#it feels like i am talking to a wall every time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lanassgirlll · 2 days ago

Text

Love and Pain

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: A story about love, loss and a second chance.

Warnings: substance abuse, miscarriage, mental health struggles, emotional distress, angst(let me know if I am missing any)

AN: This story may be triggering for some people so please proceed with caution!

You and Bucky had been together for two years. You weren’t an Avenger or anything remotely close to that. You were just a kindergarten teacher, who loved her quiet life. Your days were filled with laughter from your students, your evenings spent with the man you loved, in the cozy apartment you shared.

The two of you had built a life together - a mix of his stoic practicality and your vibrant warmth. The apartment reflected that: his sparse military mementos were softened by your touches - art from your students, soft throw blankets, mismatched photo frames. For a time, it felt perfect.

Until it didn’t.

The change wasn’t sudden, not at first.

It was the subtle shifts in his behavior that you hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore.

Bucky had always been a soldier, in one way or another. You knew that. You understood the demands of his work, the weight of his responsibility as an Avenger. But it wasn’t just the missions themselves that were wearing on you anymore. It was the way they’d taken over his life - and in turn, yours.

At first, it was just a few days at a time. A mission here or there, where he’d be gone for a week or so, and you’d try to fill the gap with work, friends, hobbies, whatever you could. He’d call, send the occasional text, and when he came home, you’d throw yourself into making the most of the time you had together. But now.. now it was different.

He’d been gone for weeks - sometimes over a month - and there had been nothing. No calls. No texts. It was always the same story when he came back: "The mission ran longer than expected," or "We had to stay off the grid." He was always apologetic when he finally resurfaced, but the excuses felt hollow now. It was as if you had become an afterthought in his chaotic life, a person he’d get back to when he had a spare moment.

You tried to be understanding. You knew what he did wasn’t easy. You knew the stakes were high, that lives were on the line, that his work as an Avenger was something he couldn’t just walk away from. But the loneliness was unbearable.

It wasn’t just the silence when he was gone - it was the absence of him when he was home, too. Even when he returned, it felt like he was still somewhere else. He’d walk through the door with that tired look in his eyes, like he hadn’t seen a decent night's sleep in ages, and he’d settle into his old routine: training, reading through mission reports, checking in with the team. He was physically there, but emotionally? You might as well have been alone.

Some days, you felt like you didn’t even know the man you were living with anymore.

You would wait, and wait. For him to come home. For him to talk to you. For him to show up in the way he used to. And when he did return, you'd try to be the same woman you were before - eager to make him dinner, excited to talk about your day, hoping that maybe tonight he’d want to sit down with you, to hold you, to laugh like you used to.

But there was always something in his eyes - a faraway look. An urgency. An undercurrent of somewhere else, someone else. Every time he left again, you felt it. His absence didn't just physically separate you, it chipped away at something inside you, too.

Tonight, Bucky had just returned after being gone for over three weeks. You’d stayed up late, waiting for him. The clock on the wall ticked away, each passing second heavier than the last.

When the door finally opened, you didn’t feel the usual rush of excitement you once had. You didn’t feel the familiar warmth in your chest at the sight of him. Instead, there was just a hollow ache.

“Hey”, he said quietly, dragging his duffel bag inside, looking exhausted as always. His hair was a mess, his eyes tired, and his body language was stiff as he stood there in the doorway.

You didn’t know what you expected. Maybe a hug, maybe even just the smallest hint of affection. Something. Instead, you remained seated on the couch, staring at him, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between you.

“You okay?”, Bucky asked, as if he didn’t already know. He’d been gone for too long. How could he not know?

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. “I’m fine”, you said, but the words felt empty as they left your mouth. You weren't fine, but then again, you hadn’t been in weeks. Maybe months. And the more you tried to convince yourself you were okay, the more you realized how much you were breaking.

“Work been good?”, he asked, as if he was trying to fill the space between you with small talk, with questions that didn’t actually mean anything.

You nodded, the lie slipping so easily off your tongue, you almost believed it yourself. “Yeah, it’s been fine.” You’d barely thought about work these past few weeks. How could you? You couldn’t think of anything but him - him being gone, him being so far away, so unreachable.

There was a long silence, one that stretched between you like a thick, suffocating fog. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You needed him to see you, to hear you, to understand how you were feeling.

“Bucky, this.. this isn’t working”, you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “You’re gone so much, and when you’re here, you’re not really here. I don’t -" You swallowed again, feeling the lump in your throat, "I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this”.

His eyes softened, either that, or you were so desperate for any kind of affection, that your mind was starting to play tricks on you.

The guard he’d built around himself was still there, so tight it was like trying to break through steel. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -” He paused, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t realize it was getting to you like this”.

“You didn’t realize?” Your voice cracked, the frustration and hurt seeping through. “Bucky, you’ve been gone for weeks at a time without even telling me where you are. You’re never here. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep doing this, waiting for you, when you don’t even see me anymore”.

You watched his face change as the words hit him. He didn’t say anything at first, just standing there, looking at you with a mix of guilt and confusion. You could see the internal battle happening in his head, the familiar struggle between his duty and his desire to make things right with you. But the truth was, it was too late for apologies.

“I love you, Bucky”, you whispered, your voice shaking now. “I love you so much, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being all alone just because you’re too busy saving the world to remember I exist”.

His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a long time, he didn’t say a word. The silence between you felt unbearable, like the air had thickened, each moment stretching out further and further, until neither of you knew what to say or how to fix what had been broken.

One night, a few weeks later, Bucky came home for a fleeting reprieve before another mission. You had stayed up late, as you always did when he was away, waiting for the sound of his key turning in the lock. When he finally walked through the door, exhaustion etched into his features, your heart ached for him and for the distance that seemed to grow wider with each passing mission.

That night, desperation fueled your actions. The words you had been holding back melted away, replaced by a need to feel connected, to remind both of you of the love that had brought you together in the first place. You clung to him, pouring all your loneliness, your love, and your frustration into the embrace. The physical intimacy between you reignited as if it could mend what had been broken. The kisses were fervent, the touches electric, and for a moment, you felt as though the pieces of your fractured relationship had been glued back together, if only temporarily. In those stolen moments, you allowed yourself to believe that things might be okay.

Two weeks after he left again, you found yourself staring at a small plastic stick in your trembling hands, the word pregnant displayed in bold, unmistakable letters. The wave of emotions was overwhelming - shock, fear, disbelief, and above all, a glimmer of hope. You sank to the bathroom floor, clutching the test to your chest, tears streaming down your face. It felt surreal, as though the universe had offered you a fragile lifeline. You whispered to yourself, "This is it. This will bring us closer".

Your first instinct was to call Bucky. You dialed his number with shaking fingers, but it went straight to voicemail. You left a message, your voice shaky but tinged with cautious excitement. "Bucky, it’s me. Please call me when you can. It’s important. I.. I have something to tell you". You sent a few texts as well: "I need to talk to you. It’s good news" and "Please, call me when you’re able".

The days stretched on with no response. The silence grew heavier, more suffocating with each passing hour. You couldn’t sleep, your mind filled with questions and fears. Was he safe? Had something happened to him? Or worse, was he choosing not to reply? You tried to reason with yourself - he was likely on a mission, unreachable, off the grid. But the rationalizations did little to calm the storm within you.

Then, a few weeks after discovering the pregnancy, you were jolted awake in the dead of night by a searing pain in your abdomen. Panic gripped you as you felt the damp warmth spreading beneath you. When you turned on the bedside lamp, the sight of blood pooling between your legs stole the air from your lungs. A choked sob escaped your lips as you scrambled to reach your phone, dialing for emergency services with shaking hands.

The ride to the hospital was a blur, your heart pounding so loudly you could hardly hear your own thoughts. Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of pain coursing through you. By the time you arrived, your vision was clouded by tears. Nurses and doctors swarmed around you, their voices a mix of calm instructions and urgent medical jargon.

"Miss, we need to get you into an exam room immediately", one nurse said, her voice gentle but firm as she helped you onto a stretcher. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but clutch your abdomen and nod weakly.

In the brightly lit examination room, a doctor - a middle-aged woman, with kind eyes and a steady demeanor - introduced herself. "I’m Dr. Reyes. We’re going to do everything we can to figure out what’s going on, okay? I need you to tell me when the pain started".

You struggled to form words through the haze of fear and pain. "I.. woke up. It just started.. and then the blood". Your voice broke, and fresh tears streamed down your face.

Dr. Reyes nodded, her expression compassionate but professional. "I’m going to do an ultrasound now to see what’s happening. Try to stay as still as you can".

The gel was cold against your skin as she moved the probe across your abdomen. You stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the terrified pounding of your heart. After a few moments, the doctor sighed softly, her brow furrowed.

"I… I’m so sorry", she said gently. "It looks like you’ve experienced a miscarriage. There’s no heartbeat".

The words shattered something inside you. "No", you whispered, shaking your head in disbelief. "No, please, you have to check again. It’s… it’s too soon".

Dr. Reyes placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "I wish I had better news. We’re going to take care of you and make sure you’re stable, but I’m so sorry for your loss".

The rest of the night passed in a haze of procedures and whispered condolences. Nurses came and went, offering quiet reassurances as they tended to you. But no words could reach you. You felt hollow, as if the world had drained you of everything that mattered.

When you were finally discharged, you returned to the apartment, though it no longer felt like home. The silence was deafening, and the weight of your grief pressed down on you like a suffocating blanket. Everywhere you looked, there were traces of him - his jacket draped over a chair, his book left half-read on the coffee table. And now, there was the weight of what could have been. The space that had once been your sanctuary now felt like a tomb, echoing with memories of a life you could no longer bear to face.

You couldn’t stay. The emptiness was too much, the reminders too painful. You packed your belongings with a heavy heart, each item a reminder of what you were leaving behind. The sound of the door closing behind you was final, a punctuation mark on the chapter of your life you had so desperately wanted to salvage. You returned to your old apartment, a place that felt foreign now, and sank into the isolation, leaving behind the life you had fought so hard to build.

Two months passed. Your world had crumbled into ash, leaving nothing but grief and emptiness in its wake. You were consumed by the pain. It was relentless, wrapping around you like a vice. The loss of your baby haunted you, the loneliness gnawed at your spirit, and the anger - anger at Bucky, at yourself, at the universe - was a constant, bitter companion.

At first, you tried to function, clinging to the routines that once brought you joy. But the weight of it all was too much. You quit your job. The sight of children, their laughter, their innocence, was unbearable. You shut out your friends - what few you had left. Their well-meaning concern felt like judgment. You wanted to scream, to tell them they didn’t understand.

And so, you spiraled.

The days blurred together, a haze of pain and self-destruction. You started with wine in the evenings, telling yourself it was to help you sleep, but soon the single glass turned into an entire bottle. Then another. It wasn’t long before mornings became indistinguishable from nights, the alcohol flowing steadily to keep the ache at bay.

But it wasn’t enough. The ache remained, clawing at the edges of your mind, refusing to be silenced. So, you turned to pills - prescriptions left over from past injuries, over-the-counter sleep aids, anything you could get your hands on. At first, it was one or two, just enough to dull the sharp edges of your thoughts. But as the days dragged on, you found yourself reaching for more. A handful here, a few more there, until the numbness became the only thing you could feel.

You stopped eating, the thought of food turning your stomach. A cup of coffee, a piece of toast - that was all you could manage, if anything at all. The sharp pangs of hunger became just another sensation to push down with pills and alcohol. Your body grew weaker, but you didn’t care.

Sleep was elusive, coming in fitful bursts if it came at all. More often, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your mind racing through memories of what you’d lost. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment in the hospital, the sterile room, the doctor’s solemn expression. It haunted you.

When you caught glimpses of yourself in the mirror, you barely recognized the person staring back. Your once vibrant skin was pale and sallow, your cheeks sunken, your eyes hollow. Your hair hung in limp, unwashed strands around your face. Clothes that once fit snugly now hung loose on your frame, a stark reminder of how much weight you’d lost.

But none of it mattered. You didn’t care. Each time you looked at yourself, all you could see was failure - failure as a partner, as a mother, as a human being. The thought whispered to you like a cruel taunt, feeding your belief that this was your punishment, your penance for losing the baby, for being too weak to hold everything together.

The cycle continued, day after day. You stopped checking the calendar, stopped answering your phone. The world outside faded, replaced by the dim, oppressive cocoon of your apartment. Empty bottles and pill packets littered the counters and floor. Curtains stayed drawn, keeping out the daylight.

Each day, you sank further into the void, certain there was no way out. You weren’t living - you were merely existing, drowning in the belief that this was all you deserved.

Bucky returned two months later, his body weary but his mind sharp with anticipation. The mission had been relentless, every moment filled with danger, leaving no room for distractions. He hadn’t had access to his phone or any way to contact you. But the moment he landed, the mission finally over, he powered on his phone.

The screen lit up with a flood of missed calls, dozens upon dozens of unread messages from you. Panic gripped him like a vice. His heart pounded as he scrolled through the notifications, unable to focus on any one message. The timestamps told a story of desperation - calls in the dead of night, texts sent minutes apart, some marked with “URGENT” in all caps.

He didn’t have the strength to read through them. The fear twisting in his chest made it impossible. Instead, he called you immediately, his fingers trembling as he punched in your number.

“Come on”, he muttered, pressing the phone to his ear. The line rang once, twice, before a cold, automated voice told him the number was no longer in service.

“No. No, no, no”. He tried again, and again, each time greeted by the same response. His breathing quickened, panic rising like a tide.

“Come on, Y/N”, he pleaded under his breath, redialing in disbelief. Each failed attempt left him more frantic. What had happened? Why wasn’t your phone working?

By the time he reached the apartment, his heart was racing, his thoughts spiraling into worst-case scenarios. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as his shaking hands made it difficult to unlock the door. Finally, he shoved it open and stepped inside.

The silence hit him like a physical blow. The air was stale, carrying a faint, sour odor that hinted at how long the space had been untouched. His boots scuffed against the dusty hardwood floor as he stepped further inside, his voice cracking as he called out, “Y/N? Are you here?”

There was no response.

His eyes darted around the living room. The furniture was coated in a thin layer of dust. A coffee cup sat abandoned on the table, its contents dried to a brown stain. A blanket lay crumpled on the couch, as if you’d tossed it aside and never come back for it.

“Y/N?” he called again, louder this time. His voice echoed eerily in the empty space.

The kitchen was next. The sink was filled with dirty dishes, the counters cluttered with empty bottles and pill packets. His chest tightened as he took it all in. Something was wrong - terribly, horribly wrong.

He moved toward the bedroom, each step heavier than the last. When he pushed the door open, his breath caught in his throat. The sight before him was chaos: clothes strewn across the floor, the bed unmade, sheets tangled and stained. A broken lamp lay on the ground, its shattered pieces scattered across the carpet. A drawer from the dresser had been yanked out and left hanging, its contents spilling onto the floor.

“Jesus”, he whispered, his voice barely audible. He stepped inside, his heart pounding. “Y/N?” His voice cracked, a mix of fear and desperation.

He reached for his phone, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. He dialed Steve, his voice tight with panic as soon as the call connected. “Steve, it’s Bucky. I can’t find her. She’s not here. The apartment - it’s a mess. I don’t know where she is.”

Steve’s voice was calm but urgent on the other end. “Breathe, Buck. We’ll figure this out. Did you check her old place? Friends? Family?”

“No”, Bucky said, his words tumbling over each other. “I don’t even know where to start. Her phone’s disconnected. There’s dust everywhere. Steve, it looks like she’s been gone for weeks.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room.

“We’ll find her”, Steve reassured him. “Just stay calm. Start with any clues you can find. We’ll get through this.”

Bucky ended the call and looked around the room again, forcing himself to focus. His sharp mind, trained for tracking and reconnaissance, kicked in. He scanned for anything that might lead him to you - a note, an address, anything. His gaze fell on an envelope half-hidden under a pile of clothes. He snatched it up and found a crumpled bill for a hospital visit, dated weeks ago.

A sick feeling churned in his stomach as he read the address. “What the hell happened to you, doll?” he muttered under his breath, clutching the paper tightly. Without wasting another second, he bolted out of the apartment, the hospital record clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

Desperation drove him like a storm, relentless and consuming. Bucky worked through the night, poring over every lead, scouring every clue. He dug through old letters, hospital records, even your discarded social media accounts - anything that might point him to where you’d gone.

It was the hospital record that led him to your old address. A part of him hesitated when he saw the crumpled paper in his hands. Was this really where you would go? Why hadn’t you called anyone else? Guilt gnawed at him with every thought, but there was no time to dwell on it. He had to find you.

When he finally stood outside your apartment door, his heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. What if he was too late? What if something had happened to you? His knuckles rapped against the door, each second of silence dragging like an eternity.

“Please”, he whispered under his breath, his hand tightening into a fist. He knocked again, louder this time.

The sound of shuffling from the other side made his breath hitch. The door creaked open a moment later, and his heart stopped.

You stood there, a shadow of the person he remembered. Your hair was unkempt, matted in places, and your skin was pale and sallow. Dark circles hung under your eyes, which were red-rimmed and hollow. Your frame was gaunt, your clothes hanging loosely on your body as if they belonged to someone else.

Bucky froze, unable to form words, his throat tight with emotion. “Doll..” he breathed, the sound barely audible.

You stared at him for a long moment, and then a bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. “Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

The venom in your tone sliced through him. He stepped forward instinctively, but you raised a trembling hand to stop him, leaning heavily against the doorframe for support.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice soft but trembling with worry. His blue eyes darted over you, taking in every detail - the gauntness of your face, the trembling in your hands, the faint smell of alcohol that clung to you. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

Your laugh turned bitterer, harsher. “What’s going on? You’re asking me that?” You shook your head, your voice breaking. “You happened, Bucky. You left, and everything fell apart. Everything.”

“I didn’t know -” he started, his voice heavy with guilt, but you cut him off.

“Of course, you didn’t” you snapped, stepping back into the dimly lit apartment. “You were too busy saving the world to notice that your own world was crumbling.”

He stepped inside cautiously, his heart shattering as he took in the mess. Empty bottles of alcohol and pill packets were scattered on the coffee table and floor. The air was thick with the stench of neglect, a sour mix of spilled liquor and stale air. The curtains were drawn tightly, plunging the room into shadows despite the afternoon sun.

“Y/N..” His voice trailed off, his throat tightening as he stared at the devastation around him.

“Don’t say my name like that” you muttered, retreating further into the room. “Like you’re surprised. Like you didn’t cause this.”

“Cause this?” he repeated, stepping closer. His voice cracked, his words pleading. “Y/N, I didn’t know. If I’d known, I never -”

“But you didn’t!” you screamed, your voice cracking under the weight of your pain as you spun to face him. Your eyes, hollow yet blazing with anger, locked onto his, and Bucky swore he felt his heart shatter in his chest. “You weren’t here, Bucky. I called. I texted. Over and over, I begged you to come back. Do you know how many times I sat in this apartment, staring at my phone, praying for some sign that you were still out there? And where were you? Fighting someone else’s battles while my entire life was falling apart.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and Bucky flinched like you’d struck him. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. The look on your face - the raw betrayal, the fury - left him at a loss.

“I didn’t know” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I -”

“You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know” you spat, taking a step closer, your hands trembling at your sides. “You shut me out, Bucky. You didn’t care enough to see what was happening to me.”

“That’s not true” he said, his voice cracking as he tried to bridge the chasm between you. “I cared - I care! I thought I was doing what was right -”

“Right for who?” you interrupted, your voice venomous. “For you? For the Avengers? Because it sure as hell wasn’t right for me. Do you know what it’s like to wake up every day, and wonder if today is the day I’ll finally get that call, informing me that you're dead? To feel like you’re carrying the weight of everything, completely alone, while the person who promised to love you is nowhere to be found?”

Bucky’s face twisted in anguish, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “I didn’t know it was this bad” he murmured, his voice trembling. “If I’d known -”

“But you didn’t” you cut him off, your voice laced with bitterness. “You didn’t, because you weren’t here.”

He stepped toward you, his hands outstretched in a desperate plea. “Y/N, I’m here now. Please, let me -”

“Let you what?” you demanded, your voice rising as months of pent-up anger and heartbreak poured out of you. “Fix it? Make it better? You can’t, Bucky. You can’t just show up now, after everything, and expect me to be okay.”

“Please”, he whispered, his voice breaking. “Just tell me what happened. Let me understand.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. “You want to understand? You think you can fix this if I just lay it all out for you?”

His eyes searched yours, his expression raw and desperate. “I need to know” he said, his voice trembling. “I can’t lose you. Please, Y/N.”

You turned away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together. Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. He noticed your shallow breathing, the way your shoulders quaked.

“I lost everything” you finally said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Piece by piece, it all fell apart.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you walked to the table, picking up an empty pill bottle and turning it over in your hand. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in the dark, wondering if you should just swallow one more and end it? Do you have any idea what it feels like to look at yourself in the mirror and hate the person staring back?”

He took a shaky step forward. “Y/N, don’t -”

“Don’t what?” you snapped, slamming the bottle down. “Don’t tell you the truth? You want to waltz back in here and play the hero, but you don’t even know the damage you left behind.”

His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the empty bottles, the crumpled blankets on the couch, the shattered picture frame on the floor. “I know I’ve hurt you” he said, his voice barely audible. “But I’m here now. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

You laughed again, but this time it turned into a sob. “You don’t get it” you said, shaking your head. “It’s not just me. It was never just me.”

He froze, his stomach twisting. “What are you saying?”

You turned to face him, tears streaming down your cheeks. “There was a baby, Bucky” you said, your voice trembling. “Our baby. And I lost it. I woke up in the middle of the night in pain, and there was blood - so much blood. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified, and I was alone. You weren’t there.”

The words hit him like a freight train, and his knees buckled. He sank to the floor, his head in his hands as he tried to process what you’d just said. “Oh, God” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Oh, God, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving with sobs. “I needed you” you said, your voice cracking. “I needed you more than I’ve ever needed anyone, and you weren’t there.”

He looked up at you, his face streaked with tears, his expression raw and broken. “I failed you” he choked out. “I failed you and our baby. But please, Y/N, don’t shut me out. Let me stay. Let me try to make this right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right. You can’t bring the baby back. You can’t take away this pain.”

“No, I can’t” he said, his voice steady despite the tears. “But I can stay. I can be here for you, for us, if you’ll let me. I know I don’t deserve it, but please, Y/N. Don’t push me away.”

For a long moment, you stared at him, the war inside you raging. Finally, you sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. “I don’t know if I can do this”. you whispered.

He moved to sit beside you, his hand hovering over yours before gently taking it. “You don’t have to do it alone” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time in months, you felt the faintest flicker of hope, a fragile ember in the darkness that had consumed you. It wasn’t an all-encompassing warmth or an instant relief, it was a hesitant, wavering thing, as if it might vanish at the slightest gust of doubt. But it was there. And after everything, even that small spark felt monumental.

You glanced down at his hand, rough and calloused yet so gentle as it cradled yours. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. For so long, you’d felt untethered, drifting through a sea of pain and loss with no anchor, but now - sitting beside him, his presence steady and unwavering - you felt a faint sense of grounding.

“It’s going to take time” you whispered, your voice shaky but honest. “I don’t know if I can just.. move on. Some days, I don’t even know how to keep going.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once” he said softly, his voice steady despite the emotion that thickened it. “We’ll take it one day at a time. One step at a time. Together.”

The word together hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You searched his face, half-expecting to see doubt or hesitation, but his gaze was steady, unwavering. He meant it. He truly meant it.

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they weren’t purely born of sorrow. They were a mixture of grief and something softer, something tentative that you hadn’t dared to feel in months - trust. “I’m scared, Bucky”. you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“So am I” he confessed, his voice breaking just slightly. “I’m scared I’ll mess up again. Scared I won’t be enough to help you heal. But I promise you, doll, I’ll do everything I can. I’ll be here - no matter what.”

You nodded, letting his words sink in. They didn’t erase the pain or magically mend the wounds you carried, but they planted a seed of possibility. Maybe healing wasn’t about forgetting the hurt or pretending it didn’t exist. Maybe it was about facing it head-on, step by step, with someone by your side.

As you sat there, his presence anchoring you, the silence stretched but didn’t feel oppressive. It felt shared, almost comforting. His fingers tightened around yours slightly, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

The road ahead would be long and painful, filled with memories that would resurface and wounds that might never fully close. But for now, you let yourself lean into the moment, into him, and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find a way forward together. Not whole, not without scars, but together. And for now, that was enough.

45 notes · View notes

the-oblivious-writer · 4 hours ago

Text

Oh the Guilt

Sam Carpenter x Reader

One-shot

Summary: no

Warning(s): major character death and mourning/grief

Notes: Based off of this request: hey! i saw your requests are open (i am indeed busting). i was wondering if you’d do some angst with either sam or tara? maybe sam/tara spending the holidays alone because they falsely accused reader of being gf and pushed them away/broke up w them. but it only ended up putting r in danger and leading to their death? love me some good ol angst if you’re up for it! have a great holiday season :)

The Christmas lights blur through her tears as Sam clutches your photo to her chest, fingers trembling against the worn edges. Her apartment feels too quiet, too empty, the silence broken only by the distant sound of people celebrating that makes everything worse. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Sam stares at your sweater draped over her couch - the soft blue one you always wore when it got cold, the one that still holds traces of your perfume. She doesn't deserve its comfort, but she pulls it on anyway, drowning in fabric and guilt and memory.

"We’re specimens to you, aren’t we?" Sam's voice had cracked like breaking glass, fear masquerading as anger. "I’m not letting Tara get hurt again!"

You'd reached for her, confusion and hurt painting your features. "Sam, please. You know me. I would never-"

"I thought I knew Richie too," she'd snarled, backing away from your touch. "Get out. Get out!”

The door had slammed with such finality. She'd thought she was protecting herself, protecting everyone. Instead, she'd handed you to them gift-wrapped - alone, vulnerable, perfect prey.

By the time Sam realized her mistake, she was cradling your broken body in the rain, red seeping into puddles around you both. Your fingers had weakly brushed her cheek, still trying to comfort her even then.

"Not your fault," you'd whispered, but those words haunt her worse than any ghostface ever could.

Now Tara brings food she doesn't eat, Kirby tries to coax her out, but Sam remains suspended in amber, preserved in the moment she lost you. Your clothes hang in her closet like ghosts. She wears your sweaters to sleep, buries her face in the fabric and pretends she can still feel your warmth.

The Christmas tree in the corner - the one you'd insisted on buying together - stands half-decorated, just as you'd left it. Tinsel dangles like broken promises. The star you'd picked out remains in its box, because finishing it without you feels like accepting you're gone.

Sam traces the words of your last text message: "I love you. We'll talk soon." Her phone screen has cracked from how many times she's dropped it, hands shaking too hard to hold on.

She knows she should let others in. Knows you'd want her to live, to heal, to forgive herself. But every time Tara hugs her or Kirby offers support, it feels like betraying your memory. Like she doesn't deserve comfort after what she did to you.

Sometimes, in the depths of night when the walls feel like they're closing in, Sam swears she can feel you. A whisper of movement in her peripheral vision, the ghost of your touch against her shoulder, the way the air shifts as if accommodating your presence.

"I see you everywhere," she whispers into the darkness, clutching your sweater like a lifeline. "The coffee mug you chipped is still in the cabinet. Your stupid action movies are still in my queue. I can't… I can't delete them."

The apartment creaks, settling into winter's grip, and Sam lets out a broken laugh. "Remember how you used to say these old buildings had character? God, you'd make up stories about the noises - ghosts having dance parties, you said." Her voice catches. "Is that what you're doing now? Dancing without me?"

Sam reaches out, fingers trembling in the empty air where she imagines you might be. "I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I was so scared of losing everyone that I pushed away the one person who…" She chokes on the words. "The one person who never gave me a reason to doubt them."

The Christmas lights flicker, and for a moment, Sam's heart stops. She's learned to find meaning in these small disturbances, these tiny rebellions against reality. "I know what you'd say. That I need to forgive myself. That I need to let people in." Tears track down her cheeks. "But how can I? How can I when every time I close my eyes, I see you bleeding out in my arms?"

Something shifts in the room - maybe the heating kicking in, maybe something more. The tinsel on the half-decorated tree sways gently. Sam watches it, transfixed. "If you're here… I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have trusted you. Should have protected you. Should have been there when…"

The star for the tree - your star - sits in its box on the coffee table. As Sam watches through tears, a draft from somewhere catches the lid, lifting it slightly. Her breath hitches.

"You want me to finish it, don't you? The tree?" Her laugh is wet, broken. "Always so stubborn about traditions." She reaches for the star with shaking hands. "I don't know if I can. It feels like accepting you're really…"

The room grows impossibly still, as if the very air is holding its breath. Sam could swear she feels the phantom pressure of your hand over hers, guiding her toward the tree. The sensation is so vivid she gasps.

"Okay," she whispers, standing on unsteady legs. "Okay, baby. For you." She clutches the star to her chest, your sweater hanging loose on her frame. "But I'm not ready to let you go. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

As she reaches up to place the star, the Christmas lights seem to glow a little brighter, and for just a moment, Sam swears she can feel your arms around her waist, your chin on her shoulder, just like before. Just like always.

"Stay with me?" she asks the empty room, knowing the answer, dreading the silence. "Even if I don't deserve it?"

The lights flicker once, twice - like a heartbeat, like a promise - and Sam breaks down sobbing, sliding to the floor beneath your half-finished tree, beneath your star, beneath the weight of a love that even death couldn't quite end.

———

A/N: first request filled, ob-la-di (sorry if this sucks, I’m half-asleep)

#ob-la-da #sam carpenter x you #sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter x gn!reader #sam carpenter x y/n #melissa barrera x you #melissa barrera x reader #melissa barrera #sam carpenter

31 notes · View notes

grimmweepers · 3 days ago

Text

even before i started reading i was SCREAMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG at the content tags. it’s so up my alley and i knew i was going to love this. i wish i could idk take this all in and rub it all over my body and eat it hehe.

but courtney!!!! where has your writing been all my life!! i can’t believe this is your first time writing sukuna. you write him so amazingly and you have such an eloquent way of setting the scene and describing feelings that i just feel so immersed. it genuinely feels like i’m getting pulled away when i have to stop reading. and a whopping 8.3k words… you have spoiled me 🥹💖

i also really appreciate how you characterised reader (me… i can’t believe it!!!). every dialogue reader says just has me nodding and agreeing and cheering her on because i, too, would say those things. while i was reading i made a list of parts that made me unwell /pos because i tend to do that when i read and if you do not mind, it does involve screaming so be prepared !!!! :

They carry the weight of something unspoken a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity it will not be done poorly.”

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate

HE IS SO LOVING IN THE MOST SUBTLE AND SUKUNA-ESQUE WAYS IM SO GOOEY RN!!!!!!

i’ll just be including this entire thing because it’s so beautifully written and i still can’t believe it’s about me.

YOU ARE SO THOUGHTFUL AND I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW I ACKNOWLEDGE AND AM OBSESSED WITH THESE EASTER EGGS. love changes people and if this isn’t the most crystal clear form of proof….

the whole hansel and gretel scene made me giggle. his nodding of approval when they spoke about eating the kids and luring them in lmfaooo!!!! i’m crying KGVAJAHAAJABNWJWAHAN and i love the way you characterised his tummy mouth to be like a lil puppy. it almost makes it endearing, especially imagining it dusted with cookie crumbs and frosting hehe so silly

“This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

I LAUGHED OUT LOUD

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

ANOTHER FAVE. he can sound like such a baby sometimes HAHAHAHHAHAAH poor ‘kuna getting hot and bothered by christmas

OH AND THE PART AT THE SOFA WHERE WE WHERE WE WHERE WE AHGQBAJFQBHANHABAJQHQBWNJQVABAJWHWVWBJWHWBWKJWBWNWKWJWBWNWKHWBWNWJWBWBWJWJBW WJWJWBWNWJWJWBW SKWKWJBWWKWK sigh that’s all i have to say about that

AND WAIT THERES MORE…. WITH HIS TUMMY TONGUE KISSING ME NOW HFFGABAJAJQHABAJAJBANAKAJABAJAKAJANP. that scene was so absolutely HOT. it’s only 12:30pm here but i just woke up and wow what a way to start the day. i never thought i’d say this but sukuna is so adorable trying to guess what i’m gifting him

OH MH GOD HE GIFTED ME PERFUMEEEEEEEEEE THAT HE CRAFTED HIMSELF AND IT SOUNDS SO PERFECT AND ETHEREAL I WISHED I HAD IT IN MY HANDS RIGHT THIS INSTANCE 😭😭😭 the blends the notes - i wish it were real. courtney this is the best!!!!!

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction

the sheer rawness in this paragraph. i’m in awe. i’m also hushed because the way you write makes me cry. you really explain him in the same way i view him :(

“And I see you, Ryu.”

AND WHAT IF I DIED WHAT THEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IM TEARING UP. THIS IS TERRIBLE. MY HEART IS JUMPING OUT OF MY CHEST

The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

hehe what can i say… spiders scare me… monsters don’t … like sukuna

AHFDHFHFJJGBA AND THE END. thank you so so so so much for the gift. i can tell you really did your research and i am eternally grateful and will be keeping this close to my wee heart. i don’t talk about sukuna all that often anymore but he was my first ship and first comm ever EVER! so he will always remain special to me. and lately i’ve been feeling a little doubtful about that ship. only because i begin to wonder if our personalities would even mesh well which would inevitably lead to me getting insecure about sukuna becoming soft for me. but the fic - your gift - showed me that even after all these years, ryukuna can still work. that he can love me. and that i can love him while still being myself. i’m so sorry this is so rambly and long. i woke up with my heart a lil heavier today for unrelated reasons but this just made me feel 1999999616161881 times better. you have such a way with words that scratches an itch in my brain and i know i will be coming back to this when i miss sukuna or when i’m feeling sad. every time you referred to me as Queen i get a little giddy. because even without sukuna, that is the type of confidence i should have. that’s how i should see myself. i am a fiery woman by nature so it’s a huge affirmation seeing myself depicted this way. in fact reading this might give me the confidence to talk about him more and even write about him again. what a wonderful thing gifts can be :[

courtney thank you for your time and kindness and thoughtfulness and talent and all of the above ! may YOU have a merry christmas and may YOUR heart always be full <3 i am elated!! on cloud 9!!

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

#recs 📚#ryukuna #i’m so sorry this was long winded #i don’t even think this captures the entirely of how reading this made me feel #entirety**

114 notes · View notes

himluv · 12 hours ago

Text

Hard Truths (redux)

As promised, here is an update to my fic Say My Name (Say it Twice). Merry Christmas! This is a rework of my first attempt at writing Lucanis back in November, so while there is some overlap here, there's a ton of new stuff too. Enjoy!

SNIFFFF! Sweat and salt and coffee. Lucanis. Sulfur, too. Candles, burned low. Powder. Ash. Rough velvet on calloused fingertips. Press to the stone. Won’t forget. CANNOT. HIDE!

Yessssss. Good! They will know. I. Am. Here!

“Hey, Lucanis?”

Sniffff. Brimstone. “No Lucanis. Only Spite!”

“Ugh. You again?”

“Yessss. Always here. Waiting.”

“Right. That’s not creepy at all.”

Brimstone. Calm fire. No fear. Why no fear? “You don’t. Fear us. Why?”

“I’m Rivaini. Spirits don’t bother me.”

“Demon! Not spirit.”

“Sure you are. Now, let Lucanis go.”

“No!” Must get out. Go, go, gogogo!

“Hey, Taash. What’s going on?”

SNIFFFF. Campfire and berries. ROOK!

“Demon’s back.”

“I don’t think he ever leaves, actually.”

“Then he’s acting weird.”

Sniiiiiiffffff. “Smells like… melon and woodsmoke.”

“Hey! No! No. Sit your ass back down.”

“I’ll handle this. Maybe make sure the eluvian room is blocked?”

Brimstone. Gone! Just Rook. Just. Us! “Now. We get to talk.”

“When demons say they want to talk, that usually means they want to bargain.”

“Lucanis. Made a deal. He hasn’t kept.”

“What deal?”

“Break our chains. Kill. Escape our prison. And Liiiive!”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“NO! I want out!”

“‘Out’ to where? Tevinter? Orlais? Nowhere’s safe for a possessed man.”

“No! No! He promised! Tell him! Make him–”

–Lucanis blinked in the familiar dim of the pantry, the candles lower than they should be. Much lower. But even in the low light, Rook shone like a star. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes cast to the side as if to give him privacy.

“Rook?”

“You were sleepwalking,” she said.

Ah. Of course. He noticed the chill in his neck now, the telltale sign that Spite had been in control. He looked down at his feet. “Spite was sleepwalking.”

“He didn’t go anywhere,” she said. Her tone was light and reassuring. “Nothing happened.”

This time. But how many times could he lose control before someone got hurt? Before she got hurt? Just imagining Spite touching her, hurting her with his hands made his skin crawl.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he said. “Again.”

She took a step closer and he finally looked at her. Her eyes were clear, her expression earnest and soft. She always seemed to carry so much softness for him.

“Nothing I’m seeing makes me want to look away.”

How? How could that be when he could barely stand looking in the mirror? How did she always say just the right thing to make him feel like he wasn’t completely drowning?

He shook his head. “How do you always do that?”

“Do what?” There was a teasing lilt to her voice that he now recognized as flirtation, but Lucanis couldn’t quite bring himself to match it.

“Break apart my perfectly gathered clouds of doom.” He frowned. “You deserve better than to deal with my mess.”

Rook leaned against the wall, her hands behind her back. “You’re more than what you’re going through. And, you wear it well.” She gave him a smile so tender, a look so openly fond, it made Lucanis ache.

Time and again she had shown him that she was there. She’d been by his side since the Ossuary, unwavering in her support. Her actions and her words proved her trust in him, despite everything. She offered her hand, her heart, over and over again. And no matter how conflicted he felt, no matter how many times he drew close just to pull away, she never gave up on him.

It made him wonder… could he be the man she seemed to think he was? Could he be the man he wanted to be, for her? Could he be what she deserved?

Lucanis took slow, intentional steps towards her. Finally, they would address this thing between them. And he would give her every opportunity to see reason and turn away.

He shook his head once. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said.

She watched him approach, eyes bright with curious warmth. “Sometimes a bad idea is better,” she said. Still teasing him.

He was a small man – he had no qualms about it, it let his targets underestimate him – but Rook was even shorter. He placed his palm against the wall, just above and to the right of her head. He leaned into the wall and looked down at her.

She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and the challenge in her eyes sent fire up his spine. She had no idea what she did to him.

“You like to walk a little too close to the edge,” he countered.

She reached for him, so slowly, and for a moment Lucanis thought she might hook her finger through his lapel chain and pull him in for a kiss. His stomach flipped at the notion, but she stopped just short of actually touching him.

“So do you,” she said.

Mierda, her lips. He wanted to know how they’d feel pressed to his. Wanted to taste the coffee on her tongue. If he was being honest, he wanted anything she would give him. He was a man standing on the edge of a cliff – it would take the barest touch to send him over the ledge. He would fall helplessly in love with her, and she had no idea.

He looked right at her, his tone soft but serious when he said, “at least I know when I’m doing it.”

They were so close. The closest they’d ever been. Lucanis felt her warmth radiating against his body, smelled the hint of smoke in her hair and the coffee on her breath as she leaned closer. Her eyes closed and her chin lifted.

Here she was, trusting him, offering herself to him as he leaned over her. It was a scene right out of one of his romance novels. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned into her, noting the beautiful spray of cinnamon-colored freckles across her nose, then closed his eyes. She was perfect.

And he… was not. He was a man on the edge of a cliff. If he fell, he would take her down with him. Mierda, what was he thinking?

Lucanis opened his eyes and turned his face away from her. It hurt to do so, to get this close only to stop. Again. Maker, what must she think of him?

“I…” he couldn’t look at her as he stepped back. “Need to clear my head.” He glanced up at her, saw the confusion and concern in her eyes, and though he wanted nothing more than to make her smile again, he kept walking away. With his palm now pressed to his waistcoat he gave her a tiny nod. “Excuse me.”

Then he turned and hurried out of the room, ignoring the weight of her gaze on his back. He brushed a hand through his hair, tugged at his waistcoat, desperate to feel composed. It took surprisingly few strides to cross the dining room, climb the stairs above the kitchen, and step out onto the landing outside the dining hall. He took a deep, shaky breath and quelled the urge to rub at the constant itch behind his eyes.

This wasn’t like him. He felt jittery, out of control. Perhaps all the coffee mixed with the sleep deprivation had finally gotten to him?

She makes you nervous, Spite sneered.

Lucanis said nothing. There was no point lying to Spite, it would only encourage the demon to keep talking. Surprisingly, Spite remained quiet while Lucanis stood staring out at the blank expanse of the Fade. He needed the height, the perspective, and to breathe. It took a few minutes, but finally his heart settled some in his chest.

Finally, the demon asked, why?

Lucanis sighed. “Why what?”

Spite growled, irritated at having to explain himself. Rook. Makes. You. Nervous. WHY?

Lucanis winced as the word rebounded inside his skull. “You don’t have to shout.”

Spite made an unconvinced noise.

“And besides,” Lucanis said. “You know why.”

Make it make sense. We. Like. Rook.

Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose. “A little too much.”

Ahhhhh. Spite sniffed, as if savoring something delicious in the air. Scared.

Another truth he’d have to let lie between himself and the demon.

Let her in and get cut deep. See inside then turn away. Won’t. Want. You! Oooh, or worse, she does want and then she di–

“Enough!” The word echoed out into the Fade, silencing the demon. “Enough,” Lucanis whispered. He didn’t need Spite to help him overthink all the ways kissing Rook could go wrong.

Want more than kissing.

The most surprising truth of them all. Lucanis could count the number of people he’d felt genuine attraction for on one hand. The only one he’d ever tried to pursue had misread him so completely he’d just given up.

As much as he longed for romance, he just wasn’t good at it. Love was something meant for characters in novels, or people like Teia and Viago. Not him.

If not love. What?

Before the Ossuary, Lucanis would have had an answer to a question like that. The Crows. House Dellamorte. Mediating peace between Illario’s ambitions and Caterina’s wishes. He liked being a Crow. He was good at it, and had never wanted more, a fact that had vexed Illario and pleased their grandmother.

And it was all gone.

Caterina was dead. In his current state, Lucanis was not fit to take her place as she’d desired. Illario would become First Talon, like he’d always wanted. If Lucanis somehow survived this contract perhaps House Dellamorte would allow him back. Perhaps the future they had fantasized as boys might actually come to pass. Perhaps he and Rook…

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Bah!

Lucanis sighed and shook his head. Then he and the demon walked back to the pantry in silence. And in that silence was another, terrifying truth.

For the first time in his life, Lucanis Dellamorte didn't know what his future held.

#lucanis dellamorte #embria aldwir #taash dragon age #spite dellamorte #rookanis #lucanis x rook #himluv's writing tag

22 notes · View notes

bandzboy · 6 months ago

Text

i am just so tired absolutely TIRED of seeing stans, especially hybe stans, justifying groups being overworked when literally there are so many idols under this company alone right now they are injured and on break because they are being overworked and you want me to just see this and act normally when two idols from two different groups i stan are going through a hard time?? I AM NOT GONNA BE NORMAL this should enrage a lot of people BUT IT NEVER DOES or it does for a very small period of time and then the contents and music comes out and all of that goes out of the window and it's sickening that you have to beg people to care about idols' well being when that should be a given since you are their fan??

#like man idk i'm crazy #it feels like i am talking to a wall every time #i just don't wanna see people i stan having to go through this shit #fuck these companies #tris.txt

35 notes · View notes

sallymew4 · 2 months ago

Text

kids when they hear that their dad is back in town VS. kids when theyre hanging out with a conman that accidentally stole their wallet once

im not even joking btw

bonus heres me being crazy about them in dms ^^^

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #shou suzuki #sho suzuki #reigen arataka #i know sho doesnt actually BELIEVE his dad is back but even just that split second reaction is a weird one to have over your dad coming bac #he was like 'say sike rn... wait that aint right.'#shou watching them on the bottom floor while being isolated up in the corner at the end of the third stage play. and saying #'it's nice that they're so easygoing.' all wistfully???? im killing somebody #reigen calling him a poor thing and worrying about him DESPITE knowing his mischievous ways. ugh #gonna quote my reaction to clip rq #'bro [shou] heard him [reigen] talking about guardianship over children and making sure theyre safe over anything else and was like-#'this is getting too real for me i gotta make fun of him immediately.''#idc WHAT yall think to ME that was such a thick layer of defense mechanism that even though reigen's guardianship speech wasnt directed #at Sho he still felt the intrinsic urge to shoot back because of what hes experienced with people who are SUPPOSED to be protecting him.#would yall believe me if i told you i am totally insane #there are SO MANY THINGS. woven into their interactions that really enhance it #its totally silly! yes! but also! it is a legitimate ARC of GROWTH within their relationship! we watch as Sho starts off #with no trust in the man at all (although for a pretty good reason)#and over time he realizes hes NOT total shitbag #of course this doesnt mean hes completely vulnerable with him. its easy to infer that his distrust in certain people is formed from #a lifetime of being let down and incapability of dependency on certain trusted adults. his defense must be so heavily built up #even after gaining some sort of trust from Shou Reigen will NOT be exempt from his impish defense mechanisms.#sho will not make himself emotionally available as he would then be open to being hurt by someone else he thought could trust #his 'carefree and prankish' behavior is the wall between himself and such an intense feeling of disappointment and hurt and loneliness #but i like to think hes also just silly. hehe #man that stage play huh. shoots every fatal drug directly into my bloodstream #shou's trust and father issues VS stupid conman who has the common sense to not let children be beat up by grown ass adults. who will win.#i mightve forgotten something but. i think this is pretty packed full already so i am pleased. thank you for reading <3 #meowmeow art

44 notes · View notes

beef-brisket · 2 days ago

Note

Lucifer stares at where the portal was. It took him a few seconds to even register that the portal had actually closed.

He could feel everyone at the hotel crowed around him, asking him questions, screaming his name. Lucifer could only imagine how terrifying it must be to see the Devil beaten to a pulp on the lobby floor.

His eyes scanned the group. Vaggie and Angel were standing around him. They looked like they were yelling. Husk was pacing, holding his head. He looked mad. Nifty was standing up on the nearby couch, just watching the situation. He's never seen her so still. Alastor looked more than scared, his eyes covered in a patch. He was trying to force the smile off his face, but he's failing.

Lucifer's gaze stopped as it landed on Charlie. She was running over and knelt in front of him, her hands went to his shoulders.

Her voice was muffled, his ears ringing.

Charlie: Dad?! Dad?! What happned-?! Are you alright?!

Lucifer wanted to laugh. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? Adam of all people. Beating him into the ground, like he was nothing. Lucifer was the Devil, the most powerful being in Hell. And he got beaten by Adam. What was he now? Does that make Adam the Devil now?

He turned his stare to Alastor. They both stared a look of recognition, Alastor knew exactly what happened. And finally, his worst fears were realized.

If Lucifer couldn't beat Adam, then no one could.

Val: Fucking- piss off! I'm done with fucking all of you! Get the hell out of my sight!

Half clothed ladies sprint out through a double door, crew members following close behind. They screamed as bullets shot through the wall.

Valentino growled as the last of the crew members left the room.

Val: Fucking useless-!

He kicked one of the cameras before shooting three shots into it.

Vox: Wow, real mature, Val. I'm not replacing that, you know.

Val spun around and growled: Their fucking useless! All of them!

Vox rolled his eyes and sat in one of the few remaining chairs. He continued to listen to Val's ranting and raging for exactly twenty more minutes.

Val: Then the fucker has the nerve to waste my fucking footage! Making me reshoot the scene another four times! I swear- when I find that motherfucker, he's dead! Dead, dead!

Vox rolled his eyes: How many times have I told you to get rid of Travis? Seriously, Val. Nearly every shoot he fucks something up-.

Val: Yeah, well. This is the LAST fucking time!

Vox laughs: Alright, buddy. I'll leave you to that then. Remember, there's an overlord meeting I three hours. This talk about some vigilante has gotten everyone scared.

Val: I don't give a fuck, Vox! I've got my own shit to worry about!

Vox: Just- be there, Val. It won't look good on us if you're not.

Val: Fucking- fine. Whatever. I'll be there...

Vox: Great! I'll see you ther- and be on time!

Valentino glared as Vox disappeared in a zap of blue electricity.

Val: Bitch- fuck your overlord meeting!

Val continued to trash his filming room. He was beyond exhausted by the time he was done. Panting and sweating, he stood in the middle of the room, his gun had one bullet left.

Val: Fuck- that shits expensive.

He pushed the barrel back in, not only we're angelic bullets expensive, but they were also extremely hard to come by. Now that Carmilla was dead, and angels haven't been to Hell since that failed extermination.

Adam: Finally finished your little tantrum?

Val spun around, and glared at the large man leaning against his wall.

Val: The fuck are you? How'd you get in here?!

Adam: Very easily, actually. And as to who I am, well, that's a question I'll answer later. If you're lucky~.

Val smirked, he knows how to play this game: I'm always lucky, baby~.

Adam smirked, stupid fucker: I thought you might.

Val: Yeah? Wanna by my time, big guy~? Even though you're a hunk, I'm getting sub vibes from you, and sorry, babe, I only bottom for one man, and it ain't you~. So, thirty thousand for my cock, what do you say~?

Adam looked him up and down, making Valentino shiver. But Valentino has an uncomfortable feeling, and it's hard to make him uncomfortable.

He feels like he's been looked at like prey.

He snarls, no one looks at him like, Valentino refuses to be some giant subs prey, he's not that pathetic.

His finger itches on the trigger of his gun and clicks the hammer. That makes Adam look at him in the eye. But instead of looking scared, he looked amused. Pissing Valentino off all over again.

Adam smirked: I'd love to see what you're going to do with that~.

Valentino growled, raising his gun and firing a shot at Adam. He hit him between the eyes.

Val: That's angelic steel, bitch! Let's see you come back from that-! T-The fuck...?

Adam was still standing, blood running down his face. Golden blood.

Valentino didn't think he'd be still standing, let alone smiling the most masochist, deranged smile he's ever seen. And he works in porn.

His golden eyes shone through the blood, piercing Valentino's very soul.

He quickly tries to fire off more bullets, but he's out. Fuck, he forgot he was out.

Adam: You really shouldn't have done that~.

Valentino backed away until his back hit the wall, and the large man stalked towards him.

Val: S-Stop!

Adam: That's ironic, coming from you~.

Tormentor of souls au

Darkness surrounded him like a blanket. Only he was no way comfortable or felt safe. He felt fear grip him like iron as he tried to make even a sliver sense of his situation. He could barely a muscle, if he had any muscle to pull. It felt like he had nothing to move, was this what happened to the souls he exorcised?

Were they to end up here for eternity, slowly being drove insane with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company? Adam couldn’t even try to open his mouth to speak, well he did try, but the only words that would escape from him were from within his mind. In his mind he sighed, he was just so tired, he didn’t have any strength to fight, to argue that he shouldn’t be here. Yet what exactly was the point? He’d only tire himself further out.

He had to admit it, he was stuck here, for all eternity. Much the same as a sinner.

That was when he saw it a flicker of light. Not just any light, a pure white light. A light that was so familiar, one that brought him joy when it spoke to him in his booming voice.

His creator

“GREETINGS MY SON. IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAVE LAST SPOKE TO YOU AND FOR THAT I APOLOGIZE”

Adam didn’t care he was just so thankful to be in his creator’s presence.

“MY SON I KNOW THAT YOU HAVE LIVED A LIFE OF HARDSHIP AND THAT IT DID NOT STOP EVEN WHEN YOU PERISHED.”

He tried to not flinch at that. Thinking about his first life brought too many unpleasant memories.

“THAT IS WHY IT BRINGS ME PAIN TO ASK YOU OF THIS, BUT I NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE ONCE MORE. I KNOW OF WHAT YOU HAVE DONE THESE PAST FEW CENTURIES, AND I HAVE TO SAY THAT IT WAS NOT THE SOLUTION”

Adam could not believe what he was hearing. His own creator believed that they, the murderers and rapists, deserved to be redeemed!?

“HELL IS MEANT TO BE A PUNISHMENT, ETERNAL TORMENT OF THE SINS LUCIFER CORRUPTED WITH HIS WAY OF FREE WILL. HOWEVER MANY OF THEM DON’T SEE IT THAT WAY. TO THEM HELL IS MERELY A PLAYGROUND WHERE RULES NO LONGER MATTER. I HAVE SEEN TRUE MONSTROUS ACTS THE WICKED HAVE BROUGHT WITH THEM FROM LIFE. THEY CARRY IT MOST OUT ON THE TRUE CITIZENS OF HELL, THE ONES THAT HAD NO SAY IN BEING THERE OR NOT.”

The hell born, Adam thought taking in the Lord’s words

“I KNOW I AM NOT THEIR CREATOR, NOR DO THEY CALL ME FATHER, BUT I HAVE HEARD THEIR PLEAS FOR HELP TO BE SAVED FROM THE ACTS OF THE WICKED, OF ALL WICKED. UNFORTUNATELY THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE BORN DOWN THERE, BUT I CAN STOP THE SINNERS FROM HURTING THEM AND THAT IS WHERE I NEED YOUR HELP”

Adam had never put much thought into the hellborn. To him they were simply there and as long as they got in his way during the exterminations they weren’t a problem. There was the princess, but he didn’t really count her. He was curious however as to what the Lord wanted him to do.

“THE SINNERS NEED PUNISHMENT, AND THE HELL BORN NEED PROTECTION. YOU CAN BE THEIR PROTECTOR BY BECOMING THE PUNISHER.”

With a simple snap of his creator’s fingers Adam felt something shift within him, in his very essence he changed. A warm feeling engulfed him whole and then he knew no more.

((Oh shit- I love everything about this! God needs to fuck off and let our boy rest!

Sorry this took me a hot second to get to- and I hope my reply does yours justice 😝))

Charlie is in full work mode and has been since the failed extermination ended. Since finding out Sir Pentious ended up in Heaven.

For months, she had been working hard. It was so hard that she somehow missed the latest gossip going around the Pride Ring.

Sinners ending up missing, only to resurface months later completely different. Scared. Traumatized.

Many didn't think much of it. This is Hell. There's always some crazy bastard out there doing shit.

But, it was when they became too scared to even function, too scared to ever be normal again, too scared that they would rather turn an angelic blade on themselves than to live with the possibility of going through whatever it is they've gone through.

Charlie was actually getting quite concerned. Especially when she heard Angel talking about it one night at Husks bar.

Angel: I fucking tell ya, kitty. People a shit scared. I've never seen the clubs so empty!

Husk shook his head: Must be the worst of the worst, huh?

Angel scoffed, downing his drink: Nah, babe. It's something else. It ain't no sinner.

Husk: Hellborn?

Angel: Those guys are freaky. Don't get me wrong, but their not THAT freaky. I had a client who said he was taken for three months. Three. That's fucking child's play. But the shit he said happened to him... fucking skinning, to pouring acid down his throat. Fuck mam, the sick ficker even dug around I'm his muscle and tendons!

Angel shook his head: There's something going on... even Val has lowered the workload.

Husk: Pft. Fuck. That's how you know it's serious.

Angel: Damn fucking right.

Charlie stood at the top of the stairs, listening to Angel's story. She was shocked but not surprised. She wasn't sure why this person has the sinners so scared, but sury it's nothing new.

She probably should make sure Al isn't behind this. She's only heard a few tales of his exploits so she wouldn't put it past him.

Alastor: Hm. So you've heard the rumors, too. While I'm flattered, I don't appreciate being confronted in such a way.

Vaggie: Just- fucking answer her, Alastor.

Alastor sighed, leaning on his cane: No, it's not me. I've been too busy here! And my kills stay dead when I'm finishing them~.

Charlie wasn't sure if she liked that answer, but it was good enough.

She apologized to Alastor, ams watched him leave.

Vaggie: ...I don't know, Charlie.

Charlie: I don't know either...

Vaggie: I'm sure it's nothing. Besides, you have more important things to deal with here, hun. You shouldn't get mixed up in sinner issues.

Charlie sighed: I know. I just... surely, it's a coincidence that this starts after the failed extermination... that was my fault. Simmered died because of me- I put my friends in danger! I feel like I owe it to everyone to at least try and solve it.

Vaggie smiled and pulled her girlfriend onto a soft hug.

Vaggie: I know you feel like that, hun. But you don't owe anyone anything... besides, if it's that bad, you could just ask Lucifer. He said he was looking for something to do.

Charlie: Hm... that's... a good idea, actually! I'll get dad on the case!

Lucifer: Me on the what now? Charlie, why should I care about whatever is going on with those sinners? Their... you know... sinners.

Charlie: Dad, please? Our guests are sinners. We need them to be safe. So please. Look into this for me? Even just a little bit?

Lucifer sighed. He really didn't want to do this. But, seeing the hopeful, pleading look on his daughters face, eventually changed his mind.

Charlie: Oh- thank you, dad, thank you!

Lucifer smiled as Charlie pulled into a hug. But when she felt and heard his back crack, she slowly put him down.

Charlie: S-Sorry dad!

Lucifer laughed through the pain: It's okay, Charlie - nothing I can't handle! I-I better start hunting a... whatever the fuck this is!

20 notes · View notes