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thesharktanksdriver · 2 days ago

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Devils may love?: thirst for connection, tearful goodbyes and trying despite the odds

Here’s part 2 by popular demand! I’m gonna start writing dmc1 soon and I shall be making a masterlist for this. Btw, comment if you’d like to added to a tag list or comment to give me ur opinions because I shall very much appreciate it and I love answering questions or geeking out over stuff especially with dmc now lol.

Links for: Masterlist, Part 1

Your not sure how your still alive

At this point its illogical

Vergil has the amulet and knows Dante will come after him no matter if he even has you alive anymore

So why are you still alive currently?

Not that your complaining per say but your severely confused

Even that Arkham guy seems to be thinking it as well

Speaking of which the more you look at him the more familiar he looks

You can’t quite place it though

But it’s something with his face that’s familiar

Well it’s something you’d rather not think to hard about when the guy is stabbed in front of you by Vergil

If your opinion of Arkham was bad before hearing he literally sacrificed his wife to become powerful or something certainly made you internally cheer as he fell to the floor

Blood pooling around him as Vergil remarks he has no use for the man anymore

And yet

“Keep moving, lest I have to carry you again”

It stirs you from your thoughts as the twin looks at you

Wordlessly you nod, stepping past arkhams body

When Vergil turns he doesn’t see you drip your foot in the man’s blood

Intentionally leaving a trail for Dante to find

“If….if you killed him can you kill the jester next?”

Whatever Vergil expected you to say it seems like that wasn’t what he thought

Though you hope your unpredictability is seemingly a factor keeping you alive

“Jester?” He scoffs “you mean my brother?”

At that you can’t help but raise and eyebrow “no, I mean the weird ass jester demon. The one with the long nose, and annoying penchant for appearing out of nowhere. Have you not had to deal with his annoying nagging yet?”

“Evidently no since if I had we wouldn’t be having this conversation”

“Fair. restrains or no restrains though, I will be finding out a way to curb stomp him if he pops out of nowhere again”

“You’re a human. If he’s a demon your too weak to kill him let alone make a dent”

You shrug at that “I might be nothing more than an insect to him…but it doesn’t hurt to at least try. That’s all we can ever really do anyways. Keep trying even if it’s meaningless because there’s nothing else we can do. It’s what I do anyways. Things get hard, parents kick you to the curb yelling to never come back unless you decide to give up your “useless” dreams and everything looks like shit” pausing for a moment you can’t help but smile “keep trying even though every job turns you away and you have to drop out of school to try and get a full time job to afford a roof over your head and food…and despite it all you find a sketchy job advertisement for a business without a proper name yet and somehow end up with the most obnoxious idiot with a heart of gold as your boss who annoyingly calls you “honeypie”. And even if his family drama gets you wrapped up in getting kidnapped and brought to a demon tower, you keep trying even when the situation is against you. Because maybe that’s all you have”

Vergil stays silent after that, just ends up tugging you closer as he leads you to wherever he’s headed

Somehow trauma dumping on him was kinda reliving even if he would probably kill you later

Best get shit off your chest than leave it bubbling in you

A trail of red follows behind you for your red coat idiot to hopefully find you

Fortunately if you did make it out of the your now a pro at washing out blood so your shoes would probably be ok

Walking closely behind Vergil the two of you enter a large chamber

Carved stone and a chiseled floor lead to the centre of the room

And at that centre was a circular basin?

Your not really sure how to describe it

Or this place in general

The tower was old, that was certain with its general architecture and material wise

But walking though the place there was also an odd sense of foreign technological aspects to it

It was definitely too advanced for humans especially at the time it seemed like it was erected 2000 years back or so

So with that logic it was likely demonic related

Which made sense considering the purpose of the tower in the first place

A thrumming sound echos before that of heavy footsteps that makes you turn around just as Vergil does

A demon, a big looking one as well that walked on all 4

“I found you, seed of Sparda!. I told you that I remembered your rancid scent! No matter where you run to. You can never hide from me! And what’s this? A human pest as well?” It walks forward, bloody red eyes bleeding out as a singular curved horn tilted along with its head movements.

Before you have much time to react its claw comes down towards you and Vergil, but the blue half-demon pushed you back as he jumped to eliminate his threat

You watched him fight Dante atop the tower and seen his cut down smaller demons on the way here, but seeing him fight truly was something

Clean slices compared to Dante’s showy flare

Landing atop the demon as it crumbled beneath his feet

“Y-you are not the one I faced before…but this smell…there are two of them! That excrement of Sparda had two sons!”

“Yeah bud, you didn’t figure that out by looking at him. He didn’t just change wardrobe-“

A clink of a sword and its head splits leaving a gushing waterfall of blood to spill onto the ground

Vergil flips off its back, now back to your side

A glow emits from the body, blue and blinding

Vergil extends out a hand and it pulls itself to him

Seemingly absorbing it a pair of gauntlets and boots that keep their blinding glow

You can only watch what happens next

Vergil shows off and kinda plays? With his new weapons??? Like Dante does???

He kicks around the demons corpse and shows off his new gear

All while you watch dumbfounded

You also swear he’s watching your reaction?

Getting a small flicker of pride after another show of moves?

Was this like…a fear tactic or something?

A threat to keep you in line and not to run?

Because you already weren’t going to do that

Not when demons crawled around and every corner and for some reason he still needed you alive and eliminated them

Why would you leave when at least for now he was your reluctant bodyguard?

A spray of feathers waft around in the air and cascade down around you as Vergil watches your reaction

Yet again for something?

His brow twitches and his near permanent scowl returns, maybe you didn’t look afraid enough?

Two perfect halves of a beautiful red stone combine to make one

Two remnants of a mother lost come together in the worse way possible

Blood rains down the ceiling into a small pool in the middle of the circular room

You and Vergil watch with anticipation

Gritting your teeth waiting for something

Anything big to happen

And yet nothing

You wait for a solid minute with the very quickly becoming agitated Vergil

And nothing

The irritation and anger rolling off him is palpable in waves that rivalled tsunamis

You smartly make the decision to try and take a few precautionary steps away

Especially as he mutters to himself if maybe more blood was needed

You take a particularly large step away at that comment

Shit, maybe while he was in this mindset you could slip away

Dante was surely not too far behind-

An arm slides itself in a familiar manner across your shoulders

Nearly instantly making your stress melt away as red leather and the overwhelming scent of blood, sweat, gunpowder and cheap cologne invade your senses

You’d never thought you’d be this happy to smell Dante’s disgusting ass work Oder

Something that he knew got on your nerves when he got back from a job and would chase you around trying to give you a big hug

Just so you could smell the disgusting mix of scents under the excuse of “come here and give me some sugar, i missed you honeypie. Oh how the hours dragged on and on from my departure-“

Every time he did it you had half the mind to choke him out but instead you alternated to spritzing him with water like a cat

It worked surpassingly well

He even ended up hissing sometimes like a disgruntled cat, though you assumed that was either his inhuman traits peaking out or him playing along with the bit

The ropes that rubbed so uncomfortably against your wrists the entire time that it slowly became a numbing pain

It��s notable though when the rope is cut and falling to the floor with a small thud

Allowing you to see the redness of chaffed skin that would probably blister

Before Dante addresses his brother he seems to take a careful moment to look you over

Blue eyes tracing your body though not with his usual joking flirtatious edge

This time it’s worry

Anxiety that looks too foreign to be on his overly confident face

You step behind him when the two begin a verbal exchange

A verbal exchange that once more become psychical while you watch again from the sidelines

Mentally halfway through you kinda check out from the exhaustion

It’s been a way too long…however many hours you’d been stuck here

To be fair you had better things to worry about like survival than trying to figure out just how long you’d been kidnapped

And then an unfamiliar shot rings out

Not from ebony or ivory

But instead a new smoking barrel from a familiar face beside you

Two toned eyes stare at you in a mixture of surprise and confusion

Holy shit-

“Mary?! The hell are you doing here?!?”

“We’ll talk later.” She briefly looks at you but then directs her angered gaze to Vergil “You force my father into this and kidnap my friend?!”

she joins the fray despite being told off by Dante

Joining in on the battle with a certain rage in her eyes

Two toned eyes that you now realize were the same as Arkham’s

You think you now get why she talked about her mom and not her creepy ass dad

Wait that means that means her mom was-

Clapping then rings out

The familiar grating voice of the jester filling the stone chamber

His annoying voice mocking Mary and then Vergil as he makes quick work of the two

And in the brightly coloured demons place once more is Arkham

Keeping up the creepy performance before changing back to the jester and slamming her face into the ground

You yell out for her, wanting to race over but Dante holds you back

A look in his eyes that makes you pause

exhaustion that rivalled your own

He’s been fighting whatever was thrown at him up to this point

Stabbed, impaled, clawed, shot at and everything else your mind can picture

Not to mention him just duking it out with Vergil moments before the clowns arrival

As the long nosed bastard pointed out, their both weak

Something even more apparent as he then curb stomps Dante into the ground

The impact of which sends you flying to the floor like everyone else in the room

He switches back to the bald bastard

Explaining why it didn’t work despite the two halves of the amulet and some sort of blood of Sparda

Apparently they needed the blood of a priestess just as Sparta did to seal off the demon world

Something that is then quickly remedied with the bastard stabbing his own daughter in the leg to obtain it

Because she had the blood of that sacrificed priestess, due to her being that woman’s descendant

Red streams through the small canals in the floor of the room to the centre

Pooling like a ruby lake

He monologues more as the jester about his plan of making sure everyone duked it out

Then turning to you with a yellowed grin

Apparently he kept you around as an entertainment factor but grew tired of how Vergil kept you alive for some reason

Something he chides the half demon for

But he’s tired of you

The one rogue misstep in his elaborate scheme

Something he was going to make quick work of correcting if not for the 3 others in the room getting the jump on him

But a red glow fills the room

A platform rises and he ascends as everything shifts

He kicks the others off the stage but you

Leaving you clinging to consciousness as it ascends

You reach out a hand with blurred vision hoping for anyone to grab it

At the top of the tower Arkham boasts of becoming the new god of this world

Statues surround the circular platform as he struts around

But not before giving you a good kick in the gut

The strength of which sends you rolling across and hitting the pole that begins a mechanism to pull up several bells

Bells you’d once thought to be statues

Looking behind you see city lights twinkle like stars dotting the night sky

Clouds circling around

How you haven’t yet died from the oxygen being thin is beyond you but you attribute it to either demon nonsense or adrenaline pushing you past average the human limit

Maybe both

Blood spills out your mouth in painful coughs

Of course he had to aim for the lungs

And while you cough he says you should be grateful

Grateful to see the new god of this world before he ends your existence

Grateful you get to be the first sacrifice of many

Grateful he’ll do it in front of Dante to give you a chance to say goodbye

What an ass

The sky shifts as he names the seven deadly sins

A hellish portal opening up above and letting red aura flow down into him

Surrounding him as the wind howls and demon screeches join in a symphony

He begins to float and your left to cling to the support holding the bell

His laugh echoing out as he ascends

It makes your stomach curdle

Doesn’t help afterwards that you begin to follow him upwards as well

You nearly puke

Son of a bitch-

The demon world isn’t what you expect it to look like

Less fire and brimstone with the scent of rotten eggs and smoke

But more like weird impressionist painting of jutting stone, flowing water, diamond-like sky and purple

Just purple

Blue and red

A irony not lost on you

It would’ve made you laugh in a mixture of hysteria and dread if you weren’t 90% sure that his kick earlier broke a rib and it was currently jabbing slightly into your lung

Something even more apparent when you drop down and land harshly on a jutting slab of stone

Talk about a rough landing

And rough time for your lung because that rib has definitely now punctured it a bit more

Dear god if you survive this your hospital bills were gonna be abysmal

Arkham stands not far away in the form of some sort of demon

Large imposing horns and insect-like wings

He monologues about how this was Sparda’s true form

It explains why Dante who just joined the show seems less than amused at the spectacle

Even having the nerve to call him a backed up toilet

That gets a laugh from you, a laugh you regret a moment later when you nearly cough up a lung

Damn your hysteria making stupid decisions

And damn Dante for actually being funny for once

The fight between them is a blur once more

Clashes of swords

Yada yada

Your vision is getting a bit more blurry than you’d like to think about

Black dots appearing at the edges of your sight

But you find the will to stand

To get up

To try

Because what else can you do beside laying there

This entire time you couldn’t do anything but be a punching bag, hostage, potential therapist and yelling for Dante

If you were gonna die you might as well die trying

You get up just in time to see the fucked up copy of dante’s dad melt away into some amorphous blob of spasming shape

Purple and glowing

And plain ugly and kinda more pathetic than anything

This is what he spent years obsessing over

What he scarified his wife for

What he nearly killed his daughter for

God you hated this guy more than anything right now and all you wanted was to see him die

And by god would you try to kill that fucking clown if it was the last thing you’d do

“Dante! Got any spare guns?”

Briefly turning away from his fight with the blob he sends you a smirk “Sure thing honeypie! Curtesy of lady!”

He throws you the weapon you’d seen Mary with earlier, some sort of canon. Her blood still stains the bayonetta in which Arkham stabbed her in the leg with, a reminder of who’s place your also fighting for “this one time I’ll let that slip! Don’t think it’ll happen again though you ass!”

With Dante taking an up close and personal approach it distracts Arkham from you

Too occupied clearing the bigger threat than the sniper

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t messing him up

You aim with your admittedly unsteady vision when he’s about to get a hit on Dante

Distracting him enough for the red coat devil to evade and get a hit in

Dante can’t help but make a few quips here and there

Somehow finding ways to make even the shitiest of situations the butt of the joke

It was perhaps his greatest talent

And perhaps his greatest cooping mechanism

Though beside trauma responses you’d 100% agree the complete joke of what was Arkham

The punchline though is when Vergil arrives just in time

Putting aside even his weird rivalry with Dante to beat arkhams ass

Though not enough to not talk about retrieving his rightful power

Baby steps?

Well whatever it’s something you guess

At least he isn’t stabbing Dante again and hurtling down into hell with you thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes

The two work together nearly seamlessly to take him down

Stabbing into the blob that is Arkham as you shot yet another shot at him

All this combines in making him flail around

The twins push their respective swords through him to the others side

Either grabbing the others sword

Hacking and slashing once more at the pathetic excuse for something that was once a man

With only a shot left you line up a your final shot despite how shaky your body is

Waiting at the right moment as the twins of Sparda slice at him once more

And you pull the trigger

Sending yet another explosive shot at him

He screams out

Dange pulls out ebony and ivory, spinning them before looking briefly over his shoulder to send you a smirk

It gives Arkham enough time to send ebony out his hand though luckily Vergil takes it

Sending his brother an unimpressed look

But still sending the briefest of glances your way for a split moment

A smirk on his face as well no matter how minuscule it was

“I’ll try it your way for once”

“Remember what what we used to say?”

“DoNt dO iT”

“Do it!”

Vergil crosses ebony over ivory, you see both twins smirk

“Jackpot”

The bullets swirl around one another like ribbons

Creating a blinding light as they collide into Arkham

His final words once more about having the power of Sparda

He dies like a pathetic loser, shocking really

The man who obsessed over a dead guy for years, sacrificed his wife and attempted to kill his daughter died as a pathetic blob

You have to agree with Vergils dry remark of his final words not being classy

It gets a chuckle from you as you scale down the stone debris while ebony is tossed back to Dante

The odd spirit water surges around your ankles as Arkham melts away

Becoming nothing in the end, a fitting fate for someone like him

Above a gaping hole where the water pours into The two amulets and a sword fall into a abyss that both of them jump into

But not before Vergil grabs you to drag you in with him

Again

“Motherfucker again?!? Come on-“

The moment Vergil’s feet splash on solid ground your let go off and fall very not so gracefully to the ground

He runs to the sword before Dante can get it

Pulling it from the ground and gazing at Dante’s half of the amulet that his twin was able to snatch

Two pairs of Blue eyes narrowing at one another

“Give that to me” he extends out his hand motioning for the amulet

At that Dante looks at the necklace before tucking it behind him “no way, you got your own”

Children, both these men were god damn children

Getting up from the demon water you safely decided to limp off to the side

You smell a fight coming just like how you can smell rain before it pours

You’ve gotten your wish of helping kill the clown, now your letting them finish their business

It already felt as if you were intruding as it was

Better not get involved

“Well I want yours too” the sword is pointed out to Dante as the two circled one another

“What are you gonna do with all that power, huh? No matter how hard you try, your never gonna be like father” that taunt even from your distance seemed to piss off Vergil royally with how you see his grip tighten on the demon blade

“You’re wasting time!” He makes the first move, running with the blade held ready to strike yet there’s no clang of metal hitting one another hitting your ears all the while water coursed passed them, rushing off the cliff down into the unknown of hell itself. Instead both caught the others swords with their bare hands.

“We are the sons of Sparda!” Both begin to push the others blade back “within each of us flows his blood but more importantly his soul!”

At that both successfully push the other away

Sending water spraying everywhere

For a moment Dante’s eyes connect with your own

You see a spark in them you hadn’t seen once before

“And now my soul is saying it wants to stop you!”

“Unfortunately our souls are at odds brother” Vergil raises at hand up to his eye level clenching it dramatically as he continued “I need more power”

Did these two both go to acting school at some point?

Was being melodramatic as hell a demon thing?

Because this was borderline Shakespeare level dramatics

Or maybe you were hallucinating this due to the blood loss

Or because you were tired as all hell

Or maybe because you weren’t paid enough to deal with this-

“And we’re supposed to be twins”

“Twins…right”

They might not see it but you can definitely see how their both twins with how overly dramatic this all was-

Blades clash and the smell of iron and gun smoke fill the air

Blood flies

And your left to watch it all from the sideline

The adrenaline was beginning to ware off as the pain of your body sets in

Every breath felt like glass was pressing in your lungs

Jabbing at every inhale and exhale

Blood being coughed out in between the flurry of gunshots and swords clashing

God this sucked

You think back at your entire life up until this moment and wonder if this was worth it all

Back to your childhood filled with expectations already laid on your shoulders

The loneliness of parents who brushed your passions aside in favour of a letter on a piece of paper determining your worth to them

The way in which high school was stress upon stress with few things to relive it

Things like Mary’s company and the few electives you got to chose of your own volition

No complicated science equations or mathematical formulas to memorize

Just your own passions

Like that poetry class

And then it comes back to that night

Collage applications in their hands that they tore in front of your face

The ones you had picked on your own

The fighting with your parents

The way they threw you out without so much as a second thought

Just saying to come back when you became sensible

When you’d abandon your dreams to pursue what they’d decide for you

How you could see in their eyes they expected you to come grovelling back after about a week

Begging for them to take you back in

But then came that rush of resentment

You wouldn’t let them win

So you moved on

Tried to live because that’s all you could try to do

Even if it meant dropping out in 12th grade to try and find a job to cover for an apartment and necessities

Even if it meant abandoning everything else to at least try and make ends meet

Even if it meant getting rejected from place to place until you found that fateful advertisement

And the pain in the ass of a boss you were currently watching brawl with his brother

The same boss who made you laugh

Who walked you home on late nights and looked after you that one time you got sick

The red coat wearing idiot who’d always offer you a slice of pizza or spoonful of his strawberry sundae

Grinning all the while

The boy a the same age as you yet had lived more than a lifetimes worth of fear and trauma, the same one who’d cling to you in moments of silence like you were his only lifeline

And maybe he was yours as well

Anchoring you when all the thoughts of doubt began to set in

Of what you lost when leaving home

But then pulling you back to realize you didn’t loose much at all besides Mary

Because you never really had a home, nor parents or security

You just had yourself and the weight on your back

A weight now gone letting you decide what you wanted to do

No matter how stupid it was to stay at a store that still didn’t have a proper name

No matter how idiotic it was to stay with Dante with the risk because

He was the one person who hadn’t abandoned you

Who didn’t give up to save you from this nightmare tower

Maybe if you’d stayed with your parents your life wouldn’t have ended up this way

You’d be stuck as a lawyer or doctor but you’d have avoided this

Probably later on settled down at 25 with a match they’d set you up with

Expecting grandkids by 29 or something

All the while you lived like with a good paying job and maybe a decent person you’d have to deal with for at least the next 40 years

Yet Somehow the thought of that left you more unhappy than your circumstances now even with all the pain

Because for as shitty as this all was you’d at least lived for yourself for once

Taken the reigns of your life in your hands instead of them being in another

And you didn’t regret that

Not one bit

Hell, the only thing you regretted was not punching Arkham in his stupid jester face

Because even if you died here in pain and coughing up a lung

At least you died knowing it was your own choices leading up to here and not those of your parents

And that was a lot more satisfying than anything

Especially when you got to meet the dumbass you called both a boss and friend named Dante, meet Mary again and talk about poetry once more

Somehow that had made you happier than anything

Water splashes once more yet there’s no more clatter of swords and your attention is diverted to Vergil kneeling in the muddied water

Blood mixes in it

Though your unsure if it’s from your own or a mix from both from the showdown between brothers

Either way it runs down past Vergil to Dante at the edge of the waterfall

This felt like the end of this all

With heavy difficulty you get up, using a stone pillar to support yourself

“Am I….being defeated?” It’s uttered in disbelief as he stares down into the waters reflection

“What’s wrong? Is that all you got?” Dante moves forward in a mix of mocking and anger, “come on get up, you can do better than that”

With shaky legs you move toward the red stained twin, nearly toppling over when the ground rumbled beneath your feet.

“The portal to the human world is closing Dante.” Briefly he looks to you, something flashing in icy blue eyes as you stood a few feet from Dante using Mary’s gun to keep yourself propped up“because the amulets have been separated”

“Let’s finish this Vergil” there’s a pause “I have to stop you. even if that means killing you”. The look in his eyes is something akin to pure conviction and yet in the small shake of his grip you could see the hesitation he steeled away.

You remember the nights in which Dante would tell you about him and his brother when they were younger

He bragged he’d always won when they’d fight with wooden swords

His bravado and general overconfidence made you remark sarcastically that you were sure that had happened

Getting in response an arm thrown around your shoulder and him resting his head atop yours

A complaint of falling from his mouth yet he still looked satisfied with himself

The same grin

The same blue eyes that peaked past untamed white hair with a certain nostalgic haze

Yet now those eyes hardened themselves

And you can’t help but both hope and dread if he was right

If he really won all those matches as a kid when Vergil readies his blade and Dante readies his own

They charge

Boots creating large splashes

Water rushing past them

Dante running away from you and Vergil headed to your direction near the edge

Both yell while charging yet all you can focus on is the water and sickening slash

Metal glimmers at the perfect angle to create a horizontal line of light

And then red

Red spews across the air and mixes once more into the water

With baited breath you wait and neither move

Until the pained groan of Vergil stumbles from his lips and his necklace clatters along with the blades

He picks it up as Dante puts away his sword

Vergil takes a step back

Clutching the necklace in a near crushing intensity

Trying to convince him this isn’t the way would be for naught with him

Vergil is someone who’d died of his own stubbornness and with his ideals

It’s something both maddening and something you can’t help but respect in a odd way

“No one can have this Dante. It’s mine, it belongs to a son of Sparda!” He takes more steps back towards the edge, shit no-

“Don’t do it!” Despite the pain you push forwards, despite the fact you know you won’t convince him, once more you try

Dante realizes what he’s about to do as well, surging forwards as you did but you’re both met with blade pointed to your necks. “Leave me and go, if neither of you want to be trapped in the demon world” eyes flicked between you and his brother as he clutches the amulet tightly “I’m staying, this place was our fathers home”. He gets closer to the edge, nearing the tip off point. He leans back as you and Dante move forwards, hands outstretched to try and grab him. Though one is cut whilst the other is left untouched.

Staring down as he’s encompassed by the unknown of hell you keep your eyes locked with his. Though he was an ass, an egocentric focused on a vain goal of his own pride you still can’t help but cry for him as your knees hit the hard rock and you reach your hand out despite the fact he’s too far gone to save. Because for as much as he detested his humanity, he was undoubtedly human in the most tragic sense. He was human in his pain, human in his hate, human in the way he held a passion for old poetry and longed for connection even if he’d never admit it. And he was certainly human when in the last moments before he disappeared into darkness his eyes stared deep into your own. Widening ever so slightly at the fact you still outstretched your hand to him, that you cried for him despite it all.

In those eyes in those last moments you see the human longing for companionship, of not wanting to be alone anymore. Whilst in your tear stained ones he sees the truth of the matter. You wanted to save him. Both here as he plunged into hell and back when you warned him of opening Pandora’s box, you did it because you wanted to save him. Because For some foolish reason you cared for him.

(And that sticks with him far more than you’d ever know)

Blood stains your shoulder as he places a hand on it

The one Vergil sliced yet was healing and closing into a faded memory if not for the slice on the glove as well

It snaps you from staring down into darkness, hand still reaching to grasp a hand that you’d never hold

It closes tightly, leaving crescent indents in your palm

“Let’s go” his words remain empty. Gone is his usual playfulness or lighthearted tone. Just empty and desolate.

Quietly you nod, getting up once more despite the pain with a small grimace

You’d rather not let him know right now how injured you are

He lost his brother again for fucks sake

Hiding your limp and the strain of carrying Mary’s weapon you watch him pick up the sword he and Vergil raced to obtain earlier

It’s not triumphant in any sort of way

It’s just a tragedy

One giant tragedy of two brothers

The sky back home is darkened by clouds as the destruction of the tower and demons loom like a veil of grief

Wind blows through now abandoned buildings

And silence permeates just about everything besides yours and Dante’s footsteps

You nearly cry when you see Mary

Her mismatched gaze locking with yours after a brief moment of surprise

“Phew, What an ordeal” Dante acts nonchalant but you know he’s hiding his hurt. Mary’s canon is slung over his shoulder after he saw you struggle in carrying it awhile back. “You’re still here?”

“I need that back” her eyes leave yours to linger on her canon before returning to you “and I need some answers from you later”. You nod, and Dante goes to hand her back the canon-

He pulls back at the last second “no late charges I hope. I also let them borrow it as well though seems like they already have the friend discount”

Mary hums, “I’ll think of your charge. But for them it’s free”. Getting back her weapon she handle it with care, slinging it onto her back.

Dante moves and you stand beside him watching the sky, “we should be fine for now. But I’m sure they’ll be back soon, very soon”. Your hand grips his coat sleeve, and you feel his arm shake slightly.

“Are you crying?”

“It’s only the rain” the answer is immediate and yet despite the cloudy sky no water poured.

“The rain stopped already Dante” it comes more like a pained wheeze which gains a concerned look from both of them. They look like they’re gonna stop their conversation but you just grin in a silent gesture for them to continue. they need this, Dante needs this, and you won’t let yourself be the reason they stop.

“Devils never cry”

“I see….maybe somewhere out there even a devil may cry when he loses a loved one. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe…” there’s the slightest bit of hope in the response that makes you smile ever so slightly as you grip on his coat goes slack and your legs give out.

Distantly you hear both of them yell your name before succumbing to darkness.

As a kid the only activity your parents signed you up for that you enjoyed in any capacity was choir

It was a pastime that had you away from under their thumb

A small haven from the empty crypt you called a home

It felt nice being apart of something as a collective and not on a stage alone with the spotlight solely on you

All the other activities they had signed you up for were individual

So the attention was on you constantly

If you messed up it would be noticed

And if you faltered for even a moment their eyes would scowl from the crowd

But in choir it was different, You harmonized with others

Joining together no matter how small your role was to create a beautiful symphony of noise that echoed in the halls

A lot of what you remember is just vague notes and melodies

Latin dripping from your tongue and becoming garbled to the sands of time

But you can’t help but think back to one song though

It was old and fractured and broken

You couldn’t remember the lyrics but you did remember the melody and solemn organ

your choir teacher at the time insisted you all try it

At least to give it a chance despite its broken nature

That melody of garbbled sounds you’ll never know the meaning to stuck with you in the depths of your mind

And even when you forgot how you knew the melody in the first place it had remained

That minute long chorus into some greater song dances in your mind once more

You hum to it

Singing with it as though you were back in those piers in white robes and little angel wings

A halo of golden tinsel above your head

But in that mass of voices you hear a familiar one

Dante-

It pulls you from unconsciousness

At first you feel before you properly understand anything around you

Soft material under you

Something heavy but warm laid over you

And the rough material of bandages compressing your chest

Distantly you hear the song quietly sung

And then comes sight and your met with the sight of the wrecked store

The jukebox is busted

Pool table in two with the balls scattered on the floor

Desk splintered in half

Drum set and guitar smashed in the corner

The fan was in pieces on the dirty and broken floor

Yet somehow miraculously the couch you were on was alright minus the greasy pizza stains you’d failed previously to wash out

Trying to sit up is met with instant regret, a sound of pain escaping you

The material covering you that you now realize to be Dante’s jacket falling off to the ground

The song stops

But with that came the jingle of a familiar chain to a necklace guarding a key to the underworld

“Easy there, you need to rest up before you start trying to do anything. Doctors orders”

Gently, hands that had killed so many demons and spilled such blood pushes you back into laying down properly

Then draping his coat back over you

Thankfully it seemed he had the foresight to wash it

A small victory

“How do you feel?”

“I’d say like hell but that be ironic”

That gets a small chuckle from him

On the small couch he sits himself by your legs

Not sitting in his typical spread out manner to ensure you have enough space to laze comfortably

“Where’s Mary?”

“Mar- oh right lady. She’s off to get you some prescription. I opted to stay here and make sure you didn’t wake up and start trying to fix the place when half dead” the last part comes out a bit harsh but you guess you kinda deserve that.

“Ah…what’s with you calling her lady?”

“Said she preferred that now….that Mary died a long time ago”

It goes back to an awkward silence

Your mind racing with thoughts

His as well with how he tapped his finger against his leg

Silence permeates with nothing to fill it

It’s uncomfortable

Not like the silence you’d used to have sparingly with him, especially when he once had a need to fill it with something

Yet again a tactic he used to defuse nerves

But now there’s nothing

He wants to say something

He always wants to talk but now he genuinely wants to say something

Yet he holds back

Let’s it die in his throat when he tunes his gaze to you

Guilt creeping up in him evident by how he quickly then averts his gaze

Unable to look at you

There’s a moment it looks like he wants to reach a hand to you

To place it on your leg as a means of comfort

Yet he hesitates Pulling back as if his touch would burn you

All the while you lay on the couch with him by your feet

This feels so weird

You want to move but you know the reaction and answer you’ll get

So you lay there

A pillow propped up against the arm while his jacket acted as your blanket

And silence permeates for minutes on end as he sits there

Observant and looking as if a single sound would send him into fight mode

A bit paranoid even for his traumatized teenage mind

The juxbox is broken

So there’s no way he can play something to calm himself down

A habit you noticed when he was particularly stressed

But maybe-

“Were you singing earlier?”

Your voice feels raw, you hadn’t noticed it until just now

Like you had garbled sand into glass

You can’t sing like this

But maybe he could

“Yeah, why?”

“What….what was that song you were singing?”

“It was something my mom taught me, uhhhh something like “devils never cry”? They made it into a kick ass rock song-”

“I learned it in choir class, it was my favourite. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it….can you sing it for me Dante?”

He quirks a brow “you’re full of surprises you know. I’m not gonna lie and say I remember it well or that it’s accurate because I think it’s a translated version I was taught. but, whatever the patient wants I guess…All days, I'm looking in the Deep water flowing into me, Where are all tears, are they fallen? Tell me why I feel them in me? One day, they'll tell me what I'm exactly, Tears don't fall, I'll never heal them”

Mary- er lady helps with Dante in taking care of you

Apparently after you passed out the two had rushed to a hospital while dealing with demons

And your prediction of a rib poking into your lung was correct

A bit too correct for your own sake

Safe to say the bills were expensive and in the crossfire of all that your apartment wasn’t exempt from the destruction the hell tower you now learned was called the “temen-ni-Gru” had caused

Aka your building was destroyed in the madness and now you had to find someplace else to crash

You’d be more upset if you had more to move and mourn

But honestly you had bare necessities

And your apartment admittedly sucked so much so you were already looking for another place

So for now you were crashing at the store

That now finally had a name

Devil may cry

A fitting name and much more easy to use instead of “the store”

Like you’d had to use for months up to this point

Made you sound ominous when you said you worked at “the store”

Anyways

The two took shifts and turns

One staying while the other went out to do whatever

Presumably killing the few straggler demons that didn’t go down with the tower

Dantes been more silent than usual but at least for now you excuse it

He lost his brother and now he had to look after you

Not exactly a fun combination with the fact of the store needing to be fixed

But with that comes talking with lady

Catching up on what had happened

And finally the talk you’d both been needing to have

One seemingly long overdue when she sits down beside you

Hands folded and the canon you now knew as Kalina Ann propped up on a folding chair

You’d have to add buying new furniture for dmc to the list of stuff to do later

“So….why’d you do it?” Lady is quiet, her words more like a secret than anything

“Do what?”

“Run away?”

So they told People you ran away instead of them kicking you out?

You aren’t exactly surprised but did they really think it would make them look much better?

A sigh voluntarily leaves you

Depending on the lengths they went missing posters might be up

You hope to whatever god there may or may not be that they wouldn’t that go that far

But considering this is the first time you’d stood your ground against them and didn’t come crawling back…

Well, control freaks will do what they can to reel you back in no matter the cost

Especially since they were hinging on a cushy future in which they retired early and relied on you as an atm

“Sure running away, that’s definitely what you call throwing your kid out to the curb because they won’t become a lawyer and saying not to come back until they changed their mind” the tone is slightly bitter but not aimed to her, moreso the circumstance

At hearing that you see her mismatched eyes widen a bit

Pits of Emerald green and ruby red peering into that of your own

Seeing truth and bitterness stew in them

But at their core was sadness and hope

Bitterness at the memories

Yet a hope for the future

Something she’d never quite seen in your eyes

And it’s something you can’t see in hers anymore

For the whole she’d been looking after you it’s been present

Looming over the girl that had been your friend

Grief

Loss

And an overarching sense that she’s on the brink of collapse

Can’t blame her either

Not after whatever she’s been through up till now

All on her own after her mom died left to stew in anger

Only for now the grief to hit her full force for not only Miss Ann

But also for the memory of what once was her family

For her kind mother whom she talked about in earnest

Who despite never meeting you always packed extra snacks for Mary to share with you

For a father there but always absent

Nose stuck in his studies whom she talked of in hopes of earning his attention

Until that faded as years passed

And what’s left is a bitterness to the man who took everything

Who tried to kill her

Who killed her mom

His own wife

All for the sake of an obsession that would be for nothing because ultimately he only experienced the power he wanted for mere moments

Leaving Mary the unfortunate victim in it all

You don’t have the right to continue complaining about your parental situation to her

Not with what she’s experienced

Not with what she’s lost in such a short period of time

But her eyes are what stop you

Brimming with emotion

Two toned eyes of emerald green and ruby red

They shine like jewels too

Pretty and glimmering in the dull lighting of devil may cry

“Why did you never tell me how bad they were to you?” Her question is quiet at first but gains volume from a faint whisper to a steadfast tone as she then asks “why didn’t you come to me when you were kicked out?”

“I just….at school and with you I wanted to be normal. I didn’t want to think about what’s at home when I walked through the doors I wanted to be my age for once, and I felt that way only with you till now.” As for that second question, it’s a bit of harder thing to admit to her let alone yourself “i was panicked…I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t want to be a burden-”

“Burden?” It’s uttered in disbelief “how can you think like that! You’re never a burden to me! I was worried sick and they said you ran off! And I was alone and then I lost my mom”she pauses at that, going suddenly quiet as the words died in her mouth.

Your not really sure what to say after that

Neither is she

She just stays motionless besides the shake in her hands

In all your years of knowing her you’d never seen her like this

Even when she scraped her knee on the playground

She’d always been strong

Always held back tears even when her boyfriend in first year dumped her just before winter break

Always had been the strong shoulder for you to lean on when you were upset

And yet that girl is gone

Mary is dead and lady is what’s left of that girl

The bitterness

The resentment

the overwhelming grief of loosing both her parents

And most importantly the loneliness of it all

And your left to hold those pieces of her

Both emotionally as she breaks from the strenuous weight of everything crashing on her now

And physically as you push past your discomfort and pain to hold her close

She hesitates for a moment

Unsure and unsteady

But eases and pulls your closer

Holding you as if you were her last lifeline

Because in a way you are her lifeline

You are the last good thing from Mary’s life that still remains

And though that girl is dead, lady clings to that barest pinprick of light

Because when being born again from rage and anger with her revenge now satiated

What more does she have?

“I…I’m sorry” she’s desolate, quiet and a tad withdrawn until you pull her close. She’d always been the one you leaned on, but Mary was gone and it was time for you to repay the favour to what’s left of her.

“No, I’m sorry too. I should’ve contacted you, did anything sooner….i was scared and wanted to start over now that i had the chance. I should’ve thought of how you felt”

She’s silent for a few moments, but draws herself closer into your embrace. “We’re both pretty messed up huh?”

You can’t help but laugh a bit at that. “Yeah…guess we are. But we have each other again, and I think that’s what matters most right now”

She nods, and that’s all that needs to be said

….Well besides “I can get revenge on your parents-“ and “how about we talk about that later Lady”

He’s distant and stuck in his head more than before

It’s something that most wouldn’t notice since he tries to act like his typical self

Lady falls for it, though reluctantly because she doesn’t know him well but writes off why his smiles don’t reach his eyes

But you’d known Dante for about a year now

You’d known him long enough to notice when he’s off

It’s in the way his jokes aren’t the same

How he can’t properly look at you as he did before, with a sense of ease and joy that’s now damped

The drumming of his fingers and the thump of his boot against the floor creating soft creaks in the hardwood

you can tell whatever he didn’t say before was eating away at him

This wasn’t just grief (though that was still heavily apart of this) but rather something else that you can’t name until he was honest with it

Now, you wouldn’t particularly call yourself a confrontational person

You’d rather roll over than raise your voice or objection to your parents until that fateful night

And even then you mostly stood there being yelled at

You’d hardly name that a battle of words

But when it came to you, you wouldn’t do much to stand up for yourself

But this wasn’t about you

This was about Dante

And for as much as you could rot in silence like a forgotten fruit at the back of the fridge, you wouldn’t let Dante do the same

Not with how you see it absolutely eating at him

Just as it did to you before

Because you can see yourself so badly in him

And it hurts more than your currently broken chest

So when it’s finally his turn to stay with you while lady was out you take the chance

Because you can lose your apartment, your cold childhood home and what little shit you had

But you couldn’t lose him

You wouldn’t let him slip through your fingers and plunge into a different darkness that was all to similar to that of the hell Vergil voluntarily fell into

Not if you could do anything about it

“You’ve been more quiet as of late…”

“Really?”

“Yeah…”

It goes back to silence for a few minutes

This idiot isn’t taking the bait to air out his thoughts

Maybe you’d have to go the direct route instead

“So….are you gonna tell me what you wanted to say a few days ago?”

“Who’s to say I had anything on my mind”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at that, then reaching over to grab his shoulder. He was gonna run and you’re not letting him. “I know you well enough to know when you stuck in your head about something Dante…just please be honest and tell me. I don’t like seeing you distant like this”

There’s a pause in his actions at your touch, whatever was compelling him to run being stopped in his tracks. And then he answers “why’d you not say anything?”

“About what”

“Your injuries! You were hurt and on the brink of dying and you didn’t say anything about it!”

“Dante you had just lost your brother. You had other things to deal with-“

“And I could’ve lost you too on top of that as well! Because I didn’t notice you were on the brink of dying and you didn’t say anything!”

His eyes are clouded now in tears, glossy and making the blue shine like jewels

In any other scenario you’d admire the beauty in them

Yet all you see is pain refracted in the pools

Dante looks less his age and more like a scared little boy

But maybe that’s what he’s always been at heart

A scared boy still trapped in that hiding place as the house burned around him

Arms wrapped around himself to try and feel the fleeting warmth of his mothers touch

Loss drenches him to the bone

And you now realize that you’d nearly made it worse by brushing it off

But you can’t be fully to blame

Not when all your life you’d been raised to push away your own feelings

Your pain for others around you

And yet now he wants you to bare it to him

To ripe yourself open at its most tender

Because he was scared for you

Because he truly cared just as lady did

“You nearly died because of me, you were dragged into this because of me. Because I was selfish and couldn’t let go even when I knew it’d be dangerous. I….I shouldn’t have….you’d be safer if you left. Found another job and got away from here” it come out as a quiet whisper from him, his hair overshadowing his face and obscuring his eyes. You’d known him well enough though to know they were brimming with tears. You knew at the end there was also the unsaid notion of “away from me” Did this goof really think that after all this you’d leave? Knowing how much pain he was going through and had admitted to you he was scared of being alone again. Shaking your head your hand finds his, fingers linking together.

“You’re an idiot you know? You think I’m gonna leave you here when you still need me to remind you of the overdue bills? This place would go under if not for me. I’m not going anywhere”

“I’m being serious here for once-“

“I know damn it, but you listen to me for a minute before you get it all up in your head and make a decision without my input” it’s a bit sharp but you need to right now, he’s spiraling and already trying to decide to push you away. With a groan you slowly lift yourself up, getting a sound of protest from him before you silenced him with your open palm telling him to stop. Hesitantly he does so, watching you struggle but eventually sit up, hand clenching his. “I’m happy here Dante”

“Your happy here?” It’s spoken in disbelief. Maybe all your bitching had made him think otherwise but you did enjoy your time here, you wouldn’t trade it for the world or whatever cushy future your parents wanted. “Your happy here after all this? After you nearly died because of m-“

“I’m gonna stop you right there. We’ve had this conversation before and I didn’t know then but I know now why I want to stay despite the risks. Dante I never really lived before now. My life was made up for me and my outcome was predetermined before I was kicked out. And sure, maybe staying here is dangerous” you think of that future if you’d stayed and done what your parents wanted, an older unhappy version of you staring blankly in your mind “but danger is apart of life, you can’t live without it. And I’ve never been more happier, more free than I am here. So no, I don’t care about the danger I’m staying…understand?”. You see his eyes, they’re brimming with tears and more emotions than you can processed. But beneath it all you see Dante. The kind annoying dork who like his brother longed for companionship. His lips upturn ever so slightly as your free hand not entwined with his gently finds itself cupping his cheek, thumb wiping away a tear he didn’t realize had fallen.

“I’m staying and I don’t intend on leaving anytime soon even when things get dicey….understand?”

“Yeah…loud and clear honeypie”

You let the use of that horrid nickname slide once again with only a roll of your eyes. You’d never admit that it maybe made you smile, something you’ll deny vehemently when he inevitably brings it up later. But for now at least it’s ok.

You’re both gonna be ok.

“Hey Dante?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s good to be back”

…….“good to have you back hon-“

“Finish that sentence and I’ll make you sign all the work orders required to fix this place”

192 notes · View notes

lastofdanny · 3 days ago

Text

under your skin | part two

pairing: manny alvarez x f!reader, enemies to lovers

summary: tension fills the air as you and manny struggle with your feelings after the kiss.

a/n: thanks to everyone who read and liked part 1!! ♡ reader is kinda annoying in this and i loved writing manny as a softie (that couldn't be more far from reality lol. why is he so hot???? really like WHY) anyway, i had never written something so long in english before since its not my first language so i struggled a bit w this ending and for that i want to thank @littlemsramirez for the suggestion to the story ! i hope you all enjoy. i have a few other manny fics coming soon, so if anyone has ideas/requests u can send them to me ♡

part one

After the kiss with Manny, everything had shifted. Sure, you hadn’t talked about it. You didn’t really know how to. But every glance, every touch, even the smallest brush of your hands against his seemed to carry a different weight now.

But the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about him. And with it came flashes of the first days with Manny: how smug he was when he first introduced himself, calling you cariño before even knowing your name, the way he always found a reason to sit too close or brush past you with that infuriating grin.

You remembered thinking he was the most annoying person you'd ever met — loud, cocky, relentless. But even then, before you’d admit it, part of you had started to look forward to seeing him. Maybe that’s what made it all so confusing — maybe the kiss wasn’t so sudden after all. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had always been something more, something deeper you hadn’t been willing to face.

The thought left you unsettled, and you quickly shook it off. Whatever it was — whatever it had become — you needed to stay away from him before it got even messier.

But the worst part is that Manny wasn’t the type to just let it go.

“Morning, mi amor,” Manny’s voice sounded behind you as you walked into the base one morning. The familiarity of it made you tense up before you could stop yourself. You didn’t even bother turning around, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground as you grabbed your gear.

“I’m busy,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Is that so?” Manny asked, feigning confusion. “You didn’t look busy when you were staring at the floor there. Maybe you were just thinking about that kiss, huh?”

You clenched your jaw, your heart skipping a beat at the mention of it. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you refused to let him see it.

Your hand gripped the strap of your bag a little tighter. “You need to stop.”

“Make me.” His words were casual, but the challenge was there, in the way he spoke.

You ignored him, walking away as quickly as you could without running. But as you did, you could feel his gaze on you. As always.

The next few days were an endless loop. You did everything you could to avoid Manny’s teasing, even making a point to take different routes to patrol, staying busy with paperwork or helping others with tasks. But no matter what you did, his words and presence still lingered in the back of your mind.

You could feel the tension between you two every time he was near. It wasn’t just the teasing or the flirtation. It was the unspoken understanding that there was something more. Something neither of you were willing to admit.

"I see you’re trying to avoid me now, huh?" Manny said one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you passed. His voice was light, but the challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

You gritted your teeth. "And yet, here you are, annoying me again."

He chuckled, and said, "You know, if you want to pick up where we left off, all you have to do is ask."

Days later, the two of you were alone in the woods, in a patrol you tried your best to escape from, but didn't succeed. Manny’s boots crunched behind you, obnoxiously loud on purpose.

“You’re really gonna pretend it didn’t happen,” he said casually, “or are you just waiting for me to bring it up?”

You didn’t turn around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That kiss. Y’know. The one where you practically melted into me.”

You shot him a quick look, heart pounding. “Manny, don’t start.”

“Too late.” He picked up the pace until he was at your side, grinning. “I mean, technically, you started it. You’re the one who pulled me in.”

“You kissed me,” you snapped without looking at him. He ducked under it, still talking.

“Oh, sure, but only after you gave me that look. You know, the one like you were two seconds from tearing my shirt off.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was a mistake.”

“Ouch.” He followed, voice dropping into something slower. “Didn’t feel like a mistake. Felt like something you’ve been dying to do for a while.”

You stopped walking. So did he.

“That was just adrenaline,” you said flatly.

He stepped in front of you now, cocking his head. “Right. Adrenaline. Just a little life-or-death make out session. Totally casual. Happens all the time.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you getting all tense every time I get close to you?”

“I’m not tense.”

You scowled, trying to brush past him, but he shifted, blocking your path.

“Just admit that you’ve been thinking about it. About how good it felt.”

You stayed quiet.

“I know I have,” he added, a little softer now. “More than I should.”

Your heart betrayed you with a hard, stupid thump.

“I haven’t,” you lied.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. But you're not fooling anyone.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“Adrenaline, huh? I’ll keep that in mind for next time we’re in a life-or-death situation. Maybe I’ll kiss you again — you know, just to test the theory.”

You stood in front of the roster board the next day, eyes scanning the new patrol assignments. When you saw Derek’s name next to yours, a strange mix of relief and anxiety settled in your chest. The tension with Manny had been building, and switching partners had seemed like the only option to avoid it. But as you stood there, the weight of your decision hit you.

“What’s this? You've got a new partner today, cariño?”

You turned to find Manny walking up to you, his usual grin firmly in place, though this time, there was something sharper in his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

Derek showed up a minute later, all eager confidence. “Hey — guess we’re paired up today. Should be an easy loop.”

“Who put this on the board?” Manny asked, his eyes never leaving you.

“I volunteered,” Derek said. “She wanted to switch.”

Manny’s gaze now flicked between you and Derek, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little, keeping his tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of something much deeper.

“I see. You sure he’s the best choice?” he asked. “I mean, after our... incident the other day, I thought you’d want to spend some more time with me. You know, to work things out.”

Your cheeks flushed at the mention of it, but you refused to look at him. “It’s just patrol, Manny,” you said, a little too defensively.

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out. “Big step. Hope you warned him you have a thing for kissing your patrol partners.”

“Manny.”

“What?” He grinned. “Just trying to keep the new guy informed. Wouldn’t want him getting caught off guard when you lean in all dramatic at sunset or whatever.”

You crossed your arms, your face burning. “Please. It was just a kiss.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just for you. “Yeah. A mistake, I know.. Just adrenaline. But you keep running from it. Are you afraid it might have been more than that, cariño?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Manny just smirked, straightened, and gave Derek a mock-salute.

“Have fun with him. Just try not to spend the whole time thinking about me.”

With that, he turned and walked off, hands in his pockets — but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder. That look said everything his teasing didn’t: he cared. Maybe more than he wanted to show.

After the shift ended, you were walking back to the trucks when you heard his voice.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” Manny’s voice had a sharp edge now, and you could feel the weight of his frustration in the air.

You stopped, but didn’t look at him. “Doing what, Manny?”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path, forcing you to meet his eyes. The tension in his jaw was unmistakable, and his usual easy smile was completely gone. “Acting like I don't exist. Switching partners like it's nothing.”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You thought I wouldn’t care?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up — not like this, not out here where everything felt too quiet, too exposed.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You did it on purpose. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. No check-ins, no eye contact. Running away every chance you get. Saying it didn’t mean anything to you, when we both know it did.”

You finally looked up. The hurt in his eyes was worse than the accusation. He wasn’t just mad — he was confused, maybe even a little heartbroken.

“I just thought it’d be easier,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. “Because it sure as hell hasn’t been for me.”

Manny stepped closer, his boots scraping the dirt underfoot. “I don’t get it,” he continued, softer this time. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything” you lied, your voice coming out more shaky than you intended.

“Then what is it?” he asked, voice quiet now, like he was waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“Nothing!” You said it louder than you intended, but the words came out before you could stop them. “I just... I need space.”

Manny stepped closer, his face softening, but the intensity of his gaze didn’t let up. “I don’t want space,” he said quietly. “I want you. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to say it.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to collect your thoughts, but Manny's eyes, so steady, so unwavering, held you captive.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing your cheek as you felt the warmth of his touch, the tenderness in the movement, and it made your breath hitch. Your heart beat harder, faster, like it was trying to tell you something, something you weren’t ready to hear — or maybe you were just afraid to.

“Manny,” you whispered again, but this time, your voice was softer, uncertain. Your mouth went dry, and you felt exposed in a way that both terrified and thrilled you.

“I know you feel it too."

The air between you pulsed with tension, with closeness, with the weight of every unsaid thing. And then, suddenly, it broke — he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was firm, full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. His hands cradled your face and his mouth moved against yours like he was trying to convince you that whatever you were running from didn’t have to win.

The pressure of his lips became more urgent, more sure. His hands found your waist, pulling you just a little closer, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you for even a second longer. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, caught in the warmth of the moment, the intensity of everything left unsaid.

When the kiss finally broke, your chest heaved, both of you gasping for air. Manny’s gaze softened but didn’t lose that same intensity.

“Let me know when you want to stop pretending,” he murmured, his voice low, almost defeated. “I’ll be waiting.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling in the quiet space between you.

The days following that confrontation were long and silent. Manny’s words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of everything you’d been avoiding. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore them, the reality set in: you couldn’t run forever.

You didn’t see him much after that — the missions kept him busy, and you distracted yourself with your own work, hoping that the distance would somehow make the confusion go away. It didn’t. If anything, it only made the ache in your chest grow sharper.

Then, the message came.

Manny's hurt. He’s not coming back with the rest of the group. When you heard it, all the words you hadn’t been able to say to him came rushing back, and the urge to find him, to make sure he was really okay, was too strong to ignore.

You reached the rendezvous point, your heart pounding as you scanned the area. The place was too quiet, and you felt a spike of panic rise up your spine, but then you saw him — sitting against a rock, looking far too calm for someone who’d supposedly been injured.

His shirt was ripped, a trail of blood ran down his cheek, and a few scrapes marked his arms — but nothing too serious. You crossed your arms, masking the rush of relief with a sharp tone.

“What the hell, Manny? They said you were hurt! What are you doing just sitting here?"

Manny chuckled, not even bothering to get up. “Oh, you know. Just a few scratches. Nothing I can’t handle.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked up at you, clearly enjoying the fact that you were so flustered. “Though I gotta admit I knew you’d come look for me, cariño.”

You felt your heart pound in your chest. “I wasn’t looking for you,” you shot back, trying to keep your composure. “I was just… checking up on you. You know, because they said you were hurt.”

He leaned back against the rock, a cocky smirk on his lips. “Sure you weren’t." He gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“How’d you know?” you asked.

“What?”

“That I’d come look for you.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time til you got tired of running from me. You weren’t fooling anyone trying to push me away.”

“I wasn’t—” You started, but he cut you off.

“Yeah, you were,” he teased, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’ve been doing it for weeks, pretending like you don’t care. But I could tell. It was written all over your face. Then I’d figured it wouldn’t be long til you came to it.”

You swallowed hard, his words hitting you harder than you expected. He was right.

“I’m sorry,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I just didn’t know what to do.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? A confession? Are you about to pour your heart out to me, cariño?”

“Shut up.”

“Too late,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You sighed, the words trembling on your tongue. “I was just scared. Because it all did mean something. It always has. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Manny was quiet for a second, his gaze softening. Then his lips tugged into a slow, teasing smile. “So you do like me. Interesting.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Can’t you be serious for a second?”

“No, no — this is important.” His voice was weak but playful. “I want to hear you say it. For the record.”

You leaned down slowly, pressing your forehead to his, feeling his breath fan warm against your lips.

“I like you,” you whispered. “And if you ever do something that reckless again without me there to yell at you after, I’ll..”

“You gonna punish me, cariño?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, “Mmm, I think I’ll take my chances. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing what you have in mind.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you and pressed your lips to his, silencing that smug grin in the best way you knew how. The kiss was warm, firm, and laced with everything you’d been holding back. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer with a low, pleased hum. When you finally pulled away, his eyes were half-lidded, his smile softer but no less playful.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, his voice light. “But hey, I’m not complaining. About time you realized what I knew since day one.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re really proud of yourself right now, huh?”

Manny leaned in just a little, his grin lazy and smug. “Of course I am. I always knew you’d come around eventually. I’m very persuasive.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling your constant flirting and ridiculous nicknames?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

He softened then, just enough to let the truth slip through. “I’m also in love with you. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

Your breath caught.

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in his eyes. “Just putting it out there, cariño. You don’t get to be the only one making dramatic romantic confessions.”

Despite your best efforts to stay annoyed, a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“To resist, yes” he teased, his lips brushing against your neck.

You sighed dramatically, but your heart betrayed you, speeding up at his proximity. “I guess you’ve got me, then.”

“Good. Cause I’m all yours, cariño.”

tag: @littlemsramirez @sithdaya ♡

#manny alvarez #danny ramirez #tlou season 2 #manny alvarez x you #manny alvarez x reader #danny ramirez x reader #danny ramirez x you #danny ramirez fic #the last of us #tlou fanfiction

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fuctacles · 11 hours ago

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The drinks Steve had make them stop at a gas station midway back. Wayne doesn't intervene when he sees Steve stroll inside, but when he leaves and detours to the left, he raises his eyebrows and stubs out his cigarette to follow him.

He finds Steve with a payphone pressed into his ear. Letting the curiosity get the better of him, he leans against the wall nearby, and when he gets spotted, Steve smiles wide and wiggles his fingers at him. Wayne wiggles back, realizing Steve may be more drunk than he thought, so he comes closer.

"Who are you calling?" he asks in a whisper.

"Eddie," Steve answers, leaning heavily against the flimsy piece of plastic shielding the phone from the elements. Before Wayne can react, someone picks up. "Hi Eddie," Steve croons into the speaker. "No, we're alright, I just wanted to talk to you--We're having fun." His eyes meet Wayne's while Eddie is talking into his ear. "Why can't I sleep with your uncle?"

Wayne presses his lips together. He hopes it doesn't end up in a bigger argument, because no matter what his dick may think, his relationship with his nephew comes first, always.

Steve motions him to come closer. He hesitates for a moment, but steps into the cover of the phone booth.

"You can do what you want, really," he hears Eddie's voice on the other end. Even through the line, he sounds pissed. "I just don't want shit to be weird after. How are we supposed to hang out if I know you fucked Wayne?"

With a slight delay, Steve nods against the receiver.

"But I'm--" He licks his lips, conflicted, glancing at Wayne again. "Eddie," he sighs, whines almost, like he's asking for something.

Wayne frowns, now wondering if there's something more than horny hormones fighting for attention in Steve's brain.

"What?" Eddie bristles. "You're what?"

Steve huffs in frustration.

"I trust Wayne," he says eventually, eyes darting to the man in question and cheeks going pink.

There's silence from all three of them.

"He's a good man," Eddie agrees with a sigh. "Just... Whatever you do, I don't want to know about it."

Steve frowns.

"I won't do anything that would upset you." In his periphery, Wayne nods in agreement, though he doesn't seem to want to let his presence be known.

"Dude, I'm already upset!"

He winces.

"Okay, fair. " He wets his lips, thinking how to appease his friend. "We should hang out, just the two of us. No Wayne, no Robin, no kids."

"Sure. That would be fun." He doesn't sound appeased at all.

The phone beeps in his ear, letting him know his time is up.

"Okay, uh, see you soon."

He hears Eddie make an affirmative noise before the line cuts off. Wayne eases the receiver out of his hand to put it back on the cradles.

"He'll get over it. Come on, let's get you home."

Steve doesn't seem thrilled at the idea, but follows Wayne to his truck anyway.

Once on the road with no safe way to jump out of the car, the older man clears his throat.

"You said you trust me, on the phone."

"Mhm," Steve doesn't look up, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket.

"What's that about?" he prods.

It takes a while for him to answer.

"It's about men. Obviously," he scoffs tiredly. "I make a move on the wrong one and get my teeth kicked out."

"So I'm a convenient queer, huh?"

"What?! No!" Steve turns towards him, but lets out a relieved huff seeing his small, teasing smile. "You're cool and nice, and a good looking guy. Are you fishing for compliments?" he quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Well, if you're offering them..." The man grins. "You're not so bad on the eyes yourself."

Steve snorts, looking away to hide his blush.

"Thanks."

"Can't wait to tell everyone the cool kid thinks I'm cool, too."

"Don't be such a dad," Steve laughs, and the atmosphere finally lifts.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"It's been a while for me, but I know some bars we could go to," Wayne offers as they approach the Welcome to Hawkins sign. "You could find someone else to trust. And I could make sure you're safe."

Steve's been dozing off, but suddenly feels wide awake.

"You'd be my chaperone at a gay bar?" he asks incredulously.

"More or less," Wayne nods slowly.

"Why?" Steve frowns. "What do you get out of it?"

"Peace of mind? Knowledge that one more queer kid is being safe?" He half-shrugs. "I may not be an active part of the gay crowd, but we should still look out for each other. And I feel partially responsible, as the first man you made a move on."

"Gosh," Steve grins sheepishly, feeling warm inside from Wayne's words. And outside, around his cheeks specifically. "You're such a dad."

"Shush, kid."

"This is not helping my crush, for the record."

"Oh, it's a crush now?" Wayne smirks.

"Shush, dad."

"I'll remember to mention it at your engagement party in a few years."

Five years later

"Oh no." Steve watches Wayne stand up from the table, hesitating with the spoon he's holding against the glass before deciding to go with the good old fashioned whistle to attract everyone's attention. A sudden memory flashes through his mind, but maybe...

"Now, don't worry..." Wayne sounds like the two drinks he's had already hit him. Steve told him he doesn't need the extra shots in them, but he didn't listen. "I'm not about to spring another mushy gushy love story on ya." He grins and someone, probably Max, murmurs a thanks to god. "But I want you all to know that this started because Steve was trying to hit on me five years ago."

"Oh god," Eddie groans next to him, sliding down in his seat.

"And my boy got so jealous he barely spoke to me for a month. Tragically, it took him another month to figure out he's into men."

Someone snorts and Wayne grins. Only the top of Eddie's head is visible over the table now.

"Exactly! But we got here all because of this," Wayne points a thumb at himself, "hot old man."

And he winks, terrifyingly, at someone on Steve's side of the gathering. He doesn't catch who, though, but maybe that's for the best. There's a fiancé he has to fish from under the table anyway.

tags: @blasvemous @wheneverfeasible @phantomcat94 @divinelyjude @marklee-blackmore @ajeff855 @holyangelstudentuniverse @dauntlessdiva

#half assed conclusion so i have peace of mind #still might write the stayne version and the in between of eddies struggles #well see #but its mermay and i wanna write some merfucking too #steddie #stayne #stayne stranger things #wayne munson #steve has a crush on wayne #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #mine #steddie fanfiction #jealous eddie munson #i dont wanna work i just wanna flirt with yo dad

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wheels-of-despair · 21 hours ago

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Welcome Home Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Honey, they're hooome! Eddie and Evil Woman are back from their honeymoon and ready to move in together. Contains: Lots of cleaning, lashing out, memories of childhood trauma, getting busted, and as always, a happy ending for all. Words: 3.3k

A crunch of gravel.

They're here.

"Are we good?" you ask, skidding on the recently re-scrubbed kitchen floor as your eyes dart around the room. Two car doors close.

"We're good," Eddie confirms.

Footsteps on the porch.

A knock.

You and Eddie look at each other, out of breath from your rushed cleaning, and share a nervous smile. You nod. He opens the door.

"Welcome to our humble abode!" he announces, stepping aside to usher your mom and Gareth inside.

At the start of the summer, just a few days before your wedding, you and Eddie had put down a deposit on a trailer in Forest Hills. The renting family was planning to move when school let out, and the place was yours as soon as they vacated. You'd spent a few weeks honeymooning at Rick's hunting cabin and exploring Indiana in the van, and when finally you came back to Hawkins… the place was yours.

"It's… nice," your mom lies.

The previous tenants had cleaned it out like The Grinch on Christmas in Whoville. They'd taken every last lightbulb, and apparently wanted to show their landlord what they thought of him by leaving behind every piece of garbage they'd ever accumulated. It had taken five long days of scrubbing and hauling trash and leaving every door and window open for you to give your mom the okay to come over.

You didn't have anything but cleaning supplies and some makeshift furniture inside, including a few lawn chairs you swiped from a curb next to someone's trash cans, but dammit, it was home.

"We're gonna put a couch here, and a TV over here eventually," Eddie points proudly. "And the kitchen table here." Your kitchen table is currently a piece of plywood precariously balanced on a bucket, but you hope your mom appreciates his vision as much as you do. "Let me show you the kitchen!"

You let Eddie lead the tour of the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. That's all there is. You weren't crazy about it the first time you stepped inside, mostly due to the smell, but you and Eddie spent a week busting your asses to make the place presentable. This is going to be your home, and dammit, you're going to make it into something you can be proud of.

"What do you think?" Eddie grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulders once you return to the living room and have the space to do so. You snake an arm around his waist and give him a squeeze. Eddie Munson is almost as proud of himself as you are.

"It's cute!" your mom smiles. "I bet those curtains we had at the old house would really brighten the place up!"

You nod, fondly remembering the yellow flower print. Probably not the aesthetic Eddie would go for, if given the choice, but who are you to refuse free anything?

"I'll see if I can find them when I get back home," she says happily. "They're in the basement, somewhere. I have some lamps you guys could use, too!"

"Thanks," Eddie beams.

"Let me look at this kitchen again," she says, already on her way to inspect the stove and the rattling fridge. "We've gotta get you some pots and pans!"

"You're being suspiciously quiet," Eddie says to Gareth, who is standing in the middle of the living room with his arms crossed. "Are you not impressed?"

"It's a piece of shit."

Eddie's face falls, and you feel it in your heart.

"What?" Mom asks from the kitchen, whirling around and staring pointedly at her offspring. They hold eye contact for a few seconds.

"It's a piece of shit," he says again, louder, planting his feet and doubling down on his scowl.

"You're a piece of shit," you counter, stepping forward, ready to deck him.

"Don't," Eddie warns, holding you back.

"HEY!" your mom barks, making you all freeze.

"Apologize."

You're not sure which one of you she's talking to, but you are absolutely not going first.

A blonde blur stomps past you and out the front door, slamming it behind him with enough force to make the walls shake. Good thing you don't have any pictures up yet.

Your mother heaves a sigh. If you had curtains, they'd be blowing with the force of it. A car door slams.

"He didn't mean it," she says.

You seethe, glaring at him through the open and curtain-less window. He's sitting in the front seat of Mom's car, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

"It's not that bad," Eddie defends.

"It's not about the house, honey," she says gently, touching Eddie's arm when she approaches. "Your new home is great, and I'm proud of you both for doing all this on your own. He's upset because he doesn't want her to leave."

"Why would I ever want to leave such a sweet and loving baby brother?" you deadpan.

"You've been his best friend and protector for sixteen years, smarty-pants," she rolls her eyes. "Eddie?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Why don't you take me home so my children can work this out amongst themselves," she suggests, placing her car keys on the kitchen counter. "I'll teach you how to make lasagna. You two can join us when you've made up."

You nod, knowing better than to argue.

Eddie snatches his keys off of the makeshift table and gives you a quick kiss before following your mother out the door. You wait until the van has disappeared from sight before approaching the car where Gareth is still fuming.

You reach for the driver's side door handle, and he flies across the console to push the lock down. You reach for the back door, and he stretches back to lock that, too. He gets the two on his side for good measure.

"That's very mature of you," you note.

He flips you off.

You fish your mom's keys out of your pocket and dangle them in front of the window where he can see it. When you aim for the lock, he leans back over and holds it down.

This could go on for hours.

So instead of breaking off a key in your mother's car door and leaving your poor husband a widower this soon, you pocket the keys and sit on the hood with your back to him.

He'll break eventually. He'll get hungry or get bored or have to get out and pee. And then you can beat some sense into him and drive him home in time for dinner.

Much to your surprise, it's not creative ways to kick his ass that are on your mind. It's your mother's words: "You've been his best friend and protector for sixteen years, smarty-pants."

She's not wrong.

"Remember when we were little, and Mom and Dad used to fight, and you'd come hide under my bed?" you ask, not bothering to turn around and see if he's listening or not. "I'd be listening to them and waiting for door to open and the light from the hall to shine in. Then you and Bear would creep in and crawl under the bed and I'd take Mr. Buttons by the ear and lower him down to the floor to protect you."

You haven't thought about that for a very long time. You can still picture that ratty old teddy bear that Gareth carried around until it fell apart, and the cream-colored rabbit with button-eyes that you gave to him the day there wasn't enough Bear left to hold. Unlocking one memory seems to unleash a flood of others, and your chest aches as everything comes back to you.

"Do you remember The Bite?" It's a struggle to say it loud enough so that he might hear. You don't remember the whole incident, but the parts that are still with you are vivid.

"You were wearing a green and white striped shirt with a yellow collar." You swallow, closing your eyes and trying to remember. "I was in my room and I heard you screaming. I opened my door just in time to see Dad dragging you down the hall by the collar. That's what I remember. The veins bulging in his hand, clenched around the back of your shirt. You were… I don't know, three or four? Tiny. He had to lean over to avoid picking you up completely. Dragging you down the hallway, slipping and sliding and fighting every step of the way. I told him to leave you alone, but either he didn't hear me or he ignored me. And then… I remember my mouth filling with blood. Just… utter surprise. I don't know what I thought would happen, but that wasn't it. But I bit his arm and I wouldn't let go, because he wouldn't let you go. I don't remember what happened after that. I don't remember spitting it out or cleaning up or changing clothes. But I remember a few days later, I heard him tell someone on the phone that he got bit by the neighbor's dog, and I remember the feeling of satisfaction… and then wondering if I was going to Hell for it."

You wipe away the tear you just noticed rolling down your cheek. You feel his weight shift. The car door squeaks open, and shuts gently. Gravel crunches. He leans against the car, near where you're sitting, but you don't dare look at him yet.

"I hope he still has that fucking scar," he mutters.

You snort, sending a stream of snot down your lip. You swipe at it quickly, then turn to your baby brother. You don't care how old he is; that's how you'll think of him, always.

"I'm not leaving you, dummy."

"You kinda are," he argues, not meeting your eye.

You shake your head.

"We're just a few minutes away. We're gonna see you all the time."

"It's not the same."

"It's better."

He scowls, and you smile.

"You don't have to watch us suck face as much," you offer. "Instead of threatening to move, you can just tell us to go home."

"Like you'll listen to me," he grumbles.

"We won't," you laugh, "but you can still try!"

He groans.

"You wanna know the best part about me gettin' hitched?" you ask.

"What?"

"Eddie is now legally obligated to offer you the same protective services I do," you smirk. "Under pain of ass-kicking. Courtesy of moi."

Gareth lets out a snort of laughter, and you strike fast and wrap your arms around him before he can squirm away.

"I'll always be there for you, Baby Bro. Whether you like it or not."

"Fine," he sighs.

You'll take it.

"Ready to go home?" you ask, pulling away.

He looks at the trailer, then back to you.

"Sorry I insulted your house."

You hesitate before asking: "Wanna know a secret?"

He nods.

"You're right."

"I'm what?"

"You're right," you sigh, sliding off the hood. So does he. "It's a piece of shit. But it's our piece of shit," you give him a light shove, "so watch your fuckin' mouth."

"It's not that bad," he grins.

"We had to do a sweep before you got here to make sure we hid all the mouse traps and roach motels."

"Ew."

"The people who lived here last were disgusting," you confess. "Eddie went in the bathroom when we first got here and gagged and wouldn't let me in there to see why. The windows and doors have been open for days, and it STILL smells like bleach and hot garbage."

"Really?"

"Yeah," you sigh. "I bought a pack of air fresheners this morning and we hid them everywhere so you and Mom wouldn't notice how bad it was. We keep saying 'we'll let it air out one more night' and sleeping in the van instead. We're paying rent for the fucking driveway."

"That's fucked up."

"I'm aware."

"Why here, then?"

Why here? Because you can't afford anywhere else, obviously.

"They're remodeling the mansion we bought in Loch Nora," you snark.

Gareth scrunches his nose.

"It's not for forever," you shrug. "We'll survive. Don't tell Mom."

"Why, would she be less than thrilled about her favorite child living in squalor?"

"Squalor?! Look at you, learnin' fancy new words!" you tease, giving him a shove. "Get in the car, loser, let's get you out of this bad neighborhood."

"Was it always bad, or did it just get that way when you and Eddie moved in?"

You shove him against the side of the car, and he bounces off of it laughing.

The drive back to your mom's house passes by in a comfortable silence.

"You guys make up?" she asks when you step inside.

She glances at you, but your focus is on Eddie. He's wearing an apron splattered with red sauce.

"Shut up," he orders before you even speak, brandishing a sauce-covered wooden spoon at you.

"Yes, dear," you answer, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Yeah, we're good," you tell your mother. "Right, butt-for-brains?"

"Sure thing, heifer."

"Oh, good, things are back to normal," Mom says sarcastically.

You all sat down for a normal dinner that felt just like old times. But when it was over, instead of joining Eddie on the porch for a smoke and a long kiss goodnight, you got in the van with him and went home.

Eddie killed the engine in the driveway and stared at the front door. Your heads slowly swiveled toward each other at the same time.

"One more night?" he asked.

"One more night," you echoed.

You're having a nightmare about being eaten by rats when a loud noise jolts you awake. Eddie hears it too, because you've both tensed and grabbed each other. You can't see much in the dark, but you know his eyes are as wide and terrified as yours.

Think, Evil Woman. Where are you? The van, in your driveway. Who are you with? Eddie. What's happening? You have no fucking clue.

Three more. It's knocks. Someone's knocking on the van. You're still too scared to move, but Eddie crawls toward the back door on his knees. He unlocks the door and cracks it open. The blinding sunlight streams in, making you both reach up to shield your eyes.

When your eyes adjust to the brightness, you see your mother.

"Good morning," she says, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head so you can see the not-amused look in her eyes. "We need to talk."

Half an hour later, you and Eddie are sitting at her kitchen table staring at a plate of muffins that you have no desire to eat. She's sitting across from you with her hands wrapped around her favorite coffee mug. You have no idea what she's going to say, or why she told you to come here, or why she showed up in Forest Hills this morning. You do know that Gareth has been dropped off at Grant's, who just came back from a vacation with his mom, so at least he doesn't have to witness whatever this is.

"Have you been sleeping in the van every night?"

"That's what we did on half our honeymoon," you shrug. "It's basically home."

She heaves a sigh and leans her elbows on the table.

"I lied."

You and Eddie both look up in surprise.

"I don't like the new place. I don't like the feeling I get when I'm there, I don't like the aroma, I don't like the chain-smoking lady in curlers who sits and glares from her window into yours, and I don't like that all the clean-up was piled on you two."

And what does she want you to do about it?

"What if I found you somewhere better?" Before you can protest, she adds, "with better neighbors and lower rent."

You and Eddie glance at each other, and then focus on her.

"It's close, it's affordable, and it includes access to a working fridge and a washer/dryer… but it does come with certain strings attached," she says, taking a sip of her coffee.

Strings? What strings? Why hadn't you heard about this place before you dropped a deposit on Satan's Taint?

She stares at you, then at Eddie, then rolls her eyes to the ceiling and leans back in her chair.

"For cryin' out loud, children, it's the basement," she groans. "I want you to move into the basement! The strings are that you need to hang out with your brother! That kid has been absolutely miserable all summer. You two disappeared, and then Jeff took off to tour the college he got into and hang out with a cousin that lives nearby, and Grant's been on a cruise with his mom. He is miserable when he's alone, which means I am miserable, and you two are going to fix it."

"Mom, we're--"

"Upgrading," she cuts you off. "You will be paying rent. Significantly less than Roachtopia - you forgot to hide the trap behind the toilet, by the way - but this isn't charity. And it isn't permanent. This is so you can save up enough to move into somewhere you actually like. This is you helping me keep my sanity."

You glance sideways at Eddie, and are relieved to see his eyes twinkle.

"This is too much house for just two of us," she continues, like you're not already sold on the idea. "If you really left, I'd have to consider downsizing. And what would become of my garden? What of your goldfish?"

"Mom," you laugh, "calm down, you're gonna hurt yourself."

"You see what living alone with him has done to me?!" she cries. "It's been a month! Imagine two more years!"

"Okay!" Eddie laughs. "You win!"

"I do?" she grins.

You look at Eddie, have a silent agreement, and turn to her and nod.

"Thank God," she sighs. "Okay, some ground rules!"

"Ground rules?!" you ask indignantly. "How long have you been plotting this?"

"Since you got your college acceptance letter," she says matter-of-factly. "I figured it was either let Eddie move in here, or let you move in to Wayne's. There's more room here. I wasn't counting on you two actually putting down a deposit somewhere else without telling me."

"Really?" you ask.

"Yeah," your mom chuckles. "Wayne and I knew there was no keeping you apart after you were finished with school."

"Aww," you and Eddie say together.

"Shush. Ground Rule #1: I do not want to ever hear you having sex."

"MOM!"

"NEXT!" she changes gears abruptly. "I've grown quite accustomed to coming home to find dinner already made. I would like that to continue, please."

"Aye aye, captain," you salute.

"Next up, I want to see you both saving money. No more caviar or diamond jewelry. The swimming pool will have to wait."

"Check," Eddie grins.

"There will be no drugs in this house."

You waited just a second too long to "okay" that.

"What did I just say?"

"No drugs in this house?" you ask.

"Mhm," she hums, giving you a meaningful look. And then Eddie. He looks terrified. You can't wait to tell him that the key words were in this house. She is an occasional customer of his, after all.

"I reserve the right to modify these terms at any time, for any reason. Any questions?"

You glance to Eddie and share a smirk.

"When can we move in?" you ask.

"As soon as you move out of the House of Horrors."

"Let's see…" Eddie ponders. "A bucket, a sheet of plywood, and some stolen lawn furniture that's already falling apart. You think any of that's worth going back for?"

"Nope," you grin. "Guess we're home."

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman #eddie munson

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sqgeism · 1 day ago

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𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐢 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞 (𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭) | love and deep space men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; kinda mad that i didn't take a stab at it ! lads men (zayne, xavier, rafayel) and the habits they've built because of you.. oh, and you broke up (＾＾；)

love mail — added synopsis !! lads debut lads, debut :3 my favey is zayne so if it looks obvi ignore that... (author hasn't played since release be warned for inaccurate depictions.) also i'll be writing for caleb and sylus soon! i just wasn't playing on their release so i wanna do the og three! (^_^) also i'm finally home so layout coming back soon!! love you all :3 do we like the new pfp or do we go back?

zayne hasn't seen you in weeks.

why would he? even if he wishes upon every shooting star that passes by his lonely, office window, you aren't coming back. the hunters already transferred you to a new doctor, he won't be seeing you till he closes his eyes and prays someone up there is kind enough to let him dream of you.

it's selfish, he knows. but who will be around to judge him? the house is empty, his bed is cold, and he can't do anything to change that. he aches, he yearns, though zayne has long sealed his fate. he knows he can't have you, not in any universe where the curse follows, which is every single one.

he still looks, despite this. every cafe, every cat in a tree, drawn to check out every dangerous situation in hopes to catch a glimpse of you. when a client came into his office, they asked about the photo of you he still kept on his desk, proudly on display — even though it shouldn't. it's is only way of seeing you, and he needs it, desperately so. the only thing that kept him sane all this time was the way you glowed so effortlessly. he misses that shine, the light of his life, but he'd rather drown in darkness than let you worry about his curse ever again. his worsening winter inside is nothing compared to the coldness in your gaze towards him now.

xavier doesn't know how to stop making space for you. god, he wishes he'd stop, but he can't. it breaks his heart every time he wakes up alone in an empty bed or couch, expecting to see your pretty face, only to stare at the reminder that you're gone.

he loathes waking up, getting out of bed, just to see your face at work but it isn't as sweet. it's got that sour look when you look at him, and he can't handle it. he wants to see you smile again, he misses being the reason for such a beautiful expression.. but he isn't anymore.

he can pretend well, wear that face of nonchalance and aloofness like it's all natural. everyone in the agency and on enemy sidelines can't read him if they tried. but you can, you always have. and you can see it all in just those eyes.

despite sleeping to escape his reality; xavier is still clearly exhausted. it's more than drowsiness, it's akin to despair. he can't handle this ache that comes with breaking up. but he knows it's for the best, even if he keeps making space for someone who will never fill it again, he stands firm on his decision. no matter how much it kills him.

"there's nowhere else to put these", is the excuse rafayel pulls when thomas worriedly checks on him. in his studio, on every canvas and paper; it's you. every photo of you imaginable is painted and hung on his walls, like a painter trying to remember a distant muse, cause he is. when rafayel began to slowly lose his perfect depiction of you in his head, he painted in a frenzy, uncaring of how long it took, or the care he neglected, he couldn't allow himself to lose it.

you became his muse at his darkest time, needing something to give him a *real* a heart in his work. and how is he supposed to ever pick up a brush when you were gone? sunsets are now dull, flowers seem to be empty no matter how vibrant, and everything beautiful didn't seem so anyore. not when he's seen how you looked under the moonlit light, under his sheets and steady in his arms. rafayel can't name a single part in his oceanic or luxurious home that could ever compare to you.

he noticed that you still came by his gallery sometimes, but word of mouth is that it's only to check if his very first painting of you still stands where it's always been, the heart of all his pieces.

watching you stand there, in what he can only assume to be a growing bitterness to the painting every day it still stands, hurts him. he's glad he's completely shut himself out, locked doors and closed curtains back at home, because he doesn't want to know what you'll react if you figured out he still paints you every day like you never left.

#ㅤ 𐔌᭥ᩙ༉ㅤnew flower bloomed ! :ೃ࿔𔓘 #lads x reader #xavier lads x reader #zayne lads x reader #rafayel lads x reader #love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads xavier #lads rafayel #lads zayne

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hananan2 · 17 hours ago

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Hello! Can I request for pinky promise fluff with Diasomnia for F reader? For example, reader (Yuu) who said something like “I want to visit xxx” and the boys are like “Okay, I will take you there someday.” Then the reader lifts her pinky “pinky promise?” While staring with hopeful and cutesy stare.

Let’s just say there are no pinky promise culture in twisted wonderland so they did not know what to do, but the boys are already down bad for her already so they thought she is horrifyingly cute while explaining it to them. Thanks! ❤️❤️

YES OMG CUTE!! But omg I can not imagine a world without pinky promises they live in hell🥀 Hope you enjoy!!💕

Pinky Promise…?

A/N: BACK FROM THE DEAD! I’ll die again though, I have testing this full week 💔 thank you for staying with me, I’ll still post, just infrequently, love you guys sm and thank you for the support 💕

Summary: You were rambling with your special boy about something and a promise is made, to which you stick out your pinky finger to his face…but he’s confused, uh how do you explain this?

Characters: Malleus Draconia, Lilia Vanrouge, Silver Vanrouge and Sebek Zigvolt!

Info: Fluff, Romantic (crushes), Fem!reader, silly

CW: Gang signs??? (It was a mistake💔)

Malleus Draconia

Tonight was so majestic. The sky was space black and you could almost see the the stars, their brightness glimmering against a small pond with flowers engraved in, and the best thing, A tall Malleus by you side.

You nightly walks had lead to walking somewhere a bit farther, but it was okay since it was pretty as hell, “It’s so gorgeous out here, wow… I just think this is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You remarked with awe sparked eyes, Malleus on your side looked at you with fondness, “I do agree that this is quite a exquisite landscape, though there is a plenty variety of more enticing views, many of which I have seen in Briar Valley that would perhaps grown fond of as well.” He stated softly, he noticed your eyes sparkling by just seeing this place and he wonders if they would grow bigger and shiner if you saw what he’s seen.

“Ooo Briar valley does look really pretty! I’ve seen my photos and it looks so mythical and magical, it would be really nice to see it in person!” You said with a cheery tint. This felt like a memory of a really old pretty place and it was making you happy, pretty places are really great, but their Better with Malleus here.

Malleus chuckled a little seeing your excitement, he put his hand on his chin and his eyes looked over to look at you as you both stepped on the slightly rocky path, “Then I shall bring you soon, it is even more breathtaking in reality.” He smiled, you smiled. “Really!? Promise?” You exclaimed gleefully, “Oh yes indeed.” He stated, eyes full of love, but they soon fluttered into confusion as you pulled out your pinky finger to his.

He had no idea what to do and stopped walking, you both kinda stared at eachother, no one dare breaking the eye contact, till you felt his hand grab your pinky and hand shake it?? “Oh yes Child of Man, I agree.” He does NOT know what he is agreeing to. “Is this how you humans agree upon something? I can’t I’ve seen Silver do such things…” Malleus trailed off, still shook your pinky.

”Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t have these here… yea it’s a “human” thing, uhm it’s a bit of childish to explain.” You murmured, looking away, you pinky started to get warm. Oh my gosh you’re a baby.

Haha cute. “It’s alright Child of Man, I’d like to know about the human culture, so I think starting off from infantry traditions would be quite helpful.” He said, finally let go of your pinky, but he liked holding it, very warm and small, he wondered what your whole hand would feel like.

”Okay so whenever we make a promise, we intertwine our pinky fingers together and say “pinky promise” to make the promise more meaningful and as a way to assure that it won’t be broken, that’s it honestly.” You informed, you enjoyed explaining it though, you felt smart for once and you were happy he was interested.

You soon felt a warm around your pinky again, but it wasn’t a whole hand this time, just a pinky, intertwining.

“I Pinky promise Child of Man I shall take you to Briar Valley one day.” He said we fondness, he liked this tradition, he felt more connected to you, more like a kid, blending into a personality he didn’t know he had.

“Okay!” You smiled, holding his entire hand, both your cheeks dusted rose. Diasomnia better get ready for pinkies in their face all the time because you’ve sparkled a habit in him now.

Lilia Vanrouge

Here you guys were, going through boxes among boxes, gosh did it never end? Lilia had been trying to find a “secret” item from his past for some reason, but he had hid it away in the boxes of his closet that he brought to NRC. You were there too because of course you were, but also because you were trying to coax the secret out of him

“Liliaa tell me geez, it’s just the past, it can’t be that bad” you groan as you help take out each hefty box, not being allowed to open them to your dismay

“Oh you don’t even know an inch of my past…” he chuckled, annoying, but at least he was going through pain too while trying to find this object, his room a mess, looking like an Amazon warehouse, oh they don’t have these here do they?

“Ughhh” you hiss, grabbing his shoulder, shaking him, “Listen, I pinky promise I won’t tell anyone or get mad, I just don’t like you treating me like a kid and I want to know what your hiding or I’ll assume something realllyyyyy bad!” You stuck out your pinky, hoping for it to latch with his.

“Sigh alright alright… so- what are you doing?” His face was colored with an expression of bewilderment once looking at your pinky. “Wow I didn’t know you hated me so much…” he sighs dramatically, suddenly crossing a hand over his heart and slumping over.

“What? Huh?” You call out, your response getting made with fake cries, “it’s a pinky promise! You never heard of it? Also how is that offensive??” You NEED to know, you actually feel kinda bad.

His false misery ends with him laughing up a storm and you look at him, not impressed. “Okay, okay sorry,” he patted your cheeks while he chuckled one last time, “back in my day, Fae used this sign with their pinkies to call someone a…is alt dumb idiotic fool and a bastard, very offensive, some died from using it to the wrong people!” He explained ominously, looking mischievous.

Well you looked horrified. “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry!! Don’t kill me or anything!! We use pinky promise to make a really secure promise…honestly it’s a really childish thing to do u had no idea it could ever mean THAT.” You apologized rapidly, he giggled. His pinky latching on yours.

“Oh don’t be an overthinker, if was an honest mistake, besides, Fae need to be inclusive to other cultures! Just wouldn’t recommend doing that in Briar Valley…” he trialed off as he shook your pinky with his, enjoying your silliness and tradition, it was nice for soothing for hurtful and bad to be transformed into something positive, and it’s always you who does it huh? Blessing.

“Yes yes of course…but tell me!” You insist, he gives up.

“Okay… I’m looking for A record of one of my most cherished songs…” he admits defeated.“Um. Is it illegal or something? I don’t get why you’re acting like you’ll get a felony if anyone knows about it…” you admit, underwhelmed., pinkies still interlocked.

“Because it’s a cult Classic and I will not let anyone take this master peice of a song away from me! Oh! Here it is, it was sealed off by magic. I’ll give you a listen since I trust you so very much, you should be glad.”

You give him the pinky again, but not for a promise.

“Hey!”

Lets just say, there will be many misunderstandings from now on, but he loves you, it’s okay.

Silver Vanrouge

When your in Twisted Wonderland, you can’t help being curious about everything, today curiosity? Flowers.

So you set off to a small trip to Botanical Garden with your very limited free time, no plan, no directions, just a dream and hope to find something out.

As you steps through all the lush, you suddenly find a flower, oh wait no, it’s just Silver, sleeping peacefully like he belonged in the grass, usually you wouldn’t wake him up, but it was late sooo. “Mm Silver?” You poke his cheek while crouching to his level

“Hm…? Hm! Oh Y/N it’s you, my apologies you’ve found me in this state…” his cheeks tinted as he got caught lacking by you, but was it because of that or something else?

“Your fine, i don’t mind! Just concerned since its getting late, so why are you in here?” You assure, he fixes his posture and looks at you with intent, cheeks pink still.

“Ah, as you know I’ve been trying to find a remedy for my sleeping issues. Recently father had found a book from his ancient archive on strong herbs and flowers that are very effective for potions, so I came here to see if I could locate the items to help my cause, no luck.” He explained slowly, wanting you to understand fully and sound more proper. Whenever he talked to you, he couldn’t help but wanting to talk a bit faster, he needs to stop that.

Flowers? “Oh flowers? I’ve been interested in that topic the whole day and I really wanted to learn more about it! I’m so happy someone’s on the same page as me, that’s so cool!” He loved the way you glimmered when you expressed strong emotions.

He smiled fondly, “I could ask father for you to borrow the book for a bit, if course you’d have to take exceptional care if it and agree to his terms and conditions, but it’s possible.” He stated softly, patting the patch of grass next to him for you to sit closer, you did with joy.

“Really? Thank you, you’re amazing! I will! Pinky promise?” You pointed you finger to him, so now his softness was replaced with something you didn’t see often, a confused Silver.

“Oh uhm…sorry I don’t know if my father has any books about pinky promises, I’ve never heard of that before…” he stared at your finger not knowing what to do, you put your hand down and giggled.

“Oh I didn’t know they didn’t have those here… kinda depressing…sorry! Basically it’s a tradition from my world where when we want to make a strong promise, we use our pinky and interlock them to make it final!” You explained calmly, his calmness rubbing off on you. Silly Billy you are.

“Oh alright, That makes sense, thank you, yes here.” He raises his hand sticks out his pinky, “go ahead, my lady.” Hello mutters serenely as he died from being flustered.

You interlocked pinkies, the touch so small, yet making his whole body pink, and then you felt his body weight on you, silly fell asleep mid promise.

You sit there quietly, enjoying the weight and silence, his silver hair rubbing against your shoulder, pinkies remaining locked.

Since that day you’ve been receiving flowers from little critters more frequently than ever, each carrying a note talking about the flowers significance. And also since that day, he always uses pinky promises because he adores holding that part of you in him. Oh he loves your glimmer.

Sebek Zigvolt

“Okay im going to make a deal with you so good you can’t deny!” You declare loudly to Sebek to match his energy. Set the scene, Sebek and you. sitting in his dorm, thighs slightly touching yes this is important because it’s making you both red! Both of you are doing a collage-poster- board study of some of the best magic wielders in Twisted wonderland, we all know who Sebek chose, but sadly for him, he didn’t know how to use a printer. “Such thing is not possible human since my self control is at its highest and is strengthening everyday!” He responds offendedly to your previous comment, looking at you, because he is mad of course and not because of that pretty face trust.

“I’ll get you VERY high quality and amazing pictures of Malleus…and a secret about him as well…” whisper ominously “If you stop screaming in my ear and treat me like the Queen I am for the time being!” How mischievous.

He is in between unimpressed and impressed. “I can’t know just things about my liege…he should tell me himself…” he curled up into a ball and kid his face, murmuring to himself like the demons in his head ate taking over. (It’s just him himself)

You pat his shoulder to calm him a little, “your not going to get castrated breathe…” you whisper calmly, “what?! No! Ugh, alright! I agree!” He admits. Face red, making sure you don’t see it, but fortunately for your amusement, his ears give it away.

Great! Now you just gotta seal it with a pinky promise! C’mon!” You poke his face with your pinky, waiting for his with a goofy smile. “Stop…” he mumbled, picking his head up. “What is the meaning of this.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “Pinky Promise! I pinky promise I’ll tell you an epic Malleus secret if you behave!” You proudly restate, his mind is shambles at trying to figure this out.

“Is this one of your silly human traditions?” He stares at you with his arms crossed, not looking forward to this.

“Oh my gosh! You don’t know what a pinky promise is? Okay okay so!” You yap about all the meaning and significance of pinky promises with joy radiating from you,. And surprisely, there are no interruptions and only head nods and “hms.” Your joy soothes his hatred for humans, he can’t help go a little soft when he sees you explain something so happily, it reminds him of himself when he discusses Malleus, who is he to interrupt?

“I see I see…I’m not sure if I am willing of doing such silly human traditions but…” Holy mother of Malleus Draconia he can’t help not deny you, his pinky latches to your, squeezing it tight, face facing downwards again due to his face being even brighter, his ears are still a loss cause as they’re tinted red, you don’t ever plan on telling him. You just laugh, you could say he loved tomfoolery.

“Now before you share everything with me, I shall get you some water.” He states clearly in a gentle and quiet manner, when he pinky promises he means it.

Little do you know, everyone shall hear about the tradition of pinky promises now because your he feels the need to share your joy.

#malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge #silver vanrouge x reader #silver vanrouge #silver x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek zigvolt #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #silly #twst x reader #fanfic #malleus #Fluff

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tellingtell5 · 7 hours ago

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Poor Wayfaring stranger: 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x femreader

A/N: Thank you for the support on the first part—I honestly didn’t expect it. Here’s what’s been haunting my mind ever since I wrote it. Hope you enjoy!

Just a hungry greedy soul crossing paths with another.

The parting glass: part 2. (part 1)

Angst. Lost.

You heard your father’s voice as if it were coming from another room—muffled, dulled, like grief had taken up permanent residence in his throat.

“This is my final word, Brady.”

You wondered if it would always be like this now—his body broken in ways that wouldn’t show on the surface. Wounds he couldn’t stitch shut.

“You need to understand”, voice cracking like something ancient. “He was my only son. If only we could say goodbye, just once more—”

“She’s not going to sing again.”

That landed with the weight of a final verdict. No room for argument. Not even from the person whose name still hung unspoken in the room.

You held your breath as silence descended. You didn’t want to be noticed. You just wanted to listen. As if by hearing their words, you might learn what would become of you. What the gods of your fate had decided behind closed doors. The air was thick, suffocating. You almost gasped for breath. Neither of them spoke. They were measuring each other in that heavy quiet.

“There are whispers, you know that?”

You shifted a little closer to the door, trying not to put your full weight on the wood, afraid it might creak. The man’s voice dropped into a hush—low and grave, like even he feared what he was saying might be true. “They say Maud was there, when he sang.”

“Don’t you dare say my mother’s name.”

You flinched. Your father’s fury came like a blade, and you felt it in your chest—tight and unbearable. The grief didn’t go away. You’d have to learn to carry it. To live with the way it twisted inside you, threatening to turn your own body against you whenever it was stirred.

You thought you’d mourned once already, when you were small and your mother left too soon. But that sorrow had been different. Maybe you were too young back then to understand. Your grandmother had stepped in, taken her place, filled in the gaps with quiet resilience.

You didn’t know when your feet had started moving. Lately it happened more and more—you losing control of your own limbs. Since the funeral, you’d begun sleepwalking, rising in the night like some lost specter. Your father no longer slept so he’d stop you each time you drifted toward the front door, eyes wide open but soul elsewhere. Sometimes, he caught you just in time. Other nights, he found you already standing in the doorway, staring into the dark like you were waiting for something.

He gave you a little bell to tie around your ankle. To hear you coming. To stop you.

You never remembered anything when you woke. Just a strange pressure at your temples, and a restless current running under your skin. Mornings were the worst. Your blood simmered like it didn’t belong in your veins. Your heart raced as if trying to pump more than your body needed.

When you reached the room, both men looked at you—startled, almost guilty.

You wanted to speak. To confess. To tell that grieving father that it was your fault. That, broken by pain and despair, you had done something forbidden. Something you never believed would have consequences until it did.

Would he think you were mad? Maybe he'd think your song was a delusion meant to bring his son back. And maybe that would make him more willing to believe. But what would he do when you told him that you were also the reason the town was cursed now?

Since the arrival of that stranger—his words still echoing in your head—every fourth night brought another death. Always the same: bodies drained, some torn apart. People formed search parties, desperate to catch the beast they were sure stalked the night. A curfew was enforced. No one left their homes after sundown.

And you hadn’t told them the truth. That the wolf they hunted wore the skin of a man. That your grandmother’s funeral had damned them all. That your disobedience had summoned the Devil himself.

The man’s eyes were hollow. You fought the instinct to step back. But something changed when he looked at you. A flicker of understanding. Pain mirrored yours.

You knew exactly who his son had been. You weren’t close, but you’d gone to school together. You recognized the curve of his brow, the shape of his mouth. That guilt sat heavy on your chest.

They said he left home before sunrise, the moon still high. He was on his way to work when something found him, tore out his throat. You’d heard they struggled to piece him back together for the burial.

“I’ll do it,” you said. Because you owed him. Because you needed to give something back.

Your father turned toward you like he'd been struck. His face tightened in horror.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

You saw something shift in his expression. Maybe he understood. You hadn’t spoken of it, but you both had come to the same conclusion. Your grandmother hadn’t told ghost stories just to scare children. She had believed every word. And your family had realized too late.

Brady wrapped his arms around you then—sobbing like a man who'd forgotten how. You didn’t know how to comfort him, only that your father watched it all in silent dread.

You almost told him the truth. That this wasn’t just about bringing the boy back, not really. That you had a plan. But instead, you said nothing, only offered him a broken apology through your eyes.

You asked for permission to sing at the wake—at night, not during the funeral. The family had a special pass to be out past curfew. You needed the twilight. Needed that thin veil between light and dark. You claimed your gift worked best at dusk. That the dead listened more clearly when the sun slipped away.

The truth? You had no idea what you were doing. But neither did they.

You excused yourself to prepare. To choose a song. One that might reach him. One that might call him back.

In your grandmother’s room, you counted floorboards, found the loose one you’d discovered weeks ago. Beneath it: journals. Pages and pages of secrets, halted the day she gave birth to her first child.

You picked the one that had sparked your plan. Fingers trembling, you traced the faded ink. The paper was stiff with old tears. You read, your breath shallow:

Remmick grows hungrier by the day. A week’s blood no longer satisfies him. I went to the village witch—we’ve just arrived—and she had no answer. I fear the pact cannot be undone, and I am running out of time. He feeds more often now, though he promised to let me rest. My blood makes him ravenous, not sated.

He doesn’t see how the exhaustion is severing my connection to the ancestors. Fewer come when I sing. Perhaps they’ve turned from me, ashamed I’ve made a deal with a monster. But what choice did I have? I had to stop the killing. Even if it meant losing everyone I loved.

At least they’re safe—from him. From what I’ve become. I write this to bleed the truth out of me. I think he reads me through my blood. I fear he knows I’m looking for a way to destroy him. But here, in these strange lands, no one truly knows what a vampire is.

If I manage to kill him, I won’t use my gift again. I’ll miss my mother’s voice and the warmth of my brother’s love. But I won’t damn anyone else. I won’t tie more souls to this song, this curse that’s brought as much sorrow as joy.

You swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the knot of fear and grief tightening in your throat. Your blood had stirred the moment you read his name—that demon you'd called without knowing. You would finish what your grandmother had begun. You hadn’t only inherited her eyes, but also a gift so dangerous it could summon death itself to your doorstep.

At dusk, you said goodbye to your father. It felt final, though you had no intention of dying that day. Still, it was as if you were heading to your own funeral—the wake of your soul. Maybe it no longer even belonged to you.

When you arrived, every eye turned to you. You couldn’t tell if it was awe or fear. Maybe both. You were sure some of them blamed you, though they wouldn’t dare say it aloud. Not that they tried to stop you—grief had worn them thin, desperate to reach their lost ones, no matter the price. What did a goodbye cost? Would they call you a witch once they'd had their final words?

You refused to look at the boy's body as you took your place near the wooden box. Clearing your throat, you felt the room hold its breath. But you didn’t sing at once. Just like at your grandmother’s funeral, you started with a whisper—a shapeless hum meant to prepare the air for what was coming.

The atmosphere thickened, and the hum you once craved now grated against your skin.

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, no toil, no danger In that bright land to which I go I'm going there to see my father And all my loved ones who've gone on

You had found that song alongside the one you sang the day you chose defiance. A sudden thought lit up in you like lightning—how many funerals had your grandmother sung through? Every song she passed down was a farewell.

I'm just going over Jordan I'm just going over home

You sang for the family, weeping over a boy who never got the chance to grow up. You conjured memories of the days you'd played together—how you ran until your ribs ached from laughter. And before you realized, you too were crying, your voice unraveling into a raw, aching lament.

I know dark clouds will gather 'round me I know my way is hard and steep But beauteous fields arise before me Where God's redeemed, their vigils keep I'm going there to see my mother She said she'd meet me when I come

That’s when you felt it—another presence. One that didn’t belong. The crying faded into soft murmurs, quiet farewells meant to ease the path of the departing. You kept singing, though your voice trembled. You wanted to apologize. To make him understand you were trying to fix things. Then pain bloomed in your chest—gratitude so sharp it bent you over. Somehow, you knew the Brady boy had forgiven you. He was the one comforting you.

You ended the song with the same soft murmur you had begun with, and others joined in—a final attempt to wish him safe passage.

When you opened your eyes, your breath came in ragged gasps. Your gaze locked with that of one of the older women in the crowd. She didn’t look away. Her eyes shimmered, and her lips formed a word you didn’t know. Banshee, you thought.

You apologized for not staying longer. My father will be worried, you told them, though you had no real plans to go home.

You followed the familiar path from the Bradys’ house to the meadow where you used to sing in secret during spring afternoons, the wind stealing away your words.

That’s where you found him—waiting. He wore the dusk like a second skin, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. You wanted to run when a glint of crimson caught your eye. He was watching you. You ordered your heart to stop, to settle, to stop trying to break your ribs with each frantic beat—but it didn’t listen.

When you reached him, he looked calm. Hands tucked into his pockets, the same smile he'd worn on your doorstep still curved his lips.

“Was wonderin’ how long it’d take ye t’break,” he said, the low rumble of his voice thick with that unmistakable Irish lilt. It vibrated straight through you, like it knew the way to your bones.

“What do you want from me, Remmick?” you asked.

You wanted it to come out firm, defiant—but it escaped more like a plea. A yearning you hadn’t meant to reveal. His eyebrows softened at the sound of his name on your lips, and you swore something in his stance shifted. Was he shaking? No—he was perfectly still.

He stepped closer, slow, testing, like dipping his toes before plunging into deep water. When you didn’t move, he stopped just shy of you—your shoes nearly touching.

His scent hit you like a wave. Your skin prickled, and something deep inside cracked open, releasing a hunger you didn’t know you carried.

“I want it all.” His hand lifted, reaching for your face—but it paused, trembling in midair. You were startled by the pull, that primal tug urging you to lean forward and close the distance.

“I came to…” Your thoughts scattered, his eyes pulling you under. Crimson gleamed in their depths and you had to breathe, hard, to keep from drowning in the sensation. “I want to make a deal.”

That grin spread wide again—feral this time. He didn’t bother to hide his teeth this time. You couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a promise.

Why did it feel so natural to offer him your soul? To give him everything? You told yourself it was to end the killing, to quiet the monster smiling inches away. But what if that was just an excuse? You remembered all those nights you’d woken unknowingly, waiting—hoping—for him to come.

“And what have ye got t’offer, darlin’?”

“My voice.” It broke as you said it, and he let out a low, amused sound—almost a laugh.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand reached for you again, and his fingertip traced the base of your throat. The smile vanished. His mouth parted in awe, jaw slack, as if you were something holy. He nodded slowly to himself, lost in thought. You had to stiffen your spine to keep from shivering under his touch.

“And my blood,” you whispered.

At that, his eyes snapped to yours with inhuman speed. His pupils blown wide, brows drawn together, intense.

“Tha’ already belongs t’me.” The words came rough, like smoke and heat. You felt them in your gut.

The caress became a grip—his hand encircled your throat, firm, not cruel. Just enough to claim.

You remembered your grandmother’s faded pages. A deal. She had already offered him her blood—the same blood that now ran in your veins, caught beneath his fingers.

You swallowed, and your throat moved against his palm. The pressure increased, a strangled sound escaped him.

“Tell me, lass… what is it ye’re after, mm?”

His face had softened again, but not his grip. You lifted your hand, gently wrapping your fingers around his wrist, as if searching for some scrap of humanity beneath centuries of monstrous intent.

"Leave my people alone. No more deaths. I'll sing for you. I’ll sing your songs—just stop tearing them apart."

You don’t know why you said it like that. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. But it didn’t matter—he didn’t seem to understand a word. Remmick tilted his head, eyes narrowing like you’d just spoken in tongues.

"Yer people?" His voice was slow, heavy with that deep Irish rasp, like smoke curling through ancient stone. "Do ya even know what ya are, lass?"

Now you’re the one confused. You feel your brow wrinkle, your heart hammering against your ribs in that hollow way that only comes when the truth starts to feel foreign. There’s a whisper of an idea at the edge of your thoughts, half-formed, shifting like fog.

And then he hums—a low, guttural sound in his chest that drags you back to him. He’s watching you now, with a strange, wounded softness that doesn’t belong on a creature like him. Pity, almost. For you.

"Maud kept too many secrets," he murmurs. "Poor thing."

His hand lifts, calloused fingers cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that borders on reverence. He wipes away the tears you hadn’t noticed falling, the pads of his thumbs soft, patient, almost like he’s savorin’ the salt of you.

"Yer granny made a deal with the Devil, and I don’t mean meself. Nah, I was just an afterthought—a mild headache, if ya will. But her grief... it led her to trade her soul, just for a whisper of reunion. And you, m’love... yer what was left behind. The collateral."

Your confusion cracks wide open, heat crawling beneath your skin like fire beneath ice. You open your mouth to speak, but he hushes you with a shudder of sound that coils low in your gut, calming you against your will.

"Yer a song born of sorrow. A creature of mourning," he whispers, and his voice dips—dark velvet, sinful. His thumbs trace over your lips, slow, deliberate. "A banshee."

You’ve heard the old stories—women who keened for the dying, harbingers of grief. But you hadn’t wept for anyone. You had screamed. You had howled. You had fought. And still… something about his words settles too easily inside you.

"I’ll take yer offer," he says at last, voice so close now it grazes your skin like a prayer. "Yer voice, for their lives. I won’t touch another one of yer precious mortals. But yer blood, mo chroí... that was always mine. I’ve come to claim what’s owed."

He leans in, so close you can feel the shape of his smirk before you see it. You tilt your head without thinking, offering. And he chuckles, low and secret, like he’s just unwrapped something meant only for him.

"I never liked touchin’ Maud, y’know. She reeked of hunger—not the good kind." His breath brushes your jaw. "Never once sank me teeth into her. Just had her fill jars for me. But you—"

His voice drops, almost reverent, and his mouth traces the shell of your ear. His fangs graze your skin—sharp, cruel, perfect—and your breath hitches.

"Yer soul begs me to tear ya apart, doesn’t it, pet? Begs me to devour ya whole."

You want to deny it. You should. But no sound escapes. Instead, you tilt your neck further, exposing the soft line of your throat. He growls low, the sound so intimate it coils inside you.

"Do ya know how long I’ve waited for this?" His nose drags up your neck, slow, almost obscene. "I’ve been thirstin’, starvin’—and nothin’ satisfies."

You shiver when his fingers slide into your hair, pulling it gently aside. A sound escapes you—deep, desperate—when his lips meet the throb of your pulse.

"I’ve felt nothin’ since her voice faded from me ears, since her blood stopped callin’. Everythin’ tastes like ash, darlin’."

He drags his tongue over your skin, lazy, languid. Not a kiss—just a claim. You close your eyes, and your knees weaken.

Then he pauses.

"Such a curious creature..." His breath teases your collarbone, and he smiles against your throat. "Don’t hide those sounds from me, mo chroí. Let them loose. Yer voice is too rare to smother."

His fingers tilt your chin, and your mouth parts with a gasp. He slips his thumb across your lip. You almost kiss it—almost—but then another sound escapes you, raw and feral, and he shudders.

"That’s it."

"Are you going to destroy me?" The words break from you, shaky—not with fear, but want.

He hums again, like you amuse him. His mouth brushes the hollow beneath your ear.

"Destroy ya? Nah," he breathes, in that thick Irish rasp. "I’m gonna ruin ya. But not the way yer thinkin’. I need ya alive, love. Wouldn’t do me much good if ya had a hole in yer throat, now would it?"

Then, sharp—his teeth graze your skin, and your knees nearly give. Your hands move without asking permission—one tangled in his hair, the other pressed to his back, pulling him closer. He groans, deep and hungry, and finally—finally—his fangs pierce.

It’s barely a scratch, but it’s enough. Blood beads and rises. Before it can cool in the night air, his lips seal over it, drawing you into his hunger with a sound so guttural it steals the ground from beneath your feet.

You gasp, fingers twisting in his hair as warmth pools low in your belly. It isn’t pain. It isn’t fear. It’s something else. Something more dangerous.

Then panic sears through you, cutting through the haze. You pull at him, suddenly desperate to stop, but he misreads it—thinks it’s pleasure—and sinks deeper into you.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is stained red, lips slick with your blood, and for a moment—just one brief, heart-stopping moment—you forget how to breathe.

He tilts his head to the moonlight, the silver glow catching on his jaw, glinting in the wet curve of his mouth. His face is lit with something unholy, yes—but it’s more than that. It’s divine. He looks like a ruined angel, something the heavens regret banishing, something too glorious to be forgotten by time.

You can only stare.

He drinks slowly, licking the blood from his lips as if it were the finest wine. Every flick of his tongue feels like a sin you’re complicit in. He savors it—savors you—with a quiet, obscene delight that makes your insides twist.

And still, all you can think about is sinking your own teeth into him.

Your mouth parts. Not to speak. Just to feel the air between you. To taste him on your own lips. Your fingers ache to touch him, not gently, but with hunger. To rake through his hair. To feel the press of him, the weight, the warmth. To see if his blood would taste like the fire you feel now blooming behind your ribs.

"Smart girl," he murmurs, licking a stray drop from your neck, the words a caress. "Knew ya had some bite."

Then, without warning, he yanks you against him. No space. No breath. His claws lift your chin, and you see the monster behind the man. Fangs bared. Heat on your lips. His breath, like smoke and sin.

"Next time ya try to kill me, sweetheart," he whispers, voice like cracked velvet, "make sure yer little scraps of knowledge are worth a damn."

It hadn’t worked. Not even a little. Your grandmother’s journals said verbena would slow him, poison him—had let her escape. You’d filled yourself with it for weeks. Had hoped your blood would be lethal.

That’s why you were scared. Because now... you don’t want him gone.

"Remember this, mo chroí. The Devil knows more ‘cause he’s old—not ‘cause he’s damned. No more verbena, aye? Sours yer taste. And we don’t want that, now do we?"

He laps at your mouth in a single obscene stroke—quick, hot—and you open to him before you can stop yourself.

He grins. Pleased.

"We’ll have to work on that greedy nature of yers."

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #angst #fem!reader #remmick x reader #vampire #fanfiction #sinners fic #parting glass #sinners au #sinners remmick

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pukefactory · 1 day ago

Note

ik you get this a lot but ur works are so amazing!! i luv how fleshed out you write the characters if that makes sense :))) i was wondering if could do something with sprout and comforting his s/o pls ? like reader’s mental health is at its worse and they just break down sobbing in front of him because they can’t hide it anymore. sorry if this is too specific lol didn’t want to be too vague 😭!!! again ur writing is amazing and i hope this doesn’t overwhelm u💗💗💗💗

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you for the kind words! Here’s Sprout helping you get a little spring back in your step during a meltdown. He may be a little dry humour-wise but he’s certainly trying is best.

- COMET

‎♡‧₊˚✧ WHITE VOID ✧˚₊‧♡

𖦹 Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Sprout Comforting The Reader During A Breakdown

𖦹 Character(s): Sprout Seedly (Dandy’s World)

𖦹 Genre: Headcanons, SFW

𖦹 Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

𖦹 Image Credits: @decotel

➸ You collapse behind a crate, trying to breathe, but the lights blur and your ears are ringing. You don’t realize Sprout’s even there until you hear his scarf shuffling against the ground and the faintest grumble: “…Didn’t think I’d find you tucked behind here like a napkin under a croissant.” He doesn’t touch you at first. He just crouches beside you, scarf draping around like a safety net. “You breathing alright?” His tone isn’t sugar coated. He means are you alive. You nod. Barely. “…Good. Then I’m gonna talk, and you don’t have to. Deal?”

➸ Sprout doesn’t do flowery speeches. He does small, grounding facts. “There’s a bakery back a few floors down that only makes star-shaped rolls. You’d hate it, too chewy.” “I left the oven on again. I think. Cosmo might be mad, but he also might forget.” “One time I fell asleep next to a bag of flour. Woke up and Cosmo was decorating my face with frosting.” He tells you about flour because it’s solid. Tangible. He wants to remind you this world has weight, has colour, has stupid sugar spills and burned crusts. You exist in it. Still.

➸ When your breath hitches again, hands shaking, Sprout mutters: “…Okay. Nope. We’re not doing this. Not alone.” He wraps his scarf around your shoulders—not tightly, but enough to feel like something is holding you together. It smells like cinnamon. It’s absurdly soft. “You’re not breaking apart. You’re here. Right now. You hear me?” His voice isn’t calm. It’s determined. Like he’s building a little barricade around you with every word.

➸ He tries to offer you a treat. Half of a scone, slightly squished. “Cosmo made these. I… helped. A little.” You don’t take it. Can’t. “…Right. Too soon.” He sets it down gently in front of you anyway. “It’s here. Like me. When you’re ready.”

➸ Sprout is not the softest Toon. He doesn’t always get how big feelings work, but when you cry, he turns his back so you don’t feel watched. Still, he stays close. Mutters: “Everyone breaks down sometimes. You think I don’t?” He shifts his scarf forward like a curtain. “I nearly cried when Cosmo burned the cinnamon rolls. Didn’t. But I almost did. Big almost.”

➸ If you start spiraling—saying things like “I’m a burden,” or “They’d be better off without me”— his entire face goes serious. He grabs a leaf from his head and dramatically waves it like a pointer: “Wrong. Wrong. Extra wrong. Do you know how many times I’ve had to stop Cosmo from putting jellybeans in soup? I need you. We need you. So no, you don’t get to say stuff like that. Not while I’m here.”

➸ Sometimes you shake so hard your teeth chatter. Sprout notices. He inches closer until he’s basically pressed against your side like a little space heater. “…You know. If this keeps happening, I’ll need to bake some kind of comfort tart. Special recipe. Maybe something that doesn’t melt like what your brain wants to do right now.” He’s not good at jokes. But he tries. For you.

➸ If you try to apologize—if you croak out “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be like this”— Sprout just sighs. “Okay, first of all. You’re not a dessert. You don’t have to come out perfect. Second… You’re not weak. You’re having a moment. That’s allowed. Third… Don’t apologise for needing help. Ever.” He bumps his head gently against yours. “Even I do, sometimes. And I’m basically amazing.”

➸ Eventually, when the shaking fades and your vision clears, Sprout stands and brushes off his scarf. “…Still breathing?” You nod. “Good. Then I’ll walk you back. I mean—uh, only if you want. But I’m not letting you stay behind this crate. Too cold. Too dusty. Weird smell.” He offers a hand. It’s stubby. Solid. Stronger than it looks.

➸ Later, when things are calm, Sprout makes a point of checking on you more. Not obviously—he’s subtle. Leaves little baked goods on your desk. Tells you about weird floor discoveries. One day, he says, “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever do, I’m not going anywhere. I mean it.” Then, after a beat: “…Also, I remembered to turn off the oven. So that’s a win.”

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riamaple · 3 days ago

Text

Life on Your Line (Ch. 10)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

HEAVY Warning(s) for the REST OF THE STORY: Frequent Discussion of Suicide/Suicide Attempts, Suicidal Thoughts, and Self-Harm/Self-Destruction Behavior — The reader is going through a rough time starting now. There will be no graphic descriptions of Suicide/Suicidal Attempts or Self-Harm unless I put a warning otherwise. Please read the rest of the story with caution.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 7.3k

CHAPTER 10: April 2014 - November 2023

April 19, 2014. 9:01 AM

I miss James, but what else is new?

It’s been two weeks since I woke up and I can’t help but wonder where he is. I keep hearing his voice when I close my eyes — the way it shook when I had to leave him that day. We were both so afraid, but I've never been more certain to walk away.

I hope he’s doing okay now.

I keep forgetting that I don’t have my locket anymore. I’d reach for it and touch my skin instead. Every time, I feel a little sad to not have it, but also happy that it’s with the man I love most.

Maybe it was something I needed to let go of for a bit. Besides, when I see him next, I’m sure he’ll try to give it back to me.

When I go to bed, I imagine him next to me. For once, we’d be lying down together, looking at each other. It wouldn’t be him holding me or me holding him because one of us was dying. We’d just go to sleep together.

Did I mention James gives great hugs?

I know I did, but it’s true. For someone who’s been trained to kill for so many decades, he sure knows how to embrace someone.

I want that someone to always be me.

I’m leaving DC soon. I should have the moment I woke up, but I couldn’t help but wonder if James was still around. Maybe he was waiting for me to come back, even though I never told him it would take a month for it to happen. But I’d like to think he’d wait as long as he could for me. I walked through crowds to see if I could spot him.

I haven’t yet.

Yet.

I’ll keep waiting for him to come back to me — or when I go to him. Hopefully, the next time we meet, it won’t be because I have to die.

I just want one day where I don’t have to worry about that.

I miss him so much, and I wonder if he misses me.

I know he misses me too.

<><><>

April 25, 2014. 9:03 PM

I moved back to Brooklyn yesterday. I haven’t lived here in 65 years, but I figured it was time I came back home.

I knew Brooklyn changed a lot — I watched it evolve through the screen — but seeing it in person is nerve-wracking. My history is still here, but it’s like someone spilled coffee onto the pages, making it antique and forever stained by a mistake.

Everything is so much busier. I remember those days when I could walk down the streets alone, but now there isn’t a chance to do that. The apartment I found is mostly away from the noise, thankfully. There are a lot of cracks and it smells like dust — it needs a lot of work.

For the first time in decades, I decided to give it a lot of work.

Maybe I don’t have to treat every one of my places like a temporary shelter anymore. For once, I could treat it like a home, decorated with paintings and bright curtains and maybe a plant. Something I could protect while I wait for James.

Brooklyn is huge. I don’t imagine I’d have to move anytime soon. Even if I have to, maybe I can bring home with me.

I also got a bookstore. I saw online that this old man was giving up his — a bookstore that sells new and used books at a discounted price — so I quickly snatched it up. He was grateful that someone else was passionate enough to take over, saying that people need books to survive. That stories shouldn’t be thrown away.

He’s not wrong.

The store could use a lot of new updates and changes, but it still feels cozy. It won’t be long until I can get this place up and running to its fullest again.

I thought I was going to start today, but instead...I visited my baby.

I haven’t been to her grave since I left Brooklyn. And I cried. Fuck, I cried so much. I don’t remember what it feels like to hold her or the sound of her giggle. I missed her when I lost her, but I miss her even more now that her name in stone is all I have.

I brought all of my journals with me. All of my stories that share who I was and who I am. Who I try to be, and who I lost and loved. I hid them all by her grave.

My baby girl can keep my stories safe. She was always good at sharing stories.

<><><>

August 4, 2014. 10:38 PM

There’s still no news of James. Seems like he disappeared without a trace. That’s good — it means he’s hidden, but it also means I have no idea where he is.

God, I miss him. I miss him so much.

I wonder if he thinks about me as much as I think about him. When I walk by certain people who look like him — items that remind me of him — I have to stop and think. Does he do the same? Does he look at roses and think about me? Or jewelry and hold onto my locket?

Does he stop and look behind himself, hoping to see me? Because I do.

I used to think this curse meant I’d never belong to anyone — that I couldn’t have anything permanent — that I was always meant to lose, whether it’d be losing my life, my joy, or myself. When I tried to hold onto something, it’d slip away. Hope for the better, and it’d be the opposite.

I tried to pretend I didn’t want anything. Bu t…I want James.

I want to live with him. I want us.

A life where we don’t have to scramble — where I can just grab his hand and know I can do it again the next day.

Is it foolish to hope after everything I went through? Of course, it is. But maybe, after more than 100 years of being a vessel of this curse, I deserve something other than survival.

I deserve James, and I can’t wait to see him again.

<><><>

May 28, 2015. 5:23 PM

I think about James every day.

Not in a hurtful way, like during those days when he was under HYDRA’s control and I begged for him to escape. I think about him now over simple things.

I walked by an elderly couple sitting outside a cafe, feeding each other pastries and laughing. I started to think about that kind of life with James. I’d love to have breakfast with him with coffee, maybe with juice as well. Learn if he’s a savory or sweet guy. I’d like to think he’s a sweet guy.

I want to know how much he has figured himself out so far. If he prefers dogs or cats — if he hums while he cooks, if he even cooks — if he leaves dishes in the sink instead of washing them right away. There’s so much about James I don’t know, but that makes me love him even more. I don’t want us to hide anymore.

I’d love to run with him, not because there’s a threat.

I’d love to hold hands with him, not because one of us is dying.

I’d love to hug him, not because we have to say goodbye, but because we’re happy to say hello.

That's what I want, James, and I hope you want the same.

<><><>

June 23rd, 2016. 11:30 PM

The news lies.

We already knew that, but this time they’re really lying. I refuse to believe that James bombed the United Nations — that he killed the King of Wakanda.

There was a photo of his face from the security footage, but I know that’s not him. I don’t care what anyone says — I know what he looks like and that’s not him. We’ve stared into each other’s faces enough for me to know that he’s been framed.

But they’re calling him a terrorist. A murderer and a threat to the nation, but that’s not who he is.

James, I know you. You didn’t do this.

I lived long enough to know that the world lies all the time — make you believe you can have something good, only to take it away. You’re a good person, James, and the world is trying to take that narrative from you. I wish I could find you and tell you you’re not who they say you are.

You’re not a monster, James.

You’re mine.

<><><>

December 25th, 2016. 9:14 PM

I cried today.

I decided to walk around the city because I knew the streets were going to be emptier than usual. No stores were open for the holidays and everyone was inside, celebrating and spending time together. It’s not the first time I walked around during this time of year because, I mean, I don’t have anyone at home waiting for me.

But then I came across this family — a lovely couple with their baby in their stroller.

I started to cry because I suddenly imagined myself and James as that couple, with my daughter as the baby.

She would’ve loved James. Definitely would’ve called him Bucky because she’d think that nickname is silly. I wonder if James wants kids — if he’d be the kind of parent kids dream of having.

I don’t think I am. If I was, then my baby wouldn’t have died so young.

James is still missing. He disappeared with Steve a few days after he was framed. And yes — he was framed by some asshole named Zemo or whatever. Even then, they still labeled James and Steve as fugitives — traitors to the nation. They cleared James for the bombing, but still want him to answer for his crimes as a brainwashed assassin.

Fuck them. It must be so easy, huh? To let others take the fall and point fingers at them. People don’t understand what it’s like to lose control of everything.

Fuck those entitled assholes.

I’m just grateful that Steve is with James — the Falcon and Black Widow too. It sucks to see them on the run, but they’re protecting James. Someone other than me is finally looking out for him.

I do wish that Steve came to find me though — that James told him about me and brought me along with them.

I don’t need much. I just want to hug James and tell him that I’m here.

I miss him so much that it hurts. I hope he doesn’t miss me as much — he doesn’t deserve any more pain.

I hope you’re having a better holiday than me, James. I look forward to the day when we can celebrate together.

<><><>

January 18th, 2017. 3:12 PM

I almost lost James 13 years ago today.

I still feel sick when I think about it. How he bled so much from his stomach while that HYDRA agent laughed at us.

But what horrified me more was that when I thought about that day, I realized that right now, I want to be sent to him.

I’m so selfish. I can’t believe I wished something was happening so that I could see him. That’s fucked up. Asking for the worst to happen to him so that I could be his little savior.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I love him and miss him. I really, really miss him. It's been almost 3 years since I last saw him. I know that means he’s safe (or at least just alive), but I can’t handle not knowing where he is now. Did he get caught? Is he trapped somewhere? Does he need my help?

I wish I could get sent to him without either one of us having to die.

Or, if we have to, I’d get to hold him before death comes for me again.

God. I’m really in love with this man, huh?

<><><>

June 3, 2018. 1:58 AM

Fuck you. Actually fuck you. Do you think this is funny? It’s so fucking funny, huh?

Kill half of the universe but leave me alive.

Fuck you.

I can’t believe you didn’t let me save anyone this time. You put me near Times Square when everyone started to vanish, letting chaos wreck us. I kept waiting for you to tell me to save someone — for my heart to get pulled — but all I did was watch people disappear while others get injured by moving cars and falling helicopters.

You didn’t even let me save a child. I watched a fucking child die again while I survived.

Just let me die. Let me see my family. I just want to hold my daughter again. I’m so tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Taking on so many different fake names and pretending that I wasn’t buried next to my baby in 1904.

Let me go. Let me fucking go. What more do you want from me? Why can’t you give me the satisfaction of death? After more than a century of this bullshit, you could at least let me die.

Instead, you made me fucking watch a child die. The boy didn’t even vanish — he fucking died from an accident.

Then I watched the news and fucking hell — you erased half of the population in the universe? The whole fucking universe? All of them are gone, but I’m still here.

I didn’t ask for this damn life. I never wanted this curse, but you thought I was the perfect person for it. What is it about me that you found so fitting? Because all I see in the mirror is a pathetic human being.

You gave me nothing but pain and empty years, when all I want is my family. I want to hold my daughter again, but you won’t let me go to do that.

Genuinely, fuck you.

<><><>

December 17, 2018. 1:01 PM

They announced that they’re almost done with the memorial in Greenwich Village — the one for all of the heroes who were snapped after they fought for us. It’s supposed to be open to the public next month.

I know James is fine, but I have to check.

Even though James went into hiding again, there's a part of me that knows he was involved in the fight. There’s another part of me — the part I hate — that is nervous that he’s gone because he hasn’t shown up. I haven’t seen him at all on the news. A few of them have popped up to talk to the press — mainly Steve and Natasha Romanoff. But I’m just hanging onto the idea that James doesn’t want to talk to the public. Why would he after everything they called him?

I’m 100% certain that he’s okay. After everything I did for him, he has to be alive. I know he’s fine, but I still have to check for the sake of my mind.

<><><>

January 29, 2019. 1:13 PM

I can’t do thi

<><><>

February 20, 2019. 6:19 PM.

I tried to end it all.

I know I can’t die, but I couldn’t help it. I just want it to end. Everything hurts and I want it to stop. I tried to stop it, but I keep on coming back. My body is on the verge of failing, but it keeps holding on. I tried to leave and I just come back the next day.

Stop. STOP

STOP

Why won’t you let me die? I have nothing left now — it’s the perfect time to let me go. I had something until you took him away. Why the fuck would you do that? Of all people who deserved to live life just a little bit, you fucking killed him.

You could’ve at least let him live. I didn’t mind being here anymore because I had something to protect. But you didn’t send me to him when he needed me. I told him — I told him that I’d be there when he needed me.

You fucking piece of shit. You made me a sacrifice, but a liar too? James died probably thinking I’d come save him, but I didn’t.

Did I do the same thing to him that you do to me? Give him hope, only for it to rip it away at the last second? I’ve been in love with this man for decades and you take him away from me. Do you like to see me suffer?

Let me die. LET ME FUCKING DIE

I gave you everything and you took away my everything. The one person who still cared about me — who didn’t let me face you alone — gone. GONE

I SHOULDN’T BE HERE I should be dead and he should be alive. It should’ve been ME. Why wasn't it me? Why do you have to hurt me? What did I do to you that made you want to hurt me like this? How fucking dare you take the love of my life? How dare you do this when I finally allowed myself to dream and hope and think about the life I’ve wanted for so long? You piece of shit. Fuck you. FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT I HATE YOU

I want to see my family. Let me hold my baby again. Let me hold James. I want to see everyone. I want to be with them.

I want to die. I don’t want to be here. Everything hurts. It fucking hurts let me GO YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FUCK YOU FUCK YOU I FUCKING HATE YOU

LET ME GO

<><><>

March 18, 2019. 10:28 PM.

I give up. You win.

You won’t let me leave. I tried too many times. In every imaginable way, I tried.

I lost count of how many times I died and woke up. Felt death at my fingertips, but watched it walk away while I couldn’t move my body.

Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I can’t even dream anymore.

I’m constantly drowning, unable to swim to the surface no matter how close it is. I don’t know if the surface I’m looking for is life or death, but I just want to breathe again. But you make me let go of my breath, and throw me back into the water. You’re making me drown.

I tried to stop the pain, but you just gave me more. I’ve died in so many ways but this is the worst I’ve ever felt. Who knew physical pain hurts less than losing the love of your life?

The pain won’t stop. I tried to make it stop.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

I never mattered, anyway.

I spent my whole life running away from my feelings. I fought against them because I knew they’d hurt me. When I finally took the chance — finally allowed myself to imagine a beautiful life for myself — it killed me.

You’re right. I don’t deserve love. I don’t deserve hope or happiness or joy or

I don’t know. I don’t deserve anything. If I did, I would’ve gotten what I wanted decades ago.

I wanted someone to love me back and I let myself believe that with James. Believe that when he and I finally meet again, we could be happy together. Walk through the city during the holidays, our hands together while we shiver from the cold.

But his body is gone and I’m the only one shivering.

I don’t want to shiver. I want to be still. Dead.

I’ll never see James again. Soon, I’ll forget what he sounds like, how he feels, how he moves, just like everyone else. I don’t remember how Henry sounded when he laughed. How my parents smiled. How Minnie hugged me. How my baby girl ran around.

I don’t even remember the day my baby girl took her first steps. All of those memories. Gone.

James will become a faded memory too. I don’t want to forget him, but it’ll happen.

I begged you to make me a memory, but you won’t listen. Of course you won’t — you never did what I asked.

I don’t care anymore.

You win. I’ll do my job and save someone else. Hope you’re happy.

<><><>

May 28, 2019. 8:20 PM

It’s a wonder how I’ve been able to keep my bookstore open during this time.

I thought that my store would’ve closed after the Snap, but I think people just need some form of normalcy in their lives. That’s the whole point of stories, anyway — to go into a different world and forget about the one you’re actually in for a moment. But I don’t know how I managed to even stay active. I’ve been more fatigued lately — I think the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on in the past few months made me tired. But still, here I am, running a bookstore in Brooklyn.

Talk about the past, huh?

Something unexpected happened today, though.

I was working, tidying up the store when a young lady walked in. It was that teenager from 2014. Mandy. And she looked at me like she knew me.

Because she did.

She told me she remembered me. Other than James, I never had anyone come up to me and say they recognized me. Of course, I always try to avoid getting recognized by people I saved, but I also think you make it easier for me.

So for her to say she knew me? What the fuck.

She said she just graduated from college. She got a degree in English and is looking to be a writer. I tried to pretend I didn’t know her, but she refused to leave me alone. She said that you can never forget the face of the person who saved your life.

That’s a lie. No one but James had ever recognized me.

I tried to say she got the wrong person, but man, she’s persistent. She reminded me a little bit of Minnie, who was bubbly but also stubborn, but in a good way. She kept saying I’m the reason she’s still alive.

That hit me harder than I thought it would. More than a century of dying had gone by, and no one — except for James — was ever appreciative of my sacrifice. I felt this kindness from her — gratefulness — that I don’t deserve. So I still tried to lie, saying that if I died, how could I still be right here?

She said if we can live in a world where an alien erased half of the universe, then we can live in a world where people can come back from the dead.

Can’t argue with that.

Then she said she wanted to work for me. She was looking for a job while continuing to write for herself, so working at a bookstore would be perfect for her, right? I mean, I have been more fatigued lately, so it’d be nice to have extra help.

But I was hesitant.

I didn’t want to let anyone into my life again. Why would I after everything I went through? I said no, but she asked again. When I went to say no again, I couldn’t. She looked at me like a hero, even though I’m not one. But most of all, she looked at me like a person.

Not a ghost. Not a memory. A real fucking person.

I really wanted to say no. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone of my curse.

But I think losing the one person who did know…it hurt me more than I realized. Even if James didn’t know who I truly was, it was nice to be seen.

God, it was so nice.

I told Mandy to come back tomorrow.

<><><>

September 10, 2019. 5:29 AM

Something’s wrong.

Something is seriously wrong.

I saved a woman on August 10 and I can’t move my arm.

I can’t move my fucking arm.

I was in Queens when the car crash happened. I went there to go to the Museum of the Moving Image. I just wanted to give myself something nice to do. A little…bit of fun, I guess. But then I felt the pull and pushed this woman out of the way, and I got hit instead. My arm was pinned underneath the car as I died.

I can’t even have a good day anymore.

I woke up an hour ago and I’m still horrified, because my body hurts more than it usually would and I can’t move my arm.

This never happened before. I’ve died in ways that made it difficult for me to move around when I wake up, but never this much and I’ve never been paralyzed before. I’ve been trying to shake it awake but it won’t wake up.

It took all of my strength for me to go to the bathroom and figure out why this is happening, and when I examined my heavy arm in the mirror, I found a scar.

A scar.

It’s on the back of my forearm and it doesn’t look great. It starts at my wrist and goes to my elbow. I never had any proof of my deaths on my body before. Never had a scar when I woke up, or felt this exhausted, or lost all feelings in a limb.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Am I dying? Or are you punishing me for some reason? What did I do?

I don’t know if I’m going to feel my arm again. Fuck, I hope this isn’t permanent. I don’t need proof of my death. I already know I died.

I died a long time ago.

<><><>

May 30, 2020. 6:59 AM

I can’t speak.

I can’t fucking speak. Fuck, I’m so scared right now.

I was stabbed in the neck on April 30 and now I can’t speak.

The last time I died, my arm was numb, but after a day, I was able to move it again. If it’s the same now, I should be able to talk tomorrow or maybe by tonight. But holy shit — my body hurts so much too. I only got stabbed, but the rest of my body is still screaming as if it also got harmed. It’s almost painful to move around — like when your foot falls asleep and it’s difficult to shift your muscles around.

When I looked in the mirror, I found another scar. It’s on the right side of my neck, exactly where I was stabbed. I have to cover it up somehow, whether it’s with my hair or wearing a scarf, because it’s not gonna go away.

The scar on my arm never went away.

I think I know why you’re punishing me.

It’s because I tried to leave, isn’t it? For trying to die when I’m people’s chances to keep on living.

Or maybe I did it to myself — I pushed my body too much in such a short period of time that it’s now just…failing.

The pain I feel now is just as bad to how I felt when I failed to save someone. Did you increase the amount of pain I feel? Stop me from screaming when all I want is release?

I feel so trapped and I can’t even ask anyone for help. No one knows how to help me — fuck, I don’t know how to help myself.

Mandy wanted to figure it out, but I said not to. If we tried again, I’d just feel hopeful that there would be an answer.

I can’t feel hope again.

<><><>

December 19, 2020. 8:10 AM

I think I actually ruined my body when I tried to kill myself.

I saved a man on November 19 and I feel like my stomach is empty. I was shot in the guts and now it feels like I’m on an empty stomach. It’s not hunger — it just feels hollow there and it hurts.

There’s a bullet scar next to my belly button.

I’m not supposed to have these. All of these scars — they shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t even be here.

My body is becoming a weak, fragile mess and I hate it. This is all I have and you have to hurt it too. I know I tried to push my body to the limit, but it’s you who won’t let me go past it. Let me cross the finish line and hug my loved ones again.

You’re making me feel the weight of my actions. I feel like I’m constantly getting pulled underwater, unable to move to the surface. I’m just sinking to the endless bottom.

I’d drown, but even then you wouldn’t let me go.

I just want it to be over, but you just had to remind me how empty I feel.

Literally.

<><><>

July 27, 2021. 4:03 PM

I’m so fucking scared.

I failed to save a woman today.

I failed.

I don’t want to be punished. If saving someone still means I’d feel pained, I don’t know how much agony I’ll feel tomorrow for failing. I’m so scared.

Please. Just end it if you’re just going to make me go through hell.

Please.

<><><>

July 29, 2021. 10:28 PM

Mandy stopped by yesterday and today and took care of me.

I was on the verge of death but was unable to pass.

I managed to text Mandy that I was still around. I didn’t expect her to show up and make sure I was eating and resting well. I scared her — she didn’t expect me to not be able to move a muscle.

I didn’t know that would happen either.

Breathing also hurt. It was like my lungs didn’t want to work, and I was forcing them to. The pain overall was just as bad as when I first tried to kill myself…

I don’t even know how much it’d hurt now if I tried to end it again.

Mandy took care of me when I didn’t ask. Helped me sit up and literally fed me. I felt so pathetic, but she said not to worry about it.

For someone who’s so energetic and bold, she was very gentle. Somehow, she also made me laugh too.

She’s also really smart — we finally have each other’s locations now on our phones because she said when I disappear, there’s a chance my phone could also vanish, so she’d know if I’m gone or not. She said she’d have a better time knowing if she needs to run my store or not then.

I told her she could just close my store while I’m gone, but she said everyone needs a good book available for them at all times. Stories can help people, she said.

She’s so sweet. I don’t deserve her kindness, but she just offers it to me.

Maybe it’s good that someone knows about my curse.

<><><>

January 3, 2023. 4:10 PM.

I feel terrible.

I hurt Mandy yesterday.

I wasn’t expecting her to visit me. She went to DC to celebrate the holidays with her family. She told me I should join her, but I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else into my life — tell people about myself because everything I’d say would be a lie.

Spending the holidays alone isn’t new, but it was so much harder this time. I made the mistake of walking around again — I saw a young couple laughing in the park. I started to imagine me and him like that, and I ended up running back home. But when I came back, my apartment felt emptier, more lonely. Even my TV couldn’t make me feel like I wasn’t alone.

I was just so alone. I wanted to be held again, but he’s not here.

Mandy stopped by last night without letting me know first. She brought snacks and said she wanted to watch a movie with me — spend some time with me. Again, I don’t deserve that, but I still let her in because how could I refuse her?

I was setting up some bowls for the snacks when she went to the bathroom, and then she suddenly ran up to me. I was so confused — she grabbed onto me and was looking for something with big eyes.

I didn’t realize I left the blades by my bathroom sink.

I made Mandy cry.

Fuck. I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I swear.

She was checking for wounds. Looked at my wrists and arms and found nothing. I told her I wasn’t going to do it.

She didn’t believe me. She didn’t fucking believe me.

I started to cry. I just broke down and said I wasn’t lying. I’m not a liar. With her, I’m not. I’ve been lying my whole life, but I swear I would never lie to her. I really wasn’t going to do it. I thought about it, but I chose not to do it because even that wouldn’t get rid of the pain.

I told Mandy about James.

For the first time in my life, I told someone else about the man I loved.

I told her about the first time I saved him. Then the war. Then about when he was the Winter Soldier and that day in DC.

I told her everything. I promise I’m not a liar with her.

I told her I love him. He’s gone, but I still love him. I’ve been trying to move on, but I fucking miss him so much. But he’s never coming back. I’m never going to see him again.

Mandy let me hug her and I just cried. I’ve been alive for over a century and she’s just a baby in her 20s, and yet I was sobbing in her arms. I felt so weak and pathetic, but I couldn’t hide it anymore.

I miss James. Fuck, I miss him so much. Sometimes I just want to forget about him so it’s easier to go about my life.

I finally let myself feel happy to be in love and you fucking took him away from me. Is it funny? To watch me suffer so much after everything I’ve done for you? I hope you’re laughing.

When I was more or less done crying, Mandy made me a cup of tea. Then we just sat on the couch. We didn’t watch any movies or eat any snacks — she just let me breathe. It was nice.

Then Mandy made me promise her that I would never try to end my life. I told her that it didn’t matter. I’d still come back. But she still made me promise her I wouldn’t try in the first place.

I said yes, and she ordered us some Chinese food. It was delicious.

I wonder if my daughter would’ve been like her. Caring, smart, energetic.

Lively.

Mandy’s not my daughter, I know that. No one will ever replace my baby, but I can’t help but wonder.

I like to think she’d be like her.

<><><>

October 18, 2023. 10:19 PM

I think you enjoy watching chaos unfold. This isn’t a realization I made recently — I started to suspect it when you cursed me. But I just had to say it.

Yesterday, the Avengers brought back all of those people we lost. I didn’t think it was possible, but I guess we do live in a world where people can come back from the dead.

The people who came back were appalled. Shocked and horrified to see that 5 years went by. It’s scary, isn’t it? Waking up to find out you died — that people mourned for you and said goodbye. But it must be nice to not wake up in pain.

The streets became so overwhelming that I had to close my store so that no one came in. It became too loud too fast. Everything was moving while I’m stuck in place.

I sent Mandy home, told her to go to DC and find her friends and family who disappeared. I sat in the back of my store alone for the whole day. It was easier to feel nothing there.

I guess there’s more people for me to save now. More opportunities for me to wake up in searing pain. To wake up after saving someone whose life is apparently more valuable than mine.

Like James.

God. James is back too.

I thought I’d be happy, but I don’t know how to feel about that.

<><><>

November 3, 2023. 1:15 AM

Mandy asked me about James the other day.

I’ve been thinking about him a lot, but that’s not a surprise. But she asked me if I would go look for him now that he was back. I didn’t respond right away, and she knew something was off.

She said I should, and was just more confused when I didn’t say anything. She asked if I still wanted him.

Of course I do, but do I deserve him anymore?

For so many years, I have thought about James — dreamed of him. And over time, I thought about what he did and didn’t know. Even though I saved him so many times, I realized that he doesn’t even know the full extent of my curse.

Who I get to save — that was never my choice.

Would James be disappointed if he found out? That while I chose to save him every time, I never chose to get sent to him. You sent me to him. I know I went for him myself in DC, but all the other times, it was you.

If James and I were to meet now, would he be disappointed? That I’m just a regular person who was entrusted with a curse without a say. No power other than to perish. Not special.

Not worthy of someone like James.

I let myself believe that I deserve someone like him. Let myself be happy and say I love him. I love him so much.

James. My James.

You have no idea how much I love you.

I love you so much that I let myself imagine a life with you. Where I could sit next to you with my head on your shoulder, maybe an arm wrapped around your waist. Maybe you have your head on mine while we did something cliche — watch the sunset or some bullshit like that — because our lives have been so unusual that cliches feel like a luxury. I imagine a life where I don’t have to die and you don’t have to survive.

We could just live.

But I’m not allowed to have that.

I went back to my journals and reread my entry about saving you for the first time. Visited all of my stories about saving you. Of those days where I wondered if you even like coffee, or what kind of pet you would have. I'd love to know if you like sweet or savory.

I'd also like to know what your favorite color is, and favorite tunes, and if you’re a morning person or night owl. If you like to read or watch movies or both. If you like to go out or stay home on a lazy day.

I reread the entry from the 40s where I said I would love to sit down and have coffee with you and tell you all about my life.

I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore.

I knew losing you would be hard, but it killed me more than I thought it would. Death wasn’t enough to get rid of that pain. I didn’t realize how much it would hurt to lose you.

I wanted to die when you died.

I did die when you died. My heart stopped with yours.

Losing you was horrible, and that was when I didn’t even know much about you. If I learn about all of these things now, I don’t know if I can handle losing you again. I already couldn’t handle it — I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself somehow if I know more about you.

I’ll still save you. James, I promise I’ll give everything to save you. I know you’ll need me — not because you’re a soldier, but you’re someone who always goes out of their way to protect someone else. You’ll always be in danger, so I’ll be your shield.

I’m sorry. I just don’t want to hurt anymore.

I’m hurting all the time, but this? Having hope for us — letting myself act upon my love for you — that will be taken away.

The world isn’t fair to me, but I can make it be fair to you.

Hey world? Fuck you. Really, fuck you.

Killing James was cruel, but killing him THEN bringing him back to me is the cruelest thing you could’ve done.

James is not the monster.

You are, and you made me one too.

I’m the kind of monster that would scare children. Zombies who come back from the dead — ghosts who haunt the innocent. I’m sure I’ve haunted James. I mean, when he died, it killed me.

So did it kill him when he watched me die too?

He doesn’t have to watch anymore. He won’t know who I am. He’ll only get glimpses of me, just like before. I’ll continue to save him and love him from a distance like I always have, but he’ll never get to know me.

I will never tell him my real name. He'll never know anything about me. I’ll just be his sacrifice, as well as everyone else’s. Nothing more, like how it’s supposed to be. I’ll just be the ghost story they tried to make him be.

Rose is dead. She’s been dead for a really long time. I know that.

After all, I buried her myself.

You closed your journal, and continued to sit on the grass in silence. Your pen dropped to the ground as your shoulders sagged, your eyes glazed over as you stared at a tombstone that was barely lit by your phone flashlight. The air was cold and still, just like you.

You sat there for a long time. The clouds moved over you, blocking the moonlight every now and then while the distant city slightly echoed into the cemetery.

To anyone, the night would’ve felt peaceful.

But you never knew what peace was.

Quietly, you reached for the metal container, opening it before dropping your last journal into it with the rest of your writings.

No more stories. No more histories.

No more you.

You placed the container next to the tombstone and buried it under the numerous, white rocks you sprinkled around it—an attempt to make the gravesite a bit prettier. Then you picked up a bouquet of flowers and set it on top. You didn’t move again. Silent and still, you did nothing.

Because nothing could be done anymore.

Slowly, you grabbed your jacket and got to your feet. You pulled the sleeves over your arms, hiding the numerous scars that trailed around your skin. You took one last look at the rock hiding your memories before sighing.

Then you glanced at the name on the tombstone, and your hands curled into fists as your eyes quickly watered. Your breath hitched and you turned away, storming off before you made a poor decision of any kind. You vanished from the cemetery, leaving behind the old tombstone that held a name.

A name that saved others, but not the person it belonged to.

A name that brought James peace, even when you couldn't.

A name that had stayed dear to your heart after all these years.

Rose.

NEXT CHAPTER >

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass @clemicious @fallenxjas @paryl @frog-fans-unite @sebastians-love @buckvoidsyy @recorddust @nj01 @avengersgirllorianna @western-nightss @chonkybonky @weasleyswheezeys

Thanks for reading :)

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x y/n #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #ca:tfa #ca:tws #ca:cw #tfatws

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angeliteeyes · 2 days ago

Note

Hihi

Could we get reader S/O who is getting harassed/bullied somewhere like work and their partner finds out? I’m kind of curious how a jokey character like Hu Tao would react or handle this situation but if you would have another character you would prefer that’s cool too.

Have a lovely time of day!

Hehehe... Hu as in "Who upset my darling S/O?" and Tao as in "They need to geT OUt!" Hehe.... No, not funny?

Lmao anyway—hope you enjoy ;p

Hu tao x Reader - How She'd React to Finding Out You're Being Bullied at Work

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

You weren't always like this.

Hu Tao knows your reaction to her startling you like the back of her hand—or at least, she used to. Heaven knows how many times she's coaxed it out of you, after all; the way your eyes would widen in shock as you let out a shrill little shriek was simply too adorable to pass up. But lately... something has been off. Your muscles would tense far tighter than they used to. When your eyes met, they bore into hers the way a scared stray's would, an innate layer of fragility coating them. And perhaps worst of all, you lost your signature smile when you finally recognized her, it being replaced with a fake, plastic mockery of the joyful expression she loves so dearly.

That same fauxness appears every time your job comes up in discussion, she's noticed. Time and time again, it's always the same pleasantries about work going "well", and never any actual details, despite her regular poking and prodding. You also get particularly cagey when the topic of coworkers pops up and endlessly end up shying away from further questioning, much to her chagrin.

As she paces around her abode, the weight of her dilemma presses against her tiny shoulders. How is she supposed to help you out when you won't even tell her what's going on? Oh, if only she could just curse whatever pesky person's bothering you...

Her feet come to a halt.

"Curses, huh..." An eerie grin stretches across her face as her eyes narrow in mischievous excitement. Soon, the walls echo with bone-chilling giggles, the kind only someone with as strange a sense of humor as her could produce.

"I guess I can figure something out after all."

Hu Tao's odd behaviors were nothing new to you, including her strange penchant for gifting you items you couldn't recognize. Whenever you'd ask about their meaning, her answers were, at best, roundabout and unclear. At worst, she'd merely giggle creepily, following with cryptic deflections. Things like that you "shouldn't worry about it" or "you'll understand eventually".

Perhaps that's why, as she determinedly pushes an amulet into your palms right before work with a stern warning to keep it on the whole workday, you listen without question. Why wouldn't you? As much as you aren't anywhere near as skilled or knowledgeable in spiritual matters as her, you knew better than to doubt her own talents and wisdom. That's practically a death wish (both literally and figuratively).

It's only once your colleague comes over that the true meaning behind her actions becomes clear. You brace yourself, awaiting a crude string of words like you've come to expect, when—

Growwwllllll.

The two of you stand in confused silence for a second, processing the sound. More important than the actual noise, though, is the source of it. And based on the way that they're clasping their arms over their stomach... No way. Really?

Grooooowwwwlllllll.

Even louder this time, you stare in complete bewilderment at the sight before you. At this point, they've hunched over so severely that they're basically bowing at you, a gesture you know for a fact they'd never do under any other circumstance. It's taking everything within you not to burst out into laughter, honestly, but you somehow manage to hold it back. Just in time, too, as they sheepishly whisper an excuse to leave and run off towards the nearest restroom.

On a typical weekday, their comments would stab at you like thorns all throughout it. Not today, though. Turns out their intestinal issues put them out of commission for the rest of your shift, granting you much-needed peace and quiet. You would feel sorry for them, but... well, what goes around comes around, right?

You pull out your newly acquired amulet and smile—a real, earnest one this time. As much of a jokester as Hu Tao may be, you know better than anyone else how serious she gets when it comes to important matters. Even if her methods still retain her signature eccentricity, the heart behind them was, and always has been, painfully sincere.

As you return to your shared home, a familiar face pokes out from behind the entranceway walls, goofy grin and all. Her eyes are swimming with amusement and anticipation as they make contact with yours.

"Yo! How did work go? Anybody end up bothering you?" Her tone is laced with joyful giddiness as she awaits your response.

The mention of your job stirs up plenty of negative emotions and discomfort—or at least, it would've any other day. But this time, a wave of relief courses through you, finally understanding that you don't have to struggle on your own any longer. You pull her into a warm hug and gently nestle into her. This time, she's the one that ends up wide-eyed in surprise, her normal fiery energy temporarily being quenched by your arms.

"I had a wonderful day. Thank you."

A few quiet seconds pass before you feel her own limbs snake around your torso. It's moments like these in which you get to glimpse a softer, shyer side of your lover, an honor you try to cherish every chance you get.

After some time, Hu Tao pulls herself back and, to your surprise, she's now pouting at you. Usually, this expression of hers is reserved for petty attempts to get out of things like chores or consequences for her pranks that went too far, yet the one before you right now feels different. Softer, perhaps.

"Just don't hide this sort of thing from me again, got it? It's no fun when you get all sad and mopey." Her face contorts, an attempt to make her pout and words appear more playful. You're not buying it, though. And so, you respond to her thinly veiled plea with the genuine affirmation she desires.

"I promise."

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #hu tao x reader #female x reader #hu tao x you #hu tao #sorry to any tummyproblem homies that may have gotten flashbacks #genshin x you #genshin impact x you

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lis5664 · 2 days ago

Text

Margo x Sergei Mini Fic: "Whatever It Takes"

... Well, I seem to have stayed up late writing this possibly rather devastating little thing. Um, sorry I guess?

Set during a version of 3x10 in which Margo never got the call letting her know that Sergei and his family made it out safely, and she had to make her decision to defect without knowing.

As he entered the elevator in the lobby of JSC, Sergei felt as though his heart was pounding out of his chest with anticipation. He hoped he was making the right decision, coming to see her unexpectedly like this, but as soon as he was on the ground in Houston, the pull towards Margo was irresistible. Once he was granted permission to make this visit to JSC, no other choice had been possible. He simply had to be here as quickly as he could.

He had wanted to let her know as soon as he and his family were safely out of the Soviet Union. He had hoped to be able to call her when they reached the base in Germany, to tell her the good news, tell her he couldn’t begin to thank her enough, tell her they would see each other again very soon. For some reason that was not explained to him, he had not been permitted to make such a call.

Sergei had hated the thought that Margo might worry for him a day or an hour longer than she needed to. And at the same time, the idea that she would be worried for him – that she cared for him – warmed his heart.

The memory of her at their last parting had scarcely left his mind. It had all happened so suddenly; a shock to both of them. Allowed a brief time to say his goodbye, then, he had gone to her office with some hope, but little expectation. He knew her well enough to know how unlikely she would be to let him close to her, the shock making it all the less likely.

He had longed for nothing more than to hold her tightly, even if only for a moment, and tell her how much he loved her. This he had longed to do for so many years. And as he expected, this Margo had not allowed, either part of it. And yet, while she made the impossible promise that they would see each other again, he had been able to read in her eyes that she knew what he felt for her. Even, he now almost dared to believe, that she felt the same. And as he’d walked away from her office then, he could almost swear that he had heard her let out a muffled sob.

And now, against all the odds, here he was again. He could not wait to tell her that she had been right, after all. Somehow, she had made the impossible happen, for him and his family. She had told him she would do whatever it took; he should never have doubted this. He was here, safe, in the United States to stay – they all were – and he was going to see Margo again in just a few moments.

Sergei exited the elevator and started down the hallway toward Margo’s office. And there she was, heading down the hallway towards him, a look on her face of determination that was familiar to him, tinged with something – was it resignation? – that was unfamiliar.

She saw him then. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face growing pale.

Sergei hurried toward her.

“Margo. I’m sorry to surprise you like this. I wanted to call to tell you as soon as we were out, but I was not allowed. It is done, Margo. My family and I, we are all out, we are safe. We landed here just a little while ago.”

Margo continued to simply stare at him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her so much at a loss for words.

Then, visibly collecting herself for a moment, Margo looked up and down the hallway, and moved to open a door near them. She gestured for Sergei to follow her into an empty conference room and shut the door behind them.

They stood very close to each other now. At last, she spoke.

“You’re here.”

“I am, Margo. I am here. And I can stay. Thank you so much for—”

Sergei cut off, utterly shocked, as Margo let out an anguished sob and half collapsed, half threw herself, into his arms. She clung to him. He had never seen her overwhelmed, overcome like this. Never even close.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly. He stroked her back, her hair, wanting nothing but to comfort her, however he could. His mind could scarcely process the fact that Margo Madison, the strongest, bravest woman he had ever known, was weeping in his arms. He made his voice soft, barely more than a murmur.

“Margo, I’m here. It’s all right. It’s over. I’m safe now.”

Perhaps it was the wrong moment to say it, perhaps it was a mistake. But he could not help himself.

“I love you, Margo. I love you so much.”

At that, she only sobbed harder.

Growing more and more concerned, Sergei continued trying to reassure her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Margo, but I’m here. I am here and I don’t have to leave. I don’t have to leave ever again.”

At last, she pulled back from him a little, looking up at him through her tears.

“You don’t, Sergei, but I do. I have to leave. I was on my way to meet my contact now, and – I don’t – I can’t –”

This didn’t make any sense. What contact? What did she mean? He asked her.

“They know. The FBI, they know about the engine design. It’s either this or prison and I can’t see any other choice I have.”

She rested her head on his shoulder again, tears still flowing, but quiet for a moment. Sergei still didn’t understand. What or prison? What was she planning to do? Not understanding, he nonetheless made her a promise, meaning every word. She had done whatever it took for him. He would do the same for her.

“We will find another way, Margo. We will solve it, whatever it takes. I’m here and I will help you. You don’t have to go anywhere. Not without me.”

He kissed the top of her head.

At that moment, the explosion tore through the building. The world went dark around them.

#margo x sergei #margo madison #sergei nikulov #for all mankind #fanfic #mini fic

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ofmdlovelyletters · 3 hours ago

Note

Prefacing this by saying this blog is adorable and I love that people are spreading love to their friends. That being said, it makes me (someone who doesn't really know how to start talking to strangers and is just kind of there in the fandom space) and I assume other people in the same situation feel so spectacularly alone and left out lmao

This is definitely hard. It can feel really lonely when it seems everyone else has already found their friends and/or their place in the fandom and you haven't. Your feelings are valid, and we hope things improve and you're able to find some great fandom friends soon. If seeing this blog gets to be too much, you can of course block or filter it so you'll no longer see the letters on your dash.

If you're looking for advice on how to start talking to strangers, here are some tips we've gathered, many from people who describe themselves as introverts who at one point also didn't have many friends in fandom. We also encourage people to reblog this post with their own advice.

Share your thoughts in tags in reblog of fandom posts. This is an easy way to show your personality and your interests without having to directly engage with someone, and may make others more comfortable and interested in engaging with you.

Participate in ask games, both by reblogging them and by sending in asks to others who do. It's always fun when the dash lights up with these so we can get to know each other better. The key is to both share your own answers and to send them to others to keep the game going. Can't find a good ask game? We may have something in the works. 👀

If you have a creative side (writing, art, gifs, fiber arts, whatever!), share it! And if you don't, show your appreciation of those who do by commenting or, back to that first point, reblogging with enthusiastic tags.

Never underestimate the power of a simple text post! It doesn't need to be some deep, analytical meta like you're writing an essay for school. You can share a detail from the show you've been obsessing over, or a personal head canon you have, or a song that makes you think of your favorite character. Drop it in the tags and see what happens!

And if you're feeling brave, DM somebody who you'd like to get to know better! You can try referencing a post they made, or something on your dash that made you think of them. It's not a guarantee you'll be immediately best friends, but you never know until you try.

We will add that all of these tips are simply a first step. Making friends in fandom does require consistency, putting yourself out there, and actively engaging with others. It can be scary, we know! But there's an old cliche that you get out of fandom what you put into it, and we've found that to be very true. It may not be easy, and it may take some time, but if that's really what you want, it's absolutely worth it. Take those steps for yourself. You deserve it.

We do also want to emphasize that even if you "only" are "just kind of there" in fandom, you are still valued and important. Love of the show is the only thing that keeps the fandom going, and if you have that, you're doing plenty.

And again, if anyone has any tips on how to start talking to other people in fandom to feel more engaged and find your place, please share them! We're eager to hear.

As a crew. 💌

#ofmd #mod post

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nanamineedstherapy · 3 days ago

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Literally cannot wait for the next chapter to drop!! Please post it soon so I don’t end up sneaking chapters at work again.</3

Thank you for reading it all Pookie, my sincere apologies for the delay. I'm unfortunately a perfectionist and needed to add more details to make it real. Hope you enjoy it :)

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Trigger/Crack Warnings: Graphic Violence, Emotional Abuse, Medically accurate Pain/Injuries Horror (yes, I do alot of research), pregnancy complications, Weaponized Guilt, Mentions of Rape (past, non-graphic), Psychological Manipulation, Mild Suicide Ideation (implied), Brainrot-Inducing Dialogue, Reader May Require Therapy After This, Emotional Damage Simulator 2025, Sukuna is Down Bad – Yuji said so, Mafia CEO AU (kinda), Reader is So Tired, Found Family? Or Found Emotional Damage?, Gojo Satoru's Consequences, Nanami Kento Deserves a Nap & to be able to pee in peace without his wife+husband combo broadcasting it, Unhinged Girlboss Reader, Murder as Romance, This chapter is a war crime. Trillionaire Tech Wife With Two Useless Men, Emotional Support Chicken. A/N: I feel like the reader is the biggest comedian in this series, tbh lol. Like??? She's fighting for her life, trauma bonding with eldritch horrors, & still has time to serve face & sarcasm in the same breath. Queen behaviour. Honestly, if I were her, I too would commit crimes while sipping Sprite out of a hospital cup. POOKIE SUKU IS HERE!!!!

Previous Chapter 23 (alt ending 2.14) - How the Salt in Our Wounds Was the Ocean - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 24 (alt ending 2.15) - Shattered Constellations

Aftermath | Their POV

They called her mortal.

They forgot she was trained by monsters.

Hour One

Nanami burned through every Tokyo contact. Then called Anna Wintour.

"Who did she meet tonight?"

There was a pause. The silence that comes when too many people are in the room, and you suddenly realise you’re the prey.

Anna’s tone was clipped, as ever. “Kento.”

“Anna. She’s missing. We can’t find her.”

“You must be very upset.”

“Who did she meet today? What was the investor’s name?”

“I was told if I revealed that name, if I tell you anything about her movements without her consent, I’ll be dead before the phone line disconnects. And you—you won’t even know who killed me.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not about control. I think she’s in danger.”

Silence. Not even the buzz of static.

“Goodnight, Mr. Nanami.”

The Koenigsegg Jesko had been the first to betray them.

It shouldn’t have.

It was registered to her company but custom-built by Megumi’s black-ops R&D. Eight embedded trackers—nano chips, tyre sensors, two voice AI failsafes. The works.

But one by one, the signals blinked out like dying stars.

First, the GPS. Then the emergency LTE backup.

Then the engine monitor started sending Morse-code gibberish, as though something inhuman had possessed the car.

“She cut the battery?” Megumi asked, horrified.

The smoke alarms were disabled.

The flames were superficial, controlled—nothing damaged except the bed, the mattress soaked in Tom Ford and Dior and spite. Nanami didn’t smell arson. He smelled intent.

Megumi’s team—your personal security detail, his people—had been scrambled into a full lockdown.

“She shut down the internal feeds,” he gasped, crouched on the cold marble. “Her penthouse went dark mid-step. She disabled the elevator cam.”

“She shouldn’t even be able to do that,” Gojo said, eyes flashing cerulean. “The feed’s encrypted.”

“She built the system,” Nanami added quietly.

Gojo activated the Six Eyes at a higher altitude.

He’d only ever used them like this twice—once, back when they were hunting the remnants of the Star Plasma cult. Back when Geto still— And the second time was when he was trying to find you in your home country when you’d disappeared after the gaming convention.

Nanami was watching the flame flicker and die in Gojo’s face.

Gojo balled his fists in frustration. “Why can't I see her? There’s no cursed energy hiding her. She’s not suppressing her aura. She’s not using a veil or a curse technique—she can’t. She’s just a normal woman!”

“No.” Nanami corrected coldly. “She’s lived with you for years, and you talk alot about your conquests, Satoru. By now it’d be a miracle if she didn’t figure out how to counter you, given the way she is – all or nothing.”

Hour Two

“She’s still not showing up,” Megumi whispered.

Not on satellite. Not on traffic cams. Not even on Gojo’s six eyes, which were burning as he stood barefoot on the balcony, sweat crystallizing on his cheekbones.

“No cursed energy signatures,” Gojo muttered. “No barriers. No pings.”

“She’s not a sorcerer,” Haibara said, leaning against the glass. “She’s just angry.”

“She’s not just anything,” Nanami half-yelled, eyes scanning five monitors showing nothing but static. “She disappeared mid-day. Mid-breath. That’s not normal.”

The Jesko went through one toll booth. Then stopped showing up.

Gone. No transponders. No speed violations. No tyre marks.

“Tracker’s off,” Megumi said, barely keeping it together. “All of them. Phone, car, security fob, coat lining. Gone.”

“She’s still wearing the tracker from last week's security update,” Nanami muttered, clicking on her medical vitals screen.

"Not anymore," Haibara said, holding something bloody in his hand. A tiny sliver of metal he'd found on the toll booth she’d disappeared from. "She cut it out. Used the same blade she cut me with."

"Was she bleeding?" Gojo snapped, voice shrill.

"Not when she bit me. After? Who knows."

Hour Three

They stood in the war room.

Screens everywhere. Her last known locations. Holograms. Pulse tracking. Voice AI failed prompts.

A red string corkboard in a glass room.

Haibara, biting into an apple like it might be poisoned.

Megumi, rocking back and forth, hands pressed to his skull.

Nanami, silent.

Gojo pacing like an animal.

“She fucking ghosted us,” Haibara laughed like the irony was too much.

“She can’t ghost the Six Eyes,” Gojo muttered. “I’ve found people in other dimensions. She can’t—she’s not supposed to be able to—how is she doing this?”

“She’s deleting herself,” Megumi whispered. “Not hiding. Erasing.”

They all turned to him.

He kept staring at the floor. “You don’t know what she’s capable of when she feels cornered. You don’t know what she learnt from my father. Hell, even I never really knew what they talked about.”

Hour Four

Your location-shared signal blipped once.

A rural highway. Eastbound. Then silence.

“She left it on just long enough for someone else,” Haibara murmured. “Not us.”

Gojo slumped to the ground, blindfold in his fist.

Security teams deployed.

Megumi’s own private elite—trained to hunt rogue sorcerers—went silent within thirty minutes. They followed a false signal to the western district. Found nothing but a pile of burner phones duct-taped together.

It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.

Haibara laughed, unwrapping the bandage on his bitten hand. “God, I love her. Bites like a jackal.”

“Shut up,” Nanami hissed.

“She’s fucking incredible.”

“Shut up.”

“She could’ve been a serial killer.”

Gojo slammed him against the wall. “Shut. Up.”

“Are we trying to find her or fight each other!” Megumi yelled, and Gojo backed off with a grunt from a smirking Haibara after a beat.

Hour Five

“She was smiling when she lit the bed on fire,” Haibara whispered, staring at the footage one of Megumi’s corrupted drones caught before she destroyed it.

The flames danced across your face like a rite. You looked holy. Like a woman who knew God personally and had decided He wasn’t worth the apology.

And none of them—not even the strongest sorcerer alive, not the meticulous executioner, or the boy born of a cursed blessing, or the resurrected demon from society’s trash heap—

None of them could stop you.

Because you weren’t human anymore.

Hour Six

They found a lead.

Not from tech. Not from tracking.

From blood.

Haibara licked his injured hand, still oozing from her bite. He stared at it. Smiled.

“She didn’t take the knife to hurt herself. She took it to threaten us. And this? This isn’t desperation.”

“What was the reason then?” Gojo whispered, eyes burning from overuse.

“It’s theatre. She left us a trail. Just enough to make us panic. Just enough to remind us…” He looked at Gojo, gaze gleaming like a blade.

“…That she’s smarter than all of us combined.”

And somewhere, far beyond their reach, in an untraceable place with prepaid electricity and blackout curtains, you stared at your own reflection.

Still. Silent. Pregnant. Waiting.

Then you peeled back your coat. Checked your stomach. Ran your fingers over the black bruise near your ribs—where the babies kicked too hard in your stress while you were pulling out the car batteries.

You weren’t safe. Not really.

A phone ping.

Mom: Flight's delayed a little further. Get yourself food but stay away from view.

Hour eight

“Why can’t I fucking see her?” Gojo demanded again, voice rising. He was glowing faintly now, like a sun left to rot in a glass coffin. “I can see everyone. I can see through walls. Why not her?”

“Because you don’t know her,” Haibara said without looking up from his phone.

The words dropped like a knife.

Gojo turned. Nanami didn’t stop him.

“You wanna say that again?”

“You don’t know her. You know the woman who cooked for you and sucked your cock and gave you children you aren’t worthy of. You don’t know the girl who broke her own jaw so her cousins wouldn’t rape her again. Or the girl who lived under a bed with rats and still makes Blackrock shudder. The one who cried blood the night you came on each other right next to her sleeping body.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched, hard enough to hear a faint crack.

Haibara kept going. “You didn’t even know she was pregnant. You called her bipolar. Your little baby killers club didn’t tell her shit.”

Megumi punched Haibara out of nowhere, and the latter straightened back up like an unkillable pest, spitting the blood from his lip tear.

Megumi yelled, “If you can’t be bothered to help, then get lost.”

“I am helping.” Haibara smirked, “By laughing at them.”

Megumi eyed him suspiciously. “You know who she called, don’t you?”

Haibara smirked.

---

Before the meeting with the investor and the subsequent disappearance—

You’d barely slept.

Not because of discomfort, though your swollen ankles and the relentless ache in your lower back would’ve justified it. No, sleep had eluded you because of them—the disasters you somehow forgave, loved, and carried children from. After months of icy silences, bruised egos, and walking on eggshells sharpened by betrayal, a night last week had finally broken the drought.

Satoru cried five times. That you know of.

The first time was silent—his face buried in the curve of your neck, a hand trembling on your side, like he thought if he held too tight, you’d vanish. The second was louder, gasping, muttering apologies into your skin like they were spells. By the third, he’d woken you up entirely, whimpering as he clung to you in his sleep, kneading the soft swell of your hip like a needy white tiger. The fourth came when you cupped his face and kissed his lashes and whispered, “I missed you.” And the fifth—well, that one came when he was already inside you.

Slow. Soft. No cocky grin, no teasing flick of his tongue. Just desperate Satoru with tears slipping down his cheeks and his forehead pressed to yours, as if he were scared that blinking might separate you again.

Kento didn’t cry.

But he looked at you like a ghost. Like if he blinked, he’d wake up so he’d woken before either of you, face buried in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse like he was checking you were still warm. There was no ceremony to it—he was already hard, already leaking against your thigh. His hand curled protectively over your bump, reverent, steady, like he was anchoring himself to proof that this—all of this—was real.

You don’t remember how it started. Only that your hormones had made you wet and half-dazed. Satoru had slid inside you without even waking properly, moving in that lazy, sleep-drunk way he always did when overwhelmed. You'd been too sensitive lately—your body a minefield of electric nerves—and soon you’d ended up on Kento’s lap, Gojo moving behind you while Kento’s cock rested hot and hard under your soaked folds, rubbing him and you off.

It wasn’t pornographic. It was tender. Messy, yes. But real.

Your arms around Kento’s shoulders. Satoru's hand splayed over your belly like a talisman, anchoring you so as not to hurt the twins. The low, breathy sounds you made when Kento pressed kisses under your jaw, whispering that you were beautiful. Sacred. A miracle.

You moaned so sweetly that Kento chuckled low in his throat, eyes closed, face tilted to the ceiling in something like prayer.

Then came the chaos.

You were so lost in the rhythm that you didn’t notice Satoru getting bolder—until he grabbed Kento’s thigh and tried to shift his leg up in a mating press. Kento’s leg jerked with surprise, and he just snorted. Loudly.

“I’m not a yoga mat,” he groaned, covering his eyes with one arm, stifling his laugh.

You burst out laughing. And felt it in your ribcage, like someone was letting light back into your lungs.

Satoru paused mid-thrust, blinked, then looked sheepishly between the two of you.

“Well, you both keep trying to get me pregnant, so this is me turning the tables,” he said, deadpan, then he kept thrusting.

Kento’s laugh shook the bed.

You turned and kissed Satoru—salt and saliva and need—and then turned and kissed Kento, who looked more in love than he’d ever admit. For a second, the three of you just stayed like that. Tangled. Breathing. Full of each other.

By the time the sun climbed over the skyline, you were dozing again between them, skin sticky, sheets tangled, legs heavy. The morning routine happened in sacred silence—no fights, no tension. Just Kento helping you into your dress while Satoru brushed your hair, quiet and reverent, as if caring for you was penance and prayer combined.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You look powerful,” he whispered.

Kento kissed your wrist, slipping your wedding ring back on after cleaning it. “And the mother of my children.”

“Mine too,” Satoru chimed in.

“You’re such a narcissist,” Kento said.

“So are you,” Satoru shot back, smiling now, eyes clear.

You rolled your eyes, heart full.

This was what peace looked like. No chaos. No yelling. Just the quiet, perfect calm that came when everyone chose to stay.

You had ten minutes before take-off. Your phone buzzed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, depending on what he wants and the flight time,” you promised, turning at the door.

They both followed you—of course they did. Satoru tugged your hand. Kento wrapped his arm around your shoulders. They walked you to the elevator like you were made of glass and gold and unspeakable power.

You kissed Satoru first. Then Kento.

They both held your gaze as the doors closed. You caught Satoru mouthing I love you. Kento didn’t speak, but his expression was the same one he’d worn when you walked down the aisle.

The last thing you heard before the metal doors shut was Satoru murmuring, “Call me if there’s even an ounce of doubt. I’ll teleport you out.”

And Kento’s quiet, unwavering, “Keep the life vitals tracker on and call me once you land.”

---

The jet was quiet, save for the muted purr of climate control and the occasional shift of turbulence against steel. You’d boarded at noon—twenty minutes ahead of schedule—surrounded by a sixteen-person armed security detail and your logistics assistant, who kept glancing at your ankles like they might explode mid-flight.

She asked if you were comfortable three times before takeoff. Like she was stalling. Like the jet wasn’t just taking you to New York, but to the guillotine.

Anna hadn’t sent the jet. He had.

The new investor. No name, just gravity. A black hole in the shape of a man—silent, never photographed, but powerful enough that Anna had stumbled over her sentence when his assistant called.

When you’d first told Nanami about the request for an in-person, he’d exhaled like a loaded gun. Pressed his hand to his forehead and muttered, “Can’t we just kill him?”

He wasn’t joking. He spent the next three hours building worst-case flowcharts in that calm, terrifying way he did—like even apocalypse could be optimized.

Satoru had stopped joking altogether. That was worse.

Takahashi, at least, had behaved for his first flight. Curled at your side in a little albino ball of privilege, snoozing through turbulence like he was made of clouds and sedatives. You kept stroking the patch between his ears. It soothed nothing, but pretending helped.

Across from you sat a PR assistant barely old enough to rent a car. Her eyes kept flicking to your bump like it might blink back. “You don’t look that pregnant,” she offered hesitantly.

You smiled, didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t the look of it. Never had been. It was the feeling—like your body was being rewritten in a language you didn’t speak. Nights were the worst. The way the skin moved—too fluid, like something inside was stretching out. Like it wanted more room.

Scans didn’t capture that. Machines didn’t feel the slow-shifting horror of cartilage loosening, knees dislocating if you stood too long, lungs compressed to the size of childhood grief. The doctors said miracle. You said miscalculation.

You’d worn red today. A deep, cruel red. It felt… appropriate for some odd reason.

---

Vogue Private Office — Manhattan

The orchids were wilting by the door. You walked in like the third act of a tragedy—heels cracking marble like closing statements.

The staff didn’t question you. They swung the lobby doors wide, as if bracing for a storm in stilettos.

Inside, the air clung with the scent of dying flowers and fragile wealth. Glossy surfaces, curves designed to look expensive, chairs meant to be admired, not sat in. They led you to a glass-walled suite where the city still bent to your silhouette—even if your shares never did for them.

You folded yourself into the seat, spine negotiating with memory. Accommodations were never an option.

Anna was late.

Of course.

When her heels finally announced her, you didn’t rise. Couldn’t, really—not with the way your body had begun to betray you, bone grinding against bone.

She stood haloed by light, a magazine-cutout of power, her smile sharp with the arrogance of someone who still believed timing was a weapon.

“You glow,” she said. “Like women do before they’re devoured.”

“Unmedicated,” you replied.

Her grin widened, all teeth and conquest. “We’ll keep this clean. You know why you’re here.”

You blinked, slow.

“The new investor wants your story. The twins. The empire. The marriage. He thinks your silence is sinking your company.”

One of the twins kicked—hard enough to fracture breath. Lately, it didn’t feel like movement. It felt like revolt.

Anna tapped her nails against the table. “How are the husbands?”

You exhaled.

“Protective. Armed. Near breaking.”

She tilted her head. “Would they die for you?”

You mirrored her.

“They already did.”

A pause. Her eyes flickered—assessing whether it was poetry or prophecy.

Then, the ice of her smile.

“Now that,” she murmured, “is a Vogue quote.”

Soon enough they led you through a corridor so silent it felt like something had been sacrificed to keep it that way.

No corporate logos. No gaudy art. Just sharp edges, sliding doors, and the kind of air that had passed through too many purifiers. The kind that made you feel sanitized, surgically so. You were shown into a tea room so traditional it bordered on uncanny for New York—tatami mats, shoji screens, and incense coiling faintly in the corners like an old ghost. For a second, you thought it might be a set. A psychological stage.

And then he walked in like a theory made flesh. The kind of man who survived the apocalypse by looking like prophecy.

He wasn’t what you’d expected.

Long raven hair swept back into a precisely tied half-bun. He wore a form-fitting black turtleneck beneath a long trench coat, the fabric whispering as he moved. Polished leather shoes. No noise. No dust. The kind of outfit that commanded attention without asking for it—quiet, curated power. His face was too symmetrical to be trustworthy, his skin untextured in that uncanny, expensive way. No jewelry except for a Rolex that said old money or old blood.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Geto Suguru.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Geto,” you shook his hand briefly. “You’re very composed for someone hiding behind NDAs and empty LinkedIn profiles.”

He smiled, unfazed. “I don’t like being photographed. It makes it harder to disappear when people disappoint me.”

You blinked and filed that away.

Another man stepped in—vaguely inbred in posture and temperament. The kind of man who inherited his surname like a loaded weapon. He poured tea like it was beneath him.

You didn’t need an introduction to know what he was.

Zenin.

Naoya, specifically. Blond, lean, the sharp-boned entitlement of someone who'd never been told no by someone who could make it stick. There was a feral brightness behind his eyes, like something hungry and bored. He poured tea with the grace of someone imagining your autopsy.

Geto glanced toward him. “Naoya. Thank you.”

The man gave a short bow that wasn’t quite a bow.

You smiled, tilted your head slightly—your expression deliberately soft, even as your voice curled with something sharper. "You're really beautiful. You shouldn’t be in corporate. Milan seems more appropriate."

Suguru chuckled, almost surprised. “Fashion is a battlefield. This is where I’m better suited.” He gestured to the tea cup in front of him. “I hope the flight was comfortable.”

“It was fine. Apologies if I kept you waiting—my husband insisted we play a little longer.”

He didn’t blink. But in the corner of the room, a man with stitches across his face twitched slightly. Like the mention of something domestic scratched at his teeth.

Naoya, who was now pouring your tea like it was poison, said nothing. Suguru didn’t offer introductions. He just let the platinum blond ghost linger at the room’s edge like a lion watching your blood pressure with a smirk.

Then he looked back to you and said, with no real warmth, “Ah. Is he still obsessed with Digimon?”

The shift was instantaneous.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe wrong. But beneath the table, your fingers twitched once—an involuntary microexpression.

Satoru had never said that online. Not to fans. Not to journalists. Not even in investor decks.

But you didn’t bite, not so easily. “So tell me, Mr. Geto, what are your plans?” You didn’t specify whether you meant plans for your company or for you; he’d clear that for you soon enough.

He began flipping through a file. “As I’m aware, you’ve had… an eventful quarter.”

You kept your smile. “Define eventful.”

“The employee assault. The digital blackouts. The marriage leak. The #TwoHolesForAReason campaign. Your stock drops. The public threats. And of course…” His eyes dropped, just briefly, to your stomach. “The pregnancy reveal.”

You took a measured sip of tea. Let the silence breathe. You could feel a fish curling beneath the floorboards—koi or curse, you couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t come here to relive the timeline.”

“Of course not,” he said gently. “You came here because I asked politely.”

That stopped you. Just a breath.

Suguru chuckled, as if he'd made a harmless joke. “Satoru always did get possessive when he felt threatened.”

You blinked once, slowly. He was no longer implying leverage. He was showing it.

“How do you know my husband?”

“From a different life. We were in Jujutsu Tech together, some ten years ago or more.” He didn’t elaborate. “He’s... very consistent. Even back then.”

“Were you close?”

“We were best friends. Classmates. Same special grades. Different curse techniques, same suicidal ambition.” His voice didn’t change. “Then the world changed after your guardian killed a girl we were protecting, and I… left.”

You didn’t react.

You recognized the tempo. The bait. He knew more about you than he was supposed to.

“Are you still in touch?”

“The last time I spoke to him was eight months ago.”

He said it like a wound. Or a warning.

Blood crawled up your throat, but you smiled and sipped your tea like a lamb, luring him into a false sense of comfort. “What happened eight months ago?” you asked softly, like you couldn’t put two and two together.

He smiled—not kindly. “I lost.”

The silence that followed was polite. Hollow.

You inhaled. “You joined the corporate sector after that?”

“Mm. Sorcery has its limits. I realized my skills were better suited to cleaning up PR messes.” His eyes flicked over your bump, your body, the controlled inhale of someone used to performing normalcy under duress. “Your company’s been through enough chaos lately. The world turned fast.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s the risk of marrying violently private men.”

“Or of marrying two of them,” he said, too evenly.

You didn’t reply. Let him talk.

He didn’t. Clever bastard.

Instead, the blonde set down another cup of tea with a thud that felt deliberate. You glanced at him, properly now.

“You didn’t introduce your company.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. “Naoya Zen’in. Logistics director. Don’t take his silence personally—he doesn’t like powerful women.”

“Must be exhausting,” you said, sipping your tea without breaking eye contact with Naoya’s sneer.

Naoya’s lip curled, but Suguru raised a finger, and the man stilled like a dog leashed by old violence.

You glanced around the room again—and noticed the other man was too still. Too silent. Sitting near the incense tray now, legs folded like a child mimicking meditation. Young. Heterochromatic eyes. Face like a cherub carved by a sadist—unblemished except for the stitches, soft, but off.

You didn’t recognize him.

But something primal in you curled. Not fear—yet—but revulsion. He watched you with a kind of gleeful interest people usually reserved for vivisection videos.

Suguru didn’t introduce him either.

The air felt heavier suddenly. Your skin began to itch under your dress, and you couldn’t tell if it was hormones or the way that stranger tilted his head slightly every time you moved.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask. Let the wrongness root itself in your memory.

“So what’s your plan, Mr. Geto?” you asked calmly, eyes never straying. “You want to scrub my company’s image. Why now?”

He met your gaze with something that almost felt like recognition. “Because Satoru did what he did for you. And the world saw it as a threat.”

You stayed silent.

He was skirting around Kento’s name—which meant Nanami, in Suguru’s eyes, was just as guilty.

And neither of you were forgiven.

He continued. “Beating your own employees in the middle of a crisis? Then disappearing. Leaving your CHRO and Higuruma to spin internal terrorism as a ‘security concern’ while the internet tore you apart. And the marriage leak…”

His voice lowered. “The rape threats. The arson calls. The memes.”

You exhaled, slow. Steady.

He didn’t know Higuruma either.

His mouth twitched. Almost sympathetically. Almost.

“Your men love you,” he said like an obituary. “But the world is still too cruel to forgive a woman for being adored.”

You tilted your head and met his violent violet gaze. “And you do?”

Suguru leaned back, folding his arms. “I understand optics. I understand what it means to be seen as unnatural.”

He hadn’t once referred to Satoru by his full name. Hadn’t asked how he was. Hadn’t asked to set up a meeting to catch up. Hadn’t insulted him either.

Every mention dripped with intimacy. Personal. Familiar. Irreversible.

You glanced at the tea again.

You were being dissected.

Not you exactly. The idea of you. The blueprint. The soft horror of a woman who had everything and bled alone.

You smiled. Not sweetly.

“So you stayed hidden all this time. Why?”

His eyes glinted. “Because sometimes, anonymity is power. I don’t need to be seen. I need to move.”

You hummed, sipping.

You weren’t stupid enough for men like him. Suguru wasn’t obsessed with investing in your company. He was trying to replace you in your own life.

Naoya stepped forward again. This time, it wasn’t tea. He whispered something into Suguru’s ear. A coded phrase, maybe. Or a trigger.

Suguru nodded once.

And then the man with the uncanny smile by the incense tray finally spoke.

“Has it kicked yet?”

The room shrank by degrees. You froze mid-breath, head swivelling toward him slowly. “What?”

He beamed. It didn’t reach his eyes. “The baby. Or babies, I suppose.”

Your stomach twisted—not from pregnancy. Instinct. Deep and ancestral. Like recognising a predator that shouldn’t exist anymore.

Suguru didn’t stop him. Naoya grinned.

Your fingers brushed the inside of your coat pocket, finding the cold edge of your phone. You didn’t need to see the screen—just feel the lock button. One long press, and the emergency contact would trigger. Satoru had set it up himself, laughing like it was a joke. “Just in case you’re ever too tired to scream.”

You weren’t screaming now. But you were tired. And surrounded.

Your thumb hovered over the side of the phone, ready to press and hold.

He’ll feel it. He’ll come. He always does.

But you needed answers.

Across from you, the scared man’s gaze skittered over your body, hesitating on the weight of your pregnancy like it offended him. Like he was doing the math on your vulnerability.

Your fingers twitched again—hovering but not pressing.

"Funny," you murmured, voice honed to a razor's edge—quiet enough to slit the throats of every man in that room who dreamed of hurting you. Of hurting them.

"You didn't introduce him, either."

Suguru’s gaze dragged over you—slow, careful, like he was calibrating the threat level of a black widow spider beneath his shoe. “Ah. That’s Mahito. He’s not an employee. Just… an enthusiast.”

“Enthusiast of what?”

“People.”

Mahito’s laugh was a rusted scissor drawn softly across silk. “Of change.”

Your fingers tightened around your teacup, the heat biting into your palm. “I don’t discuss my children with men I don’t know, Mr. Geto. Remove him, or this meeting ends now.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, at Suguru’s faint nod, Mahito walked out—but not before his eyes dipped to your swollen abdomen, lingering like a promise.

Suguru tilted his head. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And you’re exactly what I prepared for.” You didn’t take the bait, just sipped your tea and wished you could gouge out Naoya’s wandering eyes on your body with the teaspoon.

“Your men could’ve fixed this,” Suguru mused. “Instead, they buried you alive under their failures.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me dig you out.”

You let out one sharp smirk. “You want my loyalty.” Naoya’s gaze continued to crawl over your skin, but it was Suguru’s quiet hunger that made your pulse stutter.

He didn’t just want your empire. He wanted what you had with him.

“No,” Suguru said, and for one suspended breath, you saw something ancient behind his eyes. “I want the myth they buried you in. I want to rewrite it in your bones. You can keep your loyalty. I know how fragile that is.”

Naoya smirked.

You traced the rim of your cup again, as if you weren’t about to be eight months along and evaluating three likely special grade threats in a building without exits.

“I remember he used to hoard candy in his coat pocket,” Suguru said idly. “Said it was for focus. But he always saved the strawberry ones. Said they tasted like the spring of youth.”

Your breath caught—only for a second.

He smiled.

You didn’t give him more.

“Why now?” you asked. “You’ve had years to insert yourself. Why wait until after they ruined everything?”

His smile thinned. “Because now the narrative is fragile. Vulnerable. Editable.”

You didn’t smile back. You narrowed your eyes, the way a knife narrows a throat.

“Editable?” you repeated, voice flat as the heartbeat monitor they once used when your blood pressure dipped from stress-induced anemia. Third trimester. High stakes. Too much noise. Too many men trying to rewrite your obituary before the children even arrived.

He leaned forward with the casual precision of a man who’d once taught his enemies philosophy before killing them. Elbows on the table. Like a professor who enjoyed watching you fail upward and spiral into myth.

“Everyone loves a redemption arc,” Suguru said softly. “Especially when the protagonist is already bleeding.”

You watched the way his fingers interlocked, how his eyes held yours without fear, pity, or desire. Familiarity, yes. But it was impersonal. Surgical. “You’re smart. You built a world-changing company, held it through five hostile acquisition attempts, and somehow survived being married to two emotionally repressed men with god complexes.”

A pause. Letting it land.

“But your narrative is a mess. Right now, you’re not a visionary. You’re a punchline. A cautionary tale.”

You didn’t blink. You’d stopped blinking for fragile men a long time ago.

“So you want to help me out of the goodness of your heart, Mr. Geto,” you sarcastically mocked, voice like cooled steel.

“I want to curate,” he corrected. “The public needs a villain. I’d rather it not be you.”

Your breath didn’t change. Your spine did.

“And who should it be instead?” you asked quietly.

His gaze didn’t falter. “The men who made you disappear.”

You didn’t answer.

Because your brain was already screaming. Eight months. That was the moment the light began to fracture. The lies weren’t clumsy—they were rehearsed. Gojo crying in the shower without making a sound, standing too close to the shower faucet like he wanted to burn off his skin. Nanami avoiding eye contact with you like you were Medusa.

They hadn’t just betrayed you.

They’d buried someone.

And this man across from you—

—this Suguru—

He wasn’t the villain of the story. He was the page they tore out.

You shifted slightly in your seat, careful not to press too hard against the left hip joint. It ached from carrying too much weight—twins, fear, expectations.

“I don’t trust men who speak softly for a living,” you said, finally.

He smiled, not kindly. “Then you’ll appreciate that I don’t live. I manage. I observe. I insert pressure.”

“That sounds dangerously like extortion.”

“That sounds like truth.”

You stood, feeling the subtle catch in your hip again. A strain, not a collapse. You could handle it. You’d handled worse.

“Then here’s some truth for you, Mr. Geto,” you said, staring him down while Naoya twitched beside him like a dog smelling meat. “I don’t care what happened between you and him. I don’t care if Satoru fed you strawberry candy with his mouth. I don’t care if you’re here to drag me into whatever unresolved soap opera you three left fermenting in a casket.”

Naoya flinched like a puppet yanked by ancestral strings.

Suguru just kept smiling, unflinching.

“But if you want a stake in my company, you’ll need to do more than spill secrets and wear pretty silk. I’ve already survived two of the most powerful men in Japan loving me to the brink of destruction. Fear’s a luxury I ran out of two assassination attempts ago.”

Suguru rose slowly. Elegantly. Offered a hand as if any of this was normal.

You didn’t take it.

You left.

And you didn’t realise your hands were shaking until the door sealed behind you. The tremor was slight, concentrated in the fingertips—just enough to betray you to yourself. Just enough to remind you that no amount of tech, intelligence, or control could reverse the trauma of being known by dangerous men.

You didn’t take Suguru’s jet.

Instead, you boarded your own—slid into the leather seat with Takahashi curled against your belly like a breathing talisman—and told your assistant not to speak unless the plane was on fire.

By the time you hit cruising altitude, your nails had already scrolled through Nanami’s phone.

Not because it was hard.

His password was still the same.

Gojo never had one.

You found messages you were never meant to see.

Shoko: 15 days until abortion is off the table.

Gojo: She won’t agree.

You: Then we don’t ask.

You stared at the screen for a long time.

So they all lied.

Not just Gojo. Not just Nanami. All of them. Shoko even pretended to be in your corner.

There it was.

It wasn’t just about control. It wasn’t even about love.

It was the assumption that because you didn’t throw cursed techniques like tantrums, you couldn’t possibly comprehend risk. That your life—your mind—was collateral. Disposable in the face of their warped logic and misplaced savior complexes.

Like talking to you was useless. Like reasoning with you was redundant.

Like you were some beautiful, ignorant thing to be protected and deceived in equal measure.

Like you were some animal incapable of critical reasoning when your own life was in danger.

So they could fuck each other guilt-free.

So they could play noble martyrs in the privacy of the wounds they gave you.

And still, that wasn’t enough. Because anger—real anger—needs witnesses.

You opened a signal sniffer, rerouted through two proxies, and tapped into your neighbour’s WiFi. Not because you couldn’t afford better surveillance, but because her router overlapped with the garden of Megumi’s penthouse.

You shouldn’t have looked.

You: She wouldn’t have agreed.

Haibara: Then don’t give her the choice.

You: She’s not a sorcerer. She doesn’t understand what these kids could be. My mom almost died trying to give birth to me, and I wasn’t even half as cursed.

Haibara: Yeah, she’s blind to what they’ll do to her.

You: I’m not going to let her die over a fucking ideal.

Haibara: That wack doctor says she’s fine, so stop obsessively worrying.

Your vision blurred—but not from tears. From calculation.

The rage came quietly. It didn’t scream or collapse. It focused.

You unclasped the ring from your finger. Gojo’s design, Nanami’s metal of choice. A perfect storm of sentiment you no longer had room for.

You handed it to one of the PR assistants travelling with you—someone young, hopeful, still romantic about the world.

"Get rid of it," you said. "Melt it. Turn it into something you like. Give it to your girlfriend. Or your mother. Or leave it on the street. I don’t care. Just make sure I never see it again."

She didn’t ask questions.

And you didn’t explain.

Because you knew your husbands were capable of cruelty. You’d lived long enough in the shadow of it. But what you hadn’t expected—

What truly broke something you couldn’t name—

Was Megumi.

Megumi, whom you’d grown up with. Who unknowingly saved you. Who you’d trusted with more than your safety. Who you’d let in on the soft, unfinished parts of your life.

He hadn’t just betrayed you.

He’d calculated your erasure like a business decision.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything Gojo or Nanami had ever done.

---

That was yesterday morning.

Now it was twilight in Tokyo.

They probably thought you’d thrown yourself into the sea.

But instead, here you were, crying into a bucket of fried chicken.

And you were borderline dehydrated, emotionally overloaded, stuck in a fucking KFC parking lot on the outskirts of the city, trying not to break down into raw animal sobs as you cried into your Zinger.

Your hypercar—a pearlescent black Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut—was parked sideways across two spots, hazard lights blinking like a distress beacon. The carbon-fiber passenger door still hung open. Your mascara was not waterproof.

The sandwich was getting soggy in your hand, fries had gone cold, and the second tub of soft serve was pooling slowly into your leather seat. Your coat smelled like fried oil, and you didn’t care. Not after the two days you’d had.

You missed Takahashi. You hadn’t meant to leave the house without him. But you had to run. And your mother's flight had been delayed without warning, your pelvic pain had spiked again, and your body had decided—in the grand tradition of pregnancy craving betrayal—that you absolutely needed karaage from KFC right now or you’d lose your mind.

You shoved another fry in your mouth. Your sunglasses slipped to the tip of your nose, and you wiped your nose on your sleeve. Your phone buzzed again in your coat pocket—ignored. The car’s touchscreen blinked up missed calls: Nanami. Gojo. Fushiguro. Haibara. CHRO. Keji. Shoko. Even Higuruma and Kashimo.

But your fingers only twitched when you reached into the Karaage Kun box and found it empty.

You blinked at it. Then stared at it again like it might refill itself if you focused hard enough.

It didn’t.

You muttered something vile under your breath, threw it into the bag, and reversed sharply out of the space, startling a group of high school boys who had been trying to take selfies with your car.

You pulled up to the drive-thru window again.

The teenage employee there—a scrawny, gentle-eyed boy with two acne patches on his chin—took one look at your blotchy face, your designer maternity wear, and the angry tears still clinging to your lashes like guilt, and leaned in awkwardly.

“Would you, uh… like to eat inside? In the back? It’s private. No one will see.”

Your eyes narrowed. Not because he was wrong. But because it was too damn late.

Fushiguro probably already had Tokyo’s entire surveillance grid running facial recognition on CCTV footage. You had thirty minutes, max, before someone pinged your license plate and alerted the staff that you were a missing trillionaire heiress with a God Complex Husbands Alert Level 5.

You opened your mouth to politely decline—and that’s when it happened.

A sharp, gravel-thick voice from behind your Jesko snarled loud enough to startle pigeons off the KFC’s roof.

“What’s taking so fucking long?”

You froze.

This. This was your final straw.

Not the delayed flight. Not the ghost of Geto Suguru. Not the stress migraine. Not even the go-bag full of burner phones in your trunk.

No. It was this man, some impatient Tokyo businessman with too much money and too little self-awareness, honking at a crying pregnant woman ordering a ¥700 chicken snack set.

The teenage cashier turned pale and scrambled to shush him, mumbling something apologetic and helpless in corporate lingo.

But you were already getting out of the car.

Your heels—flat, orthopaedic, pregnancy-safe—hit the pavement with a purposeful thunk. Your bump was covered in a loose belted trench, collar flipped up, eyes bloodshot, mouth red from crying, ketchup and eating your own lipstick with the fried chicken.

You strode across the parking lot like your water might break from rage alone.

The man was in a Porsche 918 Spyder.

Rich, then. But not you – rich.

You knocked on his tinted window hard enough to make the glass vibrate.

The man inside—long dark hair, too many rings, cigarette hanging from his lip like an accessory—rolled it down and looked at you.

Your heart stalled. Had Geto found you?

Then he turned fully—and no, you didn’t know him.

“Hey,” he started. “I’m sorry for—”

He trailed off. His eyes didn’t leave your face. But his hand went back, casually, like muscle memory. He grabbed something—or someone—in the back seat and yanked.

A pink-haired burly man, Fushiguro’s age, popped into view. Eyes wide. Face pale.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, staring at you.

You didn’t care. You were done being polite.

“Do none of you have the decency to wait your fucking turn? You’re not the only ones starving!”

The pink-haired one gawked. The long-haired one blinked, snuffed his cigarette.

And then—

The rear door of the Porsche opened with a heavy, expensive click.

A man stepped out.

No—a wall of a man. Towering. Black spiky hair. Tattoos across his neck, his hands, the visible sliver of skin beneath his bespoke coat. His suit looked Brunello Cucinelli. His gait was slow. Controlled.

Somehow, he was taller than Gojo.

Which should’ve been illegal.

You took a step back. Your hip twinged.

He looked at you the way sorcerers looked at curses: like you were made of secrets and danger.

His voice was almost gentle when he spoke in English to you.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling. I was just… stunned. We were supposed to meet yesterday in New York, but you never came. Do you remember me, princess?”

You stared at him.

Confused.

Nauseated.

Because you did not remember him. Not the face. Not the voice. And especially not the “princess.”

Your hand—coated in fries and fatigue—slowly curled into a fist at your side, “Don’t call me that. Who the fuck are you?”

---

He’d seen a lot in his many lives.

Flesh peeled from bone in war. Gods weep beneath shrines. Kingdoms rise on the shoulders of men who lied.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this: A woman powerful enough to end markets with a swipe of her hand, pregnant and a little crazy, yelling at a man twice her size at a Tokyo KFC lot like he’d committed a crime.

And to him? He had.

Because she didn’t remember him.

Not the face.

Not the voice.

Not the name he’d written for her the first time they’d met in Norway—softly, like it would break something if said out loud.

She stared at him now like he was a stranger. And it knocked the breath from his lungs harder than any curse ever had.

The same eyes. The same sharpness in her jaw when she was pissed, the same raw edge to her voice.

He opened his mouth. Could’ve told her. Could’ve said everything.

But the car behind him honked. Loud. Disrespectful.

And she turned.

Didn’t even wait.

Walked back to her car like he was just another suit in the noise.

Slammed the door. Didn’t look back.

He stood in the fading orange-pink glow of Tokyo twilight, heart slightly colder.

“Broooo,” came Yuji’s voice from the passenger seat. “You got rejected by a pregnant woman, in public. That’s generational humiliation, man.”

“She didn’t reject me,” He muttered, eyes still on her.

“She forgot you existed,” Junpei added helpfully from the back, licking spicy powder off his fingertips. “You’re a ghost. A failed Tinder date. A plotline that didn’t make the final cut.”

“Don’t you think she’s kinda scary, though?” Choso chimed in quietly, looking almost reverent. “She gives off strong mom-you-don’t-wanna-piss-off energy.”

“She is a mom,” Yuji pointed out.

“To twins,” He corrected, voice too soft.

They all looked at him.

“What?” He snapped.

“Nothing,” Choso said, already climbing out of the car, like that was answer enough as he walked to the car that had honked.

So of course, he didn’t think. Just walked.

Over to her Jesko, one hand raised, careful to keep his body language non-threatening. He knocked. Once. Lightly.

She looked up. Eyes bloodshot. Hands gripping the tub of chicken like a war trophy.

He held up the takeaway bag like a peace offering. Didn’t say anything.

She didn’t roll the window down. Just glared at him like she might reverse into him and not lose sleep.

Behind him, Yuji, Choso, and Junpei leaned out of the Porsche like hyenas watching a National Geographic special. “Go on then, Romeo,” Yuji stage-whispered.

The giant man ignored him. Nudged the bag closer. Still no window roll.

She shifted slightly—hand brushing toward the ignition.

But then… her stomach growled. Loud.

An indecent, almost comic little groan from deep within.

She froze. Looked horrified.

He bit back a smirk.

She sighed, finally rolling the window down with the resignation of a god forced to make peace with a lesser deity.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was sandpaper and citrus. He almost missed it. The familiarity.

“Calm down, woman. I don’t hurt defenceless pregnant women.”

“Who. The fuck. Are you?” She snapped again, unbothered by his size, his tone, or the heat radiating off him like a threat.

He admired that. Always had.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” he said, slow, voice low. “From Itadori Industries, we specialise in market manipulation. I was trying to invest in your company. We met in Norway.”

She blinked. Sniffling. Mistrust etched deep in the slope of her shoulders.

“Show me your passport.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he turned and yelled, “Choso. You got the passports?”

Choso, saint that he was, was already halfway out of the car, rummaged around in his coat and brought it over.

As he handed it over, he leaned close and whispered, like it was sacred, “He wore this suit just because he was excited to meet you.”

Sukuna shot him a glare that could've flattened cities. Choso walked back, unbothered.

He flipped to the front page of the passport with one hand, takeaway bag still in the other.

Held it out.

She scanned it on her phone with the tired efficiency of someone who’d been betrayed before.

It pinged. Verified. Real.

She gave it back.

“I came to the meeting,” she murmured. “Some guy named Suguru showed up instead of you.”

Sukuna’s face darkened.

Who the fuck was Suguru?

Before he could say more, she sniffled.

“Princess,” he started, softer now. “Do you want to have this conversation while I stand outside your car with a takeaway bag like a solicitor?”

She wailed, openly now. “Nooo. Give me the food.”

And she got out of the car.

Didn’t stray from the door, but her body relaxed the slightest bit. Maybe from the scent. Maybe from the warmth of fried food. Maybe from the fact that Sukuna didn’t flinch when she got close enough to punch him.

He leaned against her car’s hood, offering the bag.

She rummaged through it like a raccoon with opposable thumbs.

Found too much food—because of course, he’d ordered one of everything Japan-exclusive. KFC bento. Teriyaki Twister. Pepper Mayo Twister. Chicken Katsu Sando. Matcha Tiramisu. Peach Mango Pie. Sakura Milk Tea.

She blinked. Whispered, almost suspiciously, “Did you poison it?”

He raised a brow.

Sukuna had been trying to meet with her for months. Months. And yet here she was, passing him the milk tea like it was some kind of test, like he wasn’t exactly who he said he was.

His hand almost brushed hers as he took the cup, and for a moment, he wondered if she’d noticed the slight tremble in his fingers.

He doubted it. She was too busy with the storm that raged behind her eyes to care about something as trivial as that.

He took it. Sipped. “Sweet,” he said, licking the sugar off his lip like it might make her remember.

She didn’t respond, her eyes still sharp like she could see every secret he kept buried behind his smirk.

“You look like you’re going through something,” he said, stealing a fry with the air of someone who didn’t have the blood of entire lineages on his hands. (He did. But not today.)

Her gaze barely moved, and her voice came out in a low, bitter monotone. “I hate my husbands.”

He smirked wider, his amusement sharp as glass. “I’ve seen the news.”

Yuji snorted from their car, and Sukuna glared at him.

She narrowed her eyes. “You look like a criminal.”

“'Cause I am,” he said, but shrugged. “Nah, just a sorcerer. Was."

“Get away from me,” Her mouth twisted as she began to pull away, pushing herself back into the uncomfortable space of her own thoughts. “God, they say sorcerers are rare but I keep encountering them like flies. Like cursed venereal diseases. It’s disgusting.”

Sukuna jumped to his feet without thinking, like it was second nature to console her, even if the reason felt foreign—some instinct buried deep in his chest, one he couldn't quite shake. He didn't need to comfort her. Hell, he probably shouldn't have. But for a moment, he wasn’t the monster he had been in another life; he was just a man, holding out a hand when it was needed. “No,” he said softly, his voice almost gentle. “I used to be one, but I’m not anymore. Don’t care about it, either. My brothers over there, and Yuji’s friend? They’re sorcerers too, but none of us participate in that die-a-thankless-death game.”

Junpei made a gagging sound behind the car. Choso threw a napkin at him.

“That’s what he said too,” she mumbled, shoving a mango pie into her mouth with the viciousness of someone who wanted to eat and disappear.

“Who?”

“The guy who showed up instead of you and … And there was this stitched-up guy and that fucking Naoya, and I thought I was going to die, and my husband lied to me about Suguru and his beautiful hair; he never told me about him.” She continued wailing.

Sukuna was confused between her sniffling, eating and crying combo. “Wait, slow down; start with the smallest one. Who’s the stitched guy? What did he look like?”

“His name was Mahito; he had stitches on his face and pale blue hair and looked at me like he was gonna open my stomach and take my babies like a claw machine prize.” She continued sniffing and also somehow sipping her tea.

Sukuna’s fists clenched.

He turned to Choso and yelled out, “Find where Mahito is. Now.”

Choso already had his phone out, mouth a thin line.

Sukuna turned back to her, voice low. “What about the other one? Naoya?”

“He looked at me like he wanted to assault me. I wanted to blind him with a tea spoon.” She said it so flatly, like violence was just a normal Tuesday.

“Naobito’s kid?” Sukuna asked. She nodded, still chewing. He gave a nod to Yuji, who was already on a call, voice sharp.

And then:

“Who’s Suguru?”

She went quiet.

Then, with all the ceremony of a royal confession, she slid him her half-eaten burger.

He accepted it like it was holy.

Then ate in silence with her for a while.

She began again, “He told me his name was Geto Suguru. That he and my husband were soulmates. And that I was their enemy. How the fuck am I someone’s enemy when I didn’t even know he existed?”

“Wait—Geto?” Sukuna stopped mid-chew.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah. Long black hair. Pretty, in that ‘will definitely commit a felony against humanity’ kind of way.”

Sukuna felt something shift in him.

“He’s supposed to be dead. There was a war a few months ago in Kyoto. Your husband killed him.”

Her eyes widened, horror blooming.

“Did I see a ghost? A curse?”

“Not possible. He was a curse user, yeah, but no one survives your husband.” Then he smirked. “Unless it’s me. I’m very strong, princess.”

She rolled her eyes and buried herself in the chicken like it could shelter her from the fact that apparently nothing in her life was real. “Less peacocking. More finding who’s impersonating you.”

“I’ll find out,” Sukuna said. His voice was flat, but his chest thrummed like a curse trying to break its seal. “And I mean that.”

Of course he did. She just nodded absently, like it was a customer service promise she’d heard before. There was Sprite condensation running down her fingers. Her lips were slightly swollen from all the salt. She looked exhausted. And holy.

That part hadn’t changed. Not in a thousand lives.

But then she said, “I have two husbands. And they’re both absolute clowns.”

Sukuna didn’t laugh.

(Okay—he let out a very soft, involuntary snort. Behind him, Junpei was wheezing into his Armani jacket, Yuji muttering “bro’s down bad”, and Choso took a photo of the moment like he was documenting a rare animal sighting.)

She kept going. “I wake up every morning to a new scandal,” she said, gesturing vaguely with a limp fry. “They bicker like old women in a laundromat. One of them tried to cheat on the 3AM Test with a voice actor, and the other failed so hard the internet started a NanaMoobs hashtag.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, more amused than he’d let show. “And yet, you are still married to them.”

“Bad decision-making, obviously.” So she was still in love with them.

He hummed, reaching for one of her fries again. Her wrist didn’t flinch this time. Small victories. “What did they do this time?”

She sighed, the kind that aged you five years in one breath. “Oh, nothing major. Just tried to abort my babies without telling me.”

Sukuna’s drink went down the wrong way. He coughed, violently, his eyes watering as Junpei whispered, “Bro…” with the reverence of someone witnessing an execution.

“…Excuse me?” Sukuna rasped.

She took a slow sip of her Sprite, eyes dead. “Yeah. Something about ‘if it was her or the baby, we’d choose her’ blah blah blah.’ I don’t know. I stopped reading after.”

For once in centuries, Sukuna had no words.

And that, in his world, was a fucking problem.

Because he’d once bathed in the blood of tyrants. He’d reduced kingdoms to ashes and made death feel like a mercy. His name had been enough to unmake faith.

But he had never, not once, been asked to comfort a furious, hormonal, fast-food-devouring, betrayed woman who used to be his entire world and now didn’t even recognize him.

And who was still, somehow, unspeakably radiant through it all.

This—this was worse than war.

So he said the only thing that came close to honesty. “You love them, right?”

She glared. Not just at him—through him. “What does that have to do with it?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “So hypothetically, if they were pregnant and historically too stubborn to save themselves, would you let them die?”

She blinked. The words caught her off guard. Her fry stilled halfway to her mouth.

“That’s an oddly sentimental thing to say,” she said.

He smirked. A slow thing, calculated, but tired around the edges. “I’m a businessman. Can’t let my biggest asset disappear, can I?”

She rolled her eyes, but the edge had dulled. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Mr. ‘Not a Criminal.’”

But she wasn’t crying anymore.

And Sukuna decided that—pathetically, pathetically—that was his greatest win in years.

She turned to him again, half her chicken gone. “But like—hiding an ex that fucking relevant is still bad, right? Like ‘my one and only’ and shit.”

The words twisted something deep in his ribcage. Deeper than his heart. The one that still beat only for her, even after all this time, all his deaths.

Sukuna hummed. Not dismissive, just thoughtful. “I guess. But then I have an ex—though I never called her that—who nearly set my entire life on fire. Yandere, textbook. I don’t talk about her. Not because I’m hiding her, but because she… made living unbearable. Some people are like that. Maybe your husband didn’t tell you because it hurt too much, and the other one didn’t because it wasn’t his secret to tell.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

There was mango sauce on her lip. Chicken grease on her coat. Her hand trembled just slightly, probably from the sugar crash. And still—still—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

But she didn’t remember.

Not the wedding. Not the way she’d laughed into his neck. Not the way she’d once laughed when he brought her those blobfish plushies for the babies.

She didn’t smile that tired smile while saying his name now.

There was no hate in her voice. No love either.

Just air.

She kept eating. Sipping her Sprite. Talking about two men who didn’t know what they had until they almost threw it away. Two men she still loved.

Behind him, Yuji laughed under his breath, “he’s got it bad.”

Choso handed him a tissue for the Sprite spill that hadn’t happened. Junpei was still smirking.

And Sukuna—he just sat there, breathing through a heartbreak that didn’t even have a name in this timeline.

---

Small A/N: Before/After reading the next bit, to draw the parallel, read this - [Tumblr/Ao3]

---

On the other side of Tokyo, the Fushiguros had gathered.

“Mom.” Megumi offered a hand when she climbed out of the jet.

She didn’t take it, just kept walking with her guards.

“I didn’t know. Then that doctor said she was fine, so there was no need to tell her in case the stress got to her.” He snapped.

She turned to him, “Your father would be disappointed in you.”

Megumi didn’t speak after that.

---

Across town, Nanami and Gojo were in hell. Again.

Nanami looked like a man trying to mathematically quantify grief. A golden ratio blade flickered and died in his palm every few seconds, uncontrolled—his body stuck in a loop, like it was trying to fight something that wasn’t there anymore.

Gojo’s Six Eyes still burned. Pupils dilated too sharp, skin gray-blue, the corners of his mouth twitching from the static in his brain.

Neither had slept in twenty-eight hours.

They had tried every scenario.

None of them ended with a pin drop at a KFC.

Incoming Message: Location

They stared at the screen.

Gojo broke the silence, cautious—hopeful like a man hoping the corpse in the morgue might still breathe.

“She’s—?”

“KFC,” Nanami said. Flat. Not deadpan—dead.

Gojo squinted. “You think the universe hates me personally?”

Nanami didn’t answer. Just turned the key and revved the car like he meant to drive it through Heaven’s gates and make someone answer for it.

---

By the time they arrived, the sun was bleeding into the horizon.

She was outside. Sitting on the hood of her car like the world hadn’t just ended two days ago. Barefoot. Anklets catching light. One hand held a melting Sprite float, the other a neatly folded napkin like she’d just wiped off a joke.

She was laughing.

Not alone.

Two—no, four others lingered around her. All vaguely wrong. One looked like Haibara on benzos, another like a Megumi with worse judgment and better hair. A third had cult survivor written all over him, and the last—

The last looked like he’d walked out of an ancient curse and decided to become a CEO.

Nanami’s breath stalled. Rage bloomed slow and clinical—an aneurysm waiting for a reason.

Gojo’s voice was already splintering. “Who the fuck—”

Nanami’s cursed energy cracked across his wrist like stained gold glass—subtle but loud if you knew him.

She saw them.

Across the street, with her mouth still full of fries, she called out, “Oh hey, look who finally decided to show up. I was gonna save you some, but figured you’d make me eat a granola bar and cry about my blood sugar.”

Gojo stopped in his tracks.

Nanami blinked.

She grinned like she hadn’t haunted them for past 29 hours. Like she wasn’t the reason Gojo started drinking his coffee black again.

“Come here,” she called, louder. “You two look like you haven’t peed in hours.”

Gojo, under his breath, muttered, “Because we haven’t.”

Beside her, reading their lips, Choso grimaced. “Jesus.”

Sukuna chuckled low in his chest, his attention never leaving her. “You really made them come to a KFC?”

She laughed harder, grabbing her side. “You don’t get to judge. You literally told me you’ve been burning cash just for a ‘chance meeting.’”

“Your business is lucrative,” Sukuna said.

“You’re covered in money.”

He glanced at his bespoke three-piece. “It’s decorative.”

“Okay, American Psycho.”

Sukuna smiled. His hand twitched once—almost like he was going to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but didn’t.

Same as Nanami, Gojo was already halfway across the street. “Who are these people?”

“They’re my friends,” she said sweetly, swinging her legs off the car. “Don’t be jealous, Satoru.”

“I am jealous,” he muttered, eyes glued to her.

Nanami’s voice cracked, sharp and brittle: “What did you tell them?”

She stood. Twirled her straw once. Shrugged. “That my idiot husbands forgot I was dangerous. Corrupted my friends. Lied to me. So I made new friends. Ones who don’t gaslight and lie to me.”

Nanami took a single step forward.

She pointed a fry like a weapon. “Don’t. If you breathe without apologizing, I will stab this into your brain through your nose.”

Gojo wheezed. Somewhere between a sob and a snort.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I was already craving wings. Otherwise, I’d be halfway to Bhutan.”

She stepped off the curb.

Licked sauce off her thumb. Like she hadn’t been running for her life a day ago. Like she’d never had a panic attack in a jet with the lights off. Like the world didn’t owe her blood for making her survive it.

Her gait was relaxed. Chin high.

And then—

CRACK!!!

No echo. No cinematic recoil.

Just nerve, bone, and fate snapping in sync.

It was intimate. Like an exhale through a silencer. Like a trapdoor closing.

Her hand jerked. The Styrofoam cup slipped from her grip mid-sip, spiraling sideways—Sprite and melting ice cream spraying in a soft arc. Her other hand, still holding the napkin, trembled like it knew something her mind hadn’t yet registered.

Then—

Red.

A bloom at the base of her skull. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. Surgical. The kind of red that silences conversations mid-sentence. That never washes out.

Her shoulder twisted, tendons snapping like overstretched cables. A clean fracture. Deliberate.

And then she dropped.

Mid-step. No scream. No gasp. No hands thrown up in defense.

Just a body folding in on itself. Puppet. Cut strings. Floor.

Her knees hit first. Then her hips. Her skull would’ve cracked open if—

“NO—!”

Gojo’s voice split the air.

His body slammed the pavement just in time, arms sliding under her skull before it struck asphalt. His knees hit hard. He didn’t notice.

She was convulsing. Fingers twitching. Legs spasming like her nerves were glitching through static.

Her eyes fluttered open—barely. One blown wide. The other slow to respond. Her mouth moved, soundless, forming shapes she couldn’t say.

The back of her head was caved in. Blood bubbling at the base, wet and hot against Gojo’s thighs.

“Hey—hey. Look at me. Look at me—fuck, baby, just stay. Please stay—”

His voice was wreckage. No power, only panic. Shaky hands curled around her cheeks like he was afraid he’d break her worse.

She blinked. Just once. Then her pupils rolled up.

And still, he held her. Cradled her like a lifeline. A wrecked thing trying to hold together something softer than himself.

Her breath came out uneven. Like a machine trying to reboot.

Gojo didn’t feel the pain in his legs. Didn’t feel her blood soaking his clothes. All he saw was her face—lagging, like her brain was buffering behind real time.

For one breathless second—

Even Sukuna forgot who he was.

He blinked. Twice. His head tilted. Like something ancient had stirred from beneath his ribs.

Her face. Her blood.

The stillness.

He didn’t move. His hands twitched once at his sides. His throat clicked dry.

It was like watching a ghost die again.

“…No,” he breathed. “No—no, no—fuck.”

A memory surged:

He’d seen her bleed before. In another life.

Him, cradling her. Her gaze empty. The room sterile and humming with cold fluorescents. That awful antiseptic smell. The nurses whispering about miscarriage like it was a math error. All because the trauma to the womb was too violent.

A month later, Gojo. And Nanami. Suicides. News headlines.

She hadn’t remembered him in this life. Hadn’t even looked twice.

But Sukuna remembered everything.

The way her breath had sounded when she laughed in that life. The shape of the twins she lost before he could name them. The soft sigh she let out as she fell asleep in his arms. The nightmares—always the same men, the guilt too heavy to swallow. The way her eyes had looked when he told her she deserved to live, to be happy anyway—even after everything. The way they had looked when she told him she loved him. The way her lips had moved when she tiredly said his name for the first time.

That "Ryo" still ran through his bloodstream like a curse—he’d remember even if he forgot his own name.

The way she had asked him for help, like he wasn’t cursed.

He hadn’t begged for reincarnation.

He’d ripped it from the jaws of nonexistence—not to be a god, not to be reborn.

To see her again.

And now—

“No—” Sukuna’s voice came low. Not pleading. Not broken. Controlled.

Like a warrior watching the aftermath of an explosion he couldn’t stop. A man built to destroy, watching the one thing he didn’t want broken shatter anyway.

His hands curled into fists. Slowly. Silently.

Across from him, Gojo was still holding her. Still whispering like prayer was a reflex he’d never believed in until now.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me. Please, stay—don’t fucking do this to me—don’t—”

Choso turned pale, like the horror had wind behind it. “Who do we call?” he asked. “Hospital—police—do we—what the fuck do we do? We need a doctor—who’s treating her—”

No one answered.

Gojo didn’t even hear him. His voice kept going. Quiet. Shredded. “Stay. Stay. Please, stay. Just… just stay with me.”

Choso ripped Gojo’s phone out of his coat pocket, fingers slipping. His hand shook as he dialed.

Somewhere behind them, Yuji and Junpei were already moving—eyes dark, steps soundless, splitting off like wolves catching a scent. Trained. Tracking. Gone.

Nanami hadn’t moved.

Not yet. Not immediately.

Like his brain had glitched mid-frame. Like the universe had misfired—like the seconds between the gunshot and the collapse were just another nightmare in the endless reel of them.

He stood there.

Still.

Watching her bleed.

A man built on logic. Precision. Ratios and rules. Cause and effect.

But this?

This was mathematics without an equation. Balance without meaning.

Another cosmic joke played on a man foolish enough to believe he could keep something sacred in a world like this.

Then he saw it.

The red halo at the base of her skull. The unnatural kink in her spine. The shoulder pulled out of socket like a bird with a snapped wing. And the exit wound—clinical, too clean. Efficient.

Something in him shifted.

Not broke. Shifted.

Like a knife turning in its sheath.

He straightened.

He moved like something had been switched off.

Like the weight of a man whose grief wasn’t a feeling—it was a law.

Rage in Nanami was never hot. Never loud. It was the collapse of structure. The moment when the scaffolding gives and all that’s left is gravity.

He didn’t speak. He just walked.

His technique activated without gesture. No ritual. No threat.

The ground cracked beneath him. Golden ratios burned through the pavement like divine geometry. Reality bent into fragments, everything around him rearranged into lines of perfect consequence.

He was already measuring the moment—the bullet’s entry, the blast radius, the arc of collapse. Calculating, silently, the seconds she had left before brain death.

“What did you do?” Nanami asked. His voice didn’t raise. It was the sound of a hypothesis being disproven. A balance sheet that refused to align. A verdict already passed.

Behind him, golden blades began to hum violently—too precise to be called weapons. They weren’t made for war. They were made for correction.

Weak points blinked into the air like constellations on a surgical map.

He moved toward Sukuna.

And Sukuna didn’t retreat.

His hands twitched—not from fear, but restraint. Part of him wanted to summon every cursed tool he’d buried across the globe. His mind cycled through the names of every mercenary he had killed in secret to keep her safe. The spells he’d never used—not even when dying.

And the rage—the sheer, blistering fury—that he had let his guard down for one hour just so she could feel normal.

And this was what happened.

“You shouldn’t have looked at her.” Nanami’s voice landed like cold steel. “You shouldn’t have breathed the same air.”

Around Sukuna, the air sliced itself into pieces. Invisible blades hovering in calculus patterns—dozens of trajectories, all of them fatal. Reality split like a frog in a biology lab.

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift a finger.

“It wasn’t me.”

Gojo looked up, blood in his mouth, his eyes, his thoughts. Staining. Hers. “He’s lying—she was smiling,” he looked back at her. “She was smiling—”

“I didn’t,” Sukuna said again. Quieter. Still watching her. “I couldn’t. Why the fuck would I—?”

Nanami’s voice came like frost on a blade.

“I will burn down the laws of this world if it means ripping you apart.”

Sukuna straightened. Deliberate. Like a tree refusing to bow in a storm.

“You want to fight me now?”

Nanami didn’t answer.

His Domain cracked open behind him—reality cracking, rewinding, clockwork splitting open like a broken timepiece. Golden lines spun outward in spirals, mapping every single version of this moment.

Every version where she survived.

Every one that didn't.

This wasn’t rage.

It was annihilation.

Sukuna’s own Domain shuddered into existence—scarlet, grotesque, brute, heavy, like an axe swung through a cathedral.

The shadows warped around his frame. The air vibrated with it. The ground buckled.

“I didn’t fucking touch her.”

Even he—he—hesitated when he saw Nanami’s face.

Because there was no wrath there.

No vengeance.

Just the flat certainty of a man with nothing left to protect and nothing left to fear.

Sukuna’s rage curled inside him like a parasite chewing through meat. But he couldn’t exorcise it. Couldn’t spit it out.

Rage was all he had.

And rage felt like prayer.

“Do it, then,” he growled.

His voice cracked once—just enough to show the rot underneath.

“Fucking do it.”

Gojo didn’t move. He just held her.

His mouth against her temple. His hands cradling what they could not save.

“I didn’t say sorry,” he whispered. Not to anyone. Not to her.

Just to himself. Just to the air. Like he was giving the words permission to leave him now.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry…”

His fingers were red and shaking.

Her coat stuck to her ribs, soaked through.

Sukuna had trained himself not to feel. Feeling made you fail. Love made you late. Attachment got people killed.

But then she’d said his name.

In this life.

In that soft, exhausted voice. With eyes like she’d already forgiven him for whatever he hadn’t even done yet.

He wasn’t a god anymore. He knew it the moment she touched his wrist and didn’t recoil.

He was just a man.

A man who remembered what her laughter sounded like. What it felt like to be seen.

A man who was about to end a continent for her.

But she wasn’t blinking anymore.

And then—

A twitch.

Small. Shallow. The kind of movement most people would’ve missed.

But Sukuna wasn’t most people.

Her eyelids fluttered. Once.

Only he saw.

His jaw locked. A breath hitched in his chest—sharp and quiet.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout it aloud. Just—

“I didn’t do it,” he said again. The words were sharp now. Precise. Not a defence but a promise. “But I’ll help find who did.”

Behind him, Nanami’s golden blades froze mid-rotation. Suspended like judgement delayed.

The air stopped humming.

“Why?” he asked. Flat. Unbelieving.

Sukuna’s eyes never left her. “Because in another life, I watched a woman like that bleed out protecting idiots like you. And I don’t even know her.”

Nanami didn’t lower his hand. “I don’t care if you knew her in a fucking dream.”

Choso stepped between them—hand up, body rigid, his own technique thrumming in a futile attempt to shield his brother. But even he knew he was useless here. He was trying to hold back two tectonic plates with nothing but his spine.

Sukuna opened his palms. Empty. Still.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“I don’t want to think,” Nanami replied like a man who didn’t want to hear his own thoughts anymore.

Gojo’s shoulders shook like a child’s.

Not from panic. From something worse—recognition. That this was real. That this might be the last time he held her with warmth still in her skin.

He whispered again.

Not to her. Not to them.

Just to the shape of her still in his arms.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

His voice caught in his throat. A hiccup. A prayer’s corpse. Like he was whispering it to the version of her who’d already left.

Choso’s voice broke through in the background, rising in panic as he screamed into the phone. “She’s bleeding from the brainstem—there’s spinal trauma—we need an ambulance NOW—”

Gojo folded over her, head bowed, as if shielding her from the sound. “Baby, no,” he begged. “You’re strong. Stronger than both of us. So stay. Just a little longer. Just—stay. Please. Protect me. One last time…”

Something in his voice—not words, but the way he said them—stopped Nanami cold.

The blades vanished. His Domain closed.

And the silence returned—not peace. Not grief. Just that awful stillness that comes before a scream.

Gojo leaned lower.

His lips brushed her stomach.

“The twins…” he whispered, breath hitching.

His voice broke.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

Sukuna moved again.

Slow. Controlled. Cautious, like approaching a dying god.

Red stained his collar. His shirt. His wrists. Her blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, but it still glinted in the light.

Yuji and Junpei were already gone—disappearing into alley shadows like bloodhounds with no leash. Their cursed energy sang behind them in violent harmony.

And the street was painted red.

Gojo rocked her body slightly. Whispering into her hair now. The words meant nothing. They were only shape and sound. “Don’t go,” he kept saying. “Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go—”

Except—

Her hand.

A twitch.

Not a movement. Not a miracle.

Just a final neuron firing.

---

📱Twitter/X

@CHRO, Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Today, the unimaginable happened.

Our CEO, founder, and my friend of seven years was the victim of a targeted shooting outside a private engagement. We are currently working with authorities. Out of respect for her family and those of us who love her, we ask for space and privacy.

She built a dream from nothing. She made this world more than it was.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

🗞️Official Press Statement

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Our studios are devastated to confirm that earlier today, our Chief Executive Officer and founder was involved in a violent incident outside a private location. The matter is currently under investigation, and we are fully cooperating with law enforcement.

A visionary behind one of the most influential gaming empires of the decade—a friend, a to-be mother, a wife, a daughter, a relentless force who refused to build anything less than a revolution.

We ask for patience, respect, and privacy for her loved ones and the gaming family during this profoundly difficult moment.

Further updates will be provided when appropriate.

---

After the hit

Haibara didn’t blink when the sniper’s echo died. He just exhaled softly, like he’d been holding in a cough. Then, with a gentleness that made Naoya shift uncomfortably, he patted Maki’s shoulder—twice. Like a priest giving last rites to someone still breathing.

He turned. Winked at Naoya like they were sharing a private joke.

“Let her go.”

Naoya scoffed but obeyed. His fingers slipped from Mai’s arm, slow with disdain.

Haibara’s voice lowered, flat and unimpressed. “It’s just a bullet. You’ve choked your own blood out for less, haven’t you?”

Maki didn’t flinch. Not when Mai stumbled into her arms. Not even when Mai clutched at her ribs and rasped her name. Maki’s gaze stayed fixed on Haibara. Unshaken. Surgical.

“You picked the wrong sister to threaten.”

Haibara smiled without teeth. “See, that’s the part I liked. Do you know why?”

No shout. No gloat. No warning. No waiting for an answer. “Because you shouldn’t have said that.”

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Click.

One shot. Centered. Clean. Right between Mai’s eyes.

The sound was small. Not dramatic. Not final. Just... clinical.

Mai’s spine locked—then folded. Her weight slumped into Maki’s arms like a structure losing tension.

Maki didn’t scream.

She laid Mai down like she was putting her to sleep. One hand on her shoulder, the other cushioning her fall. Quiet. Focused.

Haibara didn’t wait for grief. He turned, flicked a hand in the direction of the body.

“Naoya. Get her out of my sight. My shoes are limited edition.”

Naoya grunted and kicked Mai’s corpse to the side like loose garbage. The body thudded against gravel, limbs folding awkwardly.

Still, Maki didn’t move. Her hands were slick. Her face unreadable.

“Megumi will kill you for this.”

Haibara grinned. All enamel. “Good. I’m counting on it.”

He paced a tight, deliberate circle around her. The gun swung in lazy loops from his fingers like a child’s toy.

“I’m not doing this for sport,” he said. “Or politics. Or whatever messy little revenge fantasy you’ve spun in your head.”

He stopped beside her. Then shifted slightly—gun lowering, gaze sliding past her.

Toward the street below. Toward you.

“Two heartbeats,” he murmured. “Feather-light. One flutters more than the other. Girl, maybe. You hear it?”

He didn’t wait.

“Twins. Inside her. You don’t need Six Eyes to hear it. Just patience. Stillness. Obsession.”

He smiled then. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I want them.”

It wasn’t said with lust. Or cruelty.

It was said the way collectors say, I want that painting.

The way scientists say, I want that body for dissection.

The way sorcerers say, I want that power.

“They’ll make glorious cursed objects,” he added. “Personal. Tragic. Intimate.”

Maki didn’t speak.

She moved.

No warning. No scream. Just acceleration—like a spring snapping forward.

Pure Toji’s curse. Clean, unstoppable violence.

The gun didn’t rise fast enough.

Haibara stepped back off the rooftop ledge.

But not in fear.

In invitation.

Behind him, his Domain bloomed open—slick, immediate, and silent.

Like silk unfurling from a box.

A trapdoor for gods.

He fell into it like he'd done it before.

Like he wanted her to follow.

And she did. Her foot crossed the threshold—

crack.

Another shot.

Clean. Efficient.

The bullet hit her mid-air, just below the sternum—left side, precise angle.

Her breath hitched. Her spine jerked. Blood bloomed from her chest like a curse blooming into form.

She shook.

Mid-lunge. All momentum gone. Her body folded in on itself—like a puppet yanked by frayed threads.

She never reached him.

She never touched the Domain’s edge.

She crashed. Bone snapped. Limbs bent wrong.

No scream. No dignity. Just meat hitting stone.

Ten minutes later, Yuji and Junpei found her.

There was no poetry. No storm. No wind cue. Just heat and buzzing flies.

Just traffic that didn’t stop.

No mourning. No rage.

Just reality. Still moving.

And somewhere else—clean, calm, unbothered—Haibara sent a message:

"Hearts are still fresh. You’ll need gloves."

---

A/N: hehehehehehe laughs like Mahito in a Gucci showroom this chapter was a psychological workout & a KFC commercial in disguise (Yes, I did it to torture Gojo; idk why he's growing more on me lately.) This chapter took a LOT of rewrites & delulu-fuelled breakdowns, but shoutout to my Todo (my beta bestie), who simultaneously enabled my fictional insanity & made sure I took naps like a toddler on a juice crash (she also made me eat fruit). My brain feels disturbingly relaxed even though I finished this in 2 days like a woman possessed by a keyboard demon. Thank you, girl, for keeping me from rewriting the ending 17 times. Did anyone clock Mamaguro?? LMAOOO & not Megs catching strays for existing 😭😭😭. Idk why I've been torturing him; he didn't even do anything except exist & love her. And, btw—Nanami’s reaction isn’t emotion bc he’s not regular, tax-paying Nanami anymore; he’s a special grade war ghost with grief compression issues. Also: HOW MUCH DO WE HATE HAIBARA NOW??? Please scream in the comments. I crave your rage essays like cursed energy. Your thoughts genuinely help me improve & shape this story—it’s my first time writing something this long & plot-based instead of just vibes & hot people with serious issues. How’d we like Suguwu-chan (or… whatever he is 👀) & the reader’s convo?? Was she not peak powerful, bad-bitch energy?? And don’t EVEN get me started on Sukuna!!! This man reappeared after 84 years & somehow aced every column with the highest marks possible?? I’m not even a Suku-girly, but maybe I’m also fictionally insane & it’s showing (but no, I’m not talking about canon Sukuna—I have no interest in murder or maternity, pls. I’m just tired). Also, Sukuna’s hair being black in this ending was an aesthetic choice bc I’ve seen the manga panels, & he’ll be built different next season. You’re free to hallucinate him however you want, just like my beta is doing as we speak. Also when he said “Ryomen Sukuna”? I flatlined. And not even his own spiritual homeboys spared him 😭. Absolute roast session. Peak television. Not Gojo crying like Andrew Garfield in The Amazing Spider-Man when Gwen died. Lmaooo. Loser. Please send your essays, memes, analysis & betrayal theories in the comments!! I re-read & reply to every single one like Gojo rereading her texts at 3AM.

Next Chapter TBA

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Beta - @blackrimmedrose

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