifer's composure cracks, a small gasp echoing in the silence as he stiffens for a split second. you shoot him a glance, head tilted in feigned obliviousness. "did something happen?"

lucifer all but relaxes his body. with a sigh, he returns to the task at hand, slowly convincing himself that the tips of his ears are not as red as they feel. "you must be imagining things," he finally says, refusing to make eye contact. "go and fetch my brothers; i'll be finished in a minute. "

the second time you notice, lucifer is sitting as his desk with you standing at his side. the eldest makes a simple comment about how the room is rather hot, and you take it as a cue to reach for his coat. your hands find themselves at the base of his neck, sliding underneath the coat to pull off the fabric. but as you continue your movements, lucifer can't help but tuck himself inwards, shoulders shrugging up to prevent your fingers from brushing against his neck. once again, you fake your innocent expression, folding his coat in your arms as you ask, "did i startle you?"

he burns with embarrassment, but manages to swallow the tremble in his voice as he steels himself to look up at you. "yes, i will admit, you caught me off guard. please do not act so abruptly without a warning."

you can barely stifle your own laughter, giving him a determined nod in response instead. and just like the first time, lucifer echoes another sigh into his hands.

"MC, you really ought to turn in for the night. You have early RAD classes in the morning."

from your spot on the couch, you turn to look over your shoulder, watching while lucifer rounds the corner to sit next to you. "and when have early RAD classes ever stopped me?"

a gentle laughter sounds across the room, filling the space with warmth and adoration. at your side, lucifer fiddles with the cuffs of his pajama sleeves, rolling them up before leaning back onto the cushions. "i suppose there's nothing wrong with it, assuming that you'll make sure you make it on time."

"of course i will. i'm a model student, you know." you counter his laugh with your own, scooting over to slot yourself at his side. "oh, by the way, would you be willing to help me figure something out?"

lucifer raises a wary eyebrow at you, first glancing at the clock before coming back to look. "so late at night?"

"it won't take long, promise."

there's a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes, embers sparking in the reflection of his gaze. "i suppose it can't hurt. is it for your assignment?"

"it's... personal research." you slowly flip the cover of your book closed, placing it to the side as you turn your shoulders to face the demon next to you. "i've been wondering if you're as ticklish as i think you are."

"i beg your par-!" you jab him quickly in the side, hitting the soft spot above his waist that you know makes him jump. red blooms across his cheeks, the shade nearly rivaling the colour of his irises. despite lucifer's desire not to, a yelp escapes from him, which in turn cause you to laugh harder than you thought possible.

barely able to contain yourself, you fall back onto the armrests, laughing even louder when you see the expression on lucifer's face. "i think," you wheeze out while trying to catch your breath, "i think i've done enough research."

on the other side of the couch, lucifer grits his teeth, a hand hovering protectively over where you had poked him. "MC," he begins quietly, his other hand moving to capture your arm in his grasp. "if you'd be so kind, i have a few personal questions about where humans feel the most... sensitive, as well."

a/n: back in my writing era (ignoring my responsibilities)

reblogs and comments/tags are really appreciated (´ω｀) ♡

#obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me luci x reader #obey me lucifer x you #lucifer x reader #lucifer x you #lucifer #aris writes 🐈‍⬛

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akutasoda · 2 months

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ambrosial spices

synopsis - some opposites attract like a complimentary dish

includes - jiaoqiu

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, more fluff, maybe ooc??, wc - 554

a/n: what is this? i don't know. new jiaoqiu scenes just got me thinking and there was someone talking about food and i immediately thought of this man-

some say opposites attract. a saying that has been repeated over and over, even by some may use to describe complementary pairs that seem oh so different yet work together perfectly. some might even say that opposites do attract but they drift away eventually, but you were confident that that wouldn't happen.

loving jiaoqiu was a task in itself. as pretty as the foxian was, he tended to be rather cunning and that didn't exactly go well with the smile that he always wore in public - it made him always seem rather shifty. rumor was that he even withdrew from his practice because of a broken heart, so gossipers among the yaoqing had a field day when your relationship with the chef became speculation.

you two were truly the definition of opposites. there was jiaoqiu who was sly and rather conceited, a chef that made redolent dishes in the means of providing healing. and then there was you, a content being that offered honeyed greetings to yaoqing residents, even helping to keep the yaoqing a pleasant place to live under merlin claws guidance.

your relationship was like adding something saccharine to a peppered dish. on the outside, it seemed the same but if you were to have a taste, one could note how the flavor subsided from a dancing flame to a simmering ember that coincided with it’s newly introduced sweetness.

and if somebody asked, you would say that jiaoqiu’s love was like a cup of warm spiced chai - the kind that usually comes very spicy but with personal preferences, can be milder and sweet. sure they may look at you weird but you knew jiaoqiu, and you knew your jiaoqiu.

you met the jiaoqiu who was a celebrated medicinal chef who was renowned for well seasoned remedies that left the patient with a piquant aftertaste for days. the one that was praised and celebrated for his skill even if he was completely insufferable sometimes - especially with patients who refused to take their medicine or complained about the spiciness of his dishes.

but you became much more acquaintanced with your jiaoqiu - the foxian who knew your food preferences like the back of his hand, even if they didn't align with his. you'd watch from the kitchen doorway - you knew how passionate he got when cooking and you most often would be shooed out of the kitchen - as he prepared a meal for you and you'd observe how he stared at the food horrified. you would witness him dramatically pinch his nose and sigh before he added a certain ingredient or two because all though, never in a thousand years, he would've imagined making such a dish, he did it for you.

jiaoqiu never complained to your face and if anything, he always still probably presented those dishes to you because he knew you liked them. sure he'd rather die than eat such a dish and he always added his preferences after he plated your meal, but nothing could take away from that smile of yours that made his day when you thanked him.

yes, you two had different preferences. yes, you two led different lives but at the end of the day, some would say that you only complimented the other perfectly, because you both knew that he wouldn't do that for anyone else.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

#—stellaronhvnters.#x reader #x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #hsr jiaoqiu #honkai star rail jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu x you #jiaoqiu x reader

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amethxxt · 4 months

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i'm ranting about descendants again and this is a long one

Alright, I talked a little bit about this on twitter literally yesterday (https://x.com/amethxxt/status/1798768561613361458) but I wanted to do it here too, so here we are!!

I think everyone has seen these pictures by now. It's from Descendants new book "The World of Auradon: Royals & Villains".

Now, at first, I got really excited (in a way, I still am) because it'll probably give me more material to use in my fics. Also, Uma looks absolutely stunning, so I immediately began reading her page and... Well, it's not the nicest things, right?

Like I said on twitter, I can't be the only one who sees the majorly different ways they talk about Uma and Mal.

With Mal, they start saying she's a "confident natural leader", and like- no, she's not, far from it.

I think the best version we got from Mal was on D1. She was such a good character and that's when I think the writers succeded the most with her - I believe it was hard to find someone who actively disliked or simply hated her.

When D2 came out, things went slightly downhill. Mal's inner conflict of not being the picture perfect Lady of the Court and feeling that the odd one out because she wasn't doing well in Auradon when compared to her friends is very realistic.

The pressure that she was feeling to be perfect and all the new things that came with being the King's girlfriend makes you understand why she was so anxious and wanted to leave. Now, I think we should all understand that this makes Mal a very insecure person.

She's insecure, she's flawed and runs away the first chance she gets because everything becomes too much. And if they wrote her like that, how is she a confident natural leader?

When the Core Four and Ben go after her, it's when things begin to change. Mal has a few moments in this movie: running away and leaving just a note to her best friend, claiming Dizzy was going to be fine when Evie felt sorry about leaving a child in the abusive place they all grew up in, betraying Uma's trust. Yeah.

I'm gonna make it very clear that I really like Mal as a character. I criticize her a lot because the writers started putting her in a pedestal, overpowering her and trying to erase anything that could be seen as bad.

Why would they have Mal apologize for using a love spell on Ben when they make such a cute couple and would be endgame anyways?

It gets worse in D3. I remember watching them announce that Hades was Mal's father and being like "No fucking way" because you want this girl to be not only half-fairy but a half-god?? Was this the only way to have his ember in the story?

Well, I think we got used to that plot after a while, but then - Oh, Mal's also Lady of the Court, she'll be a part of the decisions that concern the Isle of the Lost and a voice for the other VKs.

Yes, Mal is "a confident natural leader" who turns her back on her people and comes up to the idea of closing the Barrier for good to protect Auradon citizens.

Why do they refuse to bring up the fact that it was her idea?? Nevermind the fact that her and Ben weren't married yet, she was not the Queen and had absolutely no power to make that decision. They make Ben so useless, a King with no voice because he's not the main character, right?

So she makes a decision that's not up to her and proceeds to lie to all of her friends, makes empty promisses to both Celia and Uma, and when shit hits the fan, nothing happens.

Having Evie confront her about it is one of my favorite scenes, but what are the consequences? I understand that it was the final movie, but it's so rushed that makes everyone else feel out of character.

Mal and Evie can be the best of friends, but you can't tell me Mal would be like "I was wrong, I have to be a voice for everyone and I shouldn't have lied" and Evie would be just "Ok, perf".

And what about the opposite? When Mal betrays Uma for probably the third time, Uma has no trouble forgiving her? Of course they don't mention what happens in the books, they don't mention Mal trying to hurt Evie (or even get her killed lol) and they don't mention the "shrimpy" incident with Uma.

They don't talk about Mal's wrong doings the same way they talk about Uma.

Uma, according to the new book, is a "confident and resourceful VK with a major mean streak". Sorry, Uma has a mean streak? I don't think so. What Disney and Descendants keep doing is use the definition of a villain for a character who's an antagonist.

Villains have malicious intentions, they are evil. You're gonna tell me the girl who simply wants for all the children to get off the Isle, a place they were forced to live in along with murderers and other criminals, some of those who happened to be their parents, all while surviving off of the garbage that came from Auradon, is the evil one?

That is not to say Uma doesn't make mistakes or does bad things. Mal and Uma have the common point of using a love spell on Ben, which is awful and should be acknowledged as that, but they only do it in Uma's case.

"When Mal and her friends successfully freed Ben, Uma took it one step further by putting Ben under a magic love spell" x "She [Mal] used spells to mess with other students, to convince Ben that he loved her, and to change herself in order to fit in as Ben's girlfriend. But once she realized she needed to ditch the spell book and learn to survive without magic, she was able to become the queen she was always meant to be"

Those... are not the same to me. They detail every thing Uma does during D2, making it clear that using a love spell was worse than the previous actions of kidnapping him, but with Mal it almost feels like they excuse her actions because, eventually, she learned that magic wasn't the way to become who she was meant to be.

Also, what do you mean Mal felt guilty about the other VKs who were left behind? Mal didn't even look sad when her and Evie were leaving Dizzy behind! Evie was the one to come up with the idea to bring more children to Auradon, and when that magically turned into the VK Day (my arch-nemesis plotline along with Merlin Academy), she didn't look worried at all that it would them so long to free all the kids if they were going to pick 4 each time.

And again, her idea to close the Barrier for good (with no way in or out) would mean that eventually, everyone left in the Isle would die. I know it's Disney, and they would never make that happen, but if you're not going in to even leave your trash there (aka their food source), yeah, they're all dying.

Now, with Uma, they point out how she wanted to escape and get revenge on Mal, but like...... not really? Of course she mentions in D2 how she wants Mal's new turf and tries to make a deal with her to leave with her crew, but when she's actually free and we get into D3, it's been months (I think) and while Auradon's scared she's going to do something, we find out Uma spent all that time looking for a hole in the Barrier to get the kids out.

When she makes another deal to help Mal, all she asks for is the guarantee that every kid who wants to leave the Isle is able to do so. Who breaks that promise? The "villain" with the major mean streak or the confident natural leader?

I'm not saying that Mal is real villain, because she's really not. But she's far from how they describe her and if you're gonna tell me she's a natural leader, I better not see her bringing down the Barrier, letting both the kids and villains out, and acting like it's the right thing to do.

VK Day wasn't the answer to free the innocents, but bringing down the Barrier isn't it either! Mal doesn't "help convice Auradon citizens to accept all VKs into Auradon Prep" she just decides to do that lol

And again, that decision is not up to her, she had no legal right to do it. She was just Lady of the Court and nothing else.

Like I said on twitter, Disney and Descendants like Uma because she's a fan favorite, she was one since they announced her as a character. But they insist on the idea that Auradon changed her for the better, as if she was never someone who fought for what was right. She's not perfect either, but they can't write about her in a way that makes her look better than Mal.

How did Mal stop her at the end of D2? Mal didn't do anything, they were fighting, Ben made a speech, Uma turned around and left. That was it.

How did Auradon transform her? Of course they are implying that because of Rise of Red and her becoming the new principal, and even though this plot still kinda confuses me, it still seems like all the wants is for Auradon to be a fair place that doesn't discriminate against anyone.

I now this is getting too long, but I really like ranting about descendants. It's my comfort franchise but there's so many things wrong with it lol

And I also know I'm probably looking too deep into it, but I don't think I'm the only one who sees the ways Disney has always treated Uma and Mal differently.

I want to get this book and see if there's anything else about them. I really wished Disney and Descendants treated Uma better, though.

#disney descendants #descendants #descendants mal #descendants 2 #descendants 3 #uma descendants #descendants rise of red #rise of red #descendants ben #descendants evie

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leighsartworks216 · 11 months

Text

Small Hands

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Title based on the song "Small Hands" by Radical Face (definitely listen to it, it fits this so well)

Note: This has (vague) spoilers for Act 3, but also I have not seen the scene with Cazador in question (I started to, but then my heart just hurt too much to keep watching)

Warnings: references to violence, swearing, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 718

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

It's been several hours since... since Astarion earned his freedom. He could still feel the rage and despair and fear just below the surface, bubbling like acid. He can feel the angry words he spat at you burning his tongue, even now.

And despite it all, you were right. Ascending would not have brought him the safety he desired. It would have consumed him, as it had consumed Cazador, and his master before. A never ending cycle.

Now that he's had time to think about it, to think clearly away from that wretched place, all he wanted was to be held. Safe. But not because he wields the power to crush everyone beneath him - because he would be protected. Cared for, unconditionally. Loved. And, of course, the one little detail that had him pacing for the last hour, he had no idea how to ask for something like a cuddle from the person he screamed at for refusing to help him ascend.

He couldn't bear the awful feeling that swelled in his gut, or the way his skin crawled with discomfort. He couldn't go the whole night like this. So, before he could think about it much longer, he left his tent and sought you out.

As usual, you lay under the stars in your bedroll. The fire was burned to embers. He wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there until the next century passed. His nails dug into his palms as he crossed the space to reach you.

You shifted as he neared, until you were blearily looking up at him though heavy-lidded eyes. You didn't scowl or turn over to ignore him, you just stared. He tried again and again to speak, to explain what he wanted and apologize and just - anything. But instead he just stood there like a fish gasping for water in a desert.

When you moved in your bedroll, he fully expected you to curl up and ignore him. What he didn't expect was for you to open up the blankets keeping you warm, and what’s more he didn't expect you to open your arms as though preparing a hug. He was stunned speechless - as if he weren't already. He was shocked back into his body when he noticed a shiver run through you.

Carefully, as though you'd rescind the offer with one wrong move, he slipped in beside you. You'd cuddled before, more times than he can admit without becoming embarrassed, but it felt like the first time. He didn't know where to put his arms or legs or head; an uncomfortable gap full of cold air separated you both, but he dared not fill it.

You closed the blankets around him, absent-mindedly tucking him in. And, he couldn't tell if it was purely subconscious or if you were somehow awake enough to notice his reluctance, you wrapped your arms around him and scooted closer. You tangled your legs with his, drew his head to your chest with your arms around his shoulders, and pet his hair.

He ignored the burning behind his eyes as he relaxed into the gentle caresses and heat you provided. He wrapped his arms around your middle and pressed further into your chest, turning his head until his ear was right over your heart, beating steadily behind your ribcage. Beating for him, despite it all.

You sleepily tangled your fingers in his curls, running through them and feeling the way they stubbornly bounced back. Your movements were so very slow, and really quite uncoordinated, but it was the best feeling in the world to him right now. He released a shaky breath and felt you squeeze him around the shoulders in response.

With time - no more than ten minutes - your loving ministrations slowed to a stop as your breath evened out. Fast asleep once more. And still holding him. Even after everything. Even after he cursed you for stealing a life in the sun from him. You were so, so good to him, even when he didn't deserve it.

What little sleep he finds is accompanied not with visceral images of stabbing his master to death, or of the innocents he lured for the ritual, or even those 200 years of pure shit. No - he dreams of laying in your arms like this. Forever.

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @httyd-chocolate @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog

#fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #hurt/comfort

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findafight · 7 months

Text

For the STWG daily drabble prompt “accidental confessions” (I wrote this half in bed last night, half in bed this morning. Forgive some mistakes thanks) took it in a different direction.

It takes a full day for Steve to be released from hospital after they’ve confirmed he had broken ribs and a concussion amongst his other more minor injuries. Claudia is incredibly greatful she had the foresight to offer being the poor boys secondary emergency contact in the spring, seeing as Dustin had complained that Steve’s parents took a week to sign him out in November.

She got the call and was able to pick Dustin up and follow the ambulance to the hospital (Steve’s nervous friend had ridden with him, needing attention herself but refusing to let go of his hand). The smell of the smoke from the embers of Starcourt is something she doesn’t think she’ll forget, the stink sticking to Dustin’s hair and clothes. She’s sure it was the same for Steve.

He was under observation (and they did assist him in bathing, thank goodness) before being able to check himself out. She had swooped in and bundled him into her car as his friend’s parents ushered her away with the promise that the two could call, but needed to be home with family for a while to heal.

No one mentions that Claudia Henderson is not related to the Harringtons. If they had, she thinks she would have lost whatever composure she has been clinging to since she saw the sky burning red above the former mall and pulled up to be told her two boys had been caught in the chaos. Steve had been with Dustin when the Hargrove boy had threatened Lucas and protected them, had been coming around for dinner or to drive Dustin around, or to help him style his hair or countless other little things or no reason whatsoever. He has slotted into their lives easily, fitting into a place that neither Claudia nor Dustin realized they needed. He is her son in any way that mattered, and she needed him home. With her.

Finally pulled into the driveway, she opens the passenger door and holds her arms out, letting Steve grip her shoulders and securing a hand in his armpit. She hauls him out and supports him as he stumbles through the entryway.

“This way, sweetheart. You’re in the guest bedroom. Dusty helped air it out for you earlier, so everything’s fresh.” She says, nudging him towards the room. He nods and goes where she guides.

She helps him change into a matching pyjama set she had tucked away for him, as sometimes Dustin had horrible nightmares and could only be calmed by seeing Steve, awake and no longer visibly harmed, and he ended up sleeping on the chesterfield or Dustin’s floor. They were soft, and buttoned down the front, so everything was comfortable and he didn’t over exert or hurt himself trying to get the top over his head.

“I can do the pants myself, mrs. H.”

She smiles. “Of course. I’ll turn around and you let me know when you’re ready so I can help you get settled.”

“‘Kay.” There’s more shuffling than she would like, and more groans, but Steve gives her a “ready” before she gets too worried. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, loose pants the hospital provided kicked into the corner, looking a bit lost. His eyes are drooping, eyebrows slightly creased, and his mouth gapes a little, like he’s trying to figure out if he should speak.

Gently, she tugs the quilt out from under him, helping him lay back and tuck his feet under the sheets. She pulls everything up to his chin and kisses his forehead.

He hums contentedly and she brushes his hair further out of the way.

“Would you like me to turn the lights out?”

Steve slowly blinks his eyes at her, fingers curling around the edge of the quilt. His answer is a soft “yes please” followed by, “don’t leave?”

It’s so small, so desperate and resigned, it breaks Claudia’s heart all over again. She steps away from the bed, flicks the switch and turns right back around to sit on the edge of the bed. She’ll get a glass of water for him later, but now she just runs her hand through his hair, petting him soothingly.

He sighs, his body losing some of the tension he’s been holding, and his eyes droop. Humming, he burrows dirtying into the blankets but whines when she moves her hand away. She returns to petting. “There, there, honey. You’ll feel better after you sleep more, alright. And you don’t need to worry about anything. I’m right here.”

He nods just slightly, smacking his lips together and pressing his forehead into her palm. “Mmm. That’s good. I wish you were my mom.”

The admission is followed by another sigh and Steve losing the battle to keep his eyes open. It strikes Claudia through the heart, all this time seeing Steve as her own, trying to make sure he doesn’t feel smothered by her need to…well. Smother. And she had rarely considered that Steve would admit to wanting or needing the kind of support and warmth she was restraining (very badly) from throwing at him.

He probably only said it because of the concussion and the various pain or antibiotic drugs the hospital had given him, but it must have been true. He has asked her to stay, and whines when she moved her hand away. Over the past months he’d gotten more and more comfortable in their house and told her more about his frequently absent and disappointed parents. Steve needed support, and steady and reliable presence he trusted. And he saw that in Claudia.

If Steve wishes she were his mother, then his mother she’ll be. She’s been that for him probably since that first night they officially met in November, a beat up boy clutching her son’s shoulder in the Byers house and assuring her he didn’t let the kids get hurt, regardless of his status of also being a kid.

She leans down and kisses his forehead again, and says “well, that’s good, because you are my son.” Even if he can’t hear it. If he wants, she’ll say it everyday until he believes it. For now, she let’s him sleep as she pets his hair gently.

#steve harrington #claudia henderson #stranger things #Steve and Claudia #st3 #he’s her boy okay.#finda writes stuff #stranger things fanfiction #fics #stwgdailyprompt

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gay-dorito-dust · 11 days

Note

So so so so i need short reaction

“‘They’re your great aunt/ uncle y/n!’ Stanley shouted just as you fully stepped out of the portal before it closed behind you for one final time, plunging the room in almost darkness had it not been from the ember coloured gem that hung from your neck. You removed the hood from your head to reveal your aged face and slight hints of silver that streaked your hair permanently. “

The portal will shut down slowly And then a laser shot y/n from behind as they dies infront of them and the portal finally fully shut(cus y/n is off guard) CUS I THINK ITS FUNNY IF ‘i fixed this portal with my brother for 30 years, now i can see my lover again’ to ‘WHAT THE HELL, NO!’ AGAJAJAJAHAHJASG

You devious little shit. I love it!

Warning: reader is dead in this one. So sad.

The moment the laser hit you did Stanley thinks his entire life was one massive joke.

Ford has to quickly get the kids out of the lab to avoid them seeing their great aunt/uncle bleeding to death as the portal died almost immediately afterwards.

Thirty years and all Stanley got in return was to watch you die as you bled out in his arms, still smiling up at him while he felt his heart crumble and crack into nothing.

Thirty years of being apart and the only time you got together was when you were telling him that the minutes you got to see your precious Stanley’s face, handsomely aged like fine wine as you said weakly, wishing him happiness despite the fact that his entire reason for being happy was slipping away and he was helpless to do anything.

Sure Ford must be getting help upstairs while the kids constantly pestered him with what was happening but Stanley knew that even if they did arrive you wouldn’t make it, you were already starting to feel could as you would soon admit to him, but still found the strength to touch his tear stain cheek to tell him they he was far too beautiful to cry over you.

A call back to when he told you that you were far too beautiful crying over a douche of an ex as you sat on a bench in the rain, he wished he could go back to the night you first met and married you then like he always dreamed he would when you stayed by his side; even when you fell into the portal Stanley wanted to marry you as soon as you came out of the portal, only for you to get fatally shot right before his eyes.

He wasn’t destined to marry you, that wasn’t aloud and instead he was doomed to suffer a long and isolating life with your smile, laugh, kisses, hugs and willingness to go along with his schemes and yet not once did he ever had the strength to tell you he loved you.

Stanley has so many regrets and such little time to admit to them as his vision of you was blurred with tears that he felt like laughing, even his own body was against him seeing you.

‘Thirty years.’ Stan whispered as he pressed his head against the side of yours. ‘Thirty years I spent getting trying to get you back sweetheart, not once did I ever get you out of my head. I refused to as I thought that if I forgot you for a single second I’ll forget what you look like for the rest of my life and I don’t want to ever forget you when you’ve been nothing but the best thing in my entire life and now you’re being taken from me, again.’ Stan finished, pressing kisses into your cold skin.

‘I found a dimension where we’re married Stanley.’ You spoke hoarse. ‘Married and I’ve never looked happier than I did.’

‘Where was it sweetheart.’ Stan asked as he held you closer to his chest.

‘Here, at the mystery shack.’ You told him, smiling at the ceiling of the lab that would become your resting place. ‘You never liked the idea of signing an overpriced piece of paper just to officially show people they we are in love.’ You added with a chuckle that ended in you coughing up blood.

‘Stop speaking toots,’ Stanley panicked as he felt his heart break somehow even further as he burrowed his face into your neck, wanting to remember how you felt against him once last time, ‘stop speaking please and save yourself the energy.’

‘We both know it’s too late, so allow me to say this. I love you Stanley pines, I would’ve loved to have been married to you and scam people with deep pockets together in another life.’ You said and those were the last words you said as the last aspects of your life had left your body.

Stanley had lost his happiness for the second time and he didn’t get to tell you he loved you, or that he would’ve loved the scam people and be married to you too…

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #stan pines x you #stanley pines imagines #stan pines imagines #stan pines imagine #stan pines x reader #stanley pines x you #stanley pines imagine #stanley pines x reader

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un-lawliet · 1 year

Text

“Present.”

— in which Dazai wants to kiss you

part two here <3

“Osamu…”

Dazai lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing at your figure.

It was cold.

The Summer, having prolonged its stay, pliantly welcomed the first cool breeze of Autumn, inviting the ember shafts of the moon a little earlier, cutting the day shorter and introducing the night before the clock struck nine.

And Yokohama appeared to come alive at night.

The streets bustled with crowds, lively and impeached with an alacrity one would expect to see when the sun was much, much higher in the sky.

Dazai found himself outside the Lupin Bar, leaving a half empty glass of sake idle on the cracked confines of the bar top, the crisp air steadying his somewhat dizzy state, un-fogging his senses and clearing his head.

Leaning against the bar wall, his hands in his pockets, an indiscernible look in his eyes as he watched the ever moving city around him.

It was moments like this when you knew his mind was elsewhere, reminiscing over memories in which you did not know, memories that left you except and puzzling over the glimmer of recognition in the depths of his eye.

Breaking his trance he regarded you with quiet solidarity, as if debating weither or not he should throw up his defences or continue to stare, an eyebrow raised in subdued acknowledgment of your appearance.

He didn’t seem shocked at your return, having been on a mission at the other side of Yokohama for a few days, you feel a sickly indulgence of disappointment in his lack of reaction, your shoulders dropping as you approach him slowly.

He probably knew of your return, he has a habit of knowing seemingly every action and it’s equal reaction before they are even taken, it’s a habit that leaves you uneasy at best, and terrified at worst.

Sighing, you join him against the Bar, leaning your head back against the bumpy surface of the wall.

He looks at you for a moment longer, and it’s as if you can feel him back away, creating an insurmountable distance between the pair of you.

In reality, you know he does not move, but at the sight of an ill placed smile stretching his face, you have never felt so immeasurably far from him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He grins, and it’s ugly for a man so devastatingly beautiful in your eyes, you hold back a grimace.

“I’m back.” You say simply, unable to look at him anymore, the footpath suddenly becoming the most interesting thing you’d ever seen before.

A street lamp flickers, the light momentarily dies leaving the pair of you in the dark for a split second before the light returns, Dazai glances upwards to look at it, you don’t even notice.

You don’t know why you even sought him out, your feet seeming to move on their own after Kunikida grumbled that Dazai had headed to Lupin’s Bar just after his shift at the agency.

You have a gift for him from your mission, you tell yourself, attempting to justify your foolish actions, ignoring the voice in your head that reminds you that you would have seen Dazai at the agency at some point the following day.

“You’re back.” He mimics, and he’s back to looking at you again, trying to understand your actions, trying to comprehend why you were currently standing outside in the cold, cold night with him.

“The mission was successful then I suppose?” His smile seemed less indulgent now, and if you were to look up you would surely notice how his body swayed slightly, a testimony to the tipsy feeling resonating in his chest.

You don’t however, your eyes staying downcast as you nod; mumbling about how it was more boring that anything, you hear him laugh at your admission, you hate how empty it sounded.

“Is everyone at the agency ok?” You ponder, clinging to the tail ends of a conversation you were slowly losing.

“You didn’t visit them before you came to see me?” Dazai questions an undeniable tease in his voice, you feel yourself flush.

“I did, it’s how I-” Found out you were here.

The words die on your tongue, refusing to go into detail of how you actively asked for his whereabouts about five minutes into your return.

“Hm?” Dazai coaxes you, although you’re certain he knew what you were about to confess.

“Nothing.” You mumble, your hands clammy, “I uh did, but I only saw Kunikida and Yosano so..” You trail off.

“Ah” He muses.

And in the back of his mind, he wonders if you were simply here because you felt like it, that you had no alterier motives, internally frowning at himself for his suspicions despite knowing you were part of the ADA, critiquing himself silently for falling into old habits that should have died when he left the mafia.

He supposes that maybe you just wanted to see him.

The breeze falls over you both and he’s moving to leave, you look at him again, your head cocked, holding yourself back from questioning, restraining yourself from clinging onto his hand and begging to follow him, indulging yourself in the warmth of other human.

The bar door opens, and for a brief moment you hear the drunken giggles and exclamations of careless patrons, before the door swings shut again, muffling the voices. It grounds you.

Dazai takes a few steps and then turns to face you, his face unreadable, before he tilts his head gesturing for you to follow him, you think your heart soars.

“You coming?”

And you’re pushing yourself away from the wall, nodding.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, and you find yourself walking at a pace slightly behind him, your hand subconsciously tracing the box in your pocket.

You wonder if you should give him his gift now, or if you should wait.

When you can’t decided you stay silent, choosing to speed up to level the distance between you both.

You have no idea where you’re going, simply following a man who’s actions you couldn’t begin to understand. He makes no effort to inform you of the destination and so you make no effort to ask.

Dazai likes to think when he walks, constantly scheming, devising ways in which he could encourage Atshushi to grow, or better yet, another way to end his life, and fail, over and over again.

A bitter cycle that infringes upon his thoughts like a bullet.

Tonight however, his thoughts circle back to you, and your silence, and how your face seems to glow in the dim light of the night. And he blames the alcohol that’s coursing through his blood, the last of his drink finally hitting him as he walks, dizzying him and rendering him in a state of concealed vulnerability.

“So.” His voice comes out steady, despite his tendency to slur his sentences when under the influence.

You look at him, gently urging him to continue.

“You’re hiding something.” He states, and you curse him for his intellect and damn observation.

You grip your coat tighter, eyeing the bulge in your pocket, defeat already coaxing you to reveal your intentions.

“I suppose.” You whisper, concluding to yourself that there was really no reason to hide the present from him, after all it was just a gift shared between two work colleagues, there was no need to plaster it with a hidden agenda.

Reaching into your pocket you timidly lift it out, his gift was wrapped, just like everyone’s gift from the agency, a pretty ribbon tying it all together in a clumsy bow. You feel foolish.

“I brought you something from my mission.” You explain, your eyes trained on his face.

And Dazai pauses, his steps slowing to a stop as he stares at the box in your hand, and you scramble to explain yourself, eyes wide.

“I-I got everyone from the agency something!” You stammered, “I just…wanted to give it to you.”

He doesn’t move for a second, his eyes moving between your flustered face and the present.

A car drives past, it’s headlights cause you to blink.

“Do you plan on giving them their presents in such an intimate manner as well?” His voice was softer, as if he himself is unsure of your answer.

His question makes you freeze, feeling as if you were caught in your own actions.

You whisper a tiny “No” and Dazai just nods.

And you hate how you don’t understand.

His hand brushes yours as he picks up the box, his hands are cold, you try not to shiver under his calculating gaze.

“You don’t have to open it now.” You mumble, willing yourself to look him in his eye.

Truthfully you hope he doesn’t open it in front of you, unable to cope with the silent weight of the consequences to your actions.

Dazai finally breaks eye contact to look at the bow, his finger going up to play with the flimsy material.

You brought him something, you had thought of him. Dazai, was unable to fathom how you could be so pure and act so well intentioned to someone with his past.

Did you not believe him to cruel? A man desperately trying to patch over his history with the excuse that he had changed. Changed from the eighteen year old who’s presence struck fear in those unfortunate enough to know his name. Who’s presence alone caused the death of the only person who-

Bitterly, he reminds himself that you had thought of everyone at the ADA.

Without a word he pockets the gift, that same ugly smile rippling his features yet again.

“How kind of you to think of me!” He exclaims, his voice far too loud for the quietness of the gesture, clapping his hands together in an enthusiastic display of himself.

The distance between the pair of you stretched for miles and you shake your head.

“I think about you plenty.” Your voice is hushed, edging on exasperated, because (although you would rather die than describe your complicated feelings for Osamu Dazai out-loud) you don’t appreciate being pushed away.

The moon appears to hide behind the clouds, leaving the street lights to fend for themselves. Their glow emphasising your features as he looks at you.

And Dazai wants to kiss you.

It’s a desire that materialises amidst the acutely awkward silence that follows your admission, it breathes down his neck and forces him to lose any and all words that might escape his lips.

He smiles, a bandaged hand reaching up to cup your cheek, your eyes squint; confusion, admiration and need seeping out from their sockets and onto your face, and Dazai, for once, is grateful for his ability to read people, to read you.

He wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t.

You lean into his hand as his thumb gently draws circles across the area just below your eye, your lips part, a question you will never ask bubbling in your throat.

The pair of you look at each-other for another brief moment before Dazai removes his hand from you and turns, hiding his expression.

“You’re cold.” He states, starting to walk, “You should go home.”

And you watch him go, your feet refusing to move, body overcome with a melancholy you only ever seem to experience around Dazai.

The moon peaks out from behind the clouds again, as if to ask if you’re ok. Illuminating both you and your surroundings like a blanket.

And you feel exhausted.

masterlist <3 or part 2 here :)

feel free to leave a request !

A/N: this was supposed to be fluff idk what happened- i think i started thinking of chapter in 109 half way through, i’m sorry ANYWAY hi bsd fandom ily ily ily and thank you for reading !!!

#dazai x reader #bsd dazai #bsd season 5 #bsd manga #bsd #bungo stray dogs dazai #bungo stray dogs x reader #hurt/comfort #angst #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs manga #dazai osamu #dazai smut #dazai x reader comfort

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solbaby7 · 10 days

Note

(For the blurb bar thing)

*sits on one of the bar stools and leans against the counter)

Can I have a frozen vodka cran with a sugar rim, and add lime please

Oh and here *slides a ten dollar bill across the counter*

oops, i may have added too much lime 😭🫣but it’ll still taste good i swear😬, bottoms up 🍹 alsooo idk what cave you cassian girlies crawled out of but when i tell u my inbox is flooding with cass requests. here yall, you get a beefcake, you get a beefcake, everyone gets a batboy beefcake

[ “why do you even care?” “because i do” + fluff / angst + cassian ]

-> BLURB BAR <-

It is what it is.

That’s the only phrase that keeps you going after countless hours spent hunched over bloodied bodies with their entrails held in their hands. Deep slashes from sharpened blades that leave skin flayed and muscle severed, tendons plucked out of place until sensitive nerves are screaming in agony. “I know it hurts,” You croon softly, care oozing out of every pore as healing magic pulses from you. “I’m sorry, it’ll be over soon.”

Dab with disinfectant there. Pressure to staunch the bleeding. Fire to cauterize. Magic to smooth it all over.

It’s an exhausting process, one that leaves you aching and has your head swimming as you shut the curtain for patient privacy but this isn’t the place to complain about that—not around all of these tortured souls as they endured a pain you couldn’t dare comprehend. “You should get some rest.”

You can’t fight the roll of your eyes at the sound of his voice. “And you should go back to your friends.”

Cassian keeps up with your stride with ease and while you refuse to acknowledge it, you walk a little slower when you catch sight of the neatly wrapped dressings around his thigh. “My friends are fine. You made sure of that. Azriel wouldn’t have made it if you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, well that’s my job.” You don’t bother hiding the irritation in your tone. It’s not normal for exes to be this present. But, you’re certain you catch the scent of him by your window every morning; sandalwood and eucalyptus, crackling embers and oak. A perfectly annoying blend of masculinity and comfort. It haunts you—follows you around the shops when collecting groceries for the week and lingers in your blind spots when treking home after a little too much to drink. Quiet but constant; an unspoken rule that Cassian was definitely breaking. “Something I really need to get back to so if you’re finished—“

“Don’t think I’ll ever be finished with you, peach.”

You hate that charming cadence. Despise the handsome grin that’s flashed your way because he knows how much you (love) loved it. “What do you want Cass?”

“Want you to take better care of yourself.” That’s a lie. At least partially because Cassian knows that what he really wants is to be the one to care for you. He knows he’d do it well—dedicate himself to the roll because there had been a time where it had been his only desire. But Rhys had come back after fifty years and Cass had a High Lady to protect now; had duties to uphold—responsibilities that wouldn’t allow the freedom necessary to take you on picnics in flower fields or to remember anniversaries. “You haven’t been eating enough and you’re always working. You barely even sleep.” He says it oh so gently but you can hear the underlying worry there. Can see it in the way his wings rustle and gaze scans the length of you, most likely noticing the way you resemble a deadman walking.

“You stalking me or something?”

“You promised.” His stance straightens out a little, syllables carrying a little more conviction as he tries to get his point across. “After everything between us, you at least promised that you’d be safe and take care of yourself.”

“You left me, Cassian.” His throat rolls under the shame, chest constricting as he’s forced to witness the way your eyes go glassy. “You walked out on me so what I look like without you shouldn’t matter.” Emotion holds thick in your voice and it takes true effort not to let tears fall down your cheeks. This was too confusing, the back and forth too exhausting, the hope too draining. “Why do you even care?”

A million possible answers claw to the forefront of Cassian’s mouth. Ones that scream, ‘because I love you! Because you’re everything to me.’ So badly he yearns to just let it out and confess how your safety was everything he thinks of when suiting up for battle and drenching himself in the blood of others with no regard for his own life. “Because, I do.” He says instead and he knows it’s not enough—can see the way the light in your eyes die out when you’re left hanging yet again. “Please peach, just get some rest. For me.”

He almost wishes you’d resist; to give him another reason to seek you out and darken your doorstep even if meant just a glimpse at you.

Your shoulders fall too low to be gearing up for a fight and the furrow of your brow wobbles with the effort it takes to keep you from crumbling all together.

Gauze patches at your battered heart. Dab with disinfectant there. Pressure to staunch the bleeding. Fire to cauterize. Magic to smooth it all over. “Fine.” You nod stiffly, the picture of professionalism. “And thank you, General, for your service.”

It is what it is.

#acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar x you #cassian fluff #cassian x you #cassian angst #cassian acotar #cass acotar #cassian fanfic #cassian fic #cassian x reader #acotar cassian #cass fic #cass x reader #cassian #blurb bar #cassian blurb

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Text

Witch Reader rejecting their yan apprentice for being centuries older than them-

What a lovely way to start the morning.

Between tireless training and aiding those who sought out your aid, it was always nice to sit back and enjoy the mundane. How things have changed since you've taken on a successor - for you, and the witch in training seated before you as you run a brush through their hair. In first meeting you all you remembered was dried blood and caked dirt coming from their scalp, but now all that bled through their silky locks was time itself. Curly strings of silver wove through the natural vibrant of their hair revealed to you through each stroke of your hand. It was quite marvelous to see the change of the human body in such a short time. Almost made you miss the time when your body aged the same as those around you."

Reaching over their shoulder to take a ribbon from the dresser - a quiet laugh plays in their ear as you present a strand of hair from the brush. "I take it someone has been working harder than need despite my warnings. Unless you plan to go fully gray please try to relax more, or you'll end up looking over than even me."

"...Master?"

"Yes."

"I'm in love with you."

Swipping their hair over their shoulder, you weave it into a braid as you hum. "I care for you too, my dear."

"We both know that isn't what I mean. I wish to be by your side for the remainder of time. It's the only place I've ever belonged and you are the only one I can see myself calling my own."

"And I've told you time and time again that is impossible. I'm far too old for you."

"We have been with each other for nearly a decade by not and I've been an adult for longer. What's stopping us from being together?"

Gently, you lift a hand to their chin, forcing their wet eyes to face the mirror. At first glance there is no huge difference between you. Your aging process had taken pause sometime around when you were their age, but upon gazing into your eyes the contrast was stark and bleak. Their eyes were still so full of life and the temperamental embers of hope despite all they'd been more - hope you yourself had instilled upon saving them from never-ending suffering. Yours, while they had never lost their generos shine- had forgotten what it was like to hope in a world that refused to give unless you bent its rules to your own tune.

"You deserve to find someone who hasn't seen it all. A person who can grow with you no matter what walk in life you are taking. I'm sure a day will come that you find someone with those qualities and leave me behind. Until then, I will always be by your side."

It pains them so to hear you speak of yourself so poorly. Despite your teachings you were just as native as them if you thought you'd seen everything. If you felt even a faction of their love you'd see how you were meant to be. Someday they'd open your eyes to their bleeding heart even if they had to rip it out, but until then.....

"Until then.... can you still hold me like a lover would?"

You kiss the top of their head, tying the ribbon into a tight loop. "That, I can do."

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere oc #yandere witch #yandere drabble

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mononijikayu · 4 months

Text

hongyeon — ryomen sukuna.

With a deranged laughter that echoed across the battlefield, Ryomen Sukuna embraced the monstrous essence within him, allowing it to surge forth with unrestrained fury. The Malevolent Shrine, a twisted monument to darkness, responded to his call, unleashing its full wrath upon the enemy ranks.

GENRE: Heian Era to Shibuya Arc, 2018;

WARNING/s: Alternate Universe ─ Canon Divergence, Romance, Emotional Hurt, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining, Domesticity, Friends to Lovers, Character Death, Grief, Miscarriage, Mention of Depression, Mention of Mourning, Depiction of Physical Touch, Depiction of Mental Anguish, Depiction of Violence, Depiction of Harm, Depiction of Blood and Wounds, Depiction of Miscarriage, Depiction of Death, Depiction of Harm, Pseudo-Incest, Adoptive Cousins, Portrayal of Misogynist And Degrading Acts and Language, Smut, Detailed Depiction of Sex, Depiction of Sexual Foreplay, Sexual Penetration, Consensual Sex;

masterlist

ashes of love

song: hongyeon by ahn ye eun

note: this is the point where we see sukuna become more monster-like. and it would continue more and more in the upcoming chapters. sukuna loves, but he is cursed by it too. hiromi will be fine soon enough too. the next chapter will be a few years since this. the war would still be happening and the gojo are now involved!!! i'll see you till then!!! i love you!!! <3

IT WAS A RATHER EERIE NIGHT. As the rain poured down, quenching the flames that had engulfed Ryomen Manor and bringing an eerie calm to the battlefield, it was finally quiet. Ryomen Sukuna and Ryomen Hiromi found themselves amidst the ruins, their hearts heavy with the weight of their losses.

The once-proud manor was now a smoldering wreck, its proud double heron banner reduced to ash and embers. The bodies of the dead were littered from left to right, crows giving themselves leave to the flesh and bones of those still edible. The attack had ceased, the Fujiwara forces seemingly satisfied with their destruction, but the threat still loomed over them like a dark cloud.

In the midst of this desolation, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with the quiet grace of a seasoned warrior. Mikoto Masaomi, a loyal guard and ally, approached with an air of urgency. His dark eyes, sharp and observant, took in the scene before him with a mix of sorrow and determination. Without a word, he extended a hand to Sukuna, who was kneeling beside Hiromi, his own emotions a tumultuous storm.

You lay on the ground, exhausted and in pain, your body trembling from the loss of cursed energy and the overwhelming grief of losing their family. Sukuna's heart ached as he looked at you, her usually vibrant eyes now dull and distant.

He gently cleaned you up, washing away the blood and grime, enough to make you clean once again, pure as the moon — as you once were. But his wife could hardly care. Nothing mattered right now. Your breathing was shallow, your spirit broken, but Sukuna refused to let you go. He refused to let his wife be defeated.

"We need to leave, Sukuna–sama.” Masaomi said, his voice firm but laced with empathy. "The Fujiwara will return soon enough. We cannot stay here. We must find a place to regroup and plan our next move."

Sukuna nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Take my wife to safety until then." he ordered Masaomi. "Protect my wife with your life."

Masaomi placed a reassuring hand on Sukuna's shoulder. "I will. But you must come with us. We need you."

Sukuna's eyes hardened. "I can't stay here. Not with the Fujiwara still out there. But I promise, I will find you. I will come back."

With that, Sukuna gently lifted Hiromi into Masaomi's arms, trusting him to keep you safe. Mikoto Masaomi nodded solemnly, and with you secure, he began to lead them away from the ruins of Ryomen Manor. He parted from them when he led them to safety, where no more Fujiwara had lingered.

As they moved through the rain-soaked night and as he watched them leave, Sukuna's mind was already formulating plans for revenge, his determination fueled by the sight of his shattered home and the loss of his loved ones.

For the rest of the night, Ryomen Sukuna hunted down the remaining Fujiwara soldiers with a relentless, vengeful fury. These invaders, who had defiled his home and slaughtered his kin, now found themselves the prey of a wrathful spirit. The rain did little to cool the burning rage that coursed through Sukuna’s veins.

He moved through the shadows like a specter, his movements swift and silent. The Fujiwara soldiers, some still looting the bodies of the fallen, were caught off guard by the sudden, ferocious attacks. Sukuna’s strikes were lethal, each blow delivered with precision and brutal efficiency. He took no prisoners, showing no mercy to those who had shown none to his family.

Painfully, brutally, over and over — he killed them. He made them suffer, prolonging their agony as much as possible. He relished in their terror, in the widening of their eyes as they realized death was upon them. Their screams echoed through the desolate grounds, mingling with the relentless patter of rain. Blood spilled over the dying flowers by the pond, mingling with the rainwater to form crimson pools.

Sukuna didn’t think straight. He didn’t need to. His mind was a storm of grief and anger, each killing a cathartic release of the agony that threatened to consume him. His hands, now slick with blood, moved with a mind of their own, guided by an instinct as ancient and primal as the earth itself.

He found one Fujiwara sorcerer looting a chest of treasures that had long been in his family. The sight of this desecration ignited a fresh wave of fury within him. With a snarl, he lunged at the man, his fists pummeling flesh and bone until the soldier was nothing but a lifeless, bloodied heap.

Another one of these fools tried to flee, his fear evident in his frantic movements. Sukuna caught him easily, dragging him back to the manor grounds. He took his time with this one, making sure every moment was filled with excruciating pain. The man’s screams were almost drowned out by the roar of the rain, but Sukuna could still hear them, and they fueled his vengeance.

The night wore on, and still, Sukuna did not tire. Each kill brought a brief moment of satisfaction, but it was never enough to quell the storm within him. He moved like a force of nature, unstoppable and unyielding. The Fujiwara soldiers fell before him, one after another, their blood staining the ground that had once been the foundation of his home.

By the time dawn began to break, the rain had started to ease, but Sukuna’s rage had not. The manor grounds were littered with the bodies of the dead, the air heavy with the scent of blood and rain-soaked earth. Sukuna stood amidst the carnage, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion and unspent rage.

He looked around at the destruction he had wrought, the broken bodies of his enemies scattered like fallen leaves. For a moment, he felt a grim sense of satisfaction, knowing that he had avenged his family, that he had made the Fujiwara pay for their cruelty.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, a hollow emptiness settled over him. The sight of the manor’s ruins, the memory of your broken form, the knowledge of all he had lost — it all came crashing down on him. He fell to his knees, the weight of his grief and anger too much to bear.

In the stillness of the dawn, Sukuna vowed to himself that this was only the beginning. He would become stronger, more ruthless. He would not stop until the Fujiwara were utterly destroyed. But for now, he allowed himself a moment to mourn, to remember the life that had been taken from him, and to let the rain wash away the blood of his enemies.

It did not take long for him to arrive in the Mikoto compound. Masaomi had been the one waiting for him, along with the many guardsmen that had gathered among the volunteers from the villages. He welcomed Sukuna in his home. He did not mind the blood in Sukuna’s clothes. He knew what happened, but there was nothing to talk about. Not after what happened.

The Mikoto were minor vassals of the Ryomen. They were wealthy enough to own property, but modest in standing to have a manor. It wasn’t what one would expect, but it was a secure house nestled away from prying eyes. It was far enough from Ryomen Manor that the Fujiwara wouldn't think to look there, at least not immediately. It was more than enough at this moment.

The house was modest but sturdy, built with the same meticulous care that Masaomi applied to all aspects of his life. As they crossed the threshold, the warmth of the interior was a stark contrast to the cold, wet chaos they had left behind. Masaomi’s home was a haven, filled with the soft glow of lanterns and the comforting scents of herbs and incense.

As they entered the inner sanctum of the compound. Ryomen Sukuna felt a momentary sense of relief, knowing that Hiromi was out of immediate danger. You were here somewhere, hidden from plain sight. Masaomi led him to where his wife was, who was finally dressed in cleaner attire. Masaomi watched as Sukuna knelt beside his wife, minding the gap as to not dirty you with the sullen blood upon his body.

"I doubt we can stay around Hida for this long." Sukuna said, his voice low and urgent. "The Fujiwara will eventually search every corner of this region. We need to move quickly."

Masaomi nodded in agreement, his expression grim but resolute. "I'll make arrangements. We have allies who can help us and are waiting for their response. Until then, we can gather our strength and plan our next move, Sukuna–sama.”

Sukuna’s gaze was sharp as he considered their dwindling options. “Have you informed the Gojo-clan?” he asked. Despite his personal disdain for the Gojo, he couldn’t deny their longstanding alliance with the Ryomen. Gojo Suzaku’s fondness for you and your late brother made it almost certain that they would take this betrayal personally.

“We have, Sukuna—sama,” Masaomi replied cordially. “But we wait for their reply. There is no doubt that they will side with us upon this betrayal.”

Sukuna's reddish eyes darkened with determination. "We will take back what is ours. And we will make them pay for what they've done."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken resolve. The flickering candlelight in the small room cast long shadows on the walls, mirroring the darkness that had settled over their lives. Masaomi’s shoulders were tense with the weight of responsibility, and Sukuna could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Masaomi,” Sukuna whispers. breaking the silence. “I don’t know if I trust you with my life. But your loyalty is noted. Your loyalty to my wife, beyond measure. Ensure my wife’s safety above all else.”

Masaomi met Sukuna’s gaze with unwavering loyalty. “I will protect my lady with my life, Sukuna-sama. You have my word.”

Sukuna nodded, feeling a rare moment of gratitude for the steadfast sorcerer. “Good. Now, let’s ensure we are prepared for whatever comes next. But we ought to rest for now.”

Masaomi bowed slightly before taking his leave to begin the necessary preparations. Sukuna watched him go, his mind already racing with strategies and plans for their inevitable confrontation with the Fujiwara. Too much was in his mind.

The weight of his responsibility pressed down on him, to be a protector. To be your right hand man, now that his…his own father…. He swallowed the bile down his throat. Everything now, it was tempered by a burning resolve. The Fujiwara clan had taken much from him and his wife—their home, their family, their sense of peace. But they had also ignited a fire within him, a relentless drive to reclaim what was his and to exact vengeance on those who had wronged him.

“It took you long enough to return.” Your low voice echoed through the dim room, piercing the heavy silence. “Come closer.”

Sukuna hesitated, looking down at his bloodstained clothes and hands. “I am full of blood,” he said, his voice strained with the weight of the night’s violence.

“It does not matter.” You replied, tone firm yet gentle. “Come to me.”

Obeying your request as he always has, Sukuna moved closer and sat beside you on the futon. The sight of you, pale and fragile, tore at his heart. He took your hand in his cleaner hand, feeling the coldness of your skin seep into his own warmth.

“I’m sorry, night flower,” he whispered, his voice trembling with guilt and sorrow. “If I could have done much more…..our fathers wouldn’t have….”

Your eyes fluttered open, and you turned your gaze to meet his. Despite your weakened state, there was a fierce determination in your eyes. “You did everything you could,” you whispered weakly, but with conviction. “But we can’t give up. We have to keep fighting.”

Sukuna nodded, your words igniting a spark of resolve within him. “I will become stronger, my night flower.” he vowed, his voice steadying with newfound determination. “We will not endure this again, you must trust me. They will all regret it, what they have done to us.”

You do not speak, but your eyes pooling with emotions he could not understand spoke enough. He leaned slowly down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you closed your eyes, feeling the softness of his kiss upon your skin.

“Rest now, night flower.” he whispered, his voice filled with both love and resolve. “I will protect you. I promise.”

As you closed your eyes, seeking the solace of sleep, there was quiet. Ryomen Sukuna sat by your side, keeping watch. His mind was a whirlwind of plans and strategies, fueled by a burning desire for vengeance. One way or another, there was going to be an end. He was going to see to it.

The image of the destroyed Ryomen Manor and the memory of the bloodshed they had endured were etched into his mind. He knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger and darkness, but he was determined to walk it, for you, and for the honor of the Ryomen clan.

With you resting beside him, Sukuna allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. He had always prided himself on his strength, but tonight had shown him the depths of his own limitations. But he knew that there was not a time for weakness. It was death waiting on the other side.

He couldn’t afford to be weak, not now, not ever again. He had to rise above his humanity and embrace the monster within, for only then could he protect what remained of his family and reclaim what had been taken from them.

As the night wore on, Sukuna remained vigilant, his mind working tirelessly to devise a plan. The Fujiwara would pay for their treachery, and he would ensure that no more innocent lives were lost to their cruelty. He would become the nightmare that haunted their dreams, the force they could not escape. And in the end, he would restore peace and honor to the Ryomen name, no matter the cost.

In the quiet of Mikoto’s home, the weight of their situation settled upon them. The rain continued to fall outside, a mournful melody that seemed to echo their sorrow. But within these walls, there was a flicker of hope—a promise that they would endure.

THE WEEKS PASSED WITHOUT CHANGE. You continued to lay on the futon, your slender form wrapped in the folds of a once-vibrant kimono, now stained with tears and the remnants of the night's chaos. Your body trembled with exhaustion and grief, the weight of recent events pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. Every fiber of you being ached with the residual effects of your cursed energy, a relentless torment that seemed to sears through your very soul.

The overwhelming strain of channeling your cursed energy had taken its toll, leaving every inch of your limbs heavy and by effect, your movements sluggish. Each breath was a struggle, the air feeling thick and suffocating in your lungs. Pain lanced through your body like a cruel reminder of their vulnerability, each throb a poignant echo of the devastation that had befallen them.

But it was not just the physical pain that tormented you. The emotional toll of witnessing their home's destruction and the loss of so many loved ones weighed heavily on your heart. Your mind was a whirlwind of memories and regrets, each thought a jagged shard of anguish that pierced your fragile resolve. Tears streamed down your pale cheeks, mingling with the sweat and grime that clung to your skin, as you clutched at your chest, seeking solace in the futile hope of easing your inner turmoil.

In the dim light of the room, your grief-stricken form seemed to fade into the shadows, a ghostly silhouette of despair against the backdrop of their shattered lives. The futon beneath you felt cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the warmth she had once known within the walls of Ryomen Manor. But even in the depths of her despair, there remained a flicker of determination, a stubborn refusal to succumb to the despair that threatened to consume you.

With each sob that wracked your body and each tear that fell, you clung to the fragile thread of hope that still lingered within your heart. You knew that their journey was far from over, that there were battles yet to be fought and sacrifices yet to be made. And though the road ahead was fraught with uncertainty and peril, you drew strength from the love and resilience that bound you to Sukuna, knowing that together, they would weather the storm and emerge stronger than before.

Sukuna knelt beside you, his heart aching for his wife. Gently, he began to clean your body bit by bit, skin by skin, his touch tender and careful. He wiped away the tears from your cheeks and brushed the stray strands of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered open, your gaze meeting him with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude.

Sukuna's voice, tender and reassuring, cut through the cacophony of your inner turmoil like a beacon of light in the darkness. With a gentle touch, he guided you through the tattered echoes of your current kimono, the fabric worn and frayed since your arrival previously. You had refused any form of water, having triggered you in grief from the nights before.

But it was Sukuna helping you. You trusted him. You trusted him with everything. In its place, he draped a clean garment around you, the softness of the material a comforting embrace against your weary skin.

As Sukuna tucked the edges of the kimono around you, his movements were careful and deliberate, each touch a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. The warmth of the fabric enveloped you like a protective cocoon, offering a brief respite from the harsh reality of their circumstances.

Once you were settled, Sukuna draped a warm blanket over you, his hands lingering for a moment as he smoothed out the wrinkles with a gentle caress. His touch was gentle yet possessive, a silent vow to shield you from the storm that raged outside their fragile sanctuary.

"Rest now," he murmured, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender kiss. "I'll be here, watching over you. We'll face this together, night flower. You're not alone."

His words were a soothing melody in the chaos, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, they still had each other. With a final reassurance, Sukuna stepped back, his gaze lingering on you with every inch of devotion. Every echo of affection that he could muster in him. You were all he has in the world to live for, after all.

Your eyelids fluttered closed, with your breaths gradually slowing into a rhythmic pattern as you surrendered to the embrace of sleep. Sukuna lingered by your side for a moment longer, his gaze soft with concern as he ensured you were in comfort.

Satisfied that you were resting peacefully, he rose from his kneeling position and turned to find Masaomi standing vigilantly near the window, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond for any potential threats.

Approaching Mikoto Masaomi, Sukuna's expression was grave, weighted by the events that had transpired. He was curious about what had happened. From beginning to end, it was Masaomi who was there. Sukuna wonders if it was wrong of him to wish it was Masaomi who had died instead. Because you would tell him that. You wished no death upon anyone.

But he knew he couldn't help it. Your father and uncle were more valuable to you than Masaomi was. And to Sukuna, he couldn’t help but agree too. He grew up with your uncle as his own adoptive father. Though it was not the most common of relationships, it was Ryomen Hiramu who had taught him how to be a man. And to see a stranger alive, more than his own father — it didn’t sit well with him.

"What happened, Masaomi? How did it come to this?" he inquired, his voice heavy with both sorrow and determination. “How are you alive?”

Mikoto Masaomi turned to face him, his features drawn with fatigue over the matter. Sukuna thinks he could see guilt too. But he does not consider it enough. Enough to make up for the failures of living instead of the lord and his brother.

"Many perished in the attack," he began, his voice tinged with sadness. "The Fujiwara showed no mercy. But some of us managed to escape. Isamu-sama... he sacrificed himself to buy us time to flee."

Sukuna's jaw clenched at the mention of Isamu's sacrifice, his heart heavy with the weight of loss. That must have been the sprayed bodies he had found near the inner chambers. Bloody bodies were so mangled that Sukuna had not recognized them. They had perhaps drowned in their own blood and fluids. But that would have taken Isamu–sama’s body too.

"Isamu–sama should have left." he murmured softly, a pang of sorrow coursing through him as he remembered Isamu's selflessness in the face of danger. But now, with Isamu gone, the burden fell upon Hiromi. “Along with my father.”

“We cannot do much about it now, Sukuna–sama.” The sworn sword shook his head at him, his face distraught. “Hoping for a different course of action cannot bring them back.”

He gruntled. “I suppose it would not.”

Silence passes between the two of them.

Sukuna didn’t know what else to say.

Because what must be said now, with nothing?

"Hiromi-sama is our clan leader now," Masaomi declared, his voice unwavering despite the sorrow that lingered in his eyes. "Her survival is paramount to the survival of our entire clan."

Sukuna nodded in acknowledgment, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon him. He understood the responsibility that now rested on Hiromi's shoulders, but he also knew that she was in no condition to bear such weight alone.

"We need to ensure her safety," Sukuna stated firmly, his gaze flickering with determination. "But she cannot bear this burden alone. We must stand together, Masaomi. We will protect her, no matter the cost."

Masaomi nodded. “We can stay here for a while. It’s safe enough.”

“But not safe enough to linger for long.”

“On that we agree, Sukuna–sama.” The sworn sword nodded at his master’s consort. “We need to retake Hida, but we can’t do it alone.”

Sukuna shook his head, his expression resolute. “Then we wait for the response. But as soon as we find that there is trouble, we leave. The Fujiwara will start interrogating everyone in the area. If they find out we’re here, they’ll kill everyone to get to us.”

Masaomi sighed, understanding the gravity of the situation. “You’re right. We need to keep moving, keep them off our trail. But we’ll need a plan, and we’ll need more allies.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Sukuna said firmly. “We have to. For Hiromi, for Isamu, for my father. And for everyone we’ve lost.”

Masaomi placed a hand on Sukuna’s shoulder, offering a silent gesture of solidarity. “We’ll do whatever it takes. We’ll rebuild, and we’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.”

As the rain continued to fall outside, Sukuna and Masaomi stood together, watching the water pool together. They were not one to be close, that had been certain. But now they are united by their shared loss and their determination to fight back. The road ahead was fraught with danger, but they will do whatever it took. No matter the cost; the Ryomen name will live.

THEY BARELY SPOKE THESE DAYS. The days that followed their escape were marked by an increasing sense of isolation between Sukuna and you. You were too consumed by your grief, withdrawing further into yourself as the weight of their losses pressed down on your soul. You spent hours alone, your once bright eyes hollow and distant, barely speaking and seldom eating. The vibrant night flower Ryomen Sukuna had known seemed to wither before his eyes.

Sukuna, on the other hand, buried himself in his plans for revenge against the Fujiwara. The fire of vengeance burned within him, driving him to train relentlessly and strategize their assault. He pored over maps, studied enemy movements, and honed his jujutsu techniques until his body screamed for rest. Yet, he refused to stop, fearing that any moment of inactivity would allow the despair to consume him.

As Sukuna delved deeper into his preparations for revenge, the lines between night and day blurred into a ceaseless cycle of training and planning. His days began at the break of dawn, the first rays of sunlight finding him already immersed in rigorous training regimens, his muscles straining with each exertion. He pushed himself beyond his limits, his determination burning bright even as fatigue threatened to engulf him.

Amidst the solitude of his training grounds, Sukuna found solace in the rhythm of combat, the familiar movements of his jujutsu techniques serving as a refuge from the tumultuous storm of emotions raging within him. With each strike and parry, he channeled his grief and anger into the relentless pursuit of mastery, his resolve unyielding in the face of adversity.

Yet, even as Sukuna devoted himself wholeheartedly to his quest for vengeance, a nagging sense of emptiness gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. He longed for you. Longed to have the short joy that you both shared as man and wife return. But he found himself unable to bridge the growing chasm that separated the two of you.

His heart ached with the knowledge that you bore your own burdens in silence, your grief a heavy burden that you carried alone. And he lets you. Rather than lose you to the words that would break you, that would break him.

Despite his best efforts to bury himself in his preparations, Ryomen Sukuna could not escape the pervasive sense of isolation that hung over him like a dark cloud. The weight of their losses pressed down on his shoulders like a leaden mantle, threatening to crush him beneath its suffocating embrace.

The tension between husband and wife finally reached a boiling point one evening. He realized that there cannot be anything if he could not break through you. He could no longer take it anymore. To see you a shattered doll, waiting for the time to pass. He wanted his wife. He wanted you. In that afternoon, Sukuna returned to their room, finding you sitting by the window.

You were letting time pass once again, ever so empty. Hollowed with grief. You kept staring out into the darkened gardens. You could easily see withering flowers, bitter without the luscious water that rains upon it. Sukuna hurts when he sees you like this. He feels like dying inside when he sees you without your soul.

“You’ve hardly spoken to me, all these many weeks.” Sukuna said, frustration and worry lacing his words. “I’m trying to make things right, night flower. I’m doing this for us. But I cannot do it without you. I need you. I need you to talk to me. I need you to let me in.”

You did not speak in response.

He bit at his lower lip harshly.

He wanted you to look at him.

He wanted you to say something.

Anything, whatever it may be.

He just needed you, here – with him.

You turned your gaze towards him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “For us? It feels like you’re only thinking of revenge. Can we not mourn? Can we not….We’ve lost everything, Sukuna. Our home, our family… our future.”

Sukuna’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel the same pain? But sitting here and mourning won’t change anything. We need to act. Or we’ll die. We’ll die like our fathers. Don’t you understand?”

You stood up, your voice trembling with emotion. “Acting won’t bring them back! Revenge won’t heal what’s been broken. You’re so consumed by your anger that you’ve forgotten about us, about me. About us!”

Sukuna's frustration boiled over, his anger simmering beneath the surface like a raging inferno. "Forgotten about you?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I've sacrificed everything for us, for our future! And I’m continuing to do so. Can’t you see that?”

You recoiled at the intensity of his words, your own anger rising to meet him. "Sacrificed? Is that what you call it?" you retorted, your voice trembling with fury. "You've sacrificed our happiness, our love, all for the sake of your precious revenge! Sukuna, I’m tired of revenge. I’m tired of losing someone. If I…if this continues, I’ll lose you too and I cannot…”

Sukuna's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his fists tightening even further. "I'm doing what needs to be done!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls of their makeshift shelter. "I won't sit idly by while those bastards get away with what they've done. To let them continue what they had done. I won't rest until they pay for their sins!"

Your lip curled in disgust, your own anger fueling your words. "And what about me? What about…." you demanded, your voice rising to match his. But you abruptly stop as you feel your lips tremble. "Does nothing else mean anything to you? Or are they just collateral damage in your quest for vengeance?"

Sukuna's chest heaved with the force of his rage, his mind clouded with fury and despair. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect us, wife." he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Even if it means becoming the cruelest of them all. Us or them. That is the choice. That is the way.”

With those words hanging in the air like a curse, Ryomen Sukuna stormed out of the room, leaving you alone in the darkness, your heart heavy with sorrow and regret. Tears poured from your eyes as you lowered your head, feeling a sob reverberate from your throat.

The training yard was cloaked in a somber atmosphere, the air heavy with the weight of Sukuna's relentless determination. MIkoto Masaomi observed from a distance as Sukuna unleashed the full force of his abilities, his movements fluid and precise as he practiced the devastating techniques that would become his arsenal in the coming battle.

"Sukuna—sama, you need to rest." Masaomi called out, his voice tinged with concern. He steps forward, his lips curled into a flat line. "This path you're on... it's tearing you apart, and it's not what Hiromi—sama needs right now."

Sukuna’s anger flared, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Rest? How can I rest when everything has been taken from us? When my wife is drowning in grief and our enemies are still out there? Nothing will change if I rest. My wife will still mourn, and it won’t bring back what we’ve lost. More so, we could die. I will not let that happen.”

“Sukuna—sama, please—”

Sukuna paused mid-strike, his muscles tensing as he turned to face Masaomi, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. "Rest is a luxury we can't afford, Mikoto." he replied, his voice edged with determination. "The Fujiwara took everything from us. Our home, our family... I won't rest until they pay for their crimes. I either die trying or live doing it all.”

Masaomi shook his head, his expression grave. "I understand your anger, Sukuna. But you mustn't lose sight of what's truly important. Hiromi–sama needs you now more than ever. My lady needs you more than ever, not a vengeful sorcerer consumed by hatred. There will be time for that. But you must—”

Sukuna's jaw tightened at Masaomi's words, the conflict within him evident in the furrow of his brow.

"I didn’t abandon her. I won't abandon her." he insisted, his voice softer now, tinged with regret. "But I can't stand by while those responsible for our suffering roam free. I have to do this, or we’ll never be free from fear. We’ll only suffer.”

“My lord! My lord Sukuna!” A servant rushes through the corner and into the practice yard. Sukuna’s face contorts as the servant dips into a hurried bow. “You must come, hurry!”

“W-what’s going on?” Sukuna stutters as he looks at the servant’s face as it turns into a pitiful mess, tears falling over. “Speak.”

“My lady…..there was so much blood.” She finally stutters towards him as she sobs freely now. His face furrows into confusion and worry. Before finally it hits him. “My lady was with child and she….”

The courtyard fell silent, the weight of the servant's words hanging heavy in the air like a shroud of sorrow. Sukuna's heart clenched with a mixture of fear and anguish as he absorbed the devastating news. Before he could even process the full extent of the tragedy, his wife’s anguished cry pierced the stillness, sending a chill down his spine.

In an instant, Sukuna was by your side, his hands trembling as he knelt beside her. The sight of you writhing in pain, your cries echoing through the courtyard, tore at his very soul. It was as if his world had been reduced to a blur of agony and despair, his own grief mirrored in the depths of your tear-filled eyes.

Without a word, Sukuna gathered you into his arms, holding you close as if to shield you from the pain that threatened to consume them both. You could barely move as you withered into his arms. He whispered words of comfort, his voice a soothing melody amidst the chaos, though he knew that no words could ever mend the shattered pieces of their shattered dreams.

In the dimly lit room, amidst the echoes of his wife’s anguished cries, Sukuna's own voice trembled with sorrow and regret. Over and over again, you muttered with anguish apologies to the dead. You cry about your father, you cry about your uncle, and now you cry about your child. The child who deserved better, who deserved the world.

He could feel the weight of his words heavy on his tongue, each syllable a painful reminder of his own failures and shortcomings. They tasted bitter in his tongue, painful in his chest. You were with child. It made sense. Why you had been so frightful. Why you had been feeling such grief, knowing you had just lost your father and outlived him. And soon to bear his child — only to lose them and outlive them too.

"My love….my night flower, I'm so sorry," Sukuna whispered, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. The words hung in the air like a lament, filled with the raw anguish of a heart torn apart by grief. With trembling hands, he reached out to you, pulling you close as if to shield you from the world itself. “I am so sorry.”

As you clung to him, your tears staining the fabric of his clothes, Sukuna felt a swell of helplessness wash over him, the weight of their loss pressing down on his shoulders like a suffocating weight. In that moment, all he could do was hold you close, his arms a sanctuary amidst the storm of their shattered dreams.

HE COULD NOT BRING HIMSELF TO ENTER YOUR CHAMBERS FOR DAYS. For days, Sukuna found himself unable to muster the courage to enter your chambers. It was too much guilt that ate at him, having caused you so much distress. Having belittled your grief and distaste for revenge. He could not face you. Not after that. Not after he had hurt you, when he wanted to protect you, care for you.

The weight of your shared grief hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over his every thought and action. Yet Sukuna felt like he had no right to mourn. He had no right to mourn when he had a part in this. As the days passed and the pain of your loss refused to diminish, Sukuna knew that he could no longer avoid facing the reality of their situation.

You cannot do what he needs you to do. And he will not force you to do it. Not when you were not in the state to do it. Not when you were already in so much pain. If there are gods above that were real, he knows that this was their punishment upon him. That he had not been enough. That he has caused you must suffer. It was on him now, to get that revenge. To take that revenge. He had to let you go.

With a heavy heart and a resolve born of necessity, Sukuna finally steeled himself to enter the dimly lit room where you lay on the futon. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the soft sound of your shallow breaths. As he approached your bedside, Sukuna's footsteps seemed to echo in the stillness, each one a testament to the weight of his burden.

Kneeling beside you, Sukuna felt a surge of emotion well up within him, threatening to overwhelm his fragile composure. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently took you in on his own. The chill of your skin sent a shiver down his spine.

"Night flower," he began, his voice trembling. "I’m so sorry. I’ve been weak. I’ve failed you. And now I have hurt you, after I had promised not to.”

Your eyes fluttered open, as though they were flowers in spring. You looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and exhaustion. Sukuna's grip tightened slightly, his desperation to convey his remorse palpable.

"I thought I could protect you, that I could make things right. But I’ve only driven us further into despair. I can’t be the man you need right now. To become strong enough to avenge our family, I have to abandon the man I am and become something else. A monster. And I cannot let you be tied to loving a man who cannot be there.”

Your eyes filled with tears, and you squeezed his hand weakly. "Sukuna... no...please. I can’t….I cannot… Not without you.”

He leaned down, pressing his cheek to your hand. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. And our child... I hope they can forgive me too. For being such a weak husband and a weak father to boot.”

Sukuna's voice trembled with emotion as he poured out his heart to you, his words heavy with the weight of his remorse. His confession hung in the air, a poignant admission of his perceived failures and the depth of his anguish. With each syllable, you could feel everything. Tears flowed from your eyes.

Sukuna's heart clenched at the sight of your sorrow-filled gaze. The raw emotion in your eyes mirrored his own inner turmoil. He didn’t want to go. And you do not want to let him go. But the longer he stays, the longer he’d cause you more pain. Despite the gravity of his words, despite his resolve to cut that red string of fate between you, Ryomen Sukuna felt his heart hurt as your hand tightened around his own. As though begging him to never let go.

“Don’t leave me.” You cried to him, weakly. “Please….”

“I have to go.” He whispers back, just as lowly. He lets his hand caress the other side of your face, feeling the tears pouring slowly. “Or else I will only hurt you. I can’t do that to you. Not anymore.”

As Sukuna's cheek rested against your hand, a profound sense of peace enveloped him, casting aside the tumult of his inner turmoil. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, he found solace in this last moment between you two. He lets his lips echo a soft sigh, as he burns this memory deep in him.

Your touch, the warmth, the way you looked at him with all that hurt, all that love in one — it will always be a soothing balm to his wounded soul, a reminder of the enduring strength you both drew from each other amidst the chaos that surrounded you both. And he will endure. He vows to do so.

Yet, despite the comfort he found in your presence, Sukuna knew that he could not linger in this moment of tranquility. This cannot last too long. He must steel himself for what lay ahead, for the path he had chosen demanded sacrifice and resolve.

With a heavy heart, he looks at you. He lets his hand free from your cheek and take your hand from his cheek. He lets his lips press a kiss upon the palm. You choked into a grievous cry as he shakes his lips a little while longer. When he stops, he smiles at you. He bids you one last look, one last longing.

As he rose to his feet, a pang of sorrow pierced his stoic facade, threatening to shatter the mask of composure he wore. Sukuna was not one to shed tears, you knew that all too well. Yet the thought of leaving Hiromi and their departed child they had lost stirred a wellspring of emotion within him. Blinking back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, he took a steadying breath, steeling himself for the task that lay ahead.

Ryomen Sukuna silently bid his beloved farewell, his heart heavy with the weight of their parting. Turning away, he left the room without another word, his resolve hardened with each resolute step he took. Outside, Masaomi awaited him, his expression a mirror of Sukuna's own inner turmoil.

He knew what happened, being that silent witness to the burdens they both carried. But he does not say anything. He did not need to. Everything that has been said between husband and wife has been left into the world long dead.

"You’ll need to flee very soon." Sukuna said, his tone steely. "Take Hiromi–sama and go onwards to safety. Protect our lady with your life, if necessary."

As Sukuna spoke, his words carried a weighty urgency, his tone laced with an unwavering resolve that brooked no argument. He knew that time was of the essence, that they could not afford to linger in the wake of tragedy. And more so, he would not be there to see to it that there is success. Sukuna needs to make sure that they will look after you.

Even when he wasn’t there. Someone else has to. They have to. With every passing moment bringing them closer to danger, Sukuna knew that at whatever cost, he’d rather all had died but you. You have to live. He has to know you will live.

Masaomi, ever the steadfast guardian, met Sukuna's gaze with a solemn nod, his own demeanor reflecting the gravity of their situation. He understood the gravity of Sukuna's words and the importance of their mission. With a sense of duty ingrained deep within him, Masaomi bowed at his lord ever so elegantly.

"I will, my lord." Masaomi affirmed, his voice steady despite the weight of their circumstances. "I'll start organizing the evacuation of Mikoto immediately. Hiromi–sama safety is my utmost priority, Sukuna-sama. The Ryomen will live. You have my word."

“Go off then. Before they come.”

Sukuna watched as the sworn sword nodded at him. He watched as Masaomi walked away, barking orders to the remaining guards and servants and soon, reverberated elsewhere in his own estate. His heart ached with the knowledge that he was leaving you in a time of such vulnerability. But there was no other choice. You both have to part.

As the preparations for their escape continued, Sukuna stood alone, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He felt the man he once was slipping away, replaced by a relentless force driven by fury and sorrow. The world had taken everything from him, and he would stop at nothing to reclaim it.

And in the midst of it all, he prayed that one day, you and your lost child would find it in their hearts to forgive him for the monster he was about to become. For the villain he will now play. For the blood that must be shed. Revenge must be had. At all costs.

HE HAD EXPECTED THEM. It was that late night, under the shroud of darkness, that the Fujiwara launched their assault on the Mikoto household. The air was thick with tension, and the silence was broken only by the distant sounds of approaching footsteps. It was Ryomen Sukuna who stood alone in the courtyard, his figure a solitary sentinel against the coming storm.

The battlefield was a chaotic frenzy of clashing cursed energy and cursed weapons. One could hear the cries of battle from miles away. One could feel that air thickened with the stench of blood and sweat. In the face of the Fujiwara coming towards him with their relentless advance, Ryomen Sukuna stood as a solitary figure of defiance, his resolve unyielding despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him.

As the enemy surged forward with deadly intent, their movements swift and coordinated, Sukuna braced himself for the onslaught one after another. He could feel himself bathe in blood at each turn. One after another, there was his fist that took one life in a flash. With a fierce determination burning in his darkened eyes, he met their charge head-on, his every movement calculated and precise.

With each strike he delivered, Sukuna's strength and skill were made evident to all. It was why he was so famous, why he had been the pride of the Ryomen. His blows were like thunder, each one landing with bone-crushing force and leaving devastation in its wake. Yet, for every foe he felled, it seemed that two more took their place, their numbers swelling with each passing moment.

Undeterred by the overwhelming odds, Sukuna fought on with a grim determination, he did not care what it would cost him. With his every movement a testament to his unwavering resolve, there was nothing he had to lose. Perhaps it was what was terrifying. That a man who has nothing to lose raged against the onslaught of the many who have few to lose. Sukuna refused to back down, his spirit unbroken even as fatigue threatened to drag him down.

As Sukuna fought, his thoughts were a tumult of resolve and desperation. ”I have to be strong.” he muttered to himself between breaths. ”A monster cannot fail.”

Ryomen Sukuna knew that he had to survive here. to cultivate all his hatred, his anguish, his grief; just so he can return to you. There was no other choice. He needs to be the monster that he'd always been, he needs to be the cruel beast. He needs to be strong. He needs to protect you. So you would never suffer again.

He could feel the edges of his sanity fraying, the need to protect Hiromi and avenge their family pushing him beyond human limits. In the midst of the chaos, an idea began to form, a desperate gamble. He didn’t yet have full control of his domain just yet, but if he didn’t try now, he might never have another chance to know where he was. He needed to push, push hard until he—

With a guttural roar, Sukuna pushed his cursed energy to its limits, summoning every ounce of his power. The air around him began to warp and twist, dark energy crackling like lightning. He envisioned the Malevolent Shrine, a twisted, mangled reflection of his own inner turmoil and rage.

“Domain expansion!” Ryomen Sukuna cried, as his hands meddled together. His eyes were redder than the scarlet blood that mellowed his body. More dangerous. More animalistic. More maddened than ever before. “Malevolent Shrine!”

It did not take long for the battlefield transformed into a nightmare realm, the air thick with an otherworldly chill that seeped into the bones of all who dared to tread upon it. In the heart of this twisted landscape stood a small, disfigured Buddhist shrine, its very presence an affront to all that was sacred.

The shrine was a grotesque mockery of its former self, its once serene façade twisted and corrupted by malevolent forces. Horns protruded from its roof like the gnarled horns of a demon, casting sinister shadows that danced across the blood-soaked ground below. Human skulls adorned its edges, their empty eye sockets staring out with an eerie, haunting gaze.

The entrances to the shrine were gaping mouths, their jagged teeth bared in a silent snarl of malevolence. Each mouth seemed to beckon, promising untold horrors to those foolish enough to venture within. And at the corners of the shrine stood four short, twisted trees, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal hands, grasping at the very fabric of reality itself.

As they faced down the advancing enemy forces, Ryomen Sukuna could feel how electric he felt. He could feel their fear. The way the shiver of fear ran down each and every pitiful fool’s spine. This was no ordinary battlefield; this was a realm of nightmares, where the very essence of evil itself seemed to pulse and thrum with a malevolent energy. And in the heart of it all stood the shrine, a silent sentinel of darkness, casting its shadow over all who dared to challenge its authority.

Ryomen Sukuna stood at the heart of the malevolent domain, his very presence radiating a dark and ominous energy that sent shivers down the spines of all who beheld him. The Fujiwara forces, once filled with bravado, now hesitated, their resolve crumbling in the face of such overwhelming power.

His body moved with a brutal grace, every attack a testament to his determination. The shrine's dark power amplified his abilities, making him an unstoppable force. Yet even as he fought, a part of him knew this was only the beginning. He would need to refine his control, to shape his domain with precision. But for now, raw power was enough.

The grotesque mouths that served as entrances to the shrine spat forth torrents of dark energy, swallowing up soldiers and tearing them apart with merciless each and every cut that pierced through them. Nothing would be left of them soon enough. Those who dared to approach found themselves consumed by a vortex of despair, their very souls torn asunder by the malevolent forces at play.

Meanwhile, the gnarled trees that stood sentinel at the corners of the shrine lashed out with their twisted branches, striking down foes with unnatural speed and precision. Each blow was delivered with the force of a sledgehammer, crushing bone and rending flesh with terrifying ease.

As the battlefield erupted into chaos, Sukuna stood amidst the carnage, his laughter mingling with the screams of the dying. In that moment, he was not merely a man; he was a force of nature, he was death in itself; a harbinger of destruction whose wrath knew no bounds. And as the Fujiwara fell before him, he reveled in the dark power that coursed through his veins, knowing that he had become something more than human.

He had become a monster.

facts about this chapter

i had to reread the story again because i was off the grid from it so long, i had to follow my plot again but here we are; this took the second longest to write, maybe a whole day, but the prep time was longer than that.

i ended up changing something with regards to the way sukuna leaves hiromi. originally, i thought i was going to make him be kidnapped by the fujiwara and thrown off in desolate isolation and that's how he becomes a cursed user. but i decided against it.

sukuna doesnt have a complete domain yet like megumi but sukuna over time will be developing it. he lives longer than hiromi, so he has time.

when i was wondering how i could save hiromi and sukuna, it made sense that it owuld be masaomi. i thought about putting suzaku in it already, but it would be too early to bring him up considering he has more of a role to play later on.

sukuna meets yozuru later on, but she's from the fujiwara. so the fujiwara isn't really fully eradicated UNTIL sukuna decides to take them out later on. that's why the war with them will keep going on for a while.

in heian culture, ghosting or leaving your spouse was considered the divorce. sukuna leaving hiromi was a form of divorce. even though few knew, it was still sukuna filing for divorce.

it takes too muhc on hiromi to use her powers. but considering how she was emotionally and mentally unstable and depressed, it made her even worse. through this time, the voices were mocking her as well. hiromi was having a really hard time.

sukuna found the room where isamu died in. but he didn't really know which one he was as isamu used his water cursed technique to kill everyone including him. so there was no body left. sukuna tried to find hiramu, but he couldn't find him.

masaomi lost his father that night as well. his father was in ryomen manor too and died alongside his vassal lords. he's also lord mikoto now, clan leader, as of that happening.

sukuna's domain, though small so far, did destroy mikoto compound. it killed only fujiwara sorcerers as they were all that was there in that moment.

sukuna and hiromi's child was not on my previous draft, but i thought it was something that was profound to wake sukuna up to the fact that there was something more important to hiromi than revenge and that was him and their child.

hiromi is now the clan leader of the ryomen. this makes her the first female clan leader of the ryomen. all of her retainers are scattered all across hida in hiding or in other neighboring allies like the gojos. masaomi intends to bring her to one of these allies to help regroup. that's where we'll meet them next chapter.

the song hongyeon was such a perfect song. as its hinted at, they'll be in each other's lives until the end. i consider them tied by fate. and that's something that is just profound.

the quote in the gif is being said by gojo when he talks about how the mikoto taught him about sukuna's life. being a descendant of hiromi, he knows stuff like this.

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