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nanamineedstherapy · 15 days ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

A New Couple is in Town Elrdrich King!Haibara x Galatic Emperor General F!Reader F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento F!CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi

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. A/N: Haibara's Ending is Finally Here Ok, I have never done this before but this is the ending I always had in mind because you can clearly see the timelines splitting every ending, but you need to let me know if this is good or bad? Now it might feel complicated at first but lmk if you have questions. Just go into it with an open mind, please.

Previous Chapter 25 - Losing Sun - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 26 - The Empress Is Bored - Part 1

AI-DIARY // RE: [If you wake without me]

LOG 001 // ACCESS BY: Haibara Yuu (Prime Variant)

File stored in quantum-decay lockbox

Authorized in case of my death or psychological deletion

Her voice modulated at 4:37 AM three days before cryostasis initiated

Transmission corrupted — 8% missing

Transcript begins.

"Okay. If you're seeing this, you're alive. Good.

Or something like it.

Maybe you’re not breathing, but you’re thinking, and that’s close enough to matter.

And if you’re thinking, it means you might still come back to me."

Static. Clicks. Her breathing.

"Listen. I don’t know how long you’ve been under. I don’t even know if I’m still… well, me.

I’m leaving this here because I can’t be trusted to survive grief more than once.

And losing you? That was once."

She pauses. Curses.

"I cloned you. Multiple times. You’re gonna be mad.

I shouldn’t have.

None of their cells worked.

They weren’t you.

They never got the smile right.

You always looked at me like I was more than I was, even when I was crawling through sewage with blood on my mouth.

They looked at me like I was someone else's memory."

Laughter. Bitter.

"I sent them out in the voids.

One of them fell in love with the softer me.

The one in the hoodie.

The one who made cookies and cried like it meant something.

I wanted to rip her out of time like a cancer.

But I didn’t.

I waited.

Because the donor is in that world.

And I’m still waiting."

"I’ve made an empire of waiting."

Glitch. Voice slows, then recovers.

"If you come back and you don’t remember me—

I’m the one who taught the world fear.

I’m the one who built AI cities just so I could rest my children in peace.

I’m the one who named a war after your fucking laugh, Haibara."

Breath hitch. Click. Then softer.

"But I also remember the first time you touched me like I wasn’t something broken.

I remember the smell of your hair.

I remember you held me after every goddamn thing that ever loved me went still."

"I remember the night I told you I didn’t want to live anymore—

and you said, 'That’s fine. Then I’ll hold your body like a prayer until you do.'

You were never meant to be good.

You were never meant to be safe."

"But you were mine.

Someone who wouldn’t die if I took a second for myself.

But my luck had run out.”

Final line. Corrupted, partially restored by AI:

"And if you wake without me—

Burn every world until you find the one where I survived.

That’s the only promise you ever made that I want kept."

[End Transmission]

---

CRYO-SEGMENT: Dream Log 0197_BETA_17 Subject: The Oathforged Sovereign Watcher & The Imperator’s Blade — Haibara Yuu

CRYO-NEURAL LOG 0197_BETA_17 Status — Comatose Cognitive Drift Detected

Neural substrate deterioration: Active

Omni-sleep cycle breached

Sentience leak: 7.8% — containment threshold nearing critical

Thought-exhaust threshold: Imminent

Emotional memory loop rerouted — involuntary recall engaged

Initiating transcript…

You may proceed, Archsentinel Yuu.

…

It's cold.

But not body-cold. Thought-cold.

Like my consciousness is holding its breath.

Like there's a blade buried in every idea.

She used to say I smiled too much.

That I saw good in things that didn’t deserve it.

But I never smiled for the world.

I smiled for her.

Even now, when I dream, I don’t dream of peace.

I dream of her voice, post-battle—

Low. Dangerous. Mouth full of blood and command lines.

“You die on my time, Haibara.”

I liked it when she ordered me around.

Not because I was obedient.

Because she was the only thing louder than the madness.

The only voice that made the others shut up.

She called me hers.

And I didn’t correct her.

Because love, in our case, was a battlefield report soaked in motor oil, code and cries.

A list of how many people we killed so we could sleep next to each other.

Now I dream in corrupted files.

My cells remember more than my soul.

Some part of me still tries to regenerate her scent.

Steel. Gunpowder. Milk.

Sometimes I see the children.

Not real. Not even whole.

Just little echo-shapes wrapped in cursed energy like too-tight blankets.

They call me “dad,” but not in words.

In vibrations.

Their voices sound like static filtered through warmth.

They tell me to come home.

They think I can protect them.

Foolish Brats.

I don’t even know if I’m still a man or just a machine bleeding memory.

My mind breaks open sideways sometimes.

I remember dying.

Then being born again in timelines that hated me.

I remember other versions of me who weren’t strong enough.

Who died gasping on floors, looking for her.

There is no peace here.

There is only pause.

A long breath between apocalypse and love.

And she’s coming.

I know she’s coming.

I feel the pressure in the code—her fingers typing me back into existence.

I taste her grief across the wires.

Every tear she never cried is sharpening me like a knife in the dark.

She will find a way to bring me back.

Even if it costs her every version of herself.

Even if she has to butcher the multiverse until I stand again.

She will awaken me, a god, just to hold my hand.

And I will burn for her.

Again.

And again.

Until the waking comes.

And the war restarts.

…

Transcript ends.

NEURAL ARCHIVE LOG 0197_BETA_17 Status — Comatose Dream-State Persistence

Cortical Pattern Stability: 61.2% — Holding

Emotional Echo: Retained

Memory Sequence: Logged for Retrieval

Awaiting External Override

Awaiting Primary Anchor — Unresolved Subject: Her

---

Time: Post-Collapse Era, Year 52,025 of the New Arcadian Calendar.

Location: Apex Citadel, Upper Stratospheric Decks.

Atmosphere: Artificial oxygen blend, laced with surveillance pheromones.

The throne was not made for comfort.

Carved from meteor alloy, wired directly into planetary mainframes, it hummed with information in a tone only her altered spine could interpret. Every movement she made transmitted data, authorized coups, denied marriages if too close or even if psychologically creepy, signed sanctions. If she shifted her left hand, a prison ship self-destructed on the outer rim. If she blinked too long, someone’s oxygen was rationed for “dissent-adjacent facial expressions.”

She leaned her head against the cool alloy of the throne’s armrest. Listened.

Five new requests for execution.

Two planetary revolts.

One baby born with forbidden potential.

A food technician in Zone 9 forgot to sanitize her middle-great-great-great-grandson’s lunch plates.

She approved punishment for the last one manually.

Two years in the Solar Pit, face exposed to engineered sunbursts, her consciousness preserved.

It wasn’t the mistake—it was the insult.

Her bloodline didn’t deserve lukewarm protein cubes.

She didn’t even flinch as the punishment was carried out in real-time. The man’s scream echoed in the neuro-feed for precisely 3.2 seconds before it was silenced.

"Too quick," she muttered, then sipped her nutrient infusion through an IV port.

She had too many grandchildren at this point.

Not figuratively. Literally.

The AI tried to show her a chart once. She had it put to sleep for 1400 years.

Still, the number haunted her.

Let’s say the average age to have kids is about 25 years—a conservative estimate, even for sorcerers with regenerative wombs and biotech-enhanced fertility.

She’s been alive roughly 52,000 years.

That’s over 2,000 generations.

Technically 52,000 ÷ 25 = 2,080, but who’s counting anymore? Not her. Not since Gen 876 tried to tax her in-utero. (Kaito had them executed before she even had to lift a finger.)

And let’s say each couple in her bloodline had, on average, 2.5 kids.

(Not because of any policy—just because powerful people get bored and fertile.)

That number doesn’t sound like much. But 2.5 kids per generation across 2,080 generations?

You get… well.

10 to the 828th power.

A 1 followed by 828 zeros.

For reference, the observable universe has only ~10⁸⁰ atoms.

So, yeah. Her descendants outnumber atoms.

Of course, that’s assuming exponential growth with no interference. In reality, whole planetary populations collapsed from trying to name their kids after her. One moon exploded because a colony couldn't agree on how to pronounce “Mother.”

Eventually, she capped it.

Across her galactic empire, she limited recognized bloodline members to 10¹⁵—a manageable one quadrillion superpowered scions, give or take a few cults.

Still. You get the idea.

By the time they had over two thousand generations of descendants, some ruled galaxies. Some ran podcasts. A few tried to resurrect the Raccoon she owned before the Collapse. (Only one succeeded. It bit her. She cried.)

From above, the planet shimmered beneath her—wrapped in semi-permanent auroras.

Her doing.

The colors were synced to her brainwaves.

The scientists used to call them “moodlights”… until one of them said it to her face.

She had him flayed with a smile.

Now, no one called them anything at all.

They simply looked up and remembered their place in the bloodline.

Just one more speck in her gravitational wake.

Either way, by 52,025 A.D./N.A., her bloodline has long eclipsed any single sorcerer’s legacy. They now fill galaxies, run dynasties, wage wars, negotiate peace—and still argue over who gets her arc-reactor heirlooms.

…Welcome to being the matriarch of everything .

She reviewed the status of her children.

Lineage: Unbroken.

Descendants: All active.

Threat Level: Omega Prime.

Control Level: None.

They no longer needed her.

Not even for strategic calculus, not even for tactical suppression.

They had their own armies, their own solar courts.

Her daughter rewrote language law on Andromeda.

Her son could flick a sun out of orbit just to prove a point.

They did not call her.

Not out of hatred—worse. Indifference.

Gratitude fossilized into historical respect.

She'd raised monsters.

Beautiful, perfect monsters.

“Grand Empress,” said the AI, neutral and ancient. “Your 11:05 interrogation is ready.”

She didn’t speak.

The air shimmered.

A man appeared inside the transglass cube below the throne. He was trembling. Not because of the gravity differentials. Because he could see her.

The black exosuit on her body made no sound when she rose, but her presence weighed on him like a judgment before death.

Her expression didn’t shift. It hadn’t in decades.

He was a minor intelligence officer who’d failed to report his child's emergent cursed signature. A mere oversight. Possibly innocent.

She never asked questions anymore.

“Tell me what you did wrong,” she said, tone flat as a guillotine's edge.

He burst into tears.

She didn’t flinch.

He confessed anyway. Even things he hadn’t done. Thoughtcrimes. Fantasies. Secret names.

“Bore me again,” she said, “and I’ll feed your name into the AI-birth registries. You’ll spend your afterlife getting reborn as a child in warzones until entropy eats you.”

He begged. She blinked.

A soft tone. His cube flooded with vapor.

Dead in twenty seconds. Painless. Too painless.

But she was bored today. And the scent of death helped her sleep.

There’s a moment—just a blip between seconds—when the stars seem to pause.

Not in the literal sense. Stars don’t pause.

They burn, collapse, recycle.

But she pauses.

Somewhere in the void between bureaucracy and violence, she leans back into a throne woven from atmospheric alloy and pulsing red data-veins, and she pauses.

Because today, no one needs her.

Her descendants—engineered from Gojo’s spatial tyranny and Nanami’s math-based omniscience—run empires like a finely-calibrated pendulum.

No wild swings. No entropy spikes. Just endless balance.

And her?

She is obsolete.

Somewhere, long ago, someone might’ve asked how many versions of a woman could exist.

Not multiversal selves. Not timelines.

No—descendants. Echoes in flesh.

She once joked that she only needed two kids. Strong ones. Unkillable ones.

So she built them like nuclear warheads.

Gojo’s domain gave them the bones—physics-defying instincts, high-speed cognition, the power to reject spacetime itself.

Nanami’s cursed technique gave them the nervous system—statistical precision, equilibrium theory, collapse-avoidance, long-term entropy minimization.

She gave them the brain.

Now they’ve replicated through 2,082 generations.

That’s over two million vertical branches of direct lineage.

Run the models—2 to 3 children per immortal per 50 years—and the numbers grow sickening.

Trillions. Add in cloning, AI wombs, gene-loyalist cults... it multiplies into quadrillions.

They call themselves, ’The Prime Family.’

She didn’t name them.

The title spread on its own, like mold across stainless steel.

With a thought—no hand raised, no breath wasted—she scans the Local Group.

Milky Way: Fully mapped. Every habitable planet tagged, colonized, and networked through warp-linked governance nodes. Even the Oort cloud obeys zoning law.

Andromeda: Not just occupied—filleted. Rebuilt from the central bulge outward. Dark matter mines stabilize rotational drift.

Triangulum: Converted to an archival vault. Every extinct species, war, failed philosophy recorded in multisensory temples.

Magellanic Clouds: Weapons testing range.

The Fornax Cluster: Next. Gatefolds already hum in anticipation.

Time dilation ceased being a problem 34,000 years ago.

Gojo’s descendants bent relativistic drift into an amusement park ride.

Teleportation? Commonplace. Mundane.

But only bloodline-class carriers—her bloodline—can warp through meaning. Through intention.

Gojo’s DNA cracked the laws. Nanami’s made sure they didn’t collapse under the weight of logic.

And she?

She held the code.

A census ping fires, then returns:

Active worlds: 4,812,980

Habitual AI nodes: 7.8 × 10¹⁴

Biological descendants (partial human genome): 9.2 × 10¹⁵

Civilizations where she is worshipped as a wrathful deity: 102,144

Active rebellions: 1

Estimated threat level: 0.00003%

Disappointing.

Even the rebellion is cosmetic.

Some art cult revolted because she banned “yellow” from planetary murals last cycle.

She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. Didn’t tell them it was Haibara’s favorite color or that it was being made from a near-extinct flower.

Obedience was a language with no syntax—just tone.

She remembers when fear was a rumor, not a currency.

Back then, Sukuna was the name they feared.

Demon god. King of Curses. Four arms and a grin full of dead sorcerers.

But Sukuna had a face. A smile. A shape.

She did not.

Because she is not a monster.

She’s an idea. Or a policy.

A n AI soldier once asked if battlefield failure meant death.

She had laughed.

“Death is mercy,” she’d said. “You think I made my children for mercy?”

No.

Failure meant silence.

Hundreds of years of it.

In vaults where AI-laced pain loops tickled just enough neural activity to prevent collapse.

Victims begged for nothingness.

And she let them live.

Because her children’s safety mattered more than anyone’s comprehension of hell.

But they don’t need her anymore.

Her twins—the original two—born from the union of impossible men, coded with the ability to collapse multiverses into predictive algorithms, to teleport on instinct.

They are 50,000 years old now.

Retired.

She watches their great-grandchildren command Dyson spheres with serene calculation.

They don’t call her “Mother” anymore.

They call her Origin.

How quaint.

Today, she signed off a policy shifting fusion-core terraforming to the outer edges of the Sculptor Group.

She denied a sixth-bloodline petition to rename a black hole after “Grandfather Gojo.”

They cited legacy.

She cited inefficiency.

Earlier, she collapsed a coup attempt on Epoch-739 by shifting the planet’s orbit by 0.003%.

A tilt just enough to fracture weather. Harvests failed. Uprisings froze.

She reminded them—without a word—that she watches still.

Then she returned to the throne.

Alone.

Bored.

Unloved.

And the worst part?

She built heaven.

There is no disease she can’t cure.

No war she can’t predict.

No system that fails under her architecture.

They live in utopia.

Coded by a woman who hasn’t been hugged in a thousand years.

And that happened only because Emi was delirious after her new bionic surgery and wanted her mother.

She watches them smile.

And she calculates it.

Her thoughts drift—unauthorized, but unpunished—to a clone that went rogue.

One that found her.

The soft version. Hoodie-clad. Stupid with joy. A girl with friends.

She wonders if that girl still thinks heartbreak is when someone doesn’t text back.

A ripple.

Subtle at first.

Then everything shifts.

She doesn’t look.

She knows.

They’ve felt it.

Him.

Haibara.

The true one.

Not a clone. Not a simulation.

The husband she sealed in cryosleep fifteen thousand years ago to prevent his illness from devouring the universe.

He stirs.

She grips the throne’s edge. Cold steel molds to her skin, pulsing with waiting code.

He is turning in his sleep. Again.

Her husband.

Her monster.

Her exception.

He is still sick. But his body—engineered, cursed, raw with latent divinity—refuses to yield.

6’4”. Muscle-forged. Long hair in wild tangles. Veins marbled black like molten obsidian.

He is ill.

But he is strong.

And he remembers her.

The empire shifts—not from fear.

From recognition.

Everything still runs on her code.

Her mind.

Her math.

But he is the equation without a limit.

Her chaos variable.

And their children. The empire’s architects, governors, and executioners.

They feel it too.

But they pretend they don’t.

She presses a recessed panel beside the throne.

The galaxy dims.

A path opens. Not of light. Not even of space.

A path of decision.

Her heart—long mechanical, ticking under lattices of carbonium and cold plasma—hiccups.

He is having a nightmare.

The last organic variable in a synthetic civilization.

She doesn’t cry.

She smiles.

Because he’s still alive.

When she was alone again, she disabled the neuro-feed.

Silence.

True silence.

The kind only known by women at the top of a world they built from wreckage.

The kind that came after you’d run out of wars to win and children to love.

Her fingers hovered over the panel hidden beneath her ribs.

The one connected to him.

15,000 years of coma-stasis. Artificial suspension. His body frozen between pulse and prayer.

She had never once dared wake him early.

Because waking him would mean admitting it.

That even with a world under her foot, she was still a motherless girl screaming in the dark.

That she missed the way he grinned like violence was a party trick.

That he made her feel owned in the way no empire ever could.

She traced her fingers along the panel.

Felt the warmth behind the metal.

The heartbeat of his container.

She thought of how he used to tease her— “Call me husband like you mean it.”

Of how he used to say he didn’t need a god. Just her.

She could lie to herself no longer.

She needed someone who saw her.

Her reflection in the polished obsidian of the chamber looked monstrous.

Titanium ribs under black plating. Lips painted with synthetic wine. A face carved by punishment, not nature.

Not a woman. Not anymore.

She whispered, “It’s time.”

And pressed the override.

The Citadel trembled.

Somewhere below, in the sealed core chamber, lights activated that hadn’t flickered in millennia.

An internal sun reawakened.

Her engineers were dead.

The AI was coded to forget.

But she remembered.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

Because once he was awake, she wouldn’t be the most dangerous being on the planet anymore.

She’d be second.

And she had missed it.

---

Sometime later, the room was silent.

The kind of silence that settled after too many years of crying.

Of needles. Of contingency plans written in blood and nanofiber.

A silence that hummed with ancient machinery—still loyal, still watching.

Then—steel screeched.

She stood in front of the cryochamber.

Hair damp, shirt stained, bare feet on a concrete floor layered in dust and regret, holding a baseball bat.

And she breathed like a woman who had just beaten god’s spine in for giving her hope.

The bat fell from her hand.

She touched the chamber.

It hummed. It had never hummed like that.

“…Haibara?”

Nothing.

She slammed her hand against the interface.

“Come on. Come on. Don’t make me build a second god.”

She keyed in the override.

Her fingers trembled. She didn’t know if it was the tremor from spinal implants needing re-sync or if it was just her—naked, emotionally, finally.

The interface pinged.

[WAKE SEQUENCE INITIATED.]

Fifteen thousand years of cryostasis wasn’t sleep.

It was chemical preservation. Molecular arrest. A negotiation between entropy and love.

It was a long time to dream.

Longer to rot.

But his body—designed, cursed, unnatural—didn’t rot.

His illness—once a degenerative curse—never stopped trying to kill him. But his body, reinforced with pre-collapse sorcery, adaptive biomimetics, and her neuro-synthetic touch, didn’t rot.

It learned.

Where human tissue would fail, his rewired telomeres spliced recursively with cursed-lattice healing. Where organs would decay, cyber-chi symbiosis replaced function with force.

The tank exhaled.

A hiss of decompression. Then: movement.

The cryo-glass retracted. Steam rolled out like breath from the planet’s lungs.

And then he gasped.

Not a breath.

A system reboot.

His lungs seized violently—data-rich cryo-fluid evacuating in wet splashes.

Then a second breath.

Then a third—deeper, more intentional, like a man clawing out of his own grave.

Then that sound.

A guttural, half-eldritch howl that rattled the spinal sync implants in the walls.

Like a man re-learning how to breathe.

She stood by. Emotionally cold, medically prepared.

Observations:

Muscle retention: 98.2%

Neural conductivity: within .0005% of pre-freeze norm

Cursed vein activity: elevated, aggressive

Then—

He rose.

Not like a man waking. Like something summoned.

Then a guttural, inhuman sound like a man re-learning how to breathe.

He rose from the fluid like something primeval, dark brown hair hanging in wet, tangled waves, black as a dying star. Body a cathedral of muscle and scars, cursed veins pulsing under skin like shadowed roots. Skin slick with stabilizing gel, absently steaming where the nanothermic regulators failed to keep up with his metabolizing cursed energy.

His irises weren't just dark—they collapsed light. Like event horizons carved into flesh. They adjusted, blinking through thousands of years of silence and digital dreams, and when he saw her—

A sound left his throat like a prayer and a weapon.

“...You're still beautiful,” he rasped.

He had thought of this moment obsessively for years, what he would say, how he would act. But the words got lost when he saw her.

She snorted, flicking a stabilizer injector between her fingers. “You're still dying, idiot.”

His body swayed forward—barefoot, bare chest slick with cryo-serum, the low-slung dark medical pants hanging off sharp hipbones like a crime.

The type that would be illegal in most quadrants.

It should have been illegal to look like that post-thaw, she thought.

One of his stabilizer ports lit up—spontaneous curse-surge interference. The body was rejecting treatment. Already.

She raised the injector. “Let me nerf your bloodstream before you start philosophizing again.”

But he was already there.

Staggering, maybe. Or reaching. Arms iron and shivering from dormancy, but determined.

He wrapped her up like a man drowning, hands greedy—palming the back of her skull, tracing her jaw, gripping her waist hard enough to glitch her spinal sync.

He was bigger than she remembered. Hotter. Too hot. Cryo-burn mixed with cursed core heat—a volcanic relic trying to remember how to love.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Aww, you finally woke me up,” he whispered, voice hoarse, breath hot against her skin. “You missed me, wife.”

“No,” she lied. “You were my last option before I glassed this quadrant.”

He laughed. Short. Intimate. The sound of entropy with good teeth.

Then his lips grazed her cheek, jaw, then mouth—raw and hungry, as if he were trying to confirm she was real by devouring every nerve ending.

She shoved the injector into his side mid-moan.

He groaned. “I hate that.”

“I know. I enjoy watching you flinch.”

He gripped her hips, grinning. “You are so obsessed with me, it’s making you stupid.”

She pulled back, finally registering that his cursed veins were darker than they should have been. More aggressive.

His voice was lower now, dangerously amused. “I missed this. Missed you.”

Something was off.

His cursed veins throbbed too dark. Skin patterning flared violet-black—symptom of cursed overcompensation. She glanced at the readouts.

His body was fighting her stabilizers.

Typical.

“You’re rejecting everything,” she muttered.

“Except you,” he said, fangs sharp in that wolfish smile. “You’re my favorite poison.”

She adjusted the dosage. “We don’t have time. We need to suppress this, or you’ll collapse again.”

He grabbed her hand. Still warm. Still him. “Let me kiss you properly first.”

She tightened the dosage. He growled as it burned through him like molten ice. “Nope.”

He laughed. Short. Beautiful. Violent. “You’re still cruel.”

“You love that.”

“I do. So bad.” He grinned against her lips.

She paused.

Then, stillness.

Not peace. Just temporary compliance.

His hands twitched. Left leg spasmed once. He gritted his teeth.

Still sick. Still deteriorating.

But functional.

She adjusted his support rig on instinct. Even then, her hands knew the shape of his pain better than any AI. She tucked a wet strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yuu.” Her voice was too soft. “One of your clones pinged.”

He looked at her, soft, seriously listening.

She continued. “Donor genome. Viable. Close match. Same energy resonance. In a neighboring bubble-timeline.”

He raised one brow, smiling knowingly. “Clone defected?”

“Yes, and fell in love,” she deadpanned.

His grin warped. “So... we’re robbing a romance AU?”

“We’re robbing a cure. Or you’re collapsing again.”

“I’d collapse into you. That’s medically valid.”

She sighed. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re hot when you’re all Madam Dictator. Kiss me.”

She did.

Fifteen thousand years and no one had touched her like that.

Not even close.

His body was still dripping, carved like myth—6’4", shoulders wide as sin, bare chest gleaming with remnants of cryo-serum, the slick trails running down the grooves of muscle like the aftermath of a holy war.

His skin steamed in the cold-blue lights of the facility, etched in cursed veinwork that pulsed with an ancient, steady hunger.

His hair—black, wet, long—fell in snarled waves over his sharp jaw and curled past his collarbone, almost wolfish in texture. Regal. Savage.

He kissed her like dying men did—like he hadn’t been allowed to for fifteen millennia.

Mouth open, desperate. No finesse. No warmup. Just claiming.

She gasped as his teeth scraped against her lower lip, and he groaned against it like she had just drawn blood.

"Fuck—" his voice hitched, guttural and low, hips shifting forward instinctively. “You still tasted like the future.”

She yanked his hair so hard his head snapped back.

He growled, laughed, then surged forward again, crashing their mouths together like tectonic plates.

He shoved her backward, stumbling with her toward the nearest flat surface—a surgical cot of diamondoid carbon composite, hovering at perfect biomechanical height.

She didn’t resist.

The cot was indestructible, transparent, effortlessly clean, its surface shivered with a faint iridescent ripple at the contact of their living tissue—an autonomic response neither noticed in their feverish collision.

Internal LEDs cycled through soft aurora-borealis hues as the cot’s architecture subtly reconfigured beneath them: reinforcing for sudden weight, adjusting contour to support her spine without interrupting the desperate slide of his hands under her thighs.

The glow caught in the damp at his temples, in the parted seam of her lips, but neither registered the technology. Only the lack of interruption—no creak of steel, no protest of machinery—allowed their bodies to fuse as if 15,000 years had been seconds.

His hands were everywhere—under her bionic robe, over her hips, kneading muscle and synth-rigged tendon, tugging at jewelry, restraints, anything that felt too much like armor and not enough like skin.

Then he pushed.

Not violently—just…all of him.

Wet weight and heat pressing her into the cot, his mouth still chasing hers, hands sliding under the back of her thighs, dragging her up to wrap around his waist.

Her calves locked behind him.

“You’re—" he gasped, breath stuttering, "—so fucking soft.”

She laughed into his mouth, bit his lip in retaliation. “I’m mostly metal, and you’re leaking cryo on me.”

“I’ll leak more in a minute if you keep grinding like that.”

“Not a threat.”

He laughed. A shaky, delighted, feral sound.

But his arms trembled slightly, still regaining strength, and she felt it—the sudden shift. His muscles locking up. His breath hiccuping like a skip in data.

His hips faltered, and he groaned against her neck. “Shit. I’m—still understrength. You’re gonna kill me.”

But she was already moving, already pressing, grinding down slow and deep against him, through clothing, across fabric still damp from resurrection. Not enough friction, but enough for her to feel his hardening cock against her vulva—how his breathing choked, how he gasped for air like her heat had punctured his lungs.

And then—

She came.

Small, stuttering. Silent. Like a glitch in the code.

Her body just gave, trembled, overloaded from pressure and memory and his breath, his breath against her throat.

He blinked.

Then started laughing.

“Did you—baby, did you just cum from me breathing on you—?”

She slapped his chest, already flushed. “Don’t call me baby. And shut up.”

“Oh my god.” He collapsed forward, gasping, his forehead thudding against her shoulder as he tried to catch his breath and laugh at the same time. “Thousands of years and you still fold for me like a wet script.”

“You can’t even breathe right now,” she snapped, helping him sit up, guiding his breath back into rhythm, thumb at his pulse point. “You’re being cocky while borderline hypoxic.”

“You came. I win.” His eyes widened, full of unspeakable wonder as his breath steadied. “Wait—tell me. Please—please tell me you didn’t let anyone else touch you.”

She went still.

His smile dropped.

“...You didn’t,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it. “You didn’t. Not once?”

She didn’t answer.

“But I made you promise me that you'd try to be happy before I went under,” he murmured, awe flooding his voice, “then before the coma—you said if I ever died, you’d take sperm from my dead body before letting someone weak pollute your womb. That you’d clone me if you had to. I thought you were joking—”

“I wasn’t.”

“You really—you lived alone?” His voice broke. “Fifteen thousand years, and no one?”

“I never wanted kids,” she said flatly. “ And I never wanted men.”

Then softer, “I just wanted you.”

The air fractured between them.

His hands cupped her face now, reverent. Gentle. Like she was sacred. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You really—you really waited.”

She nodded, brushing damp hair from his face.

“I dated the CHRO once. Just out of boredom,” she muttered.

He pulled back, eyes narrow.

“It lasted a week. She said I’d gone insane and tried to stage a coup to lock me out. Emi stabbed her before she could come for me.”

Haibara stared.

Then he burst out laughing. “She tried to kill you? That’s so fucking weak. I always hated her. Always looked like she was trying to wear your skin.”

“She was.”

“Well,” he murmured, “good thing she didn’t.”

He leaned forward again. “’Cause I needed it.”

He kissed her again—slower now. Deeper.

Less possession. More presence.

Not for the empire. Not for power.

Just for them.

And for the first time in fifteen thousand years—

They were no longer alone.

Then he leaned in, whispering at her temple.

“Did any of my alts ever call you ‘Cookie?’”

Her mouth twisted. “One tried. I bit him.”

“Good. I would’ve killed him otherwise.”

She smirked, despite herself. “We need to leave. That donor is finicky.”

His grin flashed, sharp and crooked. “You say donor, like we’ll give them a choice.”

She laughed. Just once.

God, she missed this.

The old rhythm.

Violence and science and love, all tangled in one fatal poisonous knife.

Their intimacy wasn’t soft. It never was. It was a battleground where devotion wasn’t spoken—it was engineered.

He didn't hold her to be gentle.

He held her like a man used to dying.

Like her skin was a password and her breath was permission.

“You’re still trembling,” she said, rubbing his back.

“You nerfed my bloodstream.”

“And I’ll do it again.”

He kissed her temple. “Promise?”

Before she could answer, the AI pinged after it had finished downloading information in his skull.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “How long was I out?”

“Fifteen thousand years.”

“So the kids are middle-aged now.”

She laughed. “They know you’re awake.”

He froze. “...They're coming.”

“Teleportation’s inbound. We need to leave. Now.”

She slammed her fist on a wall panel.

The fallback exit activated with a hydraulic scream.

Her AI chirped, [Destination Locked: Unregistered Universe = Donor Timeline Confirmed.]

“Come on,” she said.

He moved behind her.

Still limping slightly—one foot dragging from cryo-induced nerve latency.

His hand found the small of her back, grounding them both.

“Let’s go get a cure,” he murmured.

She corrected him, without turning. “Let’s go take a life.”

He laughed. Violent. Beautiful.

“Same thing.”

As the quantum ring fired, light fractured around them—galactic and god-touched.

She looked back. Once.

The cryo-chamber. His old prison.

And then she felt it—deep in her AI-linked gut.

Their children were on the move.

They felt him wake up.

And they were teleporting here.

“Too late,” she whispered.

And they vanished—leaving the future, the empire, the dynasty of clones and godchildren behind.

[DESTINATION ARRIVAL — DONOR UNIVERSE STABILIZED.]

They landed inside a repurposed maintenance hallway—seamlessly quantum-phased into the security blind spot of the tower’s east wing.

The lights flickered. The air was cleaner here. Less iron. Less blood.

Too clean.

She stabilized first. Already moving—feet hitting the ground, firearm drawn in one hand, hair tie clenched between her teeth.

Original!Haibara was slower, but only physically. Mentally, he was already three timelines ahead, watching everything unfold like a video feed he had already seen.

“Yuu,” she warned.

“I know.” His voice was raw, husky, still shaking off the quantum migration lag. “I can feel her.”

His clone’s girl. This universe’s version of her.

Pregnant. Cornered. Knife in hand.

He doesn’t need coordinates. He knows her well enough to track her by instinct.

They emerge from the stairwell just in time to watch it all go to hell, the AIs in the heads already switching their bodies to invisibility.

There she is.

Elevator door. Sweaty hair. Knife at her throat.

“Don’t. Fucking. Follow me.”

Original!Haibara breathes in so sharply it’s not human.

A cursed reflex.

A broken thing recognizing itself in someone else’s wreckage.

Nanami and Gojo freeze—this universe’s versions of them, younger, dumber, and still thinking they have control.

They call for backup.

It comes.

Not from below.

From the hallway.

Fushiguro. Clone-Haibara.

His clone—him—slouched, bored-looking, cocking his head at the woman threatening suicide with the defiance of a god and the body of a time bomb.

“You knew,” she hisses. “You fucking knew they were going to abort them without telling me.”

Fushiguro buckles like he’s been shot.

Clone-Haibara smirks.

“Cookie.”

Original!Haibara lets out a single, cracked laugh.

Like something between admiration and disgust.

“Oh my god, I’m a menace here,” he mutters to his wife, watching the chaos unfold like it’s art.

Then he watches himself get bitten.

Clone-Haibara doesn’t flinch. Bleeding, smiling. The same line, “You’re so fucking hot when you’re homicidal.”

Original!Haibara inhaled like it was sex. “Oh, he really said it. No wonder she finds him creepy.”

His voice was dripping with amusement, but her silence didn’t match it.

Her gaze was elsewhere—distant, mechanical.

At Gojo and Nanami, standing alive in a timeline that should be dust.

Her eyes didn’t soften. Didn’t blink.

She was trying to remember.

Trying to feel.

Like dragging a half-erased dream through tar.

Nanami’s voice. Gojo’s laugh. The way they used to kiss her wrists.

The smell of their skin when they swore to never abandon her.

And then they did.

50,000 years ago.

Before the kingdoms. Before the plagues.

Before she tore her own uterus apart to protect their too much DNA.

"—do you remember them?" Original!Haibara asked softly, still half-laughing but holding her closer to him by her waist now, his voice glitching faintly as the AI worked under his skin.

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she was still figuring out how much she remembered them outside of fragmented memories.

The nanotech in his body was already adjusting.

Muscle fibers compressing. Height reducing by centimeters. His hair was shorter now, neater—mimicking the version of himself in this universe. The AI in her own spine was triggering hormonal shifts, subtly bloating her abdomen to appear mid-pregnancy—matching the local her. Her skin tone was adjusting, flickering to compensate for solar radiation levels specific to this branch of Earth. Even their vocabulary updated.

But none of it mattered.

Because ofcourse Gojo’s head turned.

Fuck him and his uncanny senses.

His gaze landed in their direction, even though they were cloaked in triple-max invisibility—AI-dampened, multispectral-refraction-class.

He shouldn’t have seen anything.

But he felt it.

Like a curse unspooling.

Like the air went still.

Her heart—her organic heart, the one thing she’d never replaced—twitched.

And then she moved.

"Fire MAXIM: Cloak cover!" she barked at the AI.

She snapped into formation, stepping in front of Original!Haibara, not even thinking—just remembering what it felt like to lose him.

To grieve wrong.

Her hand reached behind her now-red-coat before the AI could process intention.

The railgun was already loaded with a saturation pulse.

She aimed for Gojo’s throat.

Not because she wanted to kill him.

But because she wouldn’t let him take anything else from her. Not this version. Not her Haibara. Not her kids. Not even her fucking Toji.

Even if Gojo’s scent is familiar and Nanami’s hair looks softer. Even if something in her screams, That’s the ones you almost loved.

Then—across the corridor—

Her alternate self screamed.

High. Blood-wet. Feminine in a way that was feral, not soft.

Fushiguro flinched back. Couldn’t speak.

Gojo recoiled like he'd seen God with the wrong face.

Nanami finally moved, tackled Clone-Haibara like he’s the only solid ground left.

Then alt-her was gone.

Took the car. Tires screamed like the unborn twins inside her.

Her grip on the gun tightened. Her breath caught.

Her AI whispered warning parameters into her cortex: Emotional spike. Oxytocin elevation. Cortisol flux. Seek regulation.

She ignored it.

The only thing anchoring her was Original!Haibara's fingers brushing the back of her wrist—reassuring, even then.

“He can’t kill me by blowing air at me,” he said quietly. Almost like a dare, while he kissed her temple.

She didn’t look at him when she said it, putting the gun back. “I know… I just,” she sighed. “He can’t know. I and he are not people who shared the same morality anymore.”

Then, quieter, almost like a vow she didn’t want him to hear, "I’d burn this world again before I lost you a second time."

Original!Haibara sighed against her temple, “I know. But it’s a good thing that we are a lot stronger. Or should I say the strongest, here.”

Silence.

Then she snorted, pushing him off.

They stayed watching from the shadows, mostly Fushiguro.

Original!Haibara leaned against the wall like a gossiping succubus in heat.

“So this is what you were dealing with while I was cryofucked,” he grinned. “Damn, I flirted with suicidal pregnant women like it was a kink.”

“It is a kink,” she said flatly. “You used to call me that when I tried to jump into a star.”

He sighed wistfully. “Romance was different back then.”

Then he nudged her shoulder.

“Be honest, babe. Was I always this slutty, or did time make you flirtier?”

“You were worse then.”

“Thanks, it was the brain damage.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You remember what the clone said?”

“‘Cookie.’ Yeah.” He cleared his throat, then purred in a near-perfect mimic of his other self, right next to her ear, “You’re so fucking hot when you’re homicidal.”

He got it dead-on.

Voice tone, cadence, the intimate lean-in.

She flinched—because it was so accurate that it was sexy. “You should not be allowed to mimic yourself from alternate timelines.”

“I’m literally the best at mimicking me. Why waste it?”

Pause.

Then: “You wanna hear my impression of Gojo?”

“No—”

He cleared his throat, made his eyes go watery, and did a mid-high-pitched, choked little whine:

“W-we should have told her—oh god, oh fuck—she’s gonna murder us—”

“Yuu.”

“—Nanamin do something, she’s eight months along—I can’t watch this again—”

“YU—”

“GRAB HER, SHE’S GOT THE KNIFE—”

She punched him in the ribs. Not hard. Just enough.

“Stop fucking around. The clone’s still operational. This isn't over.”

He grinned, eyes still half-shadowed. “I know.”

He looked down the hallway—where the blood still dripped. Where the woman he had once loved in another life had just peeled away from her sanity at terminal velocity.

He murmured, “God, she’s me in girl form. I kind of wanted to kiss her and slap her at the same time. But mostly slap her because she’s not you.”

His wife groaned. “You can’t flirt with alternate versions of me who are pregnant and holding a knife to their own throat.”

He tilted his head. “But babe, she bit me.”

“Yuu—she didn’t bite you.”

“She bit me and I moaned. We have chemistry. I ship those two.”

“Fifteen thousand years of cryosleep and this is what I get. A demon with unresolved clone jealousy.”

“Clone me is hot. Admit it.”

“No, you are hotter. Not the right now mimicked-you but the real you.”

The truth was—they were both terrible.

And they were about to make everything worse.

---

Next Chapter - The Empress Is Bored - Part 2 (Where you learn who are they) - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @whos-ruru @helo1281917

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honourablejester · 11 months ago

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A Space-Themed Trinkets List for TTRPGs

Exactly what it says on the tin. Roll a d100 or choose from the following list of space-themed trinkets for your character to have with them:

01-02. A tattoo showing the galactic coordinates of your homeworld.

03-04. A sheared metal bolt from a spacewalk tether mounting unit.

05-06. A frayed cloth patch torn from your old uniform when you left.

07-08. A small display case containing soil samples from every planet you’ve visited.

09-10. The last vacuum-sealed bar of a discontinued line of rations that you’re keeping as half collector’s item and half item of last resort.

11-12. A small holo-unit that projects an image of your parents.

13-14. A poster showing a luxurious pleasure resort that you’ve never had the money to visit.

15-16. A small chip of a reddish mineral that glows in the dark that you have no idea of the origins of.

17-18. A small holo-unit that you bought in a junkshop near the spaceport and that purports to show a partially-corrupted map to a hollowed-out treasure asteroid.

19-20. A portable lamp that mimics the sunlight and day cycle of your homeworld.

21-22. A chunk of rock from the first asteroid you helped mine.

23-24. A metal box containing a horrific lump of congealed engineering fluids that you found on an inspection and are keeping partly as an example but mostly out of curiosity.

25-26. A strange metal object bearing a weird greenish symbol on one surface that you found on an otherwise completely uninhabited asteroid.

27-28. The smashed remnants of a medical scanner from your first, ill-fated mission.

29-30. A collection of tiny bottles of the weirdest alcohols you could find on various worlds you’ve visited.

31-32. A picture of you and your old crew in a protective sleeve.

33-34. A bio-locked address book containing the contact details of friendly faces in the various spaceports you frequent.

35-36. A holo-unit showing a person you don’t know that you salvaged from the personal quarters of a derelict ship.

37-38. An electronic portable library of choice reading material to keep you company on long hauls.

39-40. A really cool jacket that you bought with your first pay check and like to wear for shore leave.

41-42. An ‘emergency depressurisation kit’ that consists of a grappling hook and a canister of ‘sprayable oxygenated face mask’ that you bought from a shady guy at a spaceport and have no idea if they’re functional or not.

43-44. A medical pass granting you permission to leave the quarantine zone around your homeworld.

45-46. A disabled distress beacon from your escape pod fifteen years ago.

47-48. An inert and cracked AI core module that you really weren’t supposed to have taken from that derelict ship.

49-50. A ‘lucky coin’ you won in a game on leave that your opponent seemed weirdly upset to lose.

51-52. Your grandmother’s lucky bone-handled knife from when she used to be part of the distant exploration corps. She never told you what type of bone it was.

53-54. Your trusty environmental scanner that is four models out of date but has never failed you yet.

55-56. A tiny metal disc that a weird guy once paid you for a job with, which if pressed to your skin somehow perfectly regulates the temperature of the air in your vicinity to your preferences by no visible means. It works on every planet with an atmosphere that you’ve been on so far.

57-58. A beautifully carved spice chest containing spices from your homeworld, for when you’re feeling homesick. It’s been getting really hard to restock it out here.

59-60. A disabled registration chip from the labour camp that you kept after escaping, even though it would be a really stupid thing to have on you if you’re ever back in that sector of space.

61-62. A tiny bag of glittering micro-crystals from the surface of a moon. Worthless, but so pretty.

63-64. A canister of engineering lubricant that you are literally never without.

65-66. A tattoo of a series of unknown symbols that you and your buddies from your old military unit got after a particularly hellish mission. None of you took any pictures of the lab you found them in, but somehow all of you remembered them perfectly.

67-68. A portable mining lamp your dad ‘borrowed’ when they decommissioned the old colony. The batteries on this thing are incredible, as they haven’t run out nearly 55 years later.

69-70. A seashell from the first time you ever saw an ‘ocean’ after growing up in space.

71-72. A portable personal forcefield that only stops rain, from the first time you experienced ‘weather’ and decided you didn’t like it very much.

73-74. The helmet of a spacesuit that has clearly been partially melted through by some sort of acidic substance and which you refuse to answer questions about.

75-76. An object which you found in a junk bin at a salvage yard and which no one you’ve ever met has been able to identify.

77-78. A single live seed in a viability canister that everyone who leaves your homeworld is given to take with them.

79-80. A religious pamphlet that some nutjob on the hub station gave you. It’s got some seriously weird and somewhat apocalyptic stuff in there, but for some reason you haven’t thrown it away yet.

81-82. A well-read, second-hand copy of ‘Myths of Hyperspace: A Collection of Spacer Tales’ that you bought for funsies and totally don’t believe in, no sir.

83-84. A collection of antique medical equipment that your old captain gave to you, for reasons you aren’t entirely sure of.

85-86. An unlabelled collection of beautiful music recordings you found in a spaceport, and which you’ve been idly trying to identify ever since.

87-88. A dataset of sightings, speculation and other information regarding a mysterious ship that has been seen on and off for the last fifty years by gas miners and illegal racers in the clouds of your gas giant homeworld, and which you’ve been obsessed with since you caught what might have been a glimpse of it yourself.

89-90. A ring gene-locked to your lost partner that will never come off your finger.

91-92. A tiny realistic-looking but robotic animal that was the only type of pet allowed on your company’s spaceships.

93-94. A bottle of extremely heavy-duty and almost definitely expired anti-nausea medication that you kept from your first shuttle ride into space.

95-96. A dog-eared magazine containing a two-page spread of the most beautiful spaceship you’ve ever seen in your life, and which you’ve sworn to yourself that you will one day own.

97-98. A corporate logo of the company that left your colony to die, torn off the side of one of the cheap delivery crates full of useless equipment that they supplied.

99-100. A recording of a garbled and unintelligible transmission one of your old buddies sent you, and which you’ve only kept because they vanished not long afterwards. There’s a weird sound that keeps repeating in the background, but you don’t know what it is.

#ttrpgs #science fiction #space #trinkets #i love trinkets as a character building option #what weird item do you have that tells a story about you?#trinket tables

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