#i saw the light out and was like oh hell yeah time to be golden boy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mononijikayu · 6 months ago

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to you 2,000... or... 20,000 years from now… — ryomen sukuna.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face. Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine. He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation;

WARNING/S: post canon, future timeline, fluff, possible romance, getting together, mild angst, reincarnation, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, dreams and nightmares, distress, grief, feelings, physical touch, character death, moving on, flashback, humor, no curse future au, pining, light-hearted, happy ending, depiction of the future, depiction of reincarnation, depiction of letting go, depiction of flashback, depiction of getting together, depiction of depiction of character death, depiction of distress, depiction of grief, mention of character death, mention of the past, mention of letting go, mention of grief, reincarnated! sukuna, reincarnated concubine! reader;

WORDS: 15k words.

NOTE: this concludes the final part of the main story of the other woman. i'm genuinely grateful for you love and attention towards my story. this was never supposed to be a series, it was supposed to be a one off fic. but because of your love for concubine reader, i was inspired to bring more to her life.

as i promised, this is a happy ending. well, the happy end that i think would suit the story. of course, this is not the end of concubine reader's story. there will be drabbles of sukuna and concubine reader's life that i never managed to put out.

if you have any suggestion or questions about the story, you can drop some words down in the inbox!!! i'm very happy when you ask questions about the story or have suggestions of what you wanna see next!!! please do so everyone!!!

i hope you look forward to them!!! thank you for reading, thank you for your support and love. i'll continue to write for you all!!! i love you <3

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HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW HE’LL GET THROUGH THIS. He’d never felt like this before. What do his other artist friends call it? Oh, that’s right. A slump. An artist’s slump. Yeah, that’s what it’s called. He’s never had that before.

But why should he? Ryomen Sukuna was a protege. He was a stellar artist with a golden hand, one who never stops. The one who works as though he’s running out of time. It’s him.

And yet, at that moment, he wasn’t.

Ryomen Sukuna had a problem.

He was stumped from hell and back.

And he doesn’t understand why.

A loud exhale releases from his mouth as he looks up at all the drying canvas in front of him in the various easels. They’re all beautiful, don’t get him wrong. But they’re all the same.

And that bothers Ryomen Sukuna as he purses his lips in a flat line. His own studio has become a homage to these paintings and sketches as of late. There was nothing else coming out of him. Nothing else was occupying his mind.

In the maze of half-finished canvases and dried paint of his studio, there were only those same eyes staring at him. He could feel it even now under the dim lighting casting long, wavering shadows across each and every tender gaze.

He couldn’t stand up anymore. He’s exhausted. He’s been up since god knows when. Everywhere there was paint. His hands are stained, his shirt splattered with colors that have long since dulled. It’s been weeks.

He doesn't know how to deal with this. How could he, when she finds him in every moment? How easy it was to be that way. He’s stopped keeping track of time, because time means nothing when all he can see, all he can paint, is her.

As of late, it was this that haunted him. It was the same as always. It was this woman with those kind eyes looking back at him. That same tender smile greeting him. That same beauty yearning towards him. Everything about the woman’s face consumes him. Everything that she is continues to follow him like a ghost, over and over.

He can’t even pinpoint when it started. It just started happening out of nowhere. At one point there were normal dreams and soon enough, there were something else.

And as time passed by, there was nothing else left but her. Her beautiful smiling face looking at him. Every single time, she never fails to be warm towards him. As though she could feel him, as though she could see him.

She’s become more than a fixation; she’s an infection, seeping into every corner of his mind, haunting the hours he’s awake as much as those precious few where he drifts into a broken sleep.

She first appeared in his dreams like a fleeting whisper, but her image has grown, intensifying with each passing night, filling his dreams with a crescendo of color and dread. And over and over, it was repeating.

Like a piano key stuck on the board, playing over and over that same repetitive note. And yet, it was still lovely. It was still tender. And then suddenly, it wasn’t. That was the worst part of it all, he thinks. He captures the beauty of her and then suddenly, it just disappears. It goes. Almost like smoke.

The dream is always the same every night. At first it was terrifying to him. He’d never seen anything like her before. He’d never seen what happened to her before, not to anyone. Not ever. But with her, it repeats.

That nightmare continues over and over again. And he hated it. He hated how he has memorized it. He has hated how it was all he could see over and over again. He hated how this was the fate that such a beautiful, kind woman had to meet.

That beautiful lady, she would stand there and smile at him. Often, she stands at the edge of a crumbling cliff, the ocean roiling and dark beneath her, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below.

She turns, her eyes fixed on him, lips curling into a smile that might be tender, might be mocking, it shifts each time, eluding any attempt to decipher it.

She extends a hand, beckoning, imploring him to come closer. His heart races, his feet propel him forward, but just as he reaches for her, she slips, and he’s left grasping at nothing but empty air.

Again and again, he tries to save her. Again and again, she falls.

The dream wakes him in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breath shallow. He stumbles to his studio, and without thinking, he begins to paint. Her face materializes with each stroke, her eyes holding secrets he can’t unlock.

Her smile flickering with a mystery that tightens his chest. He paints her until his fingers go numb, until his eyes blur from exhaustion. He paints her even when he’s on the verge of madness. And he hates it—hates her—but he’s powerless to stop.

The people around him have noticed the shift, though they don’t understand it. They speak of his new works with reverence, captivated by the haunting beauty of the unknown woman he’s made famous.

But they don’t see the toll she takes on him. They don’t see the shadow of sleeplessness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the wild desperation lurking just beneath his cool exterior.

Every time he tries to paint something else. Absolutely anything else, it does not work. Not anymore. He would feel his hands freeze, his mind goes blank, and all he can see is her smile.

She’s everywhere, a ghost in his waking hours, her gaze piercing through every wall he builds to keep her out. The thrill of creation is gone; all that remains is the raw compulsion to recreate her face, an act that feels more like exorcism than art.

Ryomen Sukuna slumps back into his chair, eyes trained on the painting before him, hands limp and smeared with shades of red and soft violet. Her face, the delicate arch of her brows, the smirk teasing at her lips. All of it stares back at him, alive, taunting.

It’s as though she’s watching him, laughing softly at his obsession, fully aware of the hold she has over him. The painted eyes seem to flicker, and in his exhaustion, Sukuna wonders if he’s the one painting her, or if she’s the one reaching through the canvas, carving her image into his mind with a precision that leaves him helpless.

“Damn it. This is so annoying.” he mutters, his voice echoing hollowly in the quiet room. He reaches for his brush, the movement automatic, but his hand falters, dropping it back onto the table as he releases a frustrated sigh.

The curse feels weak, a pitiful attempt to regain some control, but he knows it’s useless. She’s an endless riddle, one he’s compelled to solve yet doomed to never fully understand.

No matter how many times he paints her, he can’t capture her—not completely. The harder he tries, the more elusive she becomes, as though she’s slipping through his fingers, mocking his every attempt.

He sits there, shoulders slouched, the steady tick of the clock filling the empty space around him. Hours blur into each other, and yet he can’t bring himself to look away, his gaze locked on her face, that faint smile hinting at secrets she will never share.

And then, just as the clock strikes midnight, he hears it. That tender voice giving him grief. That warm voice turning him cold. That voice echoed that whisper, soft as a breeze, calling his name.

“My lord…..my lord Sukuna.”

He closes his eyes, the sound reverberating through him, familiar and yet so distant. She’s there, in his mind, like an echo carried across lifetimes, the warmth of her voice stirring something deep inside.

He knows it’s a dream, an illusion conjured by his own obsession, but he doesn’t care. For a brief moment, he lets himself lean into it, lets her voice wash over him like a balm.

“My lord, my beloved lord Sukuna…” Her voice is softer this time, coaxing, filled with a strange tenderness that he’s certain only exists in his imagination. He can almost feel her fingers trailing along his cheek, the faintest touch, leaving warmth in their wake.

“What do you want from me?” he murmurs, his voice a weary plea, barely audible, as if afraid to break the fragile spell she’s cast over him. “You’re there every night, haunting me, making me see you even when I close my eyes. But what do you want?”

In his mind, her laughter echoes, soft and familiar, as if she’s toying with him. “You know what I want, my lord Sukuna. You’ve always known.”

He clenches his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then tell me, damn it. Tell me what I need to do to set you free.”

“Set me free?” she repeats, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, as if the very idea amuses her. “Oh, my lord Sukuna… it’s not me who needs freeing.”

His breath hitches, her words cutting through him like a blade. The realization settles over him like a heavy weight, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she’s right.

She isn’t the one trapped here—he is. Bound by his own memories, his own regrets, unable to let go of the past that has woven her image into every part of him.

He opens his eyes, staring at the canvas again, her face seeming to shift. It was almost ever so easy for her to taunt him like that, to tease him. Everything about her gave him that feeling that overwhelms him. Feelings that he's never felt in his entire life.

He could feel her eyes glinting with a knowing look that sends a shiver down his spine. He reaches for the brush, hand trembling as he adds another stroke, trying to bring her into focus, to finally capture the essence of her that has haunted him. But no matter what he does, he can’t reach her, can’t grasp the fleeting vision that seems to dance just beyond his reach.

“I’ll keep painting you. I swear.” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with something close to desperation. “Every night, every dream, until you’re satisfied. Until you let me go.”

But he knows, even as the words leave his lips, that she won’t; she’ll never truly leave. She’ll linger there, a silent muse, a relentless force guiding his hand, embedding herself deeper with every brushstroke.

And he, trapped in this beautiful, maddening cycle, will keep painting her face, night after night, each canvas only revealing a fragment of her and yet never enough.

The clock ticks on, marking the hours that slip away in her wake, but he’s long since stopped noticing. She’s there, in every line, every shadow, every flicker of light on the canvas.

She’s his prison, his muse, his madness—and he knows, even as he tries to break free, that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

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BY THIS POINT, HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH HIS COLLECTION. Usually, Ryomen Sukuna finishes his pieces weeks ahead, leaving everyone else; especially Gojo Satoru—scrambling to catch up. Well, perhaps because he usually doesn’t work until he stops messing about.

Still, the rivalry is a running joke among their peers. Gojo Satoru would tease him endlessly, his voice loud and mocking. “The world might as well end if you didn’t finish first, Ryomen Sukuna. I’d have to check if hell froze over.”

Gojo Satoru would say with that infuriating grin, and Sukuna would just roll his scarlet eyes, barely dignifying it with a response. He didn’t need to—he’d simply outdo him, his work claiming the prime spot at the National Gallery, cycle after cycle. That’s just how it works for them.

But now, as the days tick by and his canvas remains trapped in this maddening loop, the weight of that old joke feels heavier. Maybe it would be better if the world did end, he muses grimly, his frustration boiling under the surface. Each day that he fails to paint anything else, fails to break free from this woman’s image—drains him.

Every line, every shadow, every detail is etched with painstaking care, and yet each piece feels incomplete. He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he looks once more at the canvas, the same haunting face staring back.

Another artist would leave the piece for a day, perhaps even a week, and come back with fresh eyes. But not Sukuna. He’s stubborn, relentless. Yet this time, it feels as though he’s been bested, and that thought is infuriating.

A soft knock sounds at the studio door, but he doesn’t respond. The door creaks open, and he doesn’t need to look up to know who it is—he can practically feel Gojo Satoru’s grin from across the room. This was a rare visit from his rival and somewhat friend. But, he already regrets giving him his address.

“Not done yet?” Gojo drawls, strolling in with a lazy confidence, hands shoved into his pockets. “Well, this must be it—the end of the world. Should I start making apocalypse preparations?”

“Leave, Satoru.” Sukuna mutters, his voice a low growl. But Gojo just chuckles, unperturbed.

“Can’t. I live wayyyyyy tooo far. Besides, I came all this way to see the fall of the great Ryomen Sukuna. And boy, is it a sight.” Gojo steps closer, his gaze shifting to the canvas. “Her again, huh? Your mystery woman? I thought you were done with her!”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Say another word, and you’ll be painting with your own blood.”

Gojo just laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Fine, fine. But it’s… interesting, don’t you think? You, stuck on the same image, over and over. And all of this because of one woman.”

Sukuna can feel his patience fraying, each word from Gojo Satoru like sandpaper on a wound that refuses to heal. But Gojo doesn’t stop, his tone shifting from mocking to genuinely curious. It’s already giving him a headache.

“So, bestie……” he says, a glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who is she? A muse? Some long-lost love? Because whatever it is, you’re about to drive yourself mad over her.”

“She’s nothing.” Sukuna says sharply, but the words lack conviction. He doesn’t want to dive into it. Especially for Gojo Satoru. He’d only try to make it all a joke and laugh about it. “Just a woman. Just a damn face that refuses to disappear.”

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “Nothing? Could’ve fooled me, seeing as she’s all you’ve painted for weeks. Either she’s ‘just a woman,’ or she’s haunting you.”

Sukuna clenches his fists, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I can’t… get her out of my head, no matter how many times I try. It’s like she’s taunting me. Every stroke feels like a chase, and I can’t catch her.”

For once, Gojo’s grin fades, a shadow of understanding passing over his face. “So that’s it, huh? You’ve finally found a challenge you can’t conquer. Even after all these years.”

Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a challenge. It’s… more than that.” His voice trails off as he glances at the painting, his expression a mixture of longing and frustration.

“Then stop,” Gojo says bluntly. “If she’s driving you insane, stop trying to capture her. Paint something else. Anything else. Get back to your work, to the craft that’s kept you sane all this time.”

But Sukuna only shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “It’s not that simple, Satoru. I can’t stop. I need to understand… Why is she here? Why does she keep coming back to me?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his bright snow colored hair, clearly torn between amusement and pity. “Well, I can’t say I envy you. But maybe you should try looking beyond the canvas, for once.”

Sukuna scoffs, though a hint of doubt creeps into his expression. “You think there’s anything outside this room that could give me answers?”

Gojo shrugs. “Who knows? Sometimes the answers we need are the ones we’re not looking for. But if this is what’s keeping you chained…” he nods towards the door, his voice lowering, “then maybe it’s time to find out why.”

Ryomen Sukuna says nothing, his gaze flicking between Gojo and the woman’s face on the canvas. And as Gojo slips out the door with a knowing smile, Sukuna feels the weight of his words lingering, as if daring him to break free of the chains he’s crafted for himself.

Gojo Satoru stayed in his studio for a while; the entire time his head hurt. But he couldn’t help admitting that his frustration was put on hold and that he was grateful for it. Annoying as he was, it was better than suffering what he had been suffering with the woman that haunts him.

But when Gojo Satoru leaves, he finds himself unable to leave either. From the night before, he hadn’t really found himself to sleep. But if he was still being honest, he really doesn’t think he made any progress from the ones he had already made that he feels happy about.

Well, except perhaps three more additions to his deluded dreams of this woman. He couldn’t stop with that. That was not something he could enjoy. It didn’t look good. He didn’t think it was the best he had ever done. He looks at his canvas again and squints his eyes. It was as though he was hoping that he had painted something else. But he knew he hadn’t. There was no need to double check.

Okay, well, he should be more honest — it’s four now. This is the fourth one. The fourth one for a while and it’s only past lunch time the next day. Wait, is it really lunch time? He looked around again and saw his clock. His mouth agape in shock. It’s already been a whole day? It’s already the blue hour? What the actual fuck is going on?

He groans as he puts down his paintbrush and covers his face with his hands. A loud groan echoes against his skin, reflecting that bitterness he feels. He was going mad, he’s genuinely sure that he’s really going mad. This time for real. The world is ending and he’s going mad.

Once more, Ryomen Sukuna sits slumped in his studio chair, the dim, cold light from the nearby cityscape casting a pallor over his face. How can this be possible? He's rubbing his temples, staring at yet another drying and yet truly unfinished portrait of her when a familiar voice cuts through his brooding. Ryomen Sukuna turned his back and turned it back once more, just as quickly.

Fuck, its Uraume.

Shit, shit. Is it already that time?

He hasn’t messaged them for two days.

How the fuck is he going to survive—

“Sukuna–san, you have the exhibition in two weeks, you know that!” Uraume reminds him, waking over with their tone both gentle and insistent. They’re standing at the edge of the cluttered studio, arms crossed, their eyes flicking between Sukuna and the growing stack of canvases lining the walls. “Everyone’s expecting new work, Sukuna–san. You can’t just say you aren’t producing anything when this is—”

He cuts them off with a frustrated wave of his hand, as if trying to dismiss both them and the exhibition out of his mind. “I know, I know, Uraume–san. You already know that I know. Don’t you think I know? I just…… What’s the point of even going here? It’s not…it’s not finished—nothing is complete.”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to be telling me—”

“I know, I know.” His voice trails off, heavy with exhaustion. He looks at the half-finished canvas before him, her familiar eyes staring back, mocking him. “Look, I need time. Okay? Just a little more time to get over it. I promise. It will be done soon.”

Uraume steps carefully, sidestepping the mess of brushes, scattered paint, and half-finished canvases that litter the studio floor. Their usual calm is tinged with a hint of bewilderment, their brows furrowing as they glance over at Ryomen Sukuna, who sits slouched in his chair, staring blankly at the portrait before him.

This is the first time they’ve seen him like this—so unfocused, so… lost. It’s unnerving. For as long as they’ve known him, Sukuna was always in control, his power and his confidence absolute. Nothing stumped him; nothing could shake him from his single-minded determination.

And yet, here he is, surrounded by portraits of a woman they’ve never met, trapped in a spiral of obsession that they don’t understand.

“Get over what, exactly?” Uraume asks, a soft but firm edge to their voice, breaking the silence that has grown heavy in the room. “The exhibition is practically sold out already. You are the star of this show—you know that.”

They hesitate, crossing their arms as they study his profile. “If you let yourself slip now, you’re going to lose everything. They expect something… groundbreaking, something other than…”

Their voice trails off as they catch sight of another painting, and then another; all of them of her. Each one shows a different expression, a different tilt of her head, a different light in her eyes, but always the same haunting face. Uraume’s gaze lingers on the latest painting, her smirk, subtle yet all-consuming, as if she’s daring anyone who looks at her to understand.

They shake their heads slowly, exhaling in frustration. “This obsession of yours…” They struggle for the right words, their gaze hardening as they glance back at him. “I don’t understand it. Who is she? And why are you letting her control you like this?”

Sukuna looks up, his expression weary, but there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, a glint that only appears when he’s truly challenged. “You wouldn’t understand, Uraume–san.” he mutters, his voice low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “No one would. Not unless you felt what she did to me.”

Uraume raises a brow, taken aback. This isn’t like him—this vulnerability, this almost painful honesty. They’ve seen Sukuna bring cities to their knees, watched him command fear and respect with the simplest look, but now? Now, he looks more like a man haunted than a man in control.

“Then tell me, Sukuna–san.” Uraume says, their voice softening slightly, more curious than before. “What is it about her? Why does she matter so much?”

He leans back, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “It’s like… no matter how many times I paint her, she’s always out of reach, Uraume–san.” he says, his eyes flicking to the painting in front of him, the smirk that never changes. “Every stroke, every color—it’s as if she’s taunting me, daring me to try again, knowing I’ll never capture her.”

There’s a pause, the weight of his words settling between them, thick and tangible. Uraume takes a step back, their expression wavering. They’re used to seeing Sukuna drive toward a goal with relentless force, breaking anything that stands in his way. But this? This is something else. Something they can’t touch.

“Is she worth all this?” Uraume asks, more gently than they intended. “Worth losing your edge, your control?” They gesture to the canvases around them. “If she’s haunting you this much, perhaps it’s time to let her go.”

A dark laugh escapes Sukuna, low and humorless. “Let her go?” he repeats, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “I’ve tried, Uraume–san. But she’s there, every time I close my eyes. And I can’t…” He stops himself, the words caught in his throat. “She won’t let me go.”

Uraume watches him, feeling a pang of something they can’t quite name—pity, perhaps, or fear for what this fixation could mean for him. They take a step forward, daring to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re stronger than this, Sukuna–san.” they say softly, but firmly. “Whatever hold she has over you, it doesn’t control you. You’re the one in charge here, remember?”

For a moment, Sukuna seems to consider their words, a flicker of clarity in his eyes. But then he glances back at the canvas, at her knowing smile, and his face hardens, as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s already lost.

“I thought so too, Uraume–san.” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Uraume to hear. “But I’m beginning to wonder… maybe she’s the one painting me.”

Uraume watches him in silence, feeling the cold truth of his words settle between them. They realize, in that moment, that they may be witnessing the unraveling of the man they thought was unbreakable. And for the first time, they wonder if he can even escape from the shadows of his own creation.

Sukuna follows their gaze, feeling a surge of irritation and helplessness. “It’s not that simple, Uraume–san. God, it’s just….” he mutters, running a hand through his messy fuschia hair, which is starting to look as unruly as he feels.

“She’s—she’s everywhere to me. And maybe that’s why she’s always here. Every time I try to start something else, there she is. Like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.”

He glances at Uraume, searching their face for some flicker of understanding. “Don’t you get it? I need to work through this. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it go away. If I had magic, it would have been fine, but I just….”

“Then maybe make her part of it.” Uraume replies, unphased by his frustration. “People will want to see this obsession—whatever it is. But they won’t be satisfied with half-finished canvases of the same face over and over.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing, as if movement will shake off the weight pressing down on him. “It’s not an obsession,” he says, though the words sound hollow, even to him. “I just need… time. To figure this out. To move past her.”

Uraume watches him with a calm patience that only irritates him further. “You’ve had time, Sukuna-san. And every day, I’ve watched you do nothing but chase shadows.” They gesture to the rows of unfinished canvases, the dozens of faces that all share her haunting expression.

“Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.”

Sukuna clenches his jaw, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He hates that Uraume, of all people, might be right. But how could he go deeper when she’s already consuming him? They should know that this is not what he needs right now. He needs support about this trying situation. He needs kindness about this. He needs—

He turns his eyes slightly and soon enough, they land on the first portrait he’s drawn of her. It was rough around the edges, it was true. But he was trying really hard to capture what he had found in her. He thought he would never see her again. That first time, it was all too interesting. Because he thought he would never see her again. And her smile would have been everything even that one time.

That once would have been enough, it would have fulfilled him whole enough. That one portrait, that first one — it would have been enough for Ryomen Sukuna to feel like someone was always going to look at him kindly.

That someone would always look at him with such tender eyes. He purses his lips in a line. Here she was. Once again, staring into his soul. Frozen in time. Looking towards him as though he was the world. As though life can only be known through looking at him. He gulped.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” he says finally, forcing his voice to steady. “Just… let me handle it my way.”

Uraume sighs, a long, exasperated sound. “Fine. But remember, Sukuna–san, time waits for no one. Especially not for you.”

And with that, they turn, leaving him alone once more in his dimly lit prison, with nothing but her face and the ticking of the clock to keep him company. Ryomen Sukuna could not move anymore for a while. He couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him like that.

The echoes of the night pangs into the slumber of the bright starry sky, and the silence in Ryomen Sukuna’s studio is absolute, broken only by the occasional soft creak of his chair or the quiet scratch of his brush against the canvas. And he despises it. Usually, he would be happy about that. It helps him focus on his work.

Yet, he’s almost afraid to move or make more noise or appease the silence with his enjoyment. Ryomen Sukuna was afraid that if he does, he’ll break the spell that’s settled over him, the fragile connection that’s come alive between him and her.

This ghostly woman, this chasing woman who has rooted herself so deeply in his psyche. He knows she’s not real, and yet every inch of him feels as if she’s in the room with him, closer than a shadow, more vivid than any memory.

The woman on the canvas feels different this time. He’s pushed past the limits of his frustration and reached a depth of expression that feels raw, unnerving. Her face, no longer a series of lifeless shapes and colors, seems to breathe on the canvas.

Her smile is softer now, her eyes almost… knowing. But the knowing isn’t comforting; it unsettles him, strikes some primal nerve deep inside. He steps back, shaking his head as if to clear it, to dispel the irrational thought that she’s looking back at him with intent, with purpose.

But even standing back, even half-closing his eyes, he can’t unsee her. She seems more real than ever before, like he’s peeled away another layer, only to find her hiding deeper within. He feels his heart beat faster, a slow wave of dread creeping into his veins. How can a face he created himself feel so alive? So sentient?

He backs away from the canvas, his hands covered in paint, feeling a chill settle over him. He’s been pushing himself to exhaustion these past few weeks, painting her in every possible way, but this—this feels different, like he’s crossed an invisible line. For the first time, the compulsion to paint her is laced with fear.

Still, he can’t look away. Her presence fills the room, and he feels the weight of it like a physical force. His eyes roam over her face: the faint shadows around her eyes, the suggestion of pain hidden in the tilt of her lips, the look of sorrow mingling with defiance. Each detail tells a story he’s not sure he wants to know, yet he’s desperate to understand it.

Uraume’s words echo in his mind again: Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.

He shudders, the thought reverberating through him. What if this woman, this apparition, isn’t just an accident of his imagination? What if she’s here for a reason, some purpose he’s been too afraid to uncover?

He recalls the dreams—the cliff, the ocean raging below, the way she extends her hand to him with that haunting smile, beckoning him forward only to disappear again and again. It’s always the same. He can’t save her, but he can’t let her go.

He’s always believed that his art comes from somewhere deep within him, from emotions he doesn’t fully understand, from memories he can’t articulate. But this feels different to him. He had never dealt with this before.

It was almost as if it’s coming from outside of him, as though she’s reaching through the boundary of his mind, using his hands as a conduit. He lets out a shaky breath, clutching the paint-stained edge of his workbench. Is this woman, this image, an echo from his past? A ghost? Or something darker, something he’s unlocked without meaning to?

The thought stirs something in him, a strange, unexplainable pull to keep going, to lose himself in this process of bringing her fully to life. He walks back to the canvas, hand trembling as he picks up his brush once more.

This time, he paints her hand, reaching out, as if extending toward him. The fingers are delicate, almost ghostly, and he layers shadows beneath them, giving them depth, weight. He works until the details blur, until his vision is smeared with exhaustion.

He steps back again, chest tight. Her hand stretches toward him now, inviting him, her fingers just a breath away. The air in the room feels thick, electric, as if she’s drawing him closer, beckoning him to cross some unseen line. He reaches out instinctively, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the canvas.

In that instant, a shiver courses through him, the chill going bone-deep. He feels his hand pull back, but it’s as if something is holding it there, holding him in place. His heart races. He hears the ticking of the clock, each tick louder, more insistent. The woman on the canvas seems closer now, her eyes sharper, more alive, her expression shifting as though she’s on the edge of speaking.

He tears his hand away, stumbling backward, the sudden movement jarring him back to himself. His studio comes into focus, the familiar mess of paint and brushes scattered around, the quiet hum of the city outside. But she’s still there, her face on the canvas, watching him with that faint, knowing smile.

His heart still pounding, he grabs his coat and stumbles out of the studio, leaving her behind, feeling her gaze burning into his back even as he shuts the door. The air outside is cold, crisp, and he gulps it down, trying to shake off the feeling that he’s walked out of a nightmare he can’t wake from.

But even as he steps into the city streets, even as the lights and the noise surround him, he can still see her in his mind, as clearly as if she were standing beside him.

And he knows, with a strange certainty, that no matter how far he runs, she’ll be waiting for him, waiting in the studio, in his dreams, until he finally dares to confront whatever truth she holds.

══════════════════

HE REALLY CAN’T HELP IT. Ryomen Sukuna’s heart hammers in his chest, louder than the muffled hum of voices in the museum, louder than the memories raging through his mind. He stands frozen, his scarlet eyes locked onto her.

This was the woman from his dreams, the face he painted until his hands went numb, until his sanity frayed. The woman he has known is like the back of his hand. She’s here, in the flesh, not on a canvas or a hazy memory, but real, close enough to reach out and touch. And yet, at this moment, she feels farther away than ever.

The woman doesn’t notice him. Of course she wouldn’t have. Why would she? He doesn’t expect her to know what he’s feeling now. She’s oblivious to the storm her presence has unleashed in his chest, the way his pulse spikes as he watches her, every nerve in his body caught between reaching for her and running away.

She’s gazing intently at the displays, her head tilting thoughtfully as she studies each artifact, and with each subtle movement, she reminds him achingly of her—of the woman he’d known in that past life, his concubine, the one he’d lost so long ago. She has that same air of quiet intensity, that gentle focus, the same soft curiosity he remembers.

And then she steps closer to the display holding the hairpin. That hairpin—the one he’d given to his concubine as a symbol of the promise he couldn’t keep, the one she had treasured even on the darkest nights, when the weight of their hidden love had pressed heavy upon them both. The hairpin he’d clasped in her hair before she was taken from him.

The sight of it had been a punch to the gut even before he saw her. But now, watching this woman—a stranger, yet painfully familiar—reach out as though to touch the glass, Sukuna feels something crack open inside him, a wound he’d buried lifetimes ago tearing fresh and raw.

She lifts her hand, her fingers hovering near the glass, her eyes lingering on the hairpin with a look he recognizes—sadness, longing, nostalgia she can’t possibly understand.

Her face is calm, her expression serene, but he knows that look, knows that feeling. Does she feel it too? Does she feel the echo of something lost, something distant yet so deeply embedded in her soul?

His own hand trembles at his side. He wants to go to her, to pull her aside, to demand to know if she remembers, if somewhere in her heart she feels that same aching void he’s carried for centuries. But the reality sinks in, cold and unyielding: to her, he’s a stranger.

She has no idea who he is. She doesn’t remember their stolen moments under moonlight, their whispered vows, the quiet, forbidden love that had bound them tighter than any promise. She doesn’t remember his face, doesn’t know the agony he’s endured, living each lifetime haunted by her ghost, painting her face in the desperate hope it might bring her back.

And yet, the hairpin calls to her. He watches her, rooted to the spot, as she studies it with a reverence she can’t name, can’t explain, an inexplicable connection to something lost to time. He can almost see the weight of her past life hovering over her like a shadow she doesn’t even know is there.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch, aching to touch her, to break this unbearable silence and tell her everything: that he’s waited lifetimes for her, that he’s dreamed of her every night, that every stroke of his brush was a desperate attempt to remember her, to reach her, to feel even an echo of what they once had. But how could he explain that? How could he unload centuries of grief, of longing, on her shoulders, when she doesn’t even know his name?

She turns, moving slowly to the next display. But for a single heartbeat, her gaze drifts in his direction. Their eyes meet, and in that split second, the air thickens, everything around him falling away. Her eyes—those same eyes, dark and deep, full of questions and secrets—fix on him, and he feels the weight of their shared history settle like a heavy cloak over them both.

He watches as something flickers in her gaze, an almost imperceptible flash of recognition. She blinks, and it’s gone, but he clings to it, desperate. Did she feel it, even if only for a moment? Did she feel the weight of a life before, a life they shared, a love they lost?

But she turns away, her brows furrowing slightly, as if shaking off a strange thought, and the moment shatters, leaving him stranded in a sea of regret and unspoken words. She disappears around the corner, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the exhibit.

A bitter pang cuts through him, deeper than anything he’s felt in centuries. She’s here, alive, within his reach, and yet she’s still lost to him. He’s still haunted by the echo of her smile, the shadow of her memory, the woman he could never save.

Slowly, Ryomen Sukuna forces himself to step away, his gaze lingering on the hairpin. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar sting of regret, of promises broken, of lives tangled and torn apart.

He’d thought he was prepared to face her, though he could handle the pain that would come with seeing her again. But the reality is raw and relentless, tearing open old wounds he thought were healed.

In that moment, he was the only one who knew the truth: he’ll always be trapped in this cycle, drawn to her only to watch her slip away. No matter how many times he finds her, she’ll always be just out of reach, a dream he can never wake from.

Ryomen Sukuna’s heart nearly stops when he feels a soft hand on his arm, drawing him back to the present. His present. In front of this woman, this woman who haunted him with everything and anything in him.

“Are you… okay?” the woman asks, her voice gentle, her eyes warm with concern.

He’s stunned, his breath catching as he looks down at her, the stranger with the face he’s known all too well, the stranger who feels like a ghost comes to life. But he forces himself to gather his thoughts, to act like this is a normal interaction with a stranger, even though every nerve in his body feels charged with recognition.

“Ah… yes, I’m….I’m good.” he finally says, his voice rough but steady. “I just find the gallery… interesting.” The words feel absurdly inadequate, but it’s the only thing he can manage.

A small smile breaks over her lips, and the sight of it sends a sharp pang through him. It’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he has to clench his fists to keep himself grounded. She glances around the exhibit, her expression softening with a hint of pride.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, stranger.” she says. “It was… hard to tell the story. To do it justice, I mean.” Her gaze returns to his, warm and inviting. “I’m a Mikoto, by the way. A descendant of Hiromi.”

He feels his heart stop at the name, and it takes him a beat to respond. “Ryomen… Ryomen Sukuna, that’s my name.” he says, his voice catching slightly as he introduces himself.

He could only watch as her eyes widened in surprise, and she studied him, the weight of recognition glinting faintly in her gaze, though she didn't seem to realize its true depth. She probably did not expect him to have that name, that exact name, also.

“A descendant of Hiromi, too?” she asks with a soft laugh, her expression open, friendly. When he doesn’t answer, she shakes her head with a lighthearted smile. “It’s okay. The family’s too big for everyone to know where they come from anyway.”

He nods stiffly, a bit overwhelmed, struggling to keep his composure as memories flicker before him. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he aches to tell her, but he swallows it all down, letting the silence sit between them, as heavy as it is fragile.

Then, gathering his nerve, he glances at her. “Can I… can I ask you something about the exhibit? About Ryomen Sukuna?”

She tilts her head, curious. “Of course, you can.” she says. “But fair warning—it’s going to be a long story. A sad story.”

He meets her gaze, and in that moment, he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, something deep and familiar that calls to him. He nods. “That’s okay.” he says softly. “I think I need to hear it.”

She studies him a moment, as if trying to understand his need to know. Judging from her own reaction, it's a difficult story to even try and tell. But he was curious. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wanted to know so badly.

He wanted to know more than anything how these two people lived. How she lived, that woman in his dreams — the woman right in front of him. He looks at her tenderly, curiously. And she nods, a quiet understanding in her expression.

“Ryomen Sukuna… and his concubine. Their stories are really not easy. Nor is her own. His concubine’s story is difficult. She led a long, sad life. They were together for a long time, longer than Sukuna and Hiromi were wed.” Her eyes lowered, the sight gleaming with sorrow as she touched the glass, trying to reach for the hairpin.

“She was devoted to him, in all the ways that one could describe devotion. And yet….she suffered under him… Quite a lot, if we’re to be honest. She gave him a son and she lost him and his indifference at times, it broke her.” She hesitates, glancing at him before continuing. “Though in his own way, he loved her. But well, was it enough? We cannot truly tell. From what we know from Ryomen Chiharu, she died without knowing. But perhaps, those are claims.”

The words pierce him like a knife. Hearing it from her lips, from her gentle voice, makes it all feel too real. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the weight of it all surges within him, yet he can’t look away from her. Is that what she has had to live through all that time? Was it only the heartbreak she had lived through? In that past life, in her past life — was it just grief born out of more, one after the other? Is that why she kept falling to her death? Suffering in all that pain?

“If he had loved her then….” Sukuna could feel some sense of anger bubble through him. “Why is it not ever clear, his feelings? If you love someone, you….you tell them! You make them know when they’re alive. Not when they’re gone! What kind of man is he? Is he even a man at that point? That’s cruel….That’s…..”

In that moment, her eyes turned wide as she gazed at him. She had seen people get angry on behalf of the long suffering concubine of the King of Curses. That was normal, to feel anguish on her behalf. And yet, this mayhaps is the first time he’s ever seen someone so infuriated. And aggrieved. And bitter. Truly, in the sense of the word. Her heart felt warm about that.

She smiles softly at him and places her hand on his own. “You know….he still did care. Even if he was a terrible man. In some ways.”

“Even then—”

“Come with me, stranger!” she says, her voice soft as she takes his hand, her touch sending an electric shock through him. She leads him to a long table draped in dark fabric, a single scroll lying open at the center. It was a magnificent piece of work.

In the middle was her, that concubine. With her elegant features and her bright eyed gaze, her tender smile that could bring life to a mundane world. The colors illuminated her with such ethereality that one couldn’t even understand. It would have taken much too much time to do this in their lifetime, during the Heian Era.

And yet, it was so carefully made, carefully thought of. So full of devotion to her, details that one couldn’t even find in any other portraiture in that time. Sukuna could only watch as her fingers glide along its edge with a reverence that pulls him in, as though she’s sharing a secret between them. Her smile grows wider.

“This is painted and written by Sukuna himself, mayhaps, a few years before she passed.” she whispers, her eyes shining as she looks at him. “We don’t know, if he had painted and made this in secret. Or if she had known and seen it. But….it was to her… a message. From him to her.”

The scroll is faded, ink blurred by age but unmistakable. And as Sukuna reads it, he feels his breath leave him, his pulse racing as he takes in the words he never thought he’d see again. In ancient script, barely visible, are the words he remembers writing so many lifetimes ago, a promise that felt foolish and desperate even as he wrote it:

“To you, my little one, from a thousand years to another twenty thousand years from now, you who will continue to be dear to me.”

His vision blurs, and he forces himself to swallow down the ache rising in his chest. How is that man ever so contradictory? How could he cause her hurt and then do…do something like this? How can one ever make amends, or show love, knowing they had caused grief and pain and suffering?

He purses his lips, his face echoing in conflict. He could feel his hand tighten in a fist. The woman he saw in his dreams, and the woman he sees before him now. How they both suffered to get to this point.

That smile a thousand years ago, so gentle and yet….so pained. And now, so beautiful and serene, happy. Truly so happy. He couldn’t help but be so overwhelmed by emotion. By all of this. She looks up at him, her face soft with empathy and warmth, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

“What kind of person do you think could write something like that?” she asks gently, studying his reaction.

He swallows, searching for the right words, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone who knew… he’d never find peace without her.” he says, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on the scroll. “Someone… who wanted more time.”

Her eyes meet his, something unspoken passing between them, a quiet understanding that hangs thick in the air. She doesn’t say anything, but her expression shifts, her gaze softening, as if she’s sensing something she can’t quite place, something from another life pressing against the present.

In that moment, he knows he can’t tell her, can’t burden her with the weight of it all. This life may not hold the memory, the pain, the love he’d lost, but here she stands, still at his side. The universe, fate, something unknown has brought them here, and for now, in this fragile moment, it’s enough.

Sukuna’s mind swirls, each beat of his heart drumming louder against the silence that now surrounds them. The faint traces of this man’s ancient words—his promise, his plea—are scrawled on the scroll, untouched by time.

The weight of it feels unbearable, as if this fragile piece of paper holds not just a message from the past but the entirety of his soul. He risks a glance at her, the woman with his concubine’s face, her warmth, her spirit.

She’s watching him with an intensity that pulls him back from his reverie. “I wonder if he ever found her, if he was ever reborn and given new life.” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “If… across all that time, they somehow managed to find each other again. And are more truthful to each other. I always thought that, even when I was a child. I hoped and prayed that they found happiness together in a new life.”

Her words send a chill down his spine. He wants to tell her they did, that he’s standing here, right now, because of her. But he knows he can’t—no matter how much his heart aches to reach out, to let her in on the truth he’s carried alone for so long. The curse of knowing, of remembering, is his burden alone.

Instead, he lets his fingers drift across the edge of the scroll, keeping his gaze lowered. “Maybe he never stopped searching. Even if he is reborn. Maybe if he doesn’t remember it all. He should find her and make amends.” he says softly. “Maybe that’s why his name and his memory linger even now. So that she’ll notice. And…maybe they’ll live the way you want them to.”

She tilts her head, considering him, her smile touched with the slightest hint of sadness. “That’s a beautiful thought. Almost… almost as if he’s still out there, waiting. Even if he had to endure every lifetime alone.”

Sukuna swallows, struggling to keep his composure. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice, about it all.” he says, his voice low. “We’re bound by memories we can’t remember, by the promises our futures will have to remake, even if we have to carry them alone.”

She studies him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s trying to glimpse the truth beneath his words. “That sounds like something he would have said, perhaps….perhaps to her.” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The weight of her gaze feels like a hand pressing against his heart, pulling him toward her, tethering him in a way that feels more ancient than memory. But she turns her attention back to the scroll, breaking the spell, and a soft smile touches her lips as she reads the words he once wrote.

“You know,” she says after a pause, “my family used to tell stories about Sukuna. He’s more of a legend now than a real person, but there are so many conflicting tales. Some say he was ruthless, others say he was capable of great kindness. I’ve always been fascinated by that contradiction.” She glances up at him, eyes alight with curiosity. “What do you think? Was he a monster… or was he something more?”

Sukuna’s breath catches at the question, the answer sitting like a stone in his throat. How can he possibly explain that the truth was more complicated than either legend or history could capture? That he was both and neither, a man torn by his own humanity and haunted by a love he couldn’t protect?

“It’s hard to say what he was.” he answers carefully. “Maybe he was both. A monster to some, but to others… he was someone who gave everything he had. No one is….no one is truly a villain, after all.”

She nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “I like that answer.” she says quietly. “I think we all have pieces of light and shadow inside us. Maybe he was just… someone trying to find a balance, even if he had caused so much hurt. Even if he had failed.”

The irony cuts deep, the tragic poetry of her words like salt in an old wound. Her voice is gentle, but there’s a conviction in her tone that makes his chest tighten. If she knew the truth—if she knew what he’d lost, the sacrifices he’d made—would she still look at him this way, with this soft reverence and understanding?

Lost in thought, he hardly notices her reaching for his hand. Her fingers wrap around his, warm and grounding, and he’s stunned by the simple, natural ease of her touch, as though they’ve done this a thousand times before. Her hand fits perfectly in his, and for the first time in centuries, a glimmer of hope stirs within him.

“Come with me again, stranger.” she says, leading him past the scroll and into a smaller room at the end of the hall. “There’s something else I want you to see.”

They walk in silence, and he lets her guide him, his heart racing, wondering if perhaps, just maybe, she’s starting to feel the pull too—the invisible thread binding them across lifetimes. She stops in front of a display case holding a small, intricately carved pendant, its silver chain gleaming under the soft lights.

“This pendant, it was passed down to Ryomen Chiharu, after a few years.” she says, gazing at it with a fondness that surprises him. “It belonged to her. His concubine. One of the only things she kept close to her heart.”

Sukuna stares at it, his mind reeling. The pendant was once his gift to her, that King of Curses—a token, a promise of protection. Seeing it now, preserved and cared for, feels surreal, a whisper of the life they once shared. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, his voice thick with emotion he’s barely keeping in check.

He wondered, maybe if it was the right time, the right place. If he hadn’t been so enthralled with another — maybe it would have been a match that would have ended with less pain and more joy. Perhaps if the King of Curses had found himself able to move forward, he would have been happier. Maybe his concubine would have been happier.

But that was a thousand years ago. And humanity keeps making that same mistake. Little by little, you could find people repeating it over and over again. That makes Sukuna so bitter and sad, grievous and angry all at once. How could fate be so twisted? How could fate seem so indifferent to it all? How could…how could fate not stop such suffering of people who wish to be happy?

“I always thought it was sad, you know?” she continued, her tone soft. “She must have known he’d never be hers completely. But she still kept this close to her heart. Thinking of him. It’s like she never stopped hoping.”

Sukuna’s throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing into the raw ache within him. “Hope….hope is fragile.” he echoes, his voice hollow. “It can be a painful thing to carry, especially when there’s no chance of seeing it fulfilled.”

Her gaze turns up to him, searching, as though she can sense the depth of his grief but can’t name its source. “Maybe.” she says, her voice a whisper. “But sometimes… hope is all we have.”

He looks away, afraid she’ll see the truth in his eyes. He wonders if she understands, if somewhere deep down, a part of her remembers. But even if she doesn’t, he can feel her empathy, her gentle warmth reaching out to him, soothing his restless spirit.

She squeezes his hand, her touch gentle and grounding. “Thank you,” she says, smiling softly. “For listening to her story with me. I know it’s heavy, but… it’s part of our legacy, isn’t it?”

He nods, his heart raw and open, feeling the weight of the centuries fall away, even if just for this fleeting moment. It’s not enough—not enough to heal the wounds, to bring back what they’d lost—but for the first time, he feels something close to peace.

And in that silence, in her quiet smile, he dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be a way to find and know each other again. She was right there. He likes to think she is. Right in front of him. There was hope, somehow.

That she would be happy. That maybe, just maybe – he could see her smile so beautifully again. A smile that would reach all the way to her eyes and warm her face and towards the reach of all the heavens.

Sukuna stands there, his fingers still brushing the edge of the glass case, the pendant gleaming faintly beneath his touch. He feels an unfamiliar warmth stirring within him, a strange, hesitant urge for something… more, something real and tangible. He looks down at her, her expression still soft with that quiet empathy that unsettles him as much as it comforts him.

Before he can second-guess himself, he clears his throat, casting a sidelong glance her way. “Would you, uh… would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” he asks, a bit gruffly, as if trying to sound casual. “Maybe you could help me with some ideas for my art. I’m….an artist by the way. ”

The question hangs in the air between them, and for a moment, he feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in centuries, like he’s offering a piece of himself he’s long since hidden. He braces himself for rejection, for her to smile politely and turn him down.

Sukuna watches her smile, a genuine, radiant expression that spreads across her face like dawn breaking over a darkened sky. It’s infectious, igniting something deep within him, as though it was a feeling that has lain dormant for centuries beneath layers of pain and regret.

Everything in him felt warm inside. Everything in him grasped to life, hoping that she could nourish it to last forever. Her acceptance feels like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of his existence, and he clings to it with a desperation he can’t quite articulate.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect, stranger.” she says, her voice a gentle balm against the jagged edges of his heart. “Oh, I should stop calling you that, shouldn’t I? My apologies, Sukuna–san. I wanted to tease you for a little more time.”

As she writes her number on a slip of paper, the world around them fades into a blur. The museum, the exhibits, the weight of history—all of it dissolves until it’s just the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment of connection.

He takes the paper from her, fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. It sends an unexpected spark through him, and he’s momentarily lost in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. He forces himself to pull away, catching her gaze again, wanting to savor the moment a little longer.

“What do you like to drink?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation going, to stretch this fleeting connection into something more tangible.

“Coffee, mostly. I love a good espresso.” she replies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “But I’m always open to trying new things. I’m sure the cafe will have new wonders. How about you?”

He nods, remembering the countless cups of coffee he’d consumed over the years, each one a bitter reminder of the countless sleepless nights spent alone. “I’m more of a dark roast person myself. Stronger the better.”

“Then I’ll make sure to introduce you to the best place in town. They have the most incredible brews, fit for a long suffering artist.” she says with a playful grin, and for the first time, he can’t help but smile back. It’s a small, simple thing, but it feels monumental, like a bridge forming over a chasm he thought would always divide him.

“Great….I uh….” he replies, his voice a little steadier. “I look forward to it.”

They linger for a moment, both seeming to hesitate, caught in a bubble of anticipation and something deeper that he can’t quite name. He’s never been one for lighthearted interactions, especially when it comes to connections. Yet here he is, standing before a woman who feels like a piece of his lost history, someone he feels inexplicably drawn to.

With one last lingering look, she steps back, her smile still warming the air between them. “See you soon, then, Sukuna–san.” she says, her voice light yet meaningful.

“Yeah….. I’ll see you soon.” he echoes, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches her walk away, the soft sway of her figure leaving him breathless.

As he turns to leave the gallery, the weight of the memories of a thousand years presses less heavily on him. He had left behind Sukuna's world, and birthed a new. He hopes he can. He wants to. He wants to make that woman happy. She deserves to. She deserves to be happy, in the way he couldn’t do it. He promises himself that.

For the first time, he feels a flicker of inspiration reigniting in his chest, like a spark that’s been waiting for just the right moment to burst into flame. The idea of coffee, of sharing thoughts and laughter, of discussing art with someone who understands the nuances of his legacy—it excites him in a way he hadn’t felt in what seems like an eternity. It excites him to burn with joy.

The streets outside are bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the colors alive and vibrant, reminding him of the canvases he has yet to fill. He can almost picture it now, a new piece forming in his mind—a swirling mix of shadows and light, of loss and hope, reflecting everything that has led him to this moment.

In the days and nights that follow, he begins to sketch again. The woman’s face, a beautiful blend of familiarity and freshness, dominates the canvas, layered with strokes of longing and the bittersweet pang of memory. He paints her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and the gentle warmth that radiated from her smile.

Every brushstroke feels like a conversation, a way to weave their stories together—a blend of art, history, and the unspoken connection that binds them. The artist’s block that had once felt insurmountable begins to crumble, each session at the easel pulling him deeper into his thoughts and feelings, and farther from the suffocating grasp of despair.

He dreams of their meeting, the way her presence felt like coming home, and as their coffee date approaches, he finds himself wrapped in a mix of excitement and nerves. What would they talk about? What would she think of his art?

That evening, as he stands in front of the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself—disheveled fuschia colored hair, weary bright scarlet eyes; but beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t seen in ages: hope. A hope for the future. A hope for a new world, a new life. One that will echo years and years from now about joy.

Tomorrow, he tells himself as he brushes down his shirt, it will be different.

Tomorrow, he’ll make her the happiest person in the world.

Tomorrow, he’ll hope that she will never have any more days to frown.

When the sun rises, he feels it all too well. There was a flutter of anticipation in his chest as he prepared to meet her. Each step feels lighter, each moment filled with possibility. The thought of sharing coffee and stories—his past entwined with hers—ignites a spark of creativity he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

As he enters the café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee envelops him, and he scans the room, searching for her familiar face. When he spots her, seated at a cozy corner table, her hair cascading softly around her shoulders, he feels a rush of warmth.

Her smile brightens the space around them, and as their eyes meet, he knows he’s ready to embrace whatever this connection holds. It’s a chance to delve deeper into their stories, to explore the tangled threads of fate that brought them together.

“Hey!” she says, her voice lighting up the air between them as he approaches. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” he replies, the weight of the past lifting as he takes a seat across from her. “So, what’s first on the menu?”

As you sit together, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and laughter, Sukuna leans forward, his gaze both intense and gentle. The edges of his usually guarded expression soften, and the small lines near his eyes deepen with a smile that’s almost boyish.

“You know," Sukuna says, his voice low and thoughtful, “I have to say this to you… but… I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me like this. The things I’ve seen—it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived through the same nightmares."

He glances down at his coffee, a faint smirk on his lips. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like explaining. It’s like I’m just… remembering with someone else who was there too. This feels so natural. Between you and I.”

She smiles, feeling a warmth blossom within her. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, if someone had told me even a month ago that I’d be here with you, talking like this…” She trails off, laughing softly, feeling a little lost for words. “I would’ve thought they were crazy. But here we are.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm, free of his usual biting edge. “Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He pauses, his gaze meeting hers, searching as if he’s trying to decipher something hidden. “It feels like I know you… not just from now, but from a long time ago. Almost like I was meant to find you.”

His words send a shiver through her, a feeling both comforting and unsettling in its intensity. She nods slowly, letting the feeling settle within her. “I know what you mean,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s like we’re picking up where we left off… wherever that was.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving hers. “Every lifetime,” he murmurs, as if saying it to himself. “Every single one, I think I’d find you.” His hand drifts across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a tentative, almost reverent way. “And every time, I’d be the luckiest man alive.”

She looks down at his hand, his touch grounding her. “Do you believe in that, then? In soulmates? Lifetimes together?”

He smiles, almost a little sadly, as if unsure of his own answer. “Maybe I never did before… but with you, I can’t help but think maybe I was wrong.”

A comfortable silence settles between them, the words hanging like a delicate thread binding them together. After a while, he speaks again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You… you make me see things differently, you know that? I just met you, but I just… I think it’s meant to be.”

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one she’d never expected to see. “Like maybe life doesn’t have to be as lonely as I thought it was. Or maybe, it just doesn’t matter, as long as I’m here… with you.”

Her heart aches at his words, sensing the pain he’s carried and the hope he’s now daring to hold onto. She laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Sukuna-san,” she says softly. “Not as long as we have this. As long as we have each other. Maybe… maybe we’ll find something more to life together.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. When he opens them again, there’s something raw, something almost fragile in his gaze. “I’m… I’m honored,” he whispers gently, a small smile forming on his face. “If that means I’ll be able to live by your side in this life.”

She blushes, feeling the depth of his sincerity. “I’m just as grateful, you know?”

“Thank you.” he says, the words rough, yet sincere. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You never have to say thank you to me.” She whispered back to him, smiling even wider. “Or say sorry. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiles back at her, almost contagiously.

“So, do you….do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I’d be honored.”

In that moment, it feels as though nothing else exists—just her and him, caught in the quiet gravity of each other’s presence.

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over their table, Ryomen Sukuna feels a flicker of something he thought long extinguished.

And as long as she’s beside him, he knows he’ll be right there with her, finding a new meaning to every breath and every heartbeat, perhaps better than he’d ever dreamed.

After that day, Ryomen Sukuna stopped having those nightmares about that long suffering concubine.

Instead, he started to dream of a tall man and that long suffering concubine, walking away from him — smiling. Together.

══════════════════

HE WAS LUCKY HE MADE IT. He hadn’t slept much, but it was all worth it. He liked to think that he made his best gallery presentation yet. He knew she liked it just as much as he did. And that had made him even more happy.

He wasn’t the best of storytellers, he knew that much. Writing was more or less something else to him. But, art like this? He could do it. And so, as he promised, he would make happiness appear on his canvas. He would make that concubine happy again.

As the evening progresses, the atmosphere in the gallery transforms, infused with a blend of excitement and reverence. Guests drift in and out, their whispers and laughter weaving a tapestry of shared appreciation for Sukuna's work.

The vibrant energy of the space pulses with life, but at its core lies a poignant sense of introspection; a collective acknowledgment of the stories each painting holds.

Sukuna stands near the centerpiece, his gaze lingering on the depiction of himself and his concubine, locked in an eternal moment of tenderness. The hues swirl together, capturing not just their faces but the very essence of their souls; a connection that feels almost palpable. Each brushstroke is infused with the weight of longing and regret, but now, standing beside his companion, he recognizes a glimmer of hope amid the sorrow.

As the crowd ebbs and flows, Sukuna finds solace in watching her interact with the guests, her warmth radiating in waves. She engages effortlessly, sharing her thoughts on the art, her enthusiasm infectious.

He catches snippets of their conversations, her laughter ringing out like music, and he can’t help but smile at the ease with which she navigates the social landscape. It’s a stark contrast to his own guarded demeanor, and yet, her presence encourages him to lower his defenses, to engage in this world he once viewed from the shadows.

With each passing moment, Sukuna feels a shift within himself. The uncertainty that had plagued him for so long begins to dissolve, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility. As the crowd gradually dwindles, he glances at the painting again, his heart swelling with emotion. It’s more than just an image; it’s a testament to love that transcends time, a narrative that binds past and present.

Suddenly, he turns to find her standing close, her expression reflecting a mixture of admiration and something deeper. “You’ve poured so much of yourself into this, Sukuna.” she says softly, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. “It’s not just about the concubine; it’s about you, too. You’ve laid bare your soul.”

The intensity of her gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he swallows hard, feeling exposed yet liberated. “I wanted to capture the essence of what we had… to honor her, in my own little ways.” he replies, his voice low and steady. “But I realize now it’s also about my journey. This is as much about my pain as it is about her love.”

She nods, her understanding palpable, and in that moment, he feels a deep connection; there was an unspoken bond that links them through shared experiences and emotions.

The weight of his past no longer feels like a burden; instead, it becomes a source of strength, a wellspring of creativity he can draw from as he embraces this new chapter in his life.

“I think you’ve done an incredible job of that, you know?” she says, her voice softening. “You’ve shown that even in our darkest moments, love remains a guiding light. It’s beautiful.”

Sukuna’s heart races at her words, and he feels a warmth blooming in his chest—a mixture of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, really.” he replies, his voice sincere. “It means a lot to hear that from you. You’ve been… a source of inspiration for me.”

Her smile deepens, and there’s a spark of something electric in the air, a subtle shift that sends his pulse racing. “I’m glad I could be here for you, you know?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a privilege to witness your journey, to see you reclaim a sad story to a happy one.”

He looks at her, the soft glow of the gallery lights illuminating her features, and he feels a wave of emotion wash over him. For so long, he had been shackled by the weight of his past, haunted by the ghost of his concubine and the mistakes that had led to their separation. But here, in this moment, standing with her amidst the beauty of his creations, he feels the chains loosening.

“Will you stay a little longer?” he asks, almost hesitantly, fearing her response. “I’d like to talk more… about the paintings, about everything.”

Her eyes light up, and the warmth in her smile reassures him. “I’d love that.” she replies, and they find a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the remnants of the evening’s festivities.

As they settle into a cozy nook, surrounded by the lingering essence of art and history, Sukuna feels a sense of calm wash over him. The world outside fades, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken connection that has blossomed between them.

“What do you see in these paintings?” he asks, eager to hear her perspective.

She leans forward, her gaze thoughtful. “I see love, loss, and resilience. Each piece speaks of a journey, a struggle to find beauty amidst pain. But what resonates most is the longing—the desire to reconnect with something that was lost. It’s powerful.”

He nods, her words echoing his own feelings, and as they discuss each painting in turn, he feels an exhilarating rush of creativity and clarity. The art becomes a conduit for their emotions, a way to explore the complexities of their shared experiences.

They dive deep into conversation, their voices low and intimate, each word exchanged drawing them closer together. She shares her own stories of loss and heartache, of moments when she thought she’d never find her way again. It’s a cathartic exchange, and he listens intently, captivated by her honesty and the strength she exudes.

With each revelation, Sukuna feels the walls that the King of Curses had built around himself begin to crumble. He shares his own struggles, the weight of his legacy, and the guilt that had shadowed him for centuries.

And perhaps, redemption may soon come for him in love. In this safe space, he finds himself opening up that man, that myth, that curse, in ways he never thought possible, unearthing emotions he had long buried.

The night wears on, and as the last of the guests trickle out, the gallery transforms into a cocoon of intimacy. It’s just him and her, surrounded by the echoes of their stories, and for the first time in ages, he feels a sense of belonging—a connection that transcends time and pain.

“I never thought I could feel this way again.” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “After everything I’ve lived through… I thought I’d lost the ability to truly connect with anyone.”

She reaches out, her hand brushing against his in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You haven’t lost that ability, Sukuna. You’ve just been waiting for the right moment, the right person….the right time.” she says, her gaze steady and filled with warmth. “I’m here now, and I want to be part of your journey.”

The sincerity in her words washes over him, and in that moment, he knows he’s found something rare—a connection that has the potential to redefine his understanding of love, art, and the future. The vulnerability he feels is both terrifying and exhilarating, but he knows he’s ready to embrace it.

As the last notes of music drift into silence and the soft, warm lights dim, the two of them sit close, hands intertwined, surrounded by the vibrant, intimate world he has created.

Each painting on the wall, each sculpture in the dim light feels like a memory brought to life, and she feels him relax beside her, the weight of his past somehow easing with each quiet heartbeat.

His thumb gently strokes her hand, and in that small, tender motion, she feels him say more than words ever could. With her here, in this sanctuary he’s built out of his own creativity and passion, he’s no longer the solitary figure haunted by shadows. He’s simply a man who has finally, against all odds, found someone who can see past his darkness and anchor him in light.

Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face.

Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine.

He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

She squeezes his hand, her eyes shining with warmth and understanding. “I like to think that too.” she replies gently, her voice full of affection.

They walk out together, the cool night air surrounding them as they leave his art behind. And as he catches her smile, he feels his heart swell with gratitude and a strange sense of peace.

For once, he isn’t looking back, haunted by the ghosts of what once was. Instead, he’s looking forward—toward a future that, with her beside him, feels so much brighter than he ever thought possible.

In his heart, he offers a silent prayer, hoping that they’ll continue to find each other, in this life and in all the ones to come. And as they disappear into the night, hands intertwined, this Ryomen Sukuna hopes that the King of Curses finally allows himself to believe that, this time, happiness might be his after all.

══════════════════

THERE WOULD BE NO MEMORY OF THIS WHEN HE’S REBORN. Ryomen Sukuna knows that much. That is the will of the unknown, of the gods unseen and unheard. He does not care much about the propriety of the accuracy. Why should it matter what their name is? He was dead, why should he care?

In the stillness of the afterlife, everything feels suspended, timeless. Everything was not what he had expected. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the thought that a final death would lead to the depths of burning inferno. And yet, it was not. He was stuck in a journey, a journey that continuously repeats over and over again.

He does not know what those gods intended with that. What was the purpose designed by the gods? What was the purpose of this journey? He had asked himself that for hundreds of years, walking and walking like the pilgrim he was and yet without end in sight. There was no road that was left to find a stop.

Perhaps, that is until now.

Ryomen Sukuna was the first to notice.

There was a wide shoji that appeared before them.

Ryomen Hiromi was quite unsure about what that was all about. But when she stepped right in front of it, the field protecting it had barred her from even touching it. She pursed her lips in a flat line. This door was not one for her to enter.

And she probably had already known that. Looking at him with those knowing purple eyes, she knew that it was not for her. It was for him. The gods had sent him a path, and it was not to be with her. It was a road for him to take, a road that was for him. Only him.

He took a short step towards it and allowed his hands to feel the space occupied by the massive wooden shoji. His touch could pierce its space. It was truly for him. There was no mistake in that. Uraume looked at him with a tense uncertainty. His most loyal Uraume is quite that timid child, still. Just as when Sukuna had met them years and years ago.

For a moment, it reminded him of Chizuru. That gentleness of that youth, that tenderness of youth. He could only see his little one. The little one that he misses most. His soul is already at peace, and perhaps Sukuna would never see him again.

He doesn’t deserve to. He wasn’t a good father to him. But moments like this, it gives him relief. Even if Chizuru didn’t need him anymore, then someone else did. And that someone still needed him. Even if he wasn’t the person suited to be needed.

Sukuna looked down at them, and then nodded reassuringly. Uraume reached forward and gasped. Their touch too pierced through its barrier. Of course, Sukuna thought to himself. Uraume tied their entire life to him.

They were one in the same. The loyal servant cannot live without the master. No, no. Sukuna corrects himself. There was always a need for someone. People will always need people.

He stands there idly as Ryomen Hiromi stood beside him, though keeping a distance. Everything around them had grown brighter. Brighter than before. All that surrounded them had been bathed in a soft, eternal light that neither burns nor fades.

This place, this moment, is for closure—a place where the bonds of the past can either linger or be released. A purgatory for souls, sinner or not. All souls look the same to the gods. Well, that’s what Hiromi had told him.

Sukuna’s gaze rests on Hiromi, taking in the warmth in her expression, the calmness in her presence. Even here, she glows with an inner light that he has always cherished. Serene as the moonlight, as mellow as the clouds.

There had always been a quiet grace that no one could replicate. He had known that in his long lifetime. And for as long as he had lived, he thought that his job had been to protect it. To protect her. No matter what, with everything in him — even if it often meant tearing down the world around him.

For a long while, they simply stand together, the weight of their shared history resting between them. A thousand years, feeling even more than that, reflected in the understanding that came in the silence. He had known her too well, she had known him too well.

There was nothing left between them. Only knowing. And perhaps, that’s why it wouldn’t have ever worked. He thinks about that. Knowing someone, even too well, will never truly be living a life with them.

There was too much he did not know about her life. There was much she did not know about his own. They had lived lives that grew out of their tender love. People who loved each other so much, that they risked everything in the world — finally became two boats in the night waiting for each other to pass.

Perhaps that’s all that there could be, he thinks about it now. No matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he still does love her — they were parallel lines. Right people, wrong place. Right place, wrong time.

That in itself was hard to admit, he knows that. He always has. But it was hard to say. It was hard to accept. Perhaps it always will be. Yet there is so much more beyond that grief of something already lost. Of life already lived and passed by. No matter how much he wants to follow Ryomen Hiromi with all the love in his heart, with all the devotion given from all his life, there will always be fate. And fate knows better than he.

As much as he tries, he was not a god.

He will never be one, he has tried to be.

He was just a sinner, a cruel cursed sinner.

Taking a deep breath, Sukuna speaks, his voice soft, yet resolute. "I can feel it, Hiromi." he says, looking down at his feet. “Somewhere out there……..I am soon to be reborn. Soon….I must enter this door.”

Ryomen Hiromi’s face softens, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She tilts her head, teasing, but with a hint of sadness that she can’t entirely hide. How could she? Ryomen Sukuna was her person. He was her family. Her dearest friend, her confidant. The man she loved, still does love. The love of her life.

But she knew that he was not yet ready. Perhaps he will never be ready to move forward like this. There was much tying him to the world of the living. To the earthly life. And she knew it wouldn't be her. It will never be her.

She could see it in the corner of his scarlet eyes. He too had lived a life. He had moved on. And he wants to see that loved one again. He wants to return. Even if he does not know it. He wants to see that smile on her face again.

"So, you’ll stop following me now, huh?"

He chuckles, the sound quiet, almost reverent, as he brings her hand to his chest. "I’ll love you most in the world, you know that.” he murmurs, each word weighed with truth. “You were the part of me that was good, Hiromi. Everything I am….was because of you.”

She looks at him, shaking her head. She remains smiling. “Endless flattery is not your style.”

His eyes warmed towards her. “It is not flattery if it's true. You know that most. I do not lie, not easily. Not without reason.”

“I know.” She huffs back in response, her eyes lowered to the floor. “I know you too well.”

“I need to go. You know that. There are still…..too much left undone. I have a lot to make amends for, things I must repair.” His voice grows steady, almost solemn. “I need to start with someone else I love. Someone who’s waiting, on the other side of the shore.”

Hiromi’s gaze flickers, her surprise shifting to understanding. There’s a light in her bright purple eyes, a pride that only deepens as she studies his face. For a moment, she wondered when he had grown up. When had he aged this well, lived this well. A part of her mourns the things they never saw. But she knew it was too late. He had someone else waiting to see those sides of him now.

“I always hoped you’d find something worth living for, beyond me. Beyond our clan. Beyond Jujutsu.” she says, her words carrying an emotion he hadn’t expected. She laughs. “You’ve done well, Sukuna. I know you would. And now you’re better at admitting your faults. You’ve….you’ve truly grown up! Father and uncle would be so glad to see it, don’t you think?”

The weight of her words settles deeply into him, her silent devotion across lifetimes coming into sharp focus. Ryomen Sukuna closes his eyes, feeling the immensity of all that they’ve shared, all that he’s never truly expressed.

“There’s still much for me to set right, Hiromi.” He looks at her, his expression softening as he finally speaks the words he’s never quite managed to say before. “But the love we shared… It's the best part of me. It’s the part of me I want to carry into the next life. Everything you taught me, it will be for the better.”

A soft laugh escapes her once more, and she shakes her head as if she’s hearing a promise she’s waited lifetimes for him to make. Her hand reaches up, gentle, almost motherly, as she brushes a stray hair back from his face. Leaning in, she presses a delicate kiss to his cheek.

“You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve always known you loved me.” She pulls back slightly, her hand lingering against his face. “I’ll always love you too, Sukuna. But we have different lives now. Paths that aren’t tied together anymore. No paths are bound, after all. Isn’t that what was taught?”

Her words are tender but firm, and he nods, finally accepting what she’s known all along. “I know.” he whispers, the smile on his face tinged with the bittersweet ache of goodbye. “But I think I’ll be alright, night flower. I’ve found something, someone… who I believe can make me better. She’s out there, waiting.”

For a moment, she could feel her heart shatter. In that moment, to remember what he had called her. With those words, with that tone of finality. With that tone of farewell. She could feel the warmth of water echo through her eyes. But she tries to make sure they do not pour. Those tears shouldn’t be poured. Not for him. He does not need it. She must send him happily. She must send him off with a smile. A good farewell.

Hiromi pulls away, her hand slipping from his, though her gaze remains fixed on him with a profound love and pride. Her bright eyes gleamed at him, even brighter than before. She smiles at him, though he could notice how tight it was. No matter how happy she is for him — she will mourn. She can’t help it.

“Then, I want you to find her, hm?” she says softly, the conviction in her voice like a benediction. “Find her and find your happiness, the kind that lasts. The kind that you finally deserve.”

He nods, and there’s a rare, open softness in his expression, a gratitude as deep as the ages they’ve spent together. He takes a good look at her, as though he was memorizing this moment. For as long as it still lasts, he wants to remember it. He wants to remember her, giving her blessing.

“Then, I’ll go, nightflower.” he says, his voice low and filled with purpose. “I’ll find her… and try to live the life I dreamed of with you.”

Hiromi smiles gently, and with one last lingering look, she turns to leave, pausing only to say. “Someday, I hope to meet her too—the one who brought you peace. Bring her back with you. So that I may thank her for taking care of you.”

He nodded at her. He takes a deep breath as he lowers his gaze and sees Uraume looking at him, as though asking for courage. Sukuna takes Uraume’s hand and tightly grips it, but is careful not to hurt them. A ghostly smile appears on his face, beaming it towards them.

Uraume could feel their eyes glisten as they felt the warmth of that smile. Uraume could feel warmth in them, tenderness — tenderness that molds their will to live with courage. Sukuna turns his head slightly, looking at Hiromi. His smile gets wider, and becomes more honest than before. She smiled at him, waving him off.

As he and Uraume walked towards the shoji, Ryomen Hiromi knew that she too has to move away. Ryomen Sukuna slowly watches her walk away into the path of light, alone, feeling the weight of a thousand lifetimes lifting from his shoulders. He could feel his breath hitch as he watches her walk away, perhaps for the final time, perhaps until they get reborn again.

If you were not waiting for him, if he had not met you, if he had not loved you — perhaps he would have turned away from these doors and moved towards the path of life and rejected rebirth. He would have let his soul rest in peace for all of time. But he knows that he was no longer that person anymore. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to break the cycle. He wanted to be with you.

Ryomen Sukuna is ready to face the world again, this time with a purpose that is as clear as the love he feels for the woman he will now seek. He must atone. He must live a new life. He must make you happy.

Both of you will be happy, he knows that. And as he steps forward, towards his own rebirth, he carries her blessings, his heart finally open to the happiness he had once believed was out of reach. He will live it now. He will atone, he will find redemption. He will make you happy.

511 notes · View notes

rae-writes · 2 years ago

Text

colored lenses

om brothers x reader

wc : 2.k

warnings : nsfw under the cut

synopsis : they say the eyes are the doorway to ones soul, and if that’s the case, yours must be intertwined with his, no?

a/n : nooo, asmo’s part was not rushed, I don’t know what you’re talking about-

Lucifer

He’d seen a flash of it before- a quick glimmer of midnight blue in your eyes before it was gone

He never thought anything of it though, not until he saw it fully

Diavolo had been going over everyone’s midterm grades and was congratulating you on your scores

Lucifer noticed your typical polite smile as you waved off his praise, but his eyes were trained on how your hues lit up bright, prideful blue

It made his mouth go dry; he was in awe

Subtlety, he’ll begin complimenting you more on the things you do so he can see that riveting shock of color

Mammon

On rare occasions do your eyes flash his pretty yellow, but the first time he saw it sent him reeling

The two of you were having a gaming competition with Levi and you’d finished first. “W-what?! Alright, best 3 out of 4! Winner gets a prize!”

Mammon was about to refuse, knowing he didn’t stand a chance at Devilkart if Levi was playing, but-

“Hell yeah, you’re on!” Grinning determinedly, your eyes flickered with golden yellow

The second born almost passed away on the spot

He might’ve gotten a bit more greedy seeing the sin on you, and fuck, did you look like a gem with it

Levi

Levi saw your eyes flash the colors of his brothers’ power from time to time, but given his sin, he didn’t mind the lack of seeing his own

He didn’t know how thrilling it could be though

You two had been out in town when he got stopped by a very flirty demon. He was too busy trying to get out of the conversation— he didn’t even realize…

When he glanced over at you for help, his body heated considerably at the sight of your eyes flashing a toxic orange

If he wasn’t so familiar with the sin he’d be sweating, but you make it look heavenly

Envy might not be a good feeling, but it’s a good look on you

Satan

The fourth born had felt your rage rise and simmer many times before

Being able to physically see it was a whole other experience he didn’t know he needed in life

Another rowdy night at the dinner table- typical - but you had a migraine and had asked the boys to stop five times now

It’s safe to say you were a bit pissed, and Satan knew it. When he glanced up, though, all thoughts of scolding his brothers went away

You sat there with your jaw clenched, eyes twinkling with wrath green. It was gorgeous.

Satan finds himself craving the look of his wrath on you, however he wouldn’t want his sin to trouble you too often

Asmo ; suggestive

Ohh when he discovered this little addition to having a pact with them, Asmo dreamed about seeing it every night (and got a little jealous when he saw his brothers’ colors instead)

He just needed to practice a little patience though

Upon Diavolo’s insistence, the student council was treated to drinks at the fall, and Asmo was already a little buzzed when he dragged you to dance

Body grinding against yours, he turned towards you in hopes of stealing a kiss- only to see a shock of pink in your irises

Heat shot through Asmo immediately; he couldn’t keep his hands to himself after that

More, more, more! Asmo adores seeing his sin on you and he doesn’t mind begging for it either

Beel

There were many times when he thought he saw a peak of red in your eyes as the two of you got food, but he always brushed it off as a trick of the lighting

It was only until you had to skip breakfast and lunch one day did Beel realize ‘oh’

You were leaning against him as you walked to Hell’s Kitchen, grumbling and complaining loudly

At Beel’s offer to carry you, you glanced up pitifully, showing the red hue bleeding into the color of your eyes

His own eyes widened, cheeks beginning to flush a deep pink

While he never wants you to go hungry, he doesn’t mind admitting that seeing his red on you is pleasing

Belphie

Soft waves of purple inside sleep riddled eyes were something Belphie saw often and loved every time he did

The first time was special, though. Right after you’d come back to the Devildom the first time, saddled in his arms after so long of him not having you

Sleepy you and even sleepier Belphie, but he wasn’t too out of it to miss the gentle light of purple

He was confused at first, but the familiar color shocked him awake and his heart nearly beat out of his chest

Sloth. His sloth. Showing up in you like it was the most natural thing in the 3 realms. He liked it better on you.

Even more than before, Belphie begs to sleep or nap with you— he needs to see it happen again and again

nsfw ver.

Lucifer

Tensions high and adrenaline running through your and his veins like lightning

Diavolo was due to come for a meeting in no more than 10 minutes

You knew that. Lucifer knew that. Yet you were still on your knees, tongue swirling around the head of his cock while you peered up at him through your lashes

His head was thrown back, eyes clenched, trying to compose himself— you didn’t like that. You wanted his attention.

Humming, you dug your nails into the exposed skin of his thigh, fighting back a grin when his head snapped up

Ruby hues narrowed down at you, ready to scold when the words died in his throat

The color of your irises had been completely taken over by his blue, shining with pride at the situation you had him in

Gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to moan, he chose to growl instead and thrust into your mouth sharply, smirking when the blue shone brighter at the taste of his cum

“Proud to be mine, Mc?”

Mammon

“Harder!”

Mammon gasped, hips following your order smoothly, “H-hah..what has gotten into you today?”

You whined as you pulled him closer, choosing not to answer in favor of burying your face in his neck

The moment he had walked through the door, you were all over him, begging and pleading to have him (which he’d never say no to)

“Mc-“ he tugged your head back by your hair, a sharp moan instantly following when he saw your eyes; shimmering greed in the form of yellow

Picking up the pace, Mammon held your head up by your jaw, demanding you keep your pretty eyes on him

Murmurs of ‘mine’ and ‘’s pretty f’me’ left him as he filled you up, watching the yellow flash gold

“Again. Wan’ more, Mammon- more of you.”

His own greed flared, making your pact burn pleasantly, “That’s right, Mc, show me your greed.”

Levi

You wanted Levi’s attention and you wanted it now but he was too caught up in the new official Ruri-Chan illustrations (with special outfits too)

Glaring at his back, you could feel magic pooling in your irises

“Levi.” Without waiting for a response, you yank his chair back and fiddle with his pants, “Give me attention.”

“Mc-!” He gaped as you took his cock in your hands, tail whipping out to wrap around your waist when you sheathed him fully inside

His eyes shot up to meet yours, wanting to ask what all this was about, when the air practically left him

There you were, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, and eyes still glaring down at him- only this time they were orange

Levi whined loudly, hips involuntarily raising you up before he settled back down again, keen on letting you fuck him however you pleased

And fuck him you did, one hand tangling in his hair while the other rested against the base of his neck, hips not stopping their movements even after he’d already spilled inside you

“Quell my envy, Levi.”

Satan

You and Satan had gotten into a small dispute, but the feel of his anger coursing through your pact made you angry

Arms wrapped around your waist, lithe fingers gripping your hips hesitantly, but firmly, “I apologize. Shall we take some time to cool off?”

“I think we can cool each other off.” You glanced up with newly green hues, eyes narrowing involuntarily

Satan’s lips parted and he immediately grabbed you up and pressed you against one of the bookshelves, fiddling with your clothes until he was lined up and pressing into you

He set a hard, furious pace instantly, “How is it that you manage to be the one that calms me down and makes me so mad I can’t think, hm?”

You did nothing but tug at his blonde locks, bright green becoming darker as the seconds pass

And despite loving the neon color on you, Satan can’t help but coo at the sight of it fading— all because of him fucking it out of you

“Kiss.”

His own wrath faded down to nothing, lips covering yours softly as he held you close while you both finished together. “Calm the savage beast, yeah?”

Asmo

“C’mon, sweetheart, lemme see it- please? Pretty, pretty, pretty please? Show it to me.”

Asmo curled his fingers up just right, sending your body lurching in its chair and your eyes shooting open wide

“There it is…” alluring pink encased your irises, sending Azzy’s eyes flashing pink in return

Gasping, your eyes darted around until they landed on the self-satisfied expression your lover wore— you grinned

The phantom feeling of fingers pushing inside him made Asmo squeal, jumping up from his spot in surprise

With eyes now glowing a neon shade, you stared down at him while bucking your hips, “What’s the matter? Why’d you stop- was feeling so good.”

He gaped- you were using magic to mimic touching him. “Naughty~”

The two of you refused to let up until he’d came all over your lower half and your cum covered his fingers— and both your eyes were literally glowing

“Not done yet, darling~ let’s see if the pink can drown out the whites of your eyes too~”

Beel

“Mmph— hey…” Beel frowned, visibly deflating when you pushed his head out from between your legs, “‘m hungry…”

You kept pushing until he was flat on his back, “Me too.”

Heat shot straight to his cock- which you were pawing at- from the look you gave him; your irises were red

And he didn’t fully understand right away, not even when you settled on top of his face while also wrapping your lips around him

“w’nna taste y’too.”

Beel complied eagerly though, burying his face back in his spot while he tried not to thrust his hips

Only when you began quickening your ministrations with a muffled “give it t’me, beelie, ‘m hungry— wan’ it, wan’ y’r cum” did he click the pieces together

And though he tried not to, his hips stutter and thrust up, following your lead until he’s filling your mouth

Practically in awe at the way you don’t waste a drop, his sin cracks through his body- sending it flaring up in your own. “Again. ‘M still hungry, Mc..don’t you want more too?”

Belphie

Choked whines echoed in the attic, turning into embarrassed stuttering when you suddenly shifted and slid into his lap sluggishly

“Why didn’t you just ask for-“ you paused to yawn, “-help?” peering down at him with a purple glow, your hand replaced his on his cock

Belphie was basically speechless, watching you tiredly jerk him off before shuffling, working on getting your clothes out of the way

“W-wait! You don’t have to- ah!”

You sunk down comfortably, rocking back and forth at a leisure pace while stifling another yawn. “Help, please.”

His hips began moving before you could even say ‘please’, hands trailing under your shirt

“‘S good to me, my favorite human, makes me feel s’good—“ Belphie broke off with a moan, clamping his eyes shut at the embarrassing ‘ah, ah, ah’s that were leaving his mouth

The slow buildup was setting both your senses on fire, but you stopped him from moving faster (making him whine louder). “Slow, Bel…’m tired.”

#obey me x reader #obey me smut #om smut #om x reader #lucifer x reader #om lucifer #mammon x reader #om mammon #leviathan x reader #om levi #satan x reader #om satan #asmo x reader #om asmodeus #beel x reader #om beelzebub #belphie x reader #om belphegor

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dearstvckyx · 2 months ago

Text

I Met. A Stranger Yesterday - Mitch Marner

During practice, the Leafs notice Mitch is unusually happy. When Auston confronts him, Mitch reveals he met a girl while walking Zeus—a stranger sketching and giving away drawings. He gushes about her beauty and warmth. On their first date, the Leafs hilariously (and poorly) disguise themselves to spy and make sure she’s good for their friend. - The Neighbourhood , *NSTYNCT

Mitch Marner x Reader , Leafs Players x Mitch Marner

Warnings: None

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

The sun streamed through the rink windows, casting golden streaks across the ice as the Toronto Maple Leafs wrapped up practice. The sharp slap of pucks and scrape of blades cut through the morning air, but none of the players could focus.

Because Mitch Marner wouldn’t stop smiling.

And not his usual, cheeky, about-to-do-something-stupid grin. No—this was different. Softer. Dreamier. Like his head was stuck in the clouds.

Auston Matthews leaned against the boards, squinting at him.

“Okay, is it just me or is Mitch…” he tilted his head, searching for the right words.

“Happier than usual?” Morgan Rielly finished, skating up beside him.

William Nylander slid over, eyes narrowed slightly. “If that’s even possible.”

They all watched as Mitch practically floated across the ice, zipping around defensemen with ease, barely even flinching when he took a slap shot to the shin guard. Instead, he just skated it off with a dreamy little grin.

“Okay, that’s not normal,” Willy muttered. “What the hell is going on?”

When practice ended, they made their way to the locker room, exchanging confused glances as they shed their gear.

Auston waited until Mitch plopped down on the bench, still smiling like he had a secret he couldn’t keep.

“Alright, Marner,” Auston drawled, dropping down beside him. “Spill it.”

Mitch blinked at him, clearly still lost in thought. “Spill what?”

“You’ve been skating around like you’re in a rom-com montage. What gives?”

Mitch’s grin grew slightly wider, and his eyes softened just a little.

“Oh,” he said with a dreamy shrug. “I met a stranger yesterday.”

Willy, who had been tugging off his skates, immediately whipped his head around. “You what?”

But Mitch was already talking, the words spilling out faster than he could stop them.

“I was walking Zeus near the park,” he began, eyes lighting up. “And there was this girl sitting on a bench with a sketchbook. She was just… sketching people. Strangers. And then walking up and giving them the drawings. Like it was nothing.”

Auston blinked slowly. “She was just… giving them away?”

“Yeah,” Mitch breathed, still in awe. “No charge, no signatures. Just handing them out.”

His eyes drifted slightly, lost in the memory.

“And then she saw me and Zeus,” he added softly. “And she just walked right up to me—no hesitation—and handed me this sketch.”

He fished out his phone from his bag, scrolling through his camera roll before holding it out. On the screen was a sketch—a perfect black-and-white rendering of Mitch standing with Zeus, the leash slack in his hand, and Zeus’ tongue lolling out with that goofy, wide-eyed grin. The details were sharp and precise—the slight curl of Zeus’ ears, the wind crinkling Mitch’s jacket.

“Jesus,” Morgan muttered, staring at it.

“She got everything,” Mitch murmured, still slightly in awe. “Like the way Zeus tilts his head. She didn’t even know us or me! It was like she’d seen us a hundred times before.”

Willy squinted slightly. “Wait. Did you get her number?”

Mitch blinked.

“…No.”

Auston stared at him, his jaw going slack.

“Are you serious?”

Mitch just let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly, still caught in the memory.

“I wasn’t even thinking about it,” he admitted. “I was too busy watching her give Zeus a treat.” His lips twitched slightly, and his eyes softened. “She knelt down right there in the grass and let him slobber all over her hands. Didn’t even care. Just laughed when he tried to climb into her lap.”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, still smiling.

“She had these big chocolate brown eyes—like, really warm brown. And her hair was kinda messy, but she had these random little pink and red bows clipped in. Not fancy—just mismatched ones, like she didn’t care if they matched.”

Willy shook his head in disbelief. “You met your dream girl and you didn’t even get her number?”

Mitch just grinned.

And then, three days later, fate handed him a second chance.

⸻

Somehow, he ran into you again at a café near the park—the same place you’d been sketching.

This time, he didn’t let you walk away without your number.

You weren’t sure if you expected him to call, but he did. And two days later, you were sitting across from him at a cozy restaurant, nervously stirring your drink while he talked a mile a minute about Zeus.

What neither of you knew was that half the Maple Leafs roster had conspired behind Mitch’s back.

Because across the restaurant, poorly disguised in sunglasses, oversized coats, and awful wigs, sat Auston, Willy, Morgan, and John Tavers —blatantly spying on you.

Auston peeked over his fake menu, lowering his sunglasses slightly. “Jesus,” he muttered. “He’s actually giddy. It’s disgusting.”

Willy, clutching an upside-down newspaper, made a face. “Look at him smiling like that. It’s unnatural.”

Morgan took a slow sip of water, shaking his head dramatically. “It’s like he’s glowing. This is gross.”

John, squinting through a pair of fake reading glasses, whispered, “Should we, like… signal her if she needs help?”

Auston shot him a deadpan look. “She’s dating Marner, not a serial killer.”

But none of them left.

Instead, they watched as Mitch absently reached across the table, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary.

“Oh my God,” Willy muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s a goner.”

They exchanged glances when they caught the way Mitch was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room.

And when you laughed—soft and genuine—Mitch practically melted in his seat.

Auston slowly lowered his glasses. “Oh, man,” he whispered, shaking his head. “He’s done for.”

But despite the teasing, they all knew what they were seeing.

Their friend—their goofy, golden retriever-hearted friend—was head over heels.

And they were going to make damn sure he didn’t screw it up.

#mitch marner #mm16 #auston matthews #am34 #william nylander #wn88 #morgan rielly #mr44 #john tavares #jt91 #mitch marner x reader #nhl write #toronto maple leafs #the neighbourhood lyrics masterlist #the nbhd #Spotify

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lovelyverosika · 1 year ago

Text

You didn’t know but with a twist

Hazbin Hotel! Adam x Fem!Reader

Warning: swearing

A/N: Hey<3 My name is Verosika and I’ll write fanfictions whenever I have the time to :) This is my first time writing one, so it’s based on the song "You didn’t know" to make it easier for me. Just to let you know english isn’t my first language..so be prepared for some grammar mistakes :,D

Y/N POV:

We all sat in the courtroom, waiting for the trail to begin. Next to me was my husband Adam and Lute. I wasn’t supposed to be here but Adam wanted me to hear the "childish" and unrealistic ideas of the princess of hell.

After everyone was here Sera spoke "We're gathered here today to determine whether or not a soul in Hell, can be redeemed into heavenly realm by means of this 'Hazbin hotel', Princess Morningstar?",Sera said wanting Charlie to speak up.

I looked down to Charlie,my head resting on Adam’s shoulder. "Webster's dictionary defines redemption as-" before Charlie could speak Adam interrupts her: "Objection, lame and unoriginal". I sighed at his immature behaviour and gave him a slight bump with my head.

Charlie was flipping through her cards making Adam roll his eyes. "If you have actually evidence, then show it already." He said,glaring at Charlie. "We have two patrons already they’re making incredible progress" Charlie defended and I smiled, "Who?", I asked. "Angel Dust" Charlie spoke. "Oh yeah, the pornstar demon" Adam snickered as he added. "He's totally worth being redeemed".

Suddenly Monika,another demon stood up. "Well then, if you know so much…what do you think it takes to get into heaven?",she spoke. It was quiet until I asked if Adam was okay. He scoffed as he pulled out a golden paper from his pockets and a pen, "Give me a fucking moment, okay?",he then started writing and gave me the paper as I read it out, "Act selfless, don't steal, stick it to the man?", I chuckled looking at him with an raised eyebrow. He shrugged "Uh, yeah? Sure got me here...didn't it?",he said seemingly questioning himself. Sera sighed before saying: "He was the first human soul in heaven."

In the following hours Charlie showed us the improvement of this demon called Angel dust and how he did everything what Adam wrote on his list but nothing happened. Sera only sighed as she wanted to declare the trail as failed and that we will see what brings someone to heaven when the first soul arrives. I sat there with my head hanging. I felt bad for keeping my secret,especially when I looked over to Emily,who held the paper that Adam had written earlier.

Emily: But she was right, Sera. She showed us a soul can improve. He saw the light, Sera. Checked all the boxes that you said would prove a person deserves a second chance. Now we turn our backs, no second glance?

Sera: It's not as simple as you think. Not everything is spelled in ink.

Charlie: It's not fair, Sera!

Vaggie: Careful, Charlie, keep a cool head.

Charlie: No! Don't you care, Sera? That just because someone is dead, it doesn't mean they can't resolve to change their ways turn the page, escape infernal blaze.

Y/N: I'm sure you wish it could be so. But there's a lot that you don't know.

Lute: What are we even talkin' about? Some crack-whore who fucked up already? He blew his shot, like the cocks in his mouth. This discussion is senseless and petty.

Lute & Adam: There's no question to be posed!He's unholy, case closed. Did you forget that Hell is forever?

Adam: A man only lives once, we'll see you in one month. Gotta say, I can't wait to…

Y/N: Adam…

Adam: Come down and exterminate you.

Emily: Wait!

Adam: Shit…

Emily: What are you saying? Let me get this straight…You go down there and kill those poor souls?

Charlie & Y/N: You didn’t know?

Adam: Whoops

Lute: Guess the cat’s out of the bag.

Adam: What’s the big deal?

Emily: Sera, tell me that you didn't know…

Sera: I thought, since I'm older it's my load to shoulder

Emily: No!

Sera: You have to listen, it was such a hard decision. I wanted to save you, the anguish it takes to do what was required.

Emily: To think that I admired you, well I don't need your condescension. I'm not a child to protect! Was talk of virtue just pretension? Was I too naive to expect you to heed the morals you're purveying?

Charlie: That's what the fuck I've been saying!

Emily,Charlie & Monika: If Hell is forever, then Heaven must be a lie! If angels can do whatever, and remain in the sky. The rules are shades of gray, when you don't do as you say. When you make the wretched suffer just to kill them again.

Monika: Don't you act all high and mighty!Adam did you ever think your "sweet" wife might be a liar?

Y/N: Huh? Wait no…please!

Monika: Don’t be such a crybaby! Why hide the fact that you were a demon just like us?

Part 2

#hazbin hotel #adam x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel adam x reader #x reader

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broidobe · 5 months ago

Note

I saw your recent slash fics and there so good! Could you possibly do a smut one of him where he’s subby? Like not supper subby but just he’s a little whiny and a bottom. Only if your not busy and comfortable with it🖤

𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

OH HELL YEAH!

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

the soft glow of candles cast flickering shadows across the room, bathing everything in a warm, golden light. the air was heavy with the faint scent of sandalwood and the remnants of wine from earlier in the evening. you sat on the edge of the bed, watching as slash leaned back against the pillows, his curls cascading over his shoulders, his dark eyes full of that teasing spark you knew so well.

he’d been coy all evening, throwing you little smirks and subtle brushes of his fingers against yours during dinner. it wasn’t unlike him to flirt shamelessly, but tonight, there was a softness to it, a quiet yearning that tugged at your heart as much as it ignited a fire in your veins.

“what?” he drawled, his voice low and slightly husky, his lips curling into that trademark smirk. “you’re staring.”

“you like it when i stare,” you shot back, a playful lilt in your tone.

his smirk faltered for just a second, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable. you tilted your head, studying him, and he let out a soft chuckle, looking away briefly as if to compose himself.

“maybe i do,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “but only if you plan on doing something about it.”

you stood and crossed the small distance between you, crawling onto the bed until you straddled his hips. his hands instinctively moved to your waist, but you caught them, pressing them back against the bed. his dark eyes widened slightly, and you could see the conflict play out in them—the urge to take control warring with the intrigue of letting you lead.

“stay,” you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. “let me take care of you tonight.”

he swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, and you couldn’t help the satisfied smile that spread across your lips.

“you’re not usually this bossy,” he said, his tone teasing but his voice shaky.

“and you’re not usually this obedient,” you countered, nipping at his earlobe. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your core. “but look at you, slash. you’re being so good for me.”

his cheeks flushed at your words, and he let out a soft, almost petulant whine that made your pulse quicken. you kissed your way down his neck, taking your time to mark him, leaving small bruises in your wake. his hips shifted beneath you, his growing need evident, but you pressed your weight down on him to still his movements.

“patience,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his collarbone.

“you’re killing me,” he groaned, his voice edged with desperation.

“no,” you said, sitting up slightly to meet his gaze. your fingers trailed down his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one. “i’m savoring you.”

his hands twitched at his sides, and you could see the effort it took for him to keep them there. once his shirt was open, you leaned down again, your lips tracing the tattoos that covered his skin. his breathing grew heavier, his body trembling slightly beneath your touch.

when your hand slipped lower, palming him through the fabric of his jeans, he let out a broken moan, his hips bucking involuntarily.

“y/n,” he murmured, your name falling from his lips like a plea.

“yes, baby?” you asked, your tone sweet but with an edge of mischief.

“please,” he whispered, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“please what?” you pressed, wanting to hear him say it.

he groaned, tilting his head back against the pillows, his curls spilling out like a dark halo. “you know what i want.”

“do i?” you teased, your fingers working to undo the button of his jeans. “you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“you’re evil,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words. instead, he looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes that sent a thrill through you. “i need you. please.”

satisfied, you leaned down to kiss him, your hand slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans and boxers to wrap around him. his reaction was immediate—his hips lifting off the bed, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. you stroked him slowly, relishing the way he writhed beneath you, his usual composure completely shattered.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered, your voice full of reverence. “completely at my mercy.”

he let out a breathless laugh, but it was cut off by a sharp gasp as you quickened your pace. “anyone else and i’d…”

“you’d what?” you interrupted, squeezing him just enough to make his words falter. “tell me, slash. what would you do?”

his eyes fluttered shut, his lips parting as he struggled to find the words. “i…fuck, y/n… i don’t know. you make me… god, you make me crazy.”

pleased with his admission, you released him just long enough to slide his jeans and boxers down his legs, leaving him bare beneath you. his cheeks were flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched you through half-lidded eyes.

“don’t stop,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

“oh, i’m not stopping,” you assured him, climbing back onto the bed to straddle him once more. “i’m just getting started.”

his hands found your hips as you lowered yourself onto him, and the sound he made—a mix of a moan and a whimper—was enough to drive you wild. you moved slowly at first, savoring the way he filled you, the way his hands gripped you like you were the only thing grounding him.

“faster,” he pleaded, his voice high and desperate. “please, baby. i need more.”

“more?” you echoed, leaning down so your lips were inches from his. “is this what you want? to be completely undone?”

he nodded frantically, his nails digging into your hips as you picked up the pace. his head tipped back against the pillows, his moans growing louder with each movement. you leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that was all teeth and tongues, his desperation fueling your own.

“you’re so good for me,” you murmured against his lips. “so perfect.”

he let out a choked sob at your words, his body trembling beneath you as he teetered on the edge. “i… i can’t…”

“yes, you can,” you coaxed, your movements never faltering. “let go for me. i’ve got you.”

with a broken cry of your name, he came undone, his body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over him. you followed moments later, the intensity of his release pushing you over the edge.

you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily as the room filled with the sound of your racing hearts. his arms wrapped around you, holding you close as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“you’re dangerous,” he muttered, his voice still shaky but laced with affection.

“and you love it,” you teased, nuzzling against him.

he laughed softly, the sound low and content. “you’re right. i really do.

#slash #slash smut #slash gnr #slash fanfiction #guns and roses #broidobe

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internet1girl · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 6: Crazed.

Pairing: Johnny Cage x Fem!Reader

Summary: Uh oh! Looks like you came into contact with something in that lab…

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/Notices: named!reader, violence, fighting, angst (can you guys tell that i love angst), annoying johnny, sexually suggestive, a few curse words here and there

First Chapter / Previous Part / Next Part

A/N: a short(er) chapter yayyy

“What the FUCK!!?” Johnny screamed, his voice echoing around the surrounding hills. He had to take a step back because Jesus Christ… this was the most gruesome thing he had ever seen.

You pushed yourself up off of the ground, taking on a feral fighting stance as you turned to face your terrified companions. What was once a beautiful, human woman was now a Tarkatan beast. When you pricked your finger on that spike in Shang Tsung’s laboratory, it must’ve been laced with that Tarkat infection. Your overheated temperature, your foggy mind, your sudden onslaught of bizarre hunger, all of it was the Tarkat in your system taking hold.

You were growling at them now, baring your large and jagged teeth. Your mind was completely overtaken by the virus running through your body. You didn’t see Johnny and Geras as your partners anymore - no, you now saw them as food.

“Holy-“ Johnny tried to speak but was cut off. A loud, threatening growl from your infected self was enough to make him back up by multiple feet. His eyes were fixed on you. His mind was still trying to comprehend what was currently in front of him, that being… well… you.

You turned to him, taking your time in looking him up and down, eyeing your meal.

“Your blood, I smell ittttt…” You snarled, rolling your head and opening your split, mutated jaw momentarily. “How sweet it will be to lick off my fingerssss…”

This was not the same you that Johnny knew. This wasn’t the same smart, strong-willed woman who argued with him, or went against his words. This was a mindless beast that only desired one thing: his flesh.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” He continued backing away, not daring to take his eyes off of you for a second. This has to be a dream, right? It has to be…

Even the horses at the front of the carriage were freaking out, they were visibly stirring in their spot at the sight before them. Geras, however, was still thinking critically. He refused to let his fear overwhelm him. He knew what to do, how to proceed.

“Keep her occupied.” He turned to Johnny, deadly serious. “I know what to do.”

The last thing he expected to hear was that. “Keep her occupied”? How the hell was that going to be possible? But, as terrified and confused as he was, Johnny was trying his best to keep his cool.

“Yeah…yeah, I’ll keep her busy.” He hesitantly nodded, his voice shaky.

With that, Geras quickly walked away, sprinting for behind the carriage, teleporting away in a stream of golden light. He was going back to Sun Do, back to the Palace, to find a cure for the virus in your veins.

Johnny was now left all alone with a Tarkat-crazed you, as scary as it sounded. Taking a page out of Geras’ book, he swallowed his fear and bravely took on a fighting stance, just in case you lunged at him.

And lunge at him you did.

You took out your bō staff, equipping it with a grunt as you rushed to your terrified partner, green streaks flying through the air. Your bō produced a dreadful swinging sound as you aimed for the crown of Johnny’s head, just barely missing.

You were one of Liu Kang’s best assassins. There were a multitude of reasons why he was so fond of you. Your bōjutsu prowess was extraordinary; the Fire God had come across very few people in his long lifespan that exceeded your talents in martial arts. Even with the crazed state that you were currently in, you were still quick, fast and very strong.

For Johnny to see a version of you that still possessed your kombat, but with the strength and ferocity of a Tarkatan, it was frightening, there was no other word for it. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that the monster attacking him was, in fact, you.

Unlike your human self, Tarkatan you fought like a wild animal. You were wildly swinging your staff at your partner, who was just barely able to dodge your incoming attacks. Your bō was coming at him at insane speeds, one end of it slammed into the side of the carriage at one point, the loud clang that emanated from the contact made Johnny literally yelp out in fear. None of the grace or elegance that you always carried was present, the brutality of your bōjustu was in overdrive. Your sole intention was to chop your next meal up into pieces.

He had just dodged one of your swings when an opening presented itself. Instead of counterattacking, he opted to grab your right hand and disarm you. Johnny forcefully loosened your grip on your staff, the weapon dropping to the ground with a slight clang. Not missing a beat, he spun you around and pinned you to the carriage, slamming your body into the wooden wall.

“God…damn it…” He huffed, holding you firmly in place.

“Let… go of me!” You spat out, attempting to crane your head to get a better view of your subduer. You might have been crazed by Tarkat, but he was still larger and physically stronger than you. His grip on your body was iron, your writhing against the vehicle was doing little to waver it.

“Not a chance in hell.” He retorted, strengthing his hold on you as your growls grew more and more animalistic and aggressive. Johnny’s other hand planted itself on your upper back, pushing you further into the carriage side, for both of your safeties.

The thing about this particular variant of Tarkat… is that as the infected grew more enraged, their strength saw an increase. This was something that Shang Tsung didn’t mention in his journal, he likely didn’t even know about this.

Johnny was finding it increasingly harder to keep you pinned to the carriage. You were shifting around more and more, his grip on you was faltering by the second. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before you broke out of his hold entirely.

Looking down, you saw that his foot was close. Taking the opportunity, you brought the heel of your boot down as hard as you could, right in the dead centre of his shoe.

“OW! FUCK!!“ His scream echoed throughout the surrounding scenery, causing the horses to neigh in surprise. The pain now shooting through his veins was too much to ignore, he instinctively held onto his right foot with both hands, hopping up and down in an attempt to mute it.

Ah shit, you were free.

You spun around, your eyes wide and your mind clouded by a thick mist of rage. You took advantage of Johnny’s incapacitation, balling up your fist and punching him square in the nose. His head jerked backwards, a pained yell seeped out through clenched teeth as he tried desperately to stop himself from toppling over. Blood splatters flew in all directions as your knuckles collided with his face, a sickening crunch being produced from the contact.

A fight ensued.

You didn’t even bother to pick up your bō staff that was lying on the ground, you were so crazed that you fought Johnny with nothing but your bare hands. You were wildly clawing at him, managing to scratch his face and draw even more blood a few times. Johnny couldn’t do much but dodge, block and weave your frantic attacks, he didn’t want to fight back and hurt you further.

At one point, you had him by the shoulders as you went for his jugular. Your large mouth opened wide to reveal rows upon rows of jagged, sharp teeth, all screaming for a bite of him. You nearly made contact before he quickly and violently shoved you away, knocking you backwards and sending you crashing into the carriage once again. He looked around for anything that he could use to defend himself against you as he was catching his breath. His eyes practically lit up as they fell on your bō resting in the grass a few feet away, he wasted no time as he scrambled to pick it up.

Johnny was trained in various forms of martial arts, but bōjutsu was not one of them. All he could do was swing the green staff in your vicinity, putting some distance between you and mentally cursing himself for not paying more attention to yourself when you were using it. Damn it, he could’ve actually picked up on something if he paid attention to anyone but himself.

His attempts at fending you off proved futile. You were a master at using the weapon, he was not. Eventually, you kicked your staff out of his hands, your foot hitting the bō with such force that it was knocked clean out of Johnny’s grasp. In one swift kombo, you knocked him down to the ground, picking up your staff again as you moved to stand over him.

“Jade… listen to me… please…” His desperate voice was barely above a whisper, all the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. He was on his back, staring up at you with widened eyes as the paralysing fear of being impaled like a chunk of street meat took hold of him.

You were in no mood to listen. You were ready to strike like a snake as you stared down at him between your legs, snarling ferociously. Primal rage burned in your eyes, your Tarkatan mouth was on full display. Your food had attacked you, what was it thinking? He must die for laying his hands on you like this.

This was it. This was how he was going to go out. His eyes clamped shut, a tear made its way down the side of his face as you raised your staff, intending to deliver a fatal blow. The brace for impact was horrible, but he accepted his fate nonetheless.

It was a surprise when your momentum stopped. Instead of growling, Johnny could hear… struggling? He opened his eyes to see what was happening and smiled. Such an intense wave of relief washed over his being at the sight before him that he couldn’t help but start laughing.

There, holding you in place, was Geras.

“Damn… good timing, old man...” He muttered as he hesitantly sat up, his chest still aching from your impact. A pained but wide smile wove its way onto his cut face, watching as you were being held in a bear hug.

You were no match for Geras. Your strength may be enhanced, but the construct was well over double your size. He even had some height on Johnny, towering over you both every time he was near. He barely even struggled as he contained you, much to your dismay.

He had his arm wrapped around your body, holding you tightly as you writhed and thrashed in his grasp. Using his other arm, he brought up a syringe to your neck and injected you with something. Whatever it was, it affected your crazed self instantaneously. As soon as the needle left your skin, you started to calm, squirming less and less in Geras’s grasp as you fell unconscious. Your limp body was slowly lowered to the ground, your rampage finally coming to an end.

Your nasty Tarkatan features started to dull and disappear. Your sharpened claws fell off, giving way to a set of new, normal fingernails. Your large mouth full of jagged teeth shrunk, your jaw morphing back into your regular face. Your lips came back as the flesh around your mouth returned, all back to normal. The serum he had injected you with was a cure, one that Princess Mileena uses regularly to dull her own respective symptoms.

It was almost as if Johnny was seeing a magic trick in real time, the whole transformation was shocking to watch. One moment, you were a crazed, ravenous animal, and the next… you were you again, the same one as before.

He stood up and walked towards Geras slowly, taking a place right beside him.

“Is she… gonna be alright?” Johnny hesitantly asked, looking down at your unconscious self in wonder.

“She will be fine. The serum that I have injected her with counteracts the Tarkat in her system.” He answered, his grip on the empty vial loosening as the adrenaline within him dissipated.

Geras walked over to the carriage, soothing the horses before opening the door of the vehicle.

“It is in our best interests to get her back to Sun Do as soon as possible, back to Liu Kang.”

Johnny nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of the situation. He turned his attention back to you, unconsciously resting on your back. You looked so peaceful, so normal, with your eyes closed and your chest slowly rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt down, gently picking you up in his arms, bridal style. He cradled you against his chest as he walked over to the carriage, trying his best to ignore the small voice in his head whispering: “So light and beautiful...”

Entering the carriage slowly, he gently laid your body down on the seat across from him, careful not to bump you on anything. It was unclear how long you would be unconscious for, his best bet was to just silently watch over you and hope that you would be okay.

As the carriage took off, Johnny took the opportunity to breathe and let go of the tension he was holding on to. He crashed down in his seat, loudly sighing as his exhausted body slumped against the cushions.

He sat motionless, save for his chest rising and falling with each haggard breath. His eyes were focused on the still unconscious you, his gaze roving across your still face. Seeing you switch from your cold, dignified self to a feral beast was still something that he was comprehending. All of your overwhelming rage and ferocity really shook him, that Baraka-like jaw on you was something that he would definitely be having nightmares about. This calm, docile version before him was no doubt your superior version.

His face hurt like hell, the adrenaline muting the burn of his injuries was starting to wear off. You thankfully didn’t punch him hard enough to fracture his nose, but the pain was still searing. The scratches on his face stung, the deep red marks on his cheeks were starting to make their presence known. He made a mental note to get those wounds checked out when he arrived back in Sun Do. He opened his phone, selecting the camera icon on his screen to fully inspect the damage. Johnny winced as he slowly turned his head to the side, his fingers lightly grazing over his facial wounds, careful not to cause further damage.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

By now, an hour had passed since your little… incident.

The carriage was well on its way to Sun Do, now moving at an increased pace. Geras wished to get you back to Liu Kang as soon as possible, the once slow-moving carriage was now moving noticeably faster.

Johnny had now taken the majority of his attention off of your unconscious form. There wasn’t much he could do with you like this, completely out cold and unresponsive. He was leaned back in his seat, his focus diverted to his phone, occasionally taking his eyes off the screen to peek at your resting self, just to make sure you were alright.

It was during one of these glances that his eyes began to wander down from your face. They slowly trailed along your form, his brain seemingly studying your body. He really did hope that you would be alright. But also…

You were wearing a fairly standard uniform, just like him. It was tight fitting, your breastplate outlining your figure very clearly. He made no effort to stop his gaze from roving over your body, his eyes stopping right on the curve of your-

No! He couldn’t be checking you out right now. You were his partner, for the Gods sake! You’d just come into contact with an incredibly deadly infection, this wasn’t the time to be staring at your… features!

Johnny tried desperately to push his filthy thoughts out of his head, but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t find his eyes and mind wandering every few minutes.

He had just concluded a routine eyeing of you, going right back to his phone. Though, from his peripheral vision, he could see you start to stir. Quickly, he shut his device off and dropped it down beside him, your well-being of much more concern than Instagram. He leaned forward, his arms coming to rest on his knees, his eyes trained on you.

You spent a few moments like this, murmuring and mumbling nonsense as you shuffled around. Then, your eyes slowly opened, now back to their normal colour and shape.

You were awake.

“Where… am… I?” A low groan escaped your lips. Your body ached like you’d just been in a brutal beatdown. Your head was a raging storm and your jaw was throbbing like crazy. It felt like it had just been ripped open or something.

You pushed yourself up, slipping a little as you did so. You weren’t at 100% strength yet, your movements were slow and uncertain. Your vision started to clear, a concerned Johnny coming into focus.

"You're in the carriage. We're headed back to Sun Do." Johnny answered your question, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He gently helped you up, his hands planted on your upper arms, carefully guiding your movements.

“Johnny…?” Your mind was clearing, but you were still extremely disoriented. From your perspective, the last thing you remembered was you and him heading back to the carriage, the former feeling very unwell. Then it all went black. And now…

“…What happened?”

Looking at you, a mix of emotions welled up inside of Johnny. Concern and worry were the main ones, but he couldn’t deny that he also felt… relief. He couldn't help but feel relieved to hear the sweet and silky tone of your voice, paired with your normal appearance. You finally looked like yourself again.

"You don’t remember anything?" He asked, his tone still gentle. He didn't want to overwhelm you with everything that had transpired in your “absence”, not when you were like this.

The last vestiges of your blurry vision cleared away. Your eyes settling on a busted, scratched-up Johnny really wasn’t a welcome surprise.

“By the Gods, your face!” You recoiled back, a hand clasped over your mouth. Your loud voice of concern echoed around the small confines of the carriage, the bloody state of your partner fully snapping you out of your drowsiness.

“Yeah, you really did a number on me, didn’t you?" He chuckled at your reaction, amused (and maybe a tiny bit flattered) by the worried look on your face. As if he’d let you know that, though.

Now you were confused, as well as both hyper-alert and slightly in pain. A nasty combo. But that wasn’t the point of your focus at the moment. Did… did you do this?

“I… did this? To you?”

“Yeah… uh…” He sighed, his hand coming to rub sheepishly at the back of his head. This was going to be hard, but there was no other way to do this. “You, uh… turned into a Tarkatan… as crazy as it sounds-”

“I what?!” You were shouting now, in total disbelief. Johnny winced at the panic in your voice, recoiling slightly, though you were too in shock to notice.

You looked down at your suit, and your throbbing right hand. Both were stained with blood. Blood that wasn’t there the last time you checked. Your knuckles were aching like you had hit something, or someone…

And that’s when everything started to come back to you. The secret lab, the dead Tarkatan in that cage, Shang Tsung and his notebook, that prick on your finger, your fever, your weird behaviour…

By the Elder Gods.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, chill out! Chill out…” He tried to calm you down, his hands coming to rest on your knees, his thumb caressing the material underneath. "It’s okay, you’re okay now."

Your eyes remained lowered for a few moments, your breathing heavy. The past hour was still something you were attempting to process. The realisation that you did indeed attack Johnny, and presumably Geras, sank in. It made you feel so incredibly guilty. You couldn’t help it, those injuries on his face looked so painful. The injuries that you caused.

“…I am truly sorry for attacking you.” You finally spoke up, looking up to lock eyes with him. Your usually cold eyes were now warm with guilt, shining with remorse.

He shook his head gently. "Hey, that wasn’t your fault. That bastard Shang Tsung infected you. You weren’t in control of yourself, you can’t blame yourself for something you didn’t even do."

“No, this was my fault. I didn’t take the proper safety measures to ensure that nothing from that underground facility was transferred to me. Whatever happened was a result of my carelessness.”

As well as regret, a wave of embarrassment washed over you. How could you be so careless like that? Of course that prick was going to mean something. Johnny’s going to think that you’re totally incompetent now, and when Geras tells Liu Kang all about what happened he’ll most likely kick you out of the Wu Shi, then you’ll be homeless again and-

The overwhelming amount of paranoid thoughts started to prove too much. Your jaw clenched as you brought up a hand to your eye, an effort to fight back the tears behind your closed lids.

“Jade, hey, hey…” Johnny placed a hand on your leg, trying to keep you grounded. His voice was soft, he couldn’t bear seeing you like this. “It wasn’t your fault, okay? It could have happened to anyone."

You took a shaky breath in and a precarious breath out. Whatever you were about to do, it was NOT cry in front of Johnny. You did what you’ve always done after taking a moment to compose yourself: push your emotions back down.

You once again met Johnny’s gaze. Your eyes were slightly wet with tears - for some reason, you were expecting him to be judgemental of you and your fuck-up. But no, instead, you were met with a look of compassion. Despite all that you had done, he was still making the effort to console you. It was heartwarming.

“…Thank you for your words.”

"You don’t have to thank me. I just don’t like seeing you blame yourself for something that you have no control over." He smiled at you, his soft and caring gaze locked on your face as he leaned back.

For the first time in like, ever, you returned his smile with a warmer one of your own. You were genuinely smiling at him. Being comforted by Johnny Cage was not something you thought was going to happen today. And yet… it did.

The sight of your smile nearly made Johnny’s heart explode, his own smile widening in turn.

“You’re alright, Houzuki.”

The small smile on your face widened. You had to look down a little, to hide the sheepish smirk daring to form. You hated it, this weird effect he had over you. You despised the way your cheeks reddened at his praise, how that warm feeling would sliver through your belly when you looked at his carved features for a little too long. It was all so… ugh.

“Thank you, Cage.” You looked back up, meeting his gaze once more.

He cleared his throat, smirking a little. "You know... you're more bearable when you're smiling. You should do it more often."

“The ‘you should smile more’ line doesn’t have the effect that you think it does.” You scoffed, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, is that so? Then what about, ‘You look way better when you don’t have that stick stuck up your ass’?"

The smile on your face grew into a laugh, the sound making his skin prickle.

“You’re a prick, you know that?”

"Hey, it got you to laugh, didn't it?" He laughed again, the warm feeling in his chest growing a little more intense.

Fuck, Johnny’s charm was actually starting to work on you. The way he was so casually leaning back, hair messy and elbow resting on his propped-up knee, it all had unwanted demons stirring deep within your core. Damn him and his stupid picturesque features!

Though, as you were looking at Johnny, you did start to take note of his facial injuries. All the blood on the space between his nose and upper lip was dried by this point; there was so much that it was a wonder how his nose wasn’t broken. And all those deep scratches… Gods, they looked so sore.

The smile on your face slowly turned into a frown, your guilt from a few minutes ago making its return. It was… terrible to see him like this. You felt really bad. Despite being an assassin, the sight of all that dried blood under his nose actually made you feel a little sick. It wasn’t right, no matter how much of a nuisance he was.

In turn, Johnny rolled his eyes and groaned, knowing full well what was on your mind.

"It's all right, darlin’. Don't worry about this." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, a failed attempt to clean the dried blood off of his face.

“That doesn’t matter…” You mumbled, lowering your head out of guilt. “...I’m sorry.”

"I told you. It's fine. No need to apologise." He retorted, now a little incensed.

Your self-wallowing came to a halt when you felt a light squeeze on your hand. You looked up to see Johnny leaning forward, his large hand covering yours. The sympathetic look in his eyes was hard to ignore, there was something about it that had your remorse melt away.

"Stop beating yourself up, Jade. It wasn’t your fault." He gently squeezed your hand, the callouses on his palm rough against your skin.

You once again smiled at his reassurance, and the weight on your shoulders eased. You couldn’t remember the last time someone was this kind to you. It was nice, no matter who it came from.

The seeds of your crush on Johnny Cage were now sown.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Hours had passed, it was the peak of night. The evening had come and gone; Outworld was now shrouded in darkness.

The carriage had reached Sun Do, a result of its quickened speed. The city’s streets were empty, not a soul was in sight. However, unlike Kakariko Village, all of the residents were here and well, they were just still sleeping soundly in their homes. Geras slowed the horses upon entry of the city’s gates; he was quietly steering the vehicle along the cobblestone roads.

In the distance, the soft clip-clop of horse hooves broke through the lunar silence, growing louder as the carriage emerged from behind buildings. The vehicle was parked right outside of Liu Kang’s estate, Geras hopping down from the front seat and tending to the animals before making his way over to the carriage interior.

Inside, Johnny was fast asleep. The pain of his facial injuries were temporarily dulled whilst he was unconscious, deep in a dreamless sleep. Light snores came from him as his chest rose and fell with each breath. You, however, were wide awake. You couldn’t sleep, you weren’t even the slightest bit tired. Whether it was the medicine in your veins, or the fact that you were still processing the day you had, wasn’t known to you. You were sat up, your attention on the dark world outside.

You grew bored of looking at Sun Do’s empty streets, as well as being tormented by your own thoughts. Without thinking, you turned to the side, towards a sleeping Johnny.

He looked so peaceful when he was resting, it was hard not to be captivated by the view. The carriage’s pink lights once again highlighted his gorgeous features, but they also illuminated his injuries. You couldn’t help but feel a sliver of guilt again when you focused on his scratched face. This wasn’t your fault, and you understood that, but… maybe you could’ve been more careful in that lab.

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the carriage stopping. Not long after, you were met with the sight of Geras opening the door, his glowing blue eyes cutting through the darkness. The two of you locked eyes for a few seconds, not a word exchanged. He looked down to a sleeping Johnny, then back at an awake you. The construct waited for you to gather your bearings back before speaking up.

“Jade. It is good to see that you are well. We have arrived back in Sun Do; we are outside Liu Kang’s manor.”

You nodded, turning to face Johnny as you stood up. You leaned over his sleeping body, lightly shaking him, not wanting to be too rough with his unconscious form.

“Johnny… wake up…” Your voice was a whisper above his ear. The feeling of his hard bicep under your palms made that warm feeling sprout in your stomach again, but you ignored that for now.

“Hm...?” He opened his eyes, his voice groggy and thick with fatigue. You leaned back as he slowly sat up, examining his surroundings before looking back at you.

“We’re back in Sun Do.” Your voice was soft, but firm. The sleepy look on his face was really cute, it had you biting back a smile. “We’re outside Liu Kang’s estate.”

“Sweet…” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Geras saw that you both were on the move and stood to the side to let you two out. You grabbed Shang Tsung’s notebook beside your hip and quietly exited the vehicle, shivering a little at the cold night.

In contrast, Johnny lazily and recklessly stumbled out of the carriage. He loudly yawned and dramatically stretched his limbs once he was standing. He would never get used to sleeping in that damn carriage.

After you finished your silent judgment of your companion’s behaviour, you turned to face Geras.

“Geras, I would like to apologise for what happened, back at the village. I am sorry if I happened to attack you.” Your voice was sincere, your tone remorseful.

He listened to your apology, not saying a word. His expressionless eyes pierced through you, making you feel a little uneasy. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just staring at you blankly. Eventually, Geras gave you a small nod.

“Rest assured, Jade. I know that you were not in control of yourself. You were under the control of Tarkat; you do not need to apologise. None of your actions were done by you of your own free will.”

You smiled at his words, a wave of relief washing over you. After a few moments, Geras spoke up. He pulled something from behind his back, handing the item to you.

“Here is your bō staff. You dropped it during your frenzy. I have kept it safe for you throughout our journey.”

A small noise of surprise came from you. You were wondering where that thing went!

“Thank you.” You graciously took the compacted staff from his hands, strapping it to your hip.

Geras nodded at you again, and then both you and him turned your attentions towards Johnny.

He was leaning against the carriage, his arms crossed to his chest. He looked bored, to say the least. He didn’t bother to listen to what you two were conversing about, none of your words centred around him so why should he care? He yawned as he glanced to the side impatiently, his eyes wandering around the empty city.

“Now, the both of you must see Liu Kang immediately. Tell him of what has happened, of your findings. And then, you two must seek urgent medical attention.” He told you.

“Of course.” You nodded. You turned around to face Johnny, gesturing for him to follow you as you walked through the gates, towards the entrance of the manor.

You strolled up to the front door, the sound of your boots heels against the cobblestone clicking through the quiet of the night. He was right behind you, trying to keep his eyes forward and not on your... lower half. The effort to keep his gaze up was really harder than it should be.

Not that you noticed. You leaned forward a little and rapped your knuckles on the door, the sound slightly echoing around the front porch and the interior of the large building.

A few moments of silence passed by. The only audible thing was the occasional breeze. Then, the sounds of footsteps were heard inside the manor. The door creaked open, although it wasn’t Liu Kang. One of his servants was on the other side, greeting you both with a bright smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“…And he had constructed this laboratory underneath the village library.” You explained, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

Both you and Johnny had long since made your way inside, you two were now debriefing Liu Kang of all that had been found during your time away, as well as you both receiving the medical attention that you needed.

A few more doses of Mileena’s suppressant were estimated to permanently eradicate the infection from your system, the nurse predicted. An injection every day for the remainder of the week should clear up any lingering traces of the virus, thank the Gods.

Johnny, meanwhile, was receiving dressing for his scratches. The cold ointment against the open wounds made him wince a little on contact, the substance stinging against his skin, making him grip the sofa arm. It was nothing major, according to the nurse. Only a few flesh wounds, nothing that would harbour anything long-lasting.

Despite the late hour, Liu Kang was more than happy to see you two, and hear about all that the two found during their time away. He was listening intently as you both gave your own reports. His face was stern, his features giving no indication as to what he was thinking.

“It was… filthy. Completely covered with viscera and grime. This laboratory was where he was conducting his twisted experiments.” You carried on, shifting in your seat as your mind unwillingly replayed the day’s memories.

“And you say he was conducting experiments on villagers with this Tarkat infection?” Liu Kang queried, to which you nodded at.

“Shang Tsung was using the villagers as live test subjects, unconsenting guinea pigs for his vile work.”

His expression was as serious as ever, his eyes held a certain intensity as they scanned over you and Johnny. He let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed at his forehead with two fingers.

“Geras told me of how this… infection took hold of you. Is this true?” He was careful with his words, his tone incensed. “Yes… it is.” You looked down for a minute, ashamed once again as you fiddled with your fingers. It was horrible to know that you were mutated into little more than a wild beast. Your skin crawled as you thought of all the damage that you could’ve potentially inflicted.

Liu Kang’s face remained neutral, but eyes held a sliver of pity. He was looking at you two with an almost cold intensity, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. He shifted his gaze to Johnny, the fire god’s gaze hardening as he looked at him.

“And you.” Johnny’s spine visibly stiffened as Liu Kang addressed him. “Were you also infected?” Liu Kang’s tone was stern, his white eyes were staring Johnny down in his seat.

“Ah, no… no, I wasn’t infected, boss.” He meekly responded, his composure faltering under the crushing weight of Liu Kang’s intense stare, a stare that he couldn’t meet for more than a few seconds.

The way Liu Kang was glaring him down with such intensity even made you feel a little uncomfortable. It’s almost like he was mad or something, like he was silently chastising Johnny for not being by your side in the lab.

“Lord Liu Kang, my infection was in no way Johnny’s fault.” Your voice broke through the rather tense silence, much to Johnny’s surprise. “It was the result of my own carelessness; I apologise for not taking the proper safety measures when searching through that laboratory.”

You turned to Johnny and gave him a small smile.

It was mostly unnoticeable, but Liu Kang’s stern expression subsided when he saw you smile at Johnny like that. His eyebrows raised at the small sign of courtesy you showed. This was completely unexpected, for both of the men.

After a bit, you turned your attention away from Johnny and back towards Liu Kang. As you shifted in your seat, you felt Shang’s journal in your pocket, pushing up against your hip. Damn it, you’d forgotten to show Liu Kang one of the most important things you’d recovered.

“Oh! I also found this.” You took out the journal from your pocket and leaned forward, handing it to him.

Liu Kang’s eyebrows shot up once again at this. He took the book from you and opened it up. His eyes were glued to the ink staining the pages, his interest fully piqued by what was inside.

By the Elder Gods, it was much worse than he thought. His eyes widened upon each turn of a page, his brows furrowing at the onslaught of information. After a few minutes of reading, the book closed to reveal the astonishment all over his face. His white eyes were wide with shock, processing what was just before them. He sat in silence for a few minutes, before looking up to speak to you both.

“This is much worse than I thought. To know that Shang Tsung and General Shao are collaborating is extremely concerning.”

He ran a hand down his face, sighing deeply. Shang Tsung and General Shao’s alliance was not only unexpected, but a possible catastrophe. Liu Kang felt a cold sense of dread start to creep up on him, caused by the knowledge that the sorcerer and the disgraced general had joined forces. The two of them together were such a potent force to be reckoned with; the danger they posed to Outworld and the other realms was immense.

But all of that is for another time. Right now, it is important that you and Johnny rest. All of this can be dealt with once the sun is up.

Liu Kang stood up, pocketing the journal for further study. He turned to you both, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you for your work, both of you. I am pleased to see the two of you work well together.”

You smiled, beaming with pride. “I am in your service, Lord Liu Kang.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome or whatever.” Johnny was less graceful with his response, something that earned a judgemental side eye from you.

Liu Kang almost rolled his eyes, but considering you and him have been making progress, the fire god decided to let his usual snark slide… for now, at least.

“Now, please retire to your rooms. After the ordeal that the two of you have been through, some rest is in order.” He placed a fist and an open hand together, and did his typical bow. He then made his way over to the door of his study, opening it and gesturing for you both to exit.

The doors of his study shut quietly once you two had departed. Soon, you and Johnny were the only souls in the hallway.

Both of your respective chambers were in the same direction, meaning that you two were now walking side by side on their way to your rooms. The halls of Liu Kang’s manor were deserted, save for the occasional cleaner every now and then. Everyone was asleep, resting in their own quarters. Both of your footsteps echoed throughout the empty halls, cutting through the silence of the mansion.

“Hey, Jade.” Johnny suddenly spoke up, his voice shattering the silence.

You turned to face him, your pace slightly slowing.

“Yes, Johnny?”

“You did good, y’know? You were great back at that village.” He gave you a smile, his eyes dilating at how beautiful you looked in the hallway’s candlelight.

“Thank you.” His praise made you smile back, your face felt warm at his kind words.

He spoke again after a few moments. “What, not gonna say I did good too?”

You scoffed and shook your head. It’s almost like this man needed to have his ego stroked, like a fish needs to be in water. Admittedly, it was as amusing as it was annoying.

“Considering I both found the secret laboratory and the journal, I think I’ll refrain for now.”

“I’m wounded, Jade. Wounded. You don’t think I contributed at all?” Johnny feigned a look of exaggerated offence. He put a hand over his heart, a look of theatrical hurt crossing his face.

“Maybe on the next mission assigned to us, you’ll have a more significant role?”

“Next time, hm?” He was grinning, crossing his arms across his chest. It was nice, hearing you finally treat him like an equal, rather than some piece of trash.

“I think next time, you’ll be the useless one, and I’ll be saving both our asses.”

You scoffed again because, yeah, right! As if that would happen. So far, on your assigned excursions, you’ve been the MVP. You located that machine back at the pyramid AND you uncovered the true story of Kakariko Village’s depopulation. Johnny was just… there. Like the piece of eye candy he is.

You had no more time to think about that, though. Eventually, you two reached a corner of the manor. On the left side was the rest of the way to Johnny’s room. On the right side, the rest of the way to your room. This is where you both say goodnight.

“That’s your room?” He pointed down the hall to the right, to your door. You nodded in reply.

“Alright, then. See ya tomorrow, partner.” His eyes lit up as the words left him, like he had an idea. Slowly, he leaned in closer, his voice low and sultry.

“…Unless you wanna spend the night with me?”

Alright. Once again, Johnny had pushed his luck too far. His dumb comment wiped the tiny smile off of your face, like an eraser to a whiteboard.

“Goodnight, Cage.” You muttered as you turned away and walked off, headed for your room.

Johnny just laughed, the sound ringing in your ears. He called out to you one last time, his voice loud and obnoxious.

“Sweet dreams, dollface!”

You ignored him as you walked down the corridor, resisting the urge to raise your hand and flip him off. You’d hit your Johnny Cage limit for today, any more interaction with this man might just finish you off.

You closed your door behind you with a sigh; you were so grateful to be back in your room. You smiled as you set your sight on your bed. After everything that had happened in the past 24 hours, finally being able to rest felt amazing.

You kicked off your boots and discarded your suit in a corner somewhere. Showering was out of the question, you were too damn tired. You lazily slipped on a nightdress that you found in your wardrobe. The pain from Geras’s injection earlier still somewhat lingered, you winced every now and then as you changed. Oh well, nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix.

You slipped under your covers and pretty much fell asleep in a few minutes. Your warm, soft bed felt a million times better than those firm carriage seats. A deep, dreamless sleep awaited you, greeting your mind as it slipped from reality.

A/N: i have nothing to say 🧍‍♀️thanks for reading xoxo

#mortal kombat #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat smut #mortal kombat x you #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat imagine #mk1 x you #mk #johnny cage #johnny cage x reader #johnny cage smut #johnny cage x you #fanfic #johnny and jade

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darkhymns-fic · 1 month ago

Text

Disease

Husk yearns for Alastor's attention—but the feeling is overwhelmingly mutual.

That's the thing about jealousy. It's such a disease.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk, Vox, Angel Dust Rating: M Word Count: 7,522 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Written for Radiohusk Week, Day 4: Jealousy. This was in collaboration with @indoodlingmadness for their amazing art! (Check it out on bsky and twitter!)

Half-slouched on the couch in the hotel parlor, Husk swore that the television commercial in front of him was playing on loop. But it was never the exact same, minimal differences here and there, from the background set to the changes in script. There were dozens of different recordings put out on the dot of every hour. Vox’s desperation was so palpable that he could feel it coating his tongue with its slimy texture. Watching this might as well have made his brain bubble and melt within his skull.

The thing was, there really was nothing else good on TV.

“—And that’s why radio is archaic, boring, and absolutely worthless in today’s modern age!” Vox was holding up another weird stick drawing of the terrifying Radio Demon, somehow getting his smile just right. His desk was shiny, but rattled, the surface of it decorated in claw marks. The neon lights behind him seemed to crack and spark, pulsing in time with Vox’s breathing. Just a few commercials ago, it had been looking new and fresh. “Look at him! You wouldn’t trust that guy in an alleyway!”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the idea,” Husk spoke to the screen, taking a swig of his bottle. In that reception, he saw those antennas spark furiously from that oversized microwave for a head. Televisions were always a two-way deal down here in Hell, and even if the Overlord might have caught his sarcasm just then, he knew he wasn’t the real focus of his ire.

A small crackle that further ruined the reception of the screen. A horrible ruptured feedback that set Husk’s teeth on edge. But his discomfort didn’t match the intensity he saw in Vox’s eyes.

“Oh, Husker. You really should turn such a dreadful thing off. Think of the electricity bill!”

Alastor acted like he hadn’t been watching from afar for the past hour. Husk could tell, just from the very way his fur stood up, from that specific sensation of eyes watching from the shadows. Except, those eyes hadn’t been so directed at him either.

No, just these two Overlords staring at each other from across the room in some weird sickening obsession.

“Don’t you dare shut me off! I know where you sleep!”

“Likewise, old pal!”

When Alastor finally reappeared near the couch Husk sat on, he gave a small wave at the television screen. Another small crackle, one that seemed to make the outdated picture box overheat. Or maybe that was just Vox himself getting all hot and bothered.

Husk rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Was getting bored anyway.” He then reached for the remote that was by his side.

“WAIT I WASN’T DONE–!” Click.

Alastor sighed with a sort of euphoria. “Ah, sometimes, silence can truly be golden.”

“Really? This coming from the guy in love with his own voice.”

It had only been a few weeks since Vox had tried to get Sir Pentious working as a spy for him, but since that plan had spectacularly failed, the Overlord took things in his own hands. Soon, nearly anything with a screen in the hotel, such as a television set, a phone, and even the fucking fridge because it was using so-called ‘smart technology,’ was filled with the guy’s obnoxious face, shouting the same obscenities over and over to get at Alastor who only passed by such performances.

Husk was silently grateful to himself that he only moved with the times as far as flip phones and nothing beyond that. He didn’t know what he’d do if he had to wake up to Vox screaming in his ear about Alastor not paying attention to him.

And besides, the Radio Demon was paying attention to him. Even more than usual.

“Ha! Of course anything I say would have some worth, my friend.” Alastor tapped the head of his cane against his palm, sparing another glance to the now dead TV set. “But I truly don’t care what such a low brow television personality has to say about anything!”

Husk took another sip of his drink. The beer tasted more bitter than usual. “That why you didn’t mess with the cameras today?”

And why you let him see you whenever you can?

As he thought this, he let his gaze slide around the room. No, it wasn’t even just the television or the phones that Vox would spy from. A small flash of a camera lens peeked out from the torn wallpaper, another was wedged into a crevice somewhere on the mantelpiece in the parlor. All not so very subtle, not even a little bit. Charlie had wanted to get rid of them, but Alastor had insisted on leaving them in place. She wanted the hotel to be promoted, he reasoned, and now she got it!

But the real reason was because he enjoyed it. His boss liked Vox’s attention.

Husk tightened his grip on the glass bottle. Why was he even thinking about this?

“He can have his little toys if he wants, for there is nothing to hide!” Alastor said with another tinny laugh. “Perhaps he’s seeking a little redemption of his own?”

“You fucking know that’s not the reason,” Husk said, with more venom than he meant to. He couldn’t keep the words in, not with the way they burned his throat. “What do you get out of it?”

At that moment, he wondered if he revealed too much, but his boss simply chuckled before sashaying across the parlor, away from him. Suspicious-looking lights blinked above him, catching his every motion, his every step.

“I’m an entertainer, Husker! At the very least, I can put on a good show!”

“For an audience of one,” Husk countered.

“It doesn’t matter the size of the crowd. One must give it their all!”

He wanted to say something else—to shout something else. But an insistent vibration in his trousers pocket pulled away his attention. He didn’t even see where Alastor went, though likely to where the most screens were.

Husk pulled out the phone, flipped it open. He was greeted to a barrage of text messages in all caps.

[HEY!!11 WHERE’S ALASTOR?! TELL HIM 2 UNBL0CK MY NUMBR! AND 2 GET AN ACTUAL PHONE1!]

With a grimace, Husk gripped the phone until the casing cracked.

He was so fucking sick of this.

–

Even with the dense crowd at the shaking club, Angel had been able to find Husk—who was predictably sitting right at the bar, already going through his second bottle. Not exactly a hard search.

“Sooo is there a reason ya asked me out here?” Angel said as he pulled up a chair. He was wearing a pink, feathery shawl over his shoulders, completing his outfit with rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses. He leaned over the counter, flicking up his shaded accessories with a finger. “Knew it was only a matter of time before we hit the next level, whiskers.”

Husk gave him a sideways glance, then sighed. His claws tapped against the counter, which continued to vibrate with the beat of some song he never heard of. “I just needed to get out of the hotel. It’s fucking misery.”

Angel gave a cackle, slapping Husk’s shoulder. “Circuits-for-brains getting to you? Baby, it’s way worse in person.”

“I know. I’ve met this guy plenty back then.” It was one of the downsides of being an Overlord—you had to get to know the other Overlords and what territories they held, even if you hated the other’s guts. “He’s somehow gotten worse. Didn’t think that was even possible for that egomaniac!”

Angel already had a cocktail in his hand, sex on the beach style. Husk wondered if he just pulled it out of a purse. “Been meaning to ask ya. Does he and Alastor have some sort of…whatever going on? I know Vox has always been into voyeurism but usually he sort of like, does it to everybody instead of one person.”

Husk waved away the question, scoffing. “Fuck if I should know. They used to be friends or business partners, or whatever.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Ohhh, so they definitely have some kinky shit going on!”

Husk didn’t really want to think about it. So what if Alastor was into what Vox was doing? So what if Husk had to see it? It didn’t matter what his boss was into—there was already a laundry list of awful things Alastor craved that turned Husk’s stomach.

And this was no different.

Before he could even think of ordering another bottle, he felt Angel take his wrist, easily slipping him off the stool. His wings spread out to keep his balance, and his tail brushed against Angel’s right leg in reflex. There was the flash of a white and gold-speckled smile before him.

“Look, sourpuss. You didn’t call me out here just so I can watch you drink yourself into a coma. I already see enough of that at the hotel.” Two more hands grasped Husk’s waist, pulling him into the dance floor. “Let’s have some fun already! Then we can get wasted later!”

“Fine, but if you step on my tail, I’m calling it off.”

Still, Husk couldn’t help but smile a little bit, because like it or not, Angel was oddly good at cheering him up. The guy could be funny, could be charming when he wasn’t putting on his usual persona, and could take his mind off less pleasant things for at least a little while.

And besides, there were other ways to drown out his feelings besides through booze and sleep. Dancing to the club’s beat was a good start.

That is, until one is reminded.

Hours later, at some point in the night, Husk was more than a little drunk, and Angel was hanging off his shoulders, laughing at some nonsense that fell from his lips in chaotic fashion. “So that whole waterboarding thing is already out because the market is so niche, and Val’s pissed! Now we’re back to student-teacher junk, and he just tells me to look younger for it. Like bitch, I’m ageless already!”

It wasn’t even really that funny, but Husk was laughing, unable to stifle it in his chest. Angel just had a knack for telling work stories, which he’d tell even back at the hotel bar.

But he made the mistake of turning away, just for a moment. He only wanted to lean against a table, and didn’t trust his body to not fall on its ass. So he needed to use his eyes, and he happened to find something in the far off corner.

Laughing shadows, with sharp red eyes and wide smiles. One of them moved forth from a puddle of black on the floor, never minding the trash it maneuvered around—of discarded beer cans, wadded up condom wrappers, and spare change that sparkled in the club’s multicolored lights. The shadow was a small thing, a doll covered in stitches that held together its insides, with a stray green thread leading from its back.

It looked straight at Husk, tilted its head to the right. Then more, and more until the top of its horns were level with its nubby shoulder. It was mouthing something at him, its voice drowned out by the club’s music and the shouts of other sinners having the time of their afterlives.

Even so, Husk heard it. The voice pounded in his skull like a persistent beat.

Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

And then the shadow sunk into the dirty floor, leaving nothing, not even a stain behind.

–

Nothing happened once he and Angel came back to the hotel. No acts of punishment, no pulling of the chain to make him fall to his knees. Husk expected some sort of retribution, for pissing off Alastor for ditching work.

But there were only eyes in his back as he walked back to his room, half-stumbling both from drunkenness and exhaustion—and they weren’t the eyes he expected, or even wanted right now.

In the hallway, Husk saw another camera, one that was perched in the corner. It swiveled, red light blinking. He heard the camera zoom in on him, the electricity sparking inside its metal casing.

With barely a second glance, he threw a card at it, slicing through. It bursted unceremoniously, the light on it growing dark.

Vox’s toys had always been such pieces of trash.

–

The next day, all the cameras in the hotel had disappeared.

Some had been ripped out from their placing within the walls, in the corners of rooms, or wherever else Vox had shown his ugly face on. This included anything with a screen. The television in the parlor was now unequivocally broken, the screen cracked, leaving nothing but static when one tried to turn it on. The ‘smart’ fridge was also completely wrecked, as if it had been torn apart by giant hands. (This also resulted in their food being destroyed, which Husk had to then make a shopping trip for and put it all in a good old icebox). Everyone made sure to hide their phones, but nothing Vox-related was streamed to them besides the occasional malware-infected ad or two.

Even so, Husk still felt eyes in his back. When he worked. When he chatted with others. When he slept.

He knew why.

A sliver of a shadow that ducked away at the last moment, of burning eyes and short arms. Small bouts of laughter he could barely hear, even in the dead of night. Suddenly, there was intense focus on him. It felt like hands around his neck, keeping him in place, just short of squeezing to cut off his air.

Still, Alastor hadn’t shown up or spoken with him. Instead, the Overlord had locked himself in his radio tower, the ‘ON AIR’ sign always on, blaring in the red-drenched sky.

Yet, when he’d dare turn on the radio in his room—a so-called gift from Alastor, one of old-make, crafted from wood, so that he could contact Husk whenever necessary—and find that dreaded radio station, he couldn’t hear anything. No songs, no screams. Just dead air.

Husk would sometimes sit on his bed, within the dark, waiting. He’d flick a glance to the corners, catch another small shadow doll staring, licking its lips, stifling laughter.

“What do you want?” Husk growled out. “I know it’s fucking you. Is this some new shitty prank of yours? Or are you mad I broke one of those cameras?” A bitter taste poisoning his very insides again. “Come out then and talk to me!”

A small twist of its head, the eyes refracting red light that spilled onto the floor. Another little shake of its body, a smile stretched in a copy of its very master, before it then finally slithered away back into the shadows.

But it didn’t really leave. He could still see the smile. The red eyes. Always in the corners, watching him.

He didn’t understand Alastor’s game anymore.

And he didn’t understand just why he wasn’t hating this as much as he thought he would.

–

Another week passed. Alastor stayed locked in his radio tower. His station only played dead air and nothing else.

The shadow dolls still moved about the hotel, trailing after Husk wherever he went. Even outside, he’d see them crawl along the cracks in the sidewalks, or hang from trees, tracking his every movement. They were rarely subtle now. Always watching.

Yet, there would be nothing else. Just waiting, and waiting for something to happen. To change.

“Still keeping this up,” he once said quietly, polishing a glass at his bar, feeling those eyes again. The little creatures were sentient, and certainly had their own consciousness. But Alastor had always used them to do his bidding, whether that was fixing up a broken wall to trailing down a victim for his next show.

“Can you even see me?” Husk asked next, looking straight at one of those little dolls that was behind a rye bottle on the shelf. This one was slightly larger, with sharp teeth that looked rusted. It was salivating, staring right at him with what looked like a blank gaze. “Or do you just hear me instead?”

Vox was the one with screens, with cameras, with all the voyeuristic tendencies to spy and get every detail he could.

But just as Alastor was a good talker, he was also a good listener. A skilled eavesdropper that didn’t need visuals to get any juicy information he needed. Words and sounds were usually enough for him. Also, he had once told Husk, ‘A great auditory experience will light up the imagination far more than what a picture box could ever do.’

What could Alastor have heard down at the club on that night? There had only been a mess of noise everywhere. No way he would have been able to pick up any sort of conversation.

The doll shifted, tapped its claws against the rye bottle, clinking away at the glass. Its red gaze burned and pulsed. It started to melt away into the darkness.

Husk grabbed at its head before it could leave, wrenching it back up. A glass bottle fell to the floor, spilling out all the rye. But for once in his afterlife, there was something else far more important.

He dug his claws against its cheeks. It was both soft and slimy at the same time—he could feel the rough fabric that was its skin, the stuffing that poked out from between its stitches. But he could feel something else, something wet and sticky, leaving his hand covered in tar.

“Alastor!” Despite the doll’s wicked teeth, he leaned in close so that nothing could be missed. “Tell me what you want!”

The doll opened its mouth, crying out, before devolving into unhinged laughter. It shook in Husk’s grip like a wriggling insect. If it was trying to say something, he couldn’t understand. Any words were swallowed up by its own laughter, high-pitched and keening.

Then, it stopped. It leaned forward, its red eyes shining bright. “Husker,” it said, its voice an awful mesh of monstrous and electrical, still sounding like it came from some sort of demonic speaker. “Just how obtuse can you be?”

Its red eyes continued to burn, growing hotter, until it engulfed its entire face. Husk felt the flames lick at his fingers, and quickly let go of the doll that had self-immolated in such quickness. It turned to ash before it could even hit the ground.

—

Alastor hadn’t left his radio tower because there was something wrong with him.

And it isn’t what everyone would think, of course.

His claws tapped against the metal dials before him, the soundboard of his station buzzing with frequencies to broadcast throughout Pentagram City. Lately, he hadn’t had as much time for his weekly broadcasts, with special Overlord guests to serenade his listeners with their screams of agony and rage. It had been such a popular program, always premiering at 6pm on Friday nights! A perfect lead in to the weekend and truly give his listeners something vital to unwind to. But he had been busy with the hotel, and he wouldn’t give his beloved audience any lackluster performance.

Yet, even so, he would turn on the mic, and let it play absolutely nothing.

He would let it play and play. Saying nothing. Singing nothing. Screaming nothing.

Because he was too preoccupied with listening.

Familiar little steps, along with high-pitched giggling, echoed from his right. He swiftly turned his neck, the bone cracking like kindling. The acoustics of the tower made the sound vibrate, falling along the metal grates, the barred windows, and the red-lit neon sign. In the dim light, he saw one of his precious minions, climbing up the legs of his chair to perch itself on an arm rest.

They were such beautiful, vicious little creatures. Always so eager to please. Always getting him the latest gossip. Always retrieving for him the most suitable guests for his radio program. And, there were few hobbies so relaxing than crafting them himself. A cross stitch for the arms, for the neck, shaping up their little smiles to align so well with his. After all, one must be proud of their own creations.

As the doll’s red eyes started into his, which blazed like the depths of a fireplace, it played back for him something from its open mouth.

“Boss,” spoke a voice, harsh like gravel. “It’s been weeks. Why are you avoiding me?”

Then the doll shut its mouth with a sharp snap, sharp teeth grinding. It snickered, blinking up at its master while its pointed tail wagged.

Alastor considered, tapping his claws against the metal of his station. He would have to make sure his little creatures were more hidden. Husker speaking to him ruined his experience. No, he would just listen in on his dear friend go about his day, speak with the guests, and make sure he had a goodnight’s rest. Simply overseeing, as was part of his own duties as the hotelier. After all, he had to make sure his employees were doing their job.

Darling Niffty could be trusted. But, Husker, on the other hand… he always had such little motivation. He was doing the layabout a favor! He even got rid of those cameras that his friend had complained so much about. There had been no other reason he did such a thing.

None at all.

Then, the doll opened its mouth again, the red eyes pulsing like a heartbeat. Alastor felt the tremor run over his back before he could even comprehend the emotion.

“Hey, whiskers! Talking to yourself again, huh? I ain’t judging.”

Alastor’s smile tightened. That same smile tightened on the doll’s face in perfect mimicry.

That spider was such a distraction for poor, slothful Husker. Yes. That was the problem here. That was why he felt such bile in his throat. Of course. The hotel’s first guest was making Husker the worst he’s ever been.

That was the only thing that made sense.

He quickly closed the doll’s mouth with a thumb. “Enough,” he said, the hum in his mind growing louder. “Such a voice has no place here.”

Yet that accompanying sound was getting much too common lately. It was rather unpleasant to the ears.

Alastor patted the little doll on the head, watching how it leaned into his palm like a pleased cat. Such creations would never disappoint him. He half-regretted bursting one of them into flames before. A lapse in judgment, an indescribable urge to reach out and hurt. Which is not uncommon, for it was something to be nurtured. Yet, not without at least some form of control.

He had done so much listening. He hadn’t broadcasted in a while, or spoke into the mic which was rapidly gathering dust. Just the silence. Not even in the mood for an old comfort song.

There really was something wrong with him.

The doll opened its mouth again, still seeking those pets. It was a mindless action. It had only wanted more of its master’s affection. Then, that harsh and discordant sound that moved through, meshing with the low gravel that he’d come to appreciate the nuances of.

“Ya need me to take you out on the town this time? Being at this bar got you acting like an old geezer more than usual!”

“Ain’t you the one asking out this ‘old geezer’ to begin with?”

Then, there was a laugh. From Husker.

Alastor couldn’t recall what quite happened after that. The humming had grown louder, shaking within his skull, drowning out conversation and melodies and all other comprehensible things.

He blinked. In his lap were the remnants of cloth and stuffing, along with the unraveling of green threads. Black liquid stained his clothes, dripping onto the floor from those ruined fabrics.

The hold he had on himself was so very, very delicate.

–

Alastor left the radio tower. Just for a moment or two.

It wasn’t enough to just listen anymore.

–

Maybe Husker was jumpier than usual. Still, it only served to heighten the experience.

A quick turn was never enough to catch Alastor. Swift shadows that blended with the dim hallways, with the dark corners of a room. Husker was staring into the darkness, and try as he might, he could not catch the eyes that would follow him.

The dolls, Alastor realized, were just not sufficient.

A fascinating thing about Husker was that all of his tells were shown in every part of him. It was rather amusing that he had ever thought he could keep his secrets. A flick of his ears, a swish of his tail, and the ruffling of his wings. All so telegraphic in their motions. All so easy to read. His downfall as an Overlord might as well have been foretold.

There was a soft rush of nervousness in Husker as he made his way to his room, once again looking to the corners. He even tried to still his breathing. Because after all, he knew he was being listened to.

Husker reached for his hat, slipping it from his head. His fur was ruffled, unkempt. It demanded a comb, a pair of hands to settle such wayward tufts to smoothness. His wings stretched, a loose red feather drifting to the ground, landing rather close to a certain dark corner.

But there was no movement from the dark. Husker was watching, eyes glaring yellow like twin torches.

“Feels like another camera…” he muttered underneath his breath. The end of his tail brushed the carpet. “The hell…’

There was another indescribable urge, one that nearly made Alastor leave from his place within the walls to reach out. More than just the fur, or even the luster of those wings against the soft lamplight. After all, Husker was always so entertaining to have around, and it was more than just his oh-so-sparkling personality.

Maybe a few inches closer, enough to swallow up that feather within a sea of black. Husker had turned away just then to hang his hat on a nearby rack.

But then, there was another shiver, even as Husker slipped off a suspender strap to get ready for bed. A raise of his eyebrow, another flick to the walls of his room. Husker was waiting, piercing through that darkness as much as he could. Oh, he’d always had such sharp eyes. But were they sharp enough?

A strap hung from his trousers, which was now more loosened around his waist. There was a quick flick of his right ear as he tried to pinpoint a sound. Any sound at all.

Then there it was. The dead air that lived in Alastor’s skull, now echoing across the room.

Oh, the control he had over himself was so, so tenuous.

“Wait.” Husker turned, looking towards the radio (and he took such great care of it, Alastor saw, with barely any dust or scuff marks on it) which was turned off. Then he looked around the room again. “You’re here, aren’t you? Like, actually here.”

There was a small tremor in his voice. It would have played beautifully over the radio, of that, Alastor was certain. Yet, he had to admit to himself that somehow such a sound did not translate the expression on Husker’s face. A mix of fear, revulsion, and yet a glint in his eyes. Expectant? Eager?

Husker was waiting.

And although Alastor was typically a very patient man—and one had to be, waiting hours for the perfect opportunity, the perfect moment to deliver his raison d'être—he found himself anxious. How easy it would be to move forward, to reach out and grasp at fur and feathers. It was akin to a hunger that one felt in the pit of one’s stomach, desperate to devour from the inside out.

Husker moved, just slightly, to remove the other suspender strap from his shoulder. His breathing was still rapid, just held inside his throat. Pointed ears flicked again. Every motion drawn out, like a jagged blade over skin, slowly cutting through in its sweet pain. Those golden eyes were hazy, dazed, and he opened his mouth to speak again—

Until, the most obnoxious ringtone he had ever heard broke through the silence.

Husker seemed to jump several feet in the air, then quickly reached for his pocket, holding up his falling pants with one hand. The melody was inane, inundated with a bass beat that sounded too familiar and like another night when he had caught Husker at his worst.

“Shit! I didn’t—”

But he didn’t have time to hear Husker’s little excuses. The serenity of the moment was over. So he slipped away from the walls, revealing his shape for just a moment before he slipped underneath the closed door. Husker locked eyes with him, but that didn’t matter. He had unfinished business.

–

Out on one of the balconies of the hotel, Angel was looking down to his phone with an impatient frown. He was leaning against the railing, tapping a finger against his waist. “Ugh, did he fall asleep again?”

It was laughably easy to startle him with a simple tap on his shoulder.

“Angel! Fabulous to have caught you here! I thought I missed you!”

If there was a certain tremor in his voice, he was sure to have fully covered it up. One would need sharp ears after all, and he doubted Angel had such things, always deep within his vices to even be aware of the world around him.

Angel backed against the railing, blinking rapidly as Alastor materialized before him. “Holy fuck! You coulda knocked or something!” He breathed hard for a moment, before an odd little smirk stretched his face. “It’s after hours, smiles. Ya looking for a good time? I prefer appointments over walk-ins, so maybe I can pencil you in for a quickie on Tuesday night.”

How charming.

Alastor held his mic cane in both hands behind his back. His fingers ached slightly. Maybe he just hadn’t eaten enough.

Holding himself to the very brink, he moved to wrap a hand around Angel’s shoulders, as if he were an old pal he had run into on the way to dinner.

“Walk with me!”

“Wait, what—”

A swift change of scenery, and soon they were walking the very hotel grounds, up on this stupendous hill that was not at all very accessible-friendly. That fact had always tickled Alastor and how that limited half of the Pride Ring’s residents, but currently, he could find no humor to the situation at hand.

Angel was frozen in place, and Alastor had to dig a few claws into his fluffy shoulder before he had the inkling that he should be walking right now.

“It certainly seems you’ve been taking Charlie’s dear friendship exercises to heart! I think she would love to hear some feedback on how you’ve been using this for your personal life!”

“Uh,” Angel started, then paled when he saw Alastor’s smile as they walked further down the hill. “Well, I, uh—”

“It would seem maybe redemption is in the cards after all! A shame that not everyone can achieve such a lofty goal, and to be quite frank, ha! I still have my doubts. But who knows! You very well could prove me wrong!”

“Did…did I do something? I’m not sure I—”

“And with the addition of my faithful staff, it has helped Charlie’s wacky dream considerably! You could almost call it a handout! I’m sure that’s something you’re quite used to yourself!”

Angel was trying to subtly leave his grip but Alastor kept him in place. For he was not done talking, and he wouldn’t allow Angel to be rude.

“But when one excels, sometimes another starts to make mistakes. Or fall through the cracks as it were! It would be rather shameful if all your progress was worsening another soul’s fortune.”

“Hold on, the hell are you talking about?” At that, Angel suddenly grew an attitude. He frowned at Alastor, slightly looking down at the Radio Demon. Those gaudy shoes of his were indeed good for something. “Are you blaming me for someone else fucking up? I’ve literally just been here and at work the whole time!”

“Haha! A nice little fib, but you can’t pull the wool over these eyes! If Husker’s work performance suffers, I will have to bring my complaints to Charlie and brainstorm a solution. We wouldn’t want to disappoint her now, would we?”

So invested in his own explanations, that certainly made sense to any sane individual, he hadn’t realized he’d let slip his very reasoning for being here.

“Huh? This is about Husk?” Angel was becoming cocky, shrugging off Alastor’s hold on him, uncaring that the action was rough. “Look, I don’t know what dead cannibal carcass crawled up your ass, but if Husk had any problems with me, he’d just fucking tell me. He ain’t like you, smiles.”

Something ruptured—a sound inside his skull. The static sharpening and gouging through his insides, like a rusted ax hacking away at a leg and ruining the meat until it was a sodden mess.

It’s wrong.

Alastor shifted and turned, and made sure to look down at Angel now. Until he was like the small insect that he was, with scrawny, tepid meat on fragile bones that would barely be satisfactory as a midnight snack.

“You don’t know anything.”

Angel stared, the wind of his earlier outburst suddenly deflating him. He stepped back, crushing one of the many plants that decorated the hillside, its lavender petals mingling now with the blood-stained grass.

“W-wait a sec—”

“If you haven’t seen someone at their very lowest, you can’t claim to know them.” A small twist of his neck as he continued to look down, and then he felt that very delicate grip on his instincts start to loosen. “You will never know how it is to hold someone’s very soul in your own hands.”

Yet, before he could even think to do the unspeakable, as he had done numerous times before with no remorse, and certainly it would not start now—especially not now—a melody played through the air.

It came from his radio tower.

Feeling the grin on his face begin to shake, he turned, feeling the pulse of the airwaves beat inside his very bones. The melody came from the soft, low tones of a saxophone. How it glided through the air like honey, or like thick blood that flowed down one’s throats. It was of an old song too, the kind that would only play on his radio programs.

What a curious thing to suddenly calm his violent bout of bloodlust.

With a quick glance to Angel, who had remained frozen in fear, he then reached out a hand to him. The size of his palm could have enveloped Angel twice over, could have crushed him into paste that would take this so-called actor decades to recuperate from.

He patted Angel on the head, the way he’d do for a pet. The other flinched but didn’t dare try to run. Good.

“Let’s not do this again,” Alastor said before he left, vanishing into the dark.

–

There was a certain image that Alastor would like to keep close to him, for it was the same as when he saw Husker on that night, when the gambler would love to entertain his very own guests. After all, he was a showman at heart, a much more natural talent at it than poorly cheating at cards.

He saw it once again in his radio tower, sliding up through the grates and spotting Husker within the sound booth. The saxophone in his arms as he played a resonant melody against the mic, careful to not be too close as to cause feedback. Even without his suit, he was the very picture of that night. He said nothing at all, preferring to hear the end of the song, determined to not interrupt a performance.

But Husker was always one to be a contrarian, for before he could even finish the final verse, he stopped playing. He then removed the strap of the saxophone and threw the instrument to the side with a clatter.

Then, he turned to Alastor, gritting his sharp teeth. “Now can we finally talk?”

A twitch in his eye, but the hands on his mic cane remained calm. Collected. There was nothing wrong. There was something wrong.

Husker’s eyes were digging through him, waiting impatiently. It was so clear by the flicking of his tail and the very low growl in his throat.

Alastor shrugged. “Why, you could have just called on the phone if you wanted to talk, Husker! Or even come over for a visit! I’m only down the hallway!”

Husker paused, then deepened his frown. “Your phone doesn’t work. And I did come by. I knocked.”

“Hm. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Oh fuck off with this.” Husker stomped over to him, his claws scratching against the metal grates. The red highlighted his fur with deeper shades of ebony, lengthening the patterns of his wings. “Just what is going on with you?”

Alastor moved his gaze to the discarded instrument on the ground. To think Husker still took care of it well enough for it to emit such a soulful sound. “Why did you stop playing?” he asked suddenly.

“What? Because I’m not here to put on a show for you! Stop fucking deflecting. It’s annoying.” Husker furrowed his brows. “Did you do something?”

“What an incredibly broad question! I certainly did a little broadcasting, completed my hotel duties, sent a telegram to Charlie, and indulged in some private musings of my own.” Alastor tapped his chin with a sharp finger, definitely not feeling like he was hanging on by a very thin thread. “I also ordered some hors d’oeuvres from dear old Rosie for a light lunch. You can join me!”

“That’s not…” And then, Husker was suddenly being very hesitant, very careful. He looked up at Alastor like he was about to attempt a treacherous climb. “What happened when Angel called me? Can you tell me that?”

Oh, he used to be so good at listening.

But now, all he could hear was the dreaded hum that made his chest feel like it was caving in.

It was a natural progression, to move closer to Husker, even as his friend stepped back. Yet, isn’t this what he was asking for? He’d always been such an indecisive person! Alastor always had to put his foot down and ensure Husker would make the correct choice. The only sensible choice.

Soon enough, Husker stopped moving—the tendrils that wrapped around his legs were certainly helping him with that.

“Husker, dear!” Alastor spoke, and he could hear the odd hollowness in his tone. It lacked the usual punch of his oratory talent. The spark. The drive. This had to be rectified. “I have to confess something, if you don’t mind.”

Saying it was like ripping off a bandaid, or ripping off a limb. Neither could compare.

“It appears I might be jealous.”

His hands delicately wrapped over Husker’s neck, fingers tapping along the fur, pulling at the strap of his bowtie. Husker remained still, watching the dials in Alastor’s eyes click dangerously to the right. Slow and methodical. Inevitable.

“And jealousy can really feel like such a disease.” He leaned forward. “I need the cure.”

There was something wrong with him and the cause of it all was right in front of him.

Angel was an obnoxious pest, but if not for Husker, he would have barely given such a sinner any second thoughts. No. If not for Husker, who had dared let himself wander, get distracted, and slack on the job, he would not be feeling this way. Husker just would not behave.

And then, the very memory of Husker laughing uproariously, his deep tones traveling through Alastor’s skull alongside Angel’s voice, was so very loud. With such sounds, there was the image of his friend underneath the garish club lights, looking away to another, and it sparked another inferno in him. Furious. Outraged. HE SHOULDN’T BE FEELING THIS WAY.

His hands just stopped short of squeezing over Husker’s neck. He towered further, his fingers growing long, and his back hunched. There was only Husker in his vision and nothing else. The shadow tendrils that streamed from his back continued wrapping around Husker’s limbs, locking him from any escape. No, he was not allowed to leave. Not until he fixed this.

Not until he fixed him.

Alastor stared down at the soul before him, his very being craving something he couldn’t truly understand. The weight of his antlers were so heavy, nearly making his neck break. His control was slipping further and further away.

“See what you’ve done to me.”

He expected Husker to resist, to try to run, or even bite at his hands and earn him a mark. If he did any of those things, Alastor would have no choice. He would have to kill him. Eat him. Ensure he could never stray from his path again. Bind him further and further until it could never be undone.

That wasn’t what happened.

Husker continued to look at him, even when Alastor grew, when his body distended, when his face was a veritable nightmare. He always had a face for radio, certainly the kind that most souls could not endure for very long. There were many times Husker had turned away from him, from his carnage and his rage.

Instead, Husker craned his neck up, looking into his eyes which were nothing now but black holes that looked into the abyss. His arms shifted, slightly pulling against the tendrils that were coiled around them—but not to be free. Hands reached out to place them against Alastor’s cheeks, fingers so close to sharp teeth who knew just the right way to tear through flesh efficiently.

Husker still hadn’t turned away, even as Alastor could feel him continue to shake underneath his grip. Fear. It was fear. Except not. It was something else.

“If you need a cure, then just look at me.” A soft furrow of his eyebrows, even as Alastor’s breath moved through his fur. “You want my attention? You got it. I was trying to give it to you all this time.”

Oh. Was that true? It made little sense. Alastor said nothing, staring down at Husker who still saw him as the monster he was, yet would not move.

Then, a soft growl, and Husk’s claws pricked his cheeks. Not deep, but they drew blood. They drew his blood. Noise ruptured around them, even as Alastor remained still. Husk ignored the chaotic sound.

“But you have to do the same for me. You have to pay attention to me. No more peacocking for Vox. It drives me fucking nuts.” Another growl, one that ran down Alastor’s spine. “And you don’t have to lock yourself away just to watch me.”

And there was that same spark in his eyes that Alastor felt inside his chest. The kind that wrung at his organs and made him ache and stumble. So, Husker knew this feeling too.

Hands left Husker’s neck, only to plant themselves on the wall behind him. The slam of his palms on metal earned another shiver in Husker, from his ruffled wings to the waving of his tail.

But those claws were still on Alastor’s face, keeping him in place. Keeping him grounded.

Easy to stay a monster, but Alastor let his body shrink so that he could better press his forehead against Husker’s.

“Vox is a memory,” he said.

“A memory that keeps coming back,” Husker countered. “You play his games too much.”

“Simply to stave off boredom.” The tendrils moved to wrap around Husker’s torso. “You’re not blameless. Always slacking off.”

“You already knew I was a shitty employee. Don’t expect any different.”

“Not what I meant.”

A small ripple of unease, but Husker made him calm by pulling Alastor closer. Those claws rushed through his hair, reaching just at the base of his still heavy antlers.

“I can have friends. You never said I couldn’t. But it won’t be anything more than that.” A pause, Husker’s face so considerate. “I can take a break from it.”

Another pull, until Alastor felt Husker’s breath against his lips. “I’m just fucking tired of not being noticed, boss.”

“Dear friend, you have all my attention,” Alastor said. “So much that you won’t ever have a moment’s peace to yourself.”

Maybe he said that as a warning. To really test Husker’s dedication and loyalty. That is, until Husker kissed him hard, his teeth scratching against both his tongue and gums. It was difficult to reject such enthusiasm, such drive, such…motivation. He could only give it back, tasting the alcohol on Husker’s own tongue.

The antidote must be taken slowly and deeply after all.

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