#and of course when you die there is a scream of someone falling to their death (that I stole from hexen)

[wayeasier]

COUNT TO TWENTY-TWO — part five

⋆˙⟡ robert (bob) reynolds x reader (thunderbolts*)

summary: One time you're in the limousine, then you're walking under the heat of the Utah's sun, then you're on a flight and then you're in a white van that a newly met additional stranger has most likely stolen. Also, you're on your way to save the man in hospital clothing.

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, thunderbolts* spoilers (obviously)

author's note: english is not my native language, so i apologize for all grammatical errors / mistakes in my writing (if there are any!)

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE ...

A yell tore itself from the man's mouth as your body hit the metal trunk of the limousine, falling limply like a feather in the air. Dead in a flicker of a single moment.

John lunged instinctively, reaching his hand through the shattered rear window towards your fallen body. The few glass fragments of the broken window bit into the flesh of his hand as he reached desperately for you. His scream tore through the limousine he was in, he was scared. But before his hand could close around your vest or anything near you, his fingers passed through you like the body was not even there. Like it was a part of his imagination. Almost as if it was all fake. His mind playing some tricks on him.

Alexei who was behind the wheel was fully turned around in his seat. Speechless and bewildered. He just saw someone die. On his limousine. He was twisted completely, nearly forgetting that he was the driver of the limousine. He was panicked. He is absolutely panicking. Wide-eyed, staring at the back of his limousine, where a body had fallen onto his trunk. Dead. Somehow. None of you know how you managed to die, it was so quick. Just a moment and you were dead.

Little did you know how you died.

A little system of the Sokovian's experiment facility that now Valentina got her hands on. She had found it when she was digging up through your old files and records when you were a test subject back in Sokovia. When their experiments did not go well and you did not die, but stayed with the problems etched on yourself. There is this biochemical serum running through you, you can't get it out even if you tried. It breaks every rule of life. Defied every living being's body rules. It keeps you in the hell. Alive. Of course, Valentina had found the system to override that serum. She always finds something that shouldn't be found.

The Pulse system, or that's what they called it back in Sokovia.

It is a silent radius-based kill promise, a device once held only by the original Sokovians. The Pulse destabilizes the serum inside your body. It doesn't kill it, destroy it, or anything. It pauses it. For those brief seconds, your broken body becomes like anyone else’s. Then it realizes that it was supposed to die before. It was a kill switch.

And if the Pulse is still on?

You stay dead.

A quick death without anyone seeing how.

He let out a panicked wheeze of a yell. Alexei didn’t know, he didn’t know as the others did. That you always come back. That death doesn’t stick to you as it sticks to others.

"What just—Dead! Dead! No! What the—" he was completely turned in his seat, the fact that he was the driver was long forgotten in his mind. The car swerved from one side of the road to the other one. Staring at the dead body on the trunk of his limousine. He whispered something under his breath, something in Russian. He was panicking like he was the one dead.

Yelena had turned in her seat, staring back at the disappearing body, her lips parted. Her hand gripping the side of the seat she was on, not from fear. From restraining herself. She knows you come back. Still, it didn't make it easy for her to watch someone die.

"Alexei! The car! Focus on driving!" the blonde girl yelled out loudly at her father, who was still completely turned around in the seat. The car was close to crashing. Driving off the road, or even getting killed all other passengers. The man behind the wheel flinched at the loud voice from beside him, the car jerking again. His eyes flickered to the girl in the passenger seat and then he tried to rotate his body back into the right place in his driver seat. Just then he looked back at the road, his gaze wavering up to the rearview mirror and then back to the road. Frightened.

"Um—How did that happen? That was... What now?" he stammered, his voice cracking.

"I don't know. But Twenty-Two will be back... Give it a few seconds—" the blonde woman said calmly but was cut off by the loud booming Russian voice of the driver.

"Back?" he turned to his daughter swiftly. Once again making the car jerk to the side, which made Ava in the back yell out to watch the road before he crashes the car. He turned towards his daughter, his eyes completely wide, "are you crazy?"

Then a loud, deep noise cut through. The sticky bombs you had thrown detonated themselves. The truck jerked violently sideways. It twisted in the air, forcing itself off the road because of the explosion near its tires. It lifted into the air as if it weighed absolutely nothing. It slammed into the sand beside the road and rolled and rolled. The entire armored military vehicle flipped over and slammed down against the ground. It violently tumbled over all the stones and all the sand. Then it erupted into flames. Flickering around its edges. But the convoy it was with did not even slow. None of the other vehicles behind cared about the other vehicle burning down. They just drove closer, forgetting the other one.

Yelena then twisted her body in the front seat. She sat back up in her passenger seat, staring at the moving road ahead. Her mind seemingly running over different paths of her thoughts. Finding the best one. For a second, she closed her eyes and exhaled. A long, deep one. Her hand moved to the holster where her gun was safely hiding, she withdrew it quickly from its hiding place. Her fingers curled against the familiar cold metal of her handgun.

She rose up from her seat and leaned her body outside through the opened window to her right. Her body was now half out of the opened window of the limousine her father was driving like a wild unstable maniac. The wind hit her immediately, her hair flying around her face. Flapping over her face. Inside, Alexei was yelling at his daughter. He was scared, terrified. Already from the other person dying and now from his daughter pulling self-killing stunts. Yelena did not plan on dying. She raised her hand, her gun aiming at the convoy behind, which was rapidly approaching the back of the limousine everyone was in. Her eyes narrowed at the target. She aimed straight and then—

She shot at the armed truck.

The sound of her shot sounded out, but was quickly drowned out by something louder. Something different. A deep noise of an explosion sounded out. The truck she had just aimed at suddenly burst from the rear right side. An eruption of fire or an explosion occurred just where she had planned on shooting. The truck jerked and pulled itself upwards into the air and then fell back down. Tumbling off the road to its left. Like it was nothing. Like a child's toy truck falling.

Yelena gasped, still half of her body outside. She knew instantly. That was not her shot. She did not hit anything that important in that truck, nor could that shot from a pistol make such an explosive eruption like this. She quickly ducked back into the limousine, exhaling deeply as her back fell against the leather seat of the passenger place.

"What?" she gaped, blown away at the scene. Her mind still turning over her thoughts. Someone else was there. Her hands held the gun tightly in her handgun against her chest. Alexei was staring at her, confused as she was. He looked back, right over his shoulder. Yelena twisted her body against the seat as well, staring back through the shattered window in the back. Ava was staring as well, confused and waiting. John’s brows drew together as he looked out the rear window, his head peeking from behind his shield now. All the strangers in the car stared for a good moment before the convoy started shooting again.

John was quick to pull his shield back in front of his body, Ava dipping down to hide herself as well before getting shot.

All of sudden, another vehicle went flying to the side as an explosion rocked the truck into the side. Its wheels wretched into the side. Then it started rolling over multiple times. Its doors and wheels flew off into the sky, all over the ground.

John dipped back from behind his shield, his body tense, crouched on the leather seat in the back of the limousine. He blinked through the dust collecting in the air, squinting. He craned himself forward, looking through the collected dust and smoke to see the certain person who was helping them out.

Then through the hiding spot behind the smoke and dust, a shape came out. Breaking through the thick layer of smoke around. The dark metal of a motorcycle glimed underneath the Utah's sun. The rider was upright, composed and well positioned. No helmet, just dark shades perched on his nose. The sunglasses the rider was wearing were reflecting the glare of the sun. A massive gun, bigger than any of the weapons that the people in the limousine have, was fixed along the length of his left arm. The rider was holding tightly on it. That was the weapon that made the trucks tumble over and explode.

"Bucky!" yelled out John as he finally came to recognize the man on the motorcycle that had destroyed the other enemy vehicles.

Alexei in the front gasped. Gripping the steering wheel tighter as he finally saw the rider of the motorcycle. His mouth fell open and then stretched into a toothy grin, wild amazement on his features. He quietly muttered, amazed, "the Winter Soldier..."

A sharp sound and movement made John spin around. The feeling in the air itself seemed to shimmer and bend. It was like the atmosphere around itself had shifted.

The seat beside Ava was no longer empty.

You were sitting there. Whole, alive, and breathing. Your body as it had been just a moment before. But there was no blood on your shoulder. No tear in your grey suit from where you had been shot in the vault. No sign of pain or hurt. And there was no hint that you had been just killed outside that window a mere moments ago.

Ava moved away from you with a startled gasp. Her wide eyes locked on your face as she looked at the new you right beside her, "this is—"

"Twenty-Two! Fucking hell!" John's voice cracked through the air in the limousine and his hand shot up to your arm, grabbing your forearm. His fingers did not go through like before. You were actually here. His fingers wrapped around your arm without passing through you like you were a ghost. Not the ghostly nothing that his fingers had passed through before. The contact was solid. It was real. His eyes were on you, bewildered.

Alexei, in the front seat, turned halfway, his head turned over his shoulder and he stared at you, blinking rapidly as if he was imagining you, "how did you do that? That is crazy!"

John's fingers unclenched and clenched around your forearm. Then he let go of your arm, his hand falling away beside his body. He blew out, "you're fucking insane."

A grin spread on your face, "well... Hello to you too."

Then the grin dropped from your face. It hit you straight into your face, the realization of how they killed you. They used the Pulse System. That’s how they dropped you. But… they used it wrong. Whoever had their hands on it doesn't fully understand it. They don't understand how death works. The sly woman, Valentina; may have the device and its system, but she’s playing with something she barely grasps onto. She hasn't met death herself yet. You have. You know how it works, how the death treats you. If she figures out how to use the system, it will be the end of you. No reset, no regeneration no reappearance. You'll be gone.

They probably think it’s a switch. On or off. But you remember more. More about the Pulse. The real purpose of the Pulse wasn’t just to pause you. To kill you off. It was a tool that could be adjusted. Timed. Amplified. Obstructed. If Valentina ever learns that, she's going to kill the serum completely. Not pause it. Not suppress it. She will kill you. Forever. That would be your final death.

John shook his head once. Without another word, he turned back toward the shattered rear window, his attention snapping to the ongoing scene behind. Bucky was not stopping far behind the vehicle, already off his motorcycle. He grabbed the tow strap on the front before it was snatched back. He grabbed it and rolled it around his arm to tighten it well and then he pulled. With calculated force, he yanked the strap once, then he crouched down. His metal arm drove down, slamming into the asphalt with a deep shattering sound and a hard force. The ground split beneath the force and he was quick to bury the tow into the hole he had made. The strap pulled itself tight. Stretching straight in a line from one end to another. The vehicle then hit the limit of the strap it had. In an instant, the front end of the car was lifted violently off the ground. The entire vehicle flipped in the middle of the air. It was nearly looking as if it was flying. It was vertically in the air. Then it flipped onto its roof, its doors flying off. It rolled hard, tumbling over itself on the road.

"Aha! That's what I talk about!" Alexei exclaimed loudly in his thick Russian accent from the driver's seat. Hitting his fist into the air, grinning with his teeth out which were peeking from the bushy beard of his. John loudly exclaimed as well, happy with what the man on the motorcycle did. Ava was one to cheer as well, but was quick to look at you. Her eyes met yours and she grinned at you. Her hand reached out and patted your thigh, as well wanting to feel if you were real. You smiled back at her.

Out on the road, the man with the motorcycle stood still in the fading dust and smoke by the broken-down vehicle. The man tugged off his glasses, his eyes fixated on your limousine. His gun was already rising. Aiming right at the car you were in. The gun shot out. A quick shot burst forward, shrieking through the air of the desert. It hit the back of the limousine, just a good centimeters from John’s face, it was just on the back of the car.

"Yeah—Oh—" John's cheer was very quickly cut off.

The vehicle was lifted off the ground. The back of the limousine erupted as it exploded. Metal shrieked loudly, glass shattered all around you. You all were yanked and pulled upwards. Then the car was flipped. The limousine turned vertically, stood like a building on its back. Then it slammed down onto its roof with a loud noise of a crash. Windows shattered and dust collected all around. The limousine groaned on its roof, turned upside down, its roof crumpled. Tires in the air. Everything was upside down.

You landed right beside that weird, leaking cup of the Big Gulp drink that Alexei had warned you all about before. Your head hitting the cupholder where he had many bottles of alcohol sitting. The bottles fell, glass shattering because the car itself was upside down. Ava had hit the ceiling, now the floor of the limousine as it was flipped. She groaned loudly, sitting back onto, cradling the side of her stomach. Yelena was in the front, she was upside down as there was not a lot of space in the passenger seat. She was quick to twist her body and turn around, shaking her head to let the shards of glass fall from her blonde hair. John was sitting where he was before, now turned around. His shield clutched on his arm. He coughed out and started through where the window was supposed to be. Bucky was approaching you and the flipped limousine you all were in.

"We are upside down! Because of Winter Soldier!" Alexei was upside down as well, he did not have any space to twist his body or to turn around. He was hanging with his neck craned.

"Thank you! I did not notice, Alexei!" Yelena barked at her father from the passenger seat. Her brows furrowed as she looked over through the shattered window towards where the man with a metal arm was.

"I should've been dead longer," you muttered, pushing yourself off the shattered bottle glass around you. The spilled alcohol sticking to your gloved hands.

Yelena’s voice hissed out, sharp. She noticed that the man with the metal arm was just a good few steps away, "everyone, stay down..."

“Oh, Yelena! I am down,” Alexei grunted, still wedged upside down in the driver’s seat, he twisted his body, but nothing changed in his position, "do you not see the position I am in?"

"Shut up, Alexei!" John groaned from his place on the flipped ceiling of the limousine that was now treated as a floor. The footsteps stopped just outside the doors of the back of the limousine. Then the doors were ripped. A very familiar metal arm tossed the door aside like it was a light piece of nothing but a piece of a cardboard. Just staring in at the wrecked group of you five inside the trashed-up car. His jaw clenched, expression unreadable on his face. He crouched low and stared through the opened space at you all.

"Having a nice trip?" he met your eyes and then they flickered over to John's, then Ava's and then to the front of the car where the other two were twisted in their seats.

"Bucky—" John started to say, scrambling up. He was quickly cut off by Bucky literally yanking the closest person he had to himself out of the car like a ragdoll of no life.

You were that ragdoll.

His metal arm wrapped around your ankle and he pulled you through the ripped opening where the doors were a moment before he ripped them off like it was a piece of nothing. You didn't even have the time to process the metal fingers wrapping around your ankle before harsh daylight burned at your face and asphalt scratched your tactical suit-covered body. You were out of the limousine in a second of a blink of an eye, without your mind processing. Bucky’s grip was tight. His vibranium arm wrapped tight around your ankle. He then pulled you to your feet. You were quickly ready to kick him into his knees with your boot. But he did not even move, as if he had expected you to fight. In one swift motion, he spun you around, your body yanked forward by the force he used. Then both your arms were wrenched behind your back.

“What the hell are you—” you started to yell out angrily, but your voice cut out as the cold click of metal locked around your wrists. You stopped dead in your tracks, brows knitting together. You tilted your head back and stared at the new metal coverings around the both of your wrists. Your hands twisted around the restrainings, "are you kidding me? I didn't even—"

Without hesitation, the man's boot came down hard behind your knees and both of your legs buckled instantly in that moment. You hit the ground with a sharp groan, your knees slamming into the asphalt of the road. Your cuffed hands straining behind your back as you tried to catch yourself. You grunted loudly.

Then you heard Bucky move towards the opening of the limousine again. The next thing you heard was Ava yelling out, "get off me!" Bucky dropped the dark-haired woman right beside you. A pair of blue lightened-up handcuffs on her wrists. She couldn't even phase away.

“Bucky, what the hell is this?" John was roaring from the limousine, scrambling over the shattered glass inside towards the opening. He could barely move with the shield on one arm. He got quickly out but was knocked by Bucky wrapping his normal arm and metal arm around his wrists, prying the shield off his arm and throwing it on the floor next to the crashed limousine. The shield rattled against the ground. Then he was quick to put on a pair of handcuffs on the trashing man, then he bent a rusted bar stick around him like it was nothing. John moved around, yelling at the metal-armed man. Bucky was quick to also wrap a rope around the man, then he kicked him into his knees and he fell next to Ava with a grunt. John looked up, brows knitted in confusion, "what are you doing?"

Bucky did not answer and just ripped out, once again, the doors from the front. He pulled out the blonde woman by her suit and pulled a pair of metal handcuffs on her as well. She did not fight him, just cussed him under her breath. You were looking at the metal-armed man with a parted mouth, brows furrowed in lost confusion. Bucky struggled a bit with Alexei. The Russian older man was talking about Bucky like a fan of him, talking about his history. Bucky did not even say anything and just bent around him another rusted bar stick and gave him a pair of handcuffs. Not really phased by the blabbering from the bigger man.

He then made you walk. Under the blaring hot sun of the desert, the asphalt pulled the heat even more. You felt like you were burning under your tactical suit, sweat dripping everywhere. Your face was so sweaty and was your whole body under your tactical suit and all the gear strapped to you. Whoever had asked Bucky something along the walk did not get any response back, even Alexei's babbling did not get any comment from the man. Not a single remark or a hint of annoyance or anything close to that. You didn't try to ask anything about the man, you did not know him and you did not care about him. The only thing you knew about him was that he was an absolute piece of an asshole for dragging you across the asphalt and handcuffing you like you were some toy to play with. You hoped he's just shot you during the walk, so you could get yourself away. You tried to stop breathing for a good amount of time until John kicked you so hard into your knees, that you yelled out at him and had to breathe again. Bucky made you all walk, handcuffed like a group of prisoners, for a good tiring hour until you reached an old abandoned rusting dirty gas station. It was stinking of mold and filth. There was not a single soul near, it was completely abandoned. It looked like it had not been used in months. Maybe even years. The inside was horribly stenching.

Bucky led the group in, boots thudding as he walked through the old gas station. Then, he pushed you in first. His metal arm pushing at your shoulder, you stumbled but stood still and walked towards where he had motioned. You sat down at the edge of the mechanic’s pit in the center of the garage of the gas station inside. It was a smaller trench where a car could be worked on from underneath. The metal floor around it groaned under your weight as you sat down, your legs hanging off the edge, the back of your boots touching the metal surface of the wall.

John stood still, scowling at the man with the metal arm. Bucky then made a noise in his throat and grabbed the other man by the back of the suit and practically shoved him down next to you. John was then sat down, he grunted out and looked up at the other longer-haired man, "Bucky, listen—"

"No, Walker. I don't want to hear anything," Bucky shook his head and Yelena sat herself next to John. Then Ava was sat next to Alexei, right opposite the three of you. You groaned internally at this situation. You were supposed to be at an airfield, which was, according to John, close by. Maybe even on your way back to your apartment.

“No, no, no,” Alexei began, shaking his head, staring at the leaning man by the not-so-see-through window, "just when I get my team together! Mister Soldier, you are making a terrible mistake!"

"Save it for the committee," Bucky just tilted his head towards where the red-suited man was sitting, unfazed and unaffected by the man's words.

"What committee?" Yelena turned her head towards Bucky and asked him about his response. Her brows furrowed slightly on her face.

"You're all evidence in the impeachment trial against Valentina," the man with the metal arm replied flatly, staring once again out of the dirty window he was standing by, leaning against it. Barely glancing back at the speaking woman.

"We don't even work for Valentina anymore. She tried to kill us," Ava told Bucky, staring right at him, but once again, he did not turn to her.

"We were ordered to destroy all her secrets, but but we really were sent to kill each other in this vault!" John was next to chime into the conversation, his body moving next to yours as he leaned forward to talk to the man by the dirty window. He had turned his head this time, staring at the now shield-less man sitting with his legs hanging. Yelena then spoke out, "but then we met Bob,"

"Bob..." you and John spoke at the same time, nodding your head when you spoke out the three-lettered name.

"There was a man in the vault. She's done something to him. It's called Project Sentry—" Yelena went on, explaining what had happened in the vault and who they had found.

"And he... shot up in the sky, he exploded and then crashed into this mountain. Then he died, didn't die—" Ava's voice then cut into Yelena's talking, as well as explaining the situation with the man that they had met in the vault.

"Yes. I got it. He's very, very scary," Bucky said sarcastically, tilting his head to the side in a mockery. You raised your head at that, your eyes narrowing at the man by the window. Looking right at him. Your jaw tightened just slightly at his words. You muttered before you could stop yourself, "glad you think this is funny... Take this shit seriously."

Bucky didn’t answer right away, he lifted his head slightly and his eyes flickered over to you. He didn't recognize you at all. Nor you did him. There was nothing in his look. Just a disinterested glance.

“Who even are you?” he asked, the question flatly, almost carelessly. His hair fell just in front of his eye when he turned towards you a little bit more. You exhaled slowly through your nose, your eyes not moving from the longer-haired man, "your fucking nightmare,” you muttered, voice low.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. Unimpressed by your words or you fully. John who was seated right beside you shifted and leaned in with a shake of his head, "ah, okay… Congressman Barnes,” he said in a mocking voice, dragging out the title like it was unfamiliar on his tongue.

Bucky pushed himself off the window that he was leaning against. His boots thumped across the dirty concrete of the garage as he started walking towards where you all were sitting with your legs hanging. Especially keeping his eyes on John.

“Alright, Walker,” he said he stopped on the other side, opposite the man he had called by name, "what's that supposed to mean?”

John just stared. He just lifted his chin, watching Bucky close in around the other side where Alexei and Ava were sitting, both of them handcuffed as well, sitting like a pair of prisoners.

“It means you know me, Bucky,” John said evenly, staring up with his blue lingering eyes, "so cut the shit and listen to what we’re trying to tell you.”

Bucky's jaw shifted, tightened and untightened for a few times, then he put his hands on his hips and stared down at the agent, "yeah. I know you, John. And you made your choices... I know it's been hard since Olivia had left you and took your kid, but still. This is on you."

John went quiet at that. Really quiet. And utterly still. He did not move a muscle, not a single twitch. He did not flinch, didn’t react to Bucky's words physically. But something inside moved. Something inside him flinched, deep in his chest. A movement was made, deep in his soul, like it was just a small piece moving. But you turned your head towards him anyway, your attention pulled by the words that left Bucky's lips like it was nothing, a small matter to not care about. John didn’t look back at first. His eyes were down, staring somewhere far away. His gaze held an edge of an emptiness. Heavy and unspoken. His focus was hidden, gone.

Your gaze stayed on him. Then John lifted his head, just barely. As if it weighed more than it had before. His eyes met yours. His jaw was clenched, the line of his mouth drawn tight. But he didn’t say a word. A single one. Instead, he gave you the smallest nod, a brief tilt of his head paired with a subtle shrug. Just an acknowledgment. It was there. It was not a response to your gaze, just a brief reminder of his own personal feelings. You did not need to speak, nor did he. Your silence said enough. Said everything he needed at this moment and also nothing at all.

"Bucky, there won't be a committee there. There might not even be a government. She has some big—" Ava started to talk to Bucky once more, trying to convince the man somehow.

"Great. Yes, I got it," Bucky's voice started to rise, volume adding up, "named Bob or Sentry. Who flies, right? And you're all heroes going after Val. Ready to save the day. You're all going after her together—"

"We're not going after her together—"John was quick to dip into the other man's monologue, defending his own innocence as a solo participant.

"We were just trying to get home. Alive. Actually..." Yelena said, her mouth tightening slightly at its corners as she spoke out, shifting slightly on the uncomfortable metal cold floor of the rusty-smelling garage.

"That's even more pathetic!" Bucky yelled out, pacing back to where he was before, right by the dirty fogged-up windows with heavy steps and putting his hands onto his hips, his back turned to all of you.

"Oh, yeah. That's what I've been telling she—" Alexei was quick to agree with the metal-armed man by the windows. His daughter was even quicker to yell out at him, "oh, shut up!"

"Plane lands in six minutes!" the man by the window announced but was cut off by his phone ringing. He didn’t even glance at the caller ID before he picked the call up, answering straight away.

“Yes?” he answered the second he picked up the call, pressing the device to his ear as he turned slightly away from the others.

You're sat there, your wrist behind your back, tightly bound with the handcuffs he got onto you when he pulled you out of the limousine. Your legs still dangling off the edge of the pit you're perched on top of. Your mind has completely drifted somewhere else entirely. As Bucky spoke into the device by his ear, you barely acknowledged the words coming out of his mouth. Hardly registering the sentences. You didn’t bother turning your head like the others. From the edge of your vision, you could see the way the blonde woman, Yelena, had turned her head towards him, how John subtly leaned forward over you, listening in and watching Bucky. Even Alexei had gone quiet, as well listening to the call. But their stillness felt distant, like they weren't even near you.

Your gaze remained unfocused. Your eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Nothing interesting, exciting or unusual. Just a spot your eyes found comfortable. Your thoughts slipping and sliding away from you. You were thinking of him.

You were thinking of Bob.

That particular boy with the mess of long, curls adoring his head. The one who had shown you one of your deepest secrets of pain hidden beneath your soul from your childhood. The one who had touched your cheeks like he was a god sent from the above and held his warm palms there like it had the significance of a future. The one who had sacrificed himself for the safety and time of the other strangers he had met a mere moment before, handing himself off to hundreds of armed guards to get himself killed. He went in, knowing he'd die. Not because he knew he'd appear like you. He wanted to choose his death. He wanted to be the one to pick out his death. The dying way. Back in the vault, he told others that burning alive was not a way to go. He looked genuinely terrified, maybe even frightened and sad, when Ava was not coming back. He stood still, eyes fluttering from moment to moment. Then they were wide, staring at the not opening doors in front of him. He knew that he was close to dying, but not the way he wanted to. He chose a different end. His own. He wanted to choose his way of dying. And he did. But he had not left the soul of his, he was still alive. Or well, you hoped so.

You could still see Bob's face. Not the terrified, frightened or exploding one. The fragile one. The one etched deeply in your mind like a painting from the above, drawn by the gods themselves. He did not look like a test subject, a soldier or a project like they had intended him to be. He was just a person. Living consequences of human greed for power used on a fragile being, which was ripped off by the world's pain and suffering that he did not deserve.

He had looked at you, so gently. The way no one had looked at you in a very long time. Then the way he placed his palms, warm and trembling, on your cheeks. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, memorize how real you are and were. Like it meant something. Like you meant something. And then he handed himself over to die.

You were only thinking of him.

And he was only thinking of you.

He was asleep. Deeply. He was no longer in the vault. No longer in the sun-heated nightmare of Utah’s desert. He was in New York. Specifically the old Avengers tower, now known as the Watchtower, owned by no other than Valentina. She had claimed the ruins of the symbolic building, the ghosts of memories lingering in the space where she had stood. Bob is laying, still and comfortable, in one of its many rooms. Hidden away. It did not look like a cell, he wouldn't call it a cell. But you wouldn't call it a room either. It was empty and colorless. A bed was there, two nightstands on both sides of the bed and a chair with a glass table beside it. It was not designed for comfort. It was for a look. For the luxury. A long, tunnel-like shaped interior wrapped around him, it stretched above like it wasn't even there. It was not making a good impression of light in the room. The walls curved smoothly into the ceiling. The only illumination of the lights came from the faint gold glow right from the behind the bed.

Bob was stretched across the bed, which was pushed at the center of the room against the straight wall edge. One arm is curled lightly at his chest, his fingers grabbing at the hospital-clothed pajamas that he was still wearing. His hair, long and curled at its ends, spilled across his face and on the pillow under his head. He was laying on his back, one of his legs bent while the other one was pulled straight. The blanket was under him, he was not covered under it.

And for the first time in a long while, he was dreaming.

It was not the kind of dream like he had any before. It was not from his trauma or memories of terror. This dream was quiet. He didn’t know it, he hadn't had a similar one in his whole entire lifetime. There was someone with him, keeping him calm. Keeping the darkness away. Someone was next to him in that dream. Not an illusion. Not a ghost. Not a blurry outline. It was you. You were almost real.

In this dream that he was having. You were sitting right next to him. You were simply there, knees almost touching as if you were really there. A presence he needed. It was something human. Everything looked so soft. The wooden attic looked soft as well. Bob knew the space he was in. He recognized it. He was sure of it. He had been there before, maybe once, maybe twice. Maybe many more times, he couldn't really remember. But it did not matter to him, because you were there. With him.

The two of you sat close.

Really close.

On a brown, or maybe it was a dark red, carpet that had once been thick and soft like a sheep's back that you could lay on for hours, but was now pressed thin, worn out by time of being used and sat on. He was sitting cross-legged, his back just slightly slouched over. His hair dropped over his face, but enough to leave a space to see you through it. His fingers turned over the corners of a Rubik’s cube he had in his hands. It wasn’t solved. It wasn’t even being worked on, it was just lingering in his hands. He doesn't know why it's there, but he keeps it in his hands, fingers running across its colorful edges.

You were right beside him, knees nearly touching if he moved just well. In your hands, you were holding something thin and small. Your gloved fingers were curled around something. It was a card. The edges creased slightly. It looked old. On its front were two white little ghosts, not frightening looking, but more sweet looking, with a very tiny orange-pink colored faded heart floating between them. Beneath the image was a line of text, strange symbols he couldn’t make sense of. The letters blurred every time he tried to read them when he glanced down at your hands. Like the dream refused to give him that piece. It looked foreign but familiar. Something he should maybe know, or try to find out. He tried to read it once again, but it was blurred. Like the letters were not real, but they were there.

You were in your tactical grey suit that you had back in the vault when you two first time. The suit was clean. There was no blood on your shoulder anymore. No torn fabric. It was not shredded or stained. It was just you. You looked like you.

You glanced at him then. Slowly. And then you looked back down at your card again, brushing your thumb over the two little ghosts like they were something precious. Something important. Like they had meant something.

Maybe they did.

He stared at you more than he looked at the cube or the card. Watched the way your fingers rested gently on the card, sliding your fingertips over the paper edges of the card. You were present. You felt real. His mind couldn’t pull the attic into sharp focus, the only thing in the focus was you and the card, apart from the letters. Then himself and the cube. The blurry images around him did not matter to him.

What mattered was that you were here.

With him.

Then, you looked up again. Your eyes locked with his and for a moment he forgot to breathe. Like the air was not present, like he couldn't open his mouth or breathe through his nose. But then you began to blur. First, your outline softened. Like someone had taken off his glasses. Like your vision was starting to get distorted and bad. Then your hands lost their shape. And when your face began to blur, almost disappear, something inside him moved. Maybe even screamed. It was the first thing he heard in his quiet dream.

“No..." the Bob, who was still in the dream, whispered, leaning forward. Almost too late. He was quick to reach forward. His fingers trembled as they stretched rightly towards your fading and blurring face. He was desperate to touch you. Before you vanished completely. Again. He touched your cheek. Or at least, he tried. His fingertips went straight through you. Going through nothingness. Then it was gone. You were gone.

His eyes snapped open.

The attic was gone. The soft carpet, the Rubik’s cube, your smile. It was all gone. You were gone. It was all erased. He was laying flat on his back and for a moment, he stared above. Still, mind-stuck at that dream. It felt too real. He wished that it was real, even though it was quiet.

The ceiling above was dull. It was connected smoothly from the walls like a tunnel. His breathing was even. Calm. His body hadn’t moved yet, but his eyes did. Shifting so slowly towards the corner of the room. That was when he felt it. A presence. A presence of someone else in the room. Someone was watching him. Watching him, observing him. Bob blinked once, then twice, and then turned his head to the side, catching the figure in the chair beside his bed.

"Hi. How—How are you feeling, Robert?" the figure asked from their chair, slightly leaning forward. It was a woman, "are you comfortable?"

"...yeah," he rasped out, his voice laced with the sleep. His mind still latching itself onto the dream, reaching to bring it back to fall back into it.

"My name is... Valentina Allegra de Fontaine," the woman leaned herself even closer, her hand coming up to her heart to introduce herself in a calm, relaxed, but professional manner. A deliberate gesture.

Bob was absolutely terrified to hear the name. His whole body recoiled. Before his mind could process what he was doing, he pushed himself far into the back. His own back hitting into the headboard of the bed, "oh, no, no... You tried to kill us," he pointed his trembling finger at the woman on the chair, who was smiling at him. Scrambling back, away from her. His eyes wide and his fingers trembling as he lifted them.

She then started shushing him with her own finger up. Shushing him gently. Then, something rattled against the glass table next to her chair. She put a metal-like object on the table, it had the letter S in the middle. Solid and metallic. It was black and golden, flicking off the light when it fell on it. An emblem. A symbol. His eyes flickered over it, something tugged at his chest. He recognized that symbol.

"Let me explain. Would you like that?" Valentina softly asked him, smiling like a cat at the trembling man hidden at the headboard of the bed. His eyes did not leave the metallic symbol on the table for a moment, but then they flickered back up at the woman. He nodded and whispered, "...yeah." He wanted to know the answers from her. She leaned forward slightly again, her elbows resting on her knees, fingers intertwined together. One through one

"You signed up for a medical study, which was as advertised as a cutting-edge human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—" her voice smooth, but smooth enough for Bob. He wanted to know something else, so he cut in.

"—What happened to Twenty-Two?" he blinked at her, eyes furrowing.

Valentina paused for a moment. Her smile dropping, staring at the man, then she continued, "what—oh... Twenty-Two? Oh... Those people you were with... Those are not honest people. They're criminals. Villains, really," her smile came back to her face, shaking her head gently, professionally.

"No... No, no... They helped me," he sat back up again, shifting his body on the e way too comfortable bed, knitting his brows on his face, mouth slightly parted. His mind was confused and running.

"Robert," she stood up from her chair and quickly walked over to his bed and sat beside him, "let's just forget about them," He hugged himself closer to the headboard, moving further from the woman, "let's just focus on you... And how perfect you are."

He stared. Confused. He was never told that he was perfect. Something tugged at him, again. Bob let out a small, disbelieving chuckle. It was quiet, and small. Almost not there. He shook his head slowly, a confused smile twitching onto his mouth. Her words were absurd, her thoughts were wild and absurd to him.

“Perfect?” he echoed, tilting his head, "no… no," Bob shook his head again, more firmly this time, looking down at his own hands and then back up at the woman, his brows once again furrowed. He couldn't believe this woman, he couldn't even believe himself. How could he believe someone else?

Valentina leaned in closer, her voice taking a lower tone, "you’ve always thought of yourself as a victim. But you overcame. You went to Malaysia. You were lost, right?" her eyes shot to his again, smile on her features, stretching on her lips like it did not belong here. Like it was not real. A playing one. To make him believe her words, her voice, her ideas.

"You were searching... And you found me," Valentina said, almost too enthusiastically. Her smile stretched. Her voice was soft, almost too soft. But something was off. The words were biting, they had teeth. Sharp ones.

"How do you know all that?" his gaze narrowed at the woman, his brows knitting even more. There was unease creeping onto him, right by his shoulders. All the way up his back and up to his neck. Like invisible fingers dragging slowly up and down. Slow and suffocating.

"I know all of it," Valentina leaned even closer to the man. Her voice was smooth, "I know about your mom's mental illness, I know about your addiction, your juvenile record..." she leaned even more forward and Bob leaned backward, further from the woman by his side on the bed he was on.

"Yeah, I even know about the time that your father had—"

"Stop!" he yelled out, his hands flew up in front of his face, shielding himself from the memories being brought back like they were on a thread. Pulled back by its end. He jerked back. Suddenly, the room shook, but none of the two paid attention to that. The people outside did though. The room shuddered. The floor let out a groan, the lights flickered, and the glass table trembled, "I—I didn't say you could know that."

"Robert. I know everything about you," the woman whispered, a smile beaming on her face like she had received the best gift ever, "and I still want you to be my guy!"

Bob was now hugging his knees, staring at the woman with a frown, "what happened to Twenty-Two? What happened to—"

"Nothing. Nothing important... Really, Robert. You are way more important than any of these cheap wanna-be heroes that cannot even save their own life," Valentina had this weird expression on her face. It was her smile twitching, but still on her face. He was looking at you, unblinking.

"Isn't that what you want? To be accepted? To be chosen?" she whispered, making him scowl at the woman, he was lost, he didn't know if he should go back into the dream or believe the woman. He tells him the sweetest lies, "no one else sees it. But I do. And I think your past is what makes you so perfect," she leaned closer and her fingers curled around Bob's. Holding his hand. Bob's head raised, his gaze lifting up. He knew what was about to come. Another dream. Another memory. Another traumatic moment. For him and the other person.

The second she's out of the room of shame, she pulls her hand away from him. Staring ahead, blinking all her thoughts away. Bob's eyebrows furrow, his head tilting as he stares at the woman sitting beside him. She takes a deep breath and says out, with a trembling voice, "would you excuse me for just a moment?" she awkwardly smiled at him. She then has her lips in a straight line, nodding her head a few times before standing up. She stood up with elegance, professionalism, and precision. Without looking back at Bob, she stepped toward the glass table where she was sitting near before. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the black-and-gold emblem, the metallic symbol with the golden symbol of the letter S in the middle. She grabbed it between her fingers and took it off the table with a clink noise.

Bob’s heart sank. Deep. The moment she lifted the emblem off the glass table, something inside him broke loose. Something broke. Something happened and it pulled him forward before he could even think straight. He scrambled off the bed to its middle, following Valentina's steps.

“No, no! Wait, wait, wait, wait!” Bob's voice cracked open with desperation as he stumbled forward, his knees bouncing at the comfortable soft bed.

She stopped. Standing still. Then she turned. Her eyes met his again. Her expression unreadable. The edges of her traumatic past clashed with her mind from what she saw when she touched Bob's fingers. When she was suddenly standing face to face with her childhood trauma. Her nightmare. The little girl, standing by the stairs, seeing her father get shot. Her lips parted slightly, staring at him at the bed.

“I can control it,” he blurted out, his voice shaking. He didn’t believe it. Not really. But he needed it to be true. He needed her to believe it. He needed someone to believe him. To believe in him. To make him seen, make him important. Make him someone.

Valentina smiled, "great,” she said without missing another beat to it.

She then turned once again, stepping into the doorway without another word. The door hissed as it sealed behind. Leaving Bob alone, once again. He was left there, frozen. Waiting. At the middle of the bed. He sat there, motionless. His knees were bent before him, his hospital pajama top wrinkled around his stomach.

He blinked slowly. Once. Then twice. Like he did not know if the images he was seeing were real. If he was real. If it all was real. Then he whispered, soft and quiet “where are you?" then for a moment he was quiet, then he repeated again, "where are you?"

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. It all matched to him. Twenty-two letters in those two questions... They both held the same number. They both meant you.

Two questions. Two phrases. Both of them with eleven letters. Twenty-two letters together. Just like the name.

Twenty-Two.

You were the answer. He hunched forward slightly, resting his pajama-covered arms over his bent knees, his head dipping low between his shoulders, falling forward and hiding. His curls fell forward again. Like they had in the dream. This time covering his whole face. He had no reason to have any space between them, he had no one to look at through his hair. To make a space for. The only presence in the room was his memory of you and that wasn’t enough. Even the dream was not enough. Not anymore.

Your face. It flickered in his mind again. Not the version from the dream. But the real one. The last one he has seen. The one which still had a blood on your shoulder, a shot in. The look in your eyes when he had pushed you away from him. That look in your eyes when you saw him leave to sacrifice himself for you all. He remembered the way you had looked at him. Like he was still someone. Someone worth something.

You are someone worth something as well. You both are. Bob and you. And so are the people around you. The strangers you've met. Strangers turned to something else, something more. They were not perfect. None of them were, not even you. But you were still people.

"Twenty-Two?"

Came a hesitant voice from beside you. It was different. It was real and right beside you. It was a familiar call of your name by even a familiar voice. You didn’t answer right away. You didn't even acknowledge the sound until it was repeated again. The same double digits repeated again. The number. Your eyes blinked a few times as the room gradually slid back into focus. Everything came back, you came back.

You lifted your head. John was crouched beside you, one hand braced on his bent knee, and the other one was just slightly hovering in the air. He looked like he was considering touching your arm for a moment. He looked worried. Maybe, confused as well. But something was in his eyes that showed that there was something else swimming inside those blue eyes.

Behind him stood Bucky, arms crossed over his chest. He was staring down at you as well, he looked different. There was something in the way he was looking. Something softened. Something warm was there.

Your eyes fell back to your hands. They were sitting in your lap, palms up. Fingers free. No handcuffs around your wrists. You didn't even realize that they were off. That there is not Ava or Alexei sitting opposite you. Or that John is crouching beside you with his arms free as well. You were stuck in your mind. In a memory. You disappeared with him. With Bob, for a while. You thought about him just about the interactions you two had in a span of a few hours before. Nothing else. And it felt like you've been gone completely.

"You're here? Hey—" John said again, you lifted your head again and looked at him. You blinked a few times and then nodded again. You nodded slowly again, put your palms against the metal floor, and pushed yourself up slowly.

John saw you moving and rose up with you. He held his hand out to help you, but you ignored it. Pulling yourself up just fine without any help. John turned towards you again, standing taller above you, “you sure you’re good?” he asked again, his voice lower now. It was caring, not mockery like before when you spoke. When he spoke with others. You looked down at the outstretched hand which he wanted to help you with. Just underneath the gloves he had was something. Glistening. Flickering the sun off. Hiding just on his ring finger, but it was there. Around the finger.

A ring.

He was still wearing it. Even after Olivia left. With his kid. Even after the damage he did was done, after he hurt them. It showed well that he did not stop loving them. He still believed. He still believes. The hope is there, he knows it and feels it with him. Even though he was the reason it all went down. He still believed.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, then grunted out as you stood back onto your feet after a longer while, "go before I kick your ass.”

That made him snort, "yeah, there you are,” he said, more to himself than you. Shaking his head. He looked over his shoulder, where Bucky was not standing anymore, "come on. They're just outside. Plane's off in any minute now."

You followed right behind him. The others were just outside of the gas station, the smaller airfield just off to the side. Ahead of you, the others were waiting for you. Yelena with her arms crossed over her chest and chin tilted up, the sun showering her face with its warmth. Ava leaned casually against a rusted pole her arms also crossed over her own chest. Alexei stood a good few centimeters away from Bucky, he looked like a fan. Like he was observing the man as if he was not even real.

One minute you were in that greasy, rusty old gas station that smelled of mold and then next you were on your way onto a flight straight to New York. Where apparently Bob was according to Bucky's words that he had said about his phone call. The plane was waiting outside at the airfield where Bucky took you all on. The plane had no markings on it, no advertising or logos. It was military-looking. Bucky was the first one to be on the ramp of the plane, arms crossed and waiting. You all walked up the ramp right behind him, Alexei was quick to comment about the plane being not ordinary one. He also asked if there would be food served, which made Bucky and Ava scoff.

Then the ramp lifted and closed. The plane itself groaned into life, then the sky swallowed the plane and you were slowly rising away from the Utah's desert.

You sat beside Yelena, your arms crossed over your chest and your right hand's fingers were playing with the loose strap on your tactical best on your chest. Yelena had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms thrown over them, a knife of hers in her fingers. Playing with it like you are with the loose strap. The dark-haired woman, Ava, was sitting opposite you. Both of her legs thrown up on a crate nearby, relaxing herself. John was next to her, staring into nothingness. A void. Bucky was sitting next to him, there was a good space between the both super soldiers. The third super soldier was near the cockpit, talking with the two pilots who were really not interested in having a conversation with the Russian fighter.

When you finally landed after a long flight, the weather hit you like a punch. New York wasn’t warm or hot like the Utah's desert. Bucky was once again the first to move when the plane touched the ground. You followed with John, Ava, Yelena, and Alexei right behind the metal-armed man. The second he was out of the airfield, he had waiting a car for you all

An ugly, worn-out old, white van was waiting there. Scratches on the sides as well. It definitely did look any good and you wondered if this would even get you to the point where you had to be. Alexei was the first to scramble into the front seat, sitting right in the passenger seat next to the long-haired man. When you rounded the back of the van, you stopped just behind it. Bucky is next to you. You raised your brows when you threw open the back door, it was empty with no seats. You, John, Ava, and Yelena were supposed to sit inside in the back on the floor.

You paused, thinking for a moment and then you turned towards the metal-armed man, "is this even yours? Is this thing stolen?"

“It's borrowed,” he said without looking at you, a smirk on his lips. You rolled your eyes and jumped into the back of the van. You dropped yourself onto the van's floor and leaned your back against the cold white wall of the van. Your legs stretched in front of you. Yelena was next to jump in, she sat opposite you, her back hitting the wall first and then she slid down onto her butt. John was next, he climbed into the van and sat himself next to you, but not before accidentally kicking your knees and acting as if he fell over them.

"Watch where you're going," you muttered to him, crossing your arms over your chest. He still stood above you and kicked his boot into your knee twice, "watch where you put your legs."

Ava was next to climb in and she sat beside Yelena. She was the closest to the doors of the van. John then as well slid himself down onto the floor, his now returned shield leaning on the wall behind him. The shield rattled against the wall when the van started its motor and moved forward. Ava, sitting next to Yelena's side, bent her knee and threw her arm over it, sitting more comfortably as the van rattled softly under.

You let your head gently fall against the van's wall, but a sudden, sharp turn sent John knocking shoulders with your head. You groaned and kicked your shoulder into his and he groaned in response. Ava chuckled, staring at the two of you, "you two act like children."

"Ah, thanks," John grinned and you shot him a look from your place on the floor. Yelena grinned at you and stretched her legs in front of her as well, the tips of her boots touching yours. She smiled at your touching boots and you made a small joking movement with the end of your boot, she copied it after you. Shaking the end of her boots touching yours with you, like a little silly wave.

Yelena opened her mouth to say something to you, but the van jolted again as Bucky took another sharp turn, which made you all move around and knock into others. John's shoulder knocked into your head again and you let out a groan again, kicking your shoulder into his once more.

“Jesus, Barnes!” John shouted towards the front of the van, "you too. Stop shouldering me," he looked down at you and hit you in the shoulder with his own for the last time. Rubbing his shoulder with his other hand as if he got hurt by you.

The city of New York rushed by, but from where you sat, all you saw was a white and wooden walls and nothing from the outside. Then three more faces sitting next and opposite you.

John shifted beside you, dragging his shield into his lap, "well, I have this thing,” he muttered, looking down at his shield.

"Cool. Cool," Yelena nodded and looked down at his shield. Ava nodded as well.

"Yeah. Very," he flipped the shield in his hands and then leaned it against the wall back where it was before.

"Um. I have batons. On my back. They're useful," Yelena motioned her thumb behind her, the sticking-out handles of her batons strapped to her back. Ava looked to her left, looking at the strapped weapons behind the blonde woman.

"Very useful," John replied, thinking about the situation in the vault's elevator shaft, when he got one of them to get himself and then others out of the hole. Yelena rolled her eyes but smiled, "yes. They are useful..."

"Cool equipment you guys have. I have a protective suit, so I can stay alive," Ava speaks from beside Yelena, her hands coming up to show off her suit hugging her body. Yelena makes a face and nods a few times, pleased with it. You smile at her and give her lazy thumb up and then you drop your hand back into your lap.

"Looks superb," John comments at her suit and she smiles at him. Yelena then nods and starts to speak about her equipment again.

"And then I have these little... Widow—buzz-buzz—bites things," she showed off her wrists, hitting her fists together to show off how to use them. John nodded a few times, looking at them, "yeah. I remember them," remembering the way he got electrocuted by them back in the vault.

"And then I have this nineteen," she pulls out her hand Glock from her thigh holster and then puts it back when John pulls his own handgun out.

"Forty-five," he unloads the magazine out of it, "the long barrel," he shows off his own handgun, proud of it. The two women opposite him grin at him and hums. Enjoying his blabbering about the gun.

"Woah. So big," Ava replies with a teasing voice. Yelena is next to add with also teasing manner, making fun of John without him really understanding that they're making fun of him, "...so long."

"Yeah. Um. It's like—Yeah. It's a little long," John put the magazine back inside the gun and then holsters it back where it was before. The women still teasing him.

"And that... What about your hat?" Yelena then points at the helmet sitting on the floor beside his stretched-out legs. John looks around, thinking about what she meant, "the hat..." then it clicks and he asks again, "the helmet?"

"Yep. Whatever you wanna call it," she nods and John picks up the helmet off the van's floor, "it's like cool. Um. You like it?" he asks the blonde woman and Ava next to her rolls her head to the side and smirks at her in amusement.

"Um... I mean. Do you like the hat?" she flips the question at the shielded man. John stares, blinking a few times at the woman opposite him, "yeah. It is pretty, um, pretty nice..." he adds, his fingers dancing over his helmet in his hands. Yelena looks down at the helmet and then back up at John, "that's cool."

"What about yours—the bombs? They were neat," Ava spoke out, her eyes flickering towards you next to the shielded man. You smiled at her and straightened up, you patted the pocket on your tactical vest, where the little sticky bombs were safely hidden. A small circular metal device. Very small and very helpful.

"Sticky bombs, I call them that. You just need to throw them, get them some air and then they just stick onto anything. Then boom," you grinned at her and zipped down the pocket of the tactical vest you were wearing and pulled out one of the little circular bombs. Ava leaned closer, observing the small circular bomb you held in between your fingers. Then you put the small device away, zipping it back inside your pocket to keep it safely hidden.

"Very cool. Like really cool. I want to get one," Ava grinned at you and you grinned back at her, "I can give you some later." She smiled and hit a fist into the air, a small sound of excitement leaving her mouth.

"Sticky bombs?" John asked you, wondering about the name. You looked up at him, furrowing your brows, "yeah. Because they stick onto any surface when—"

"You know what else—"

"Fuck you. Stop acting like a child!" You groaned, once again hitting his shoulder, because you knew what he was about to say. He started chuckling, holding his hands up in mock offense, and then he started rubbing the shoulder where you hit him. Once again acting as if you hurt him any badly. Like he was wounded. He then turned to you once again, "sticky bombs are kind of badass, though. Can I try one later?”

“No,” you replied instantly. Shaking your head and avoiding his eye contact.

“Come on..." John groaned. His lips turned downward into a frown.

“You’d stick it to yourself," you replied to the man which made him gasp and raise his hands above his head. Ava chuckled and so did Yelena. The dark-haired woman did agree with you on your statement, "he definitely would."

"When are we gonna be there? I'm running out of ideas for conversations," Yelena groaned from opposite you, which made you chuckle. It's been a long flight and drive, hours stretched on.

"Are we there yet?" Yelena yelled out, her voice loud and booming through the van, reaching the ears of the two supersoldiers in the front.

"Almost!" yelled Bucky from behind the wheel and then a second after him sounded the Russian voice of Yelena's father with the same answer, "almost!"

"Almost, almost, almost. Fucking when?" Yelena repeated under her breath and rolled her eyes, leaning her head against the van's wall behind her.

The day had been long. Really long. Like it wasn't even twenty-four hours like it has been way more. Now you were many, many kilometers away from Utah, its deserts, and the secret vault of death. Instead, you were inside an old white van, crammed in the back with the other three people. On your way to the late Avengers Tower, now called as the Watchtower, where apparently, inside, was Bob. Trapped in whatever nightmare has Valentina prepared for him. You need to save the man. And save yourselves too.

Even death could not stop you.

Especially not you.

hope you liked this! if yes, comments and feedback are very appreciated! <3

also thank you so much for all the love this fic is getting!!! both here on tumblr and on archive. it means absolutely everything to me i love u guys thank you so so so much

also..... some scenes here mayyyy lead up to other ones in the future so write it down!!!! hahaaha u will see then i will remind u guys wink wink

TAGLIST: @qardasngan , @one17 , @ren-ni , @werewolfgirl1995 , @mysticdelusionengineer , @lauryn2theelectricboogaloo , @mewmew222 , @badbishsblog , @lovely-foxes-exe , @funkyfable , @melvin333 , @sunflower-0180

[daily-xisuma]

[172] Fanart for my stupid game (affectionate)

[solxamber]

Workplace Hazards: Romance || Idia Shroud

You're a feral SS-class Esper with no off switch. He's an anxious shut-in SS-class Guide just trying to game in peace. Through lies, HR nightmares, dramatic near-deaths, and one candy ring proposal, you accidentally become soulmates. Government benefits may or may not be involved.

Series Masterlist

Life, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to take a sharp left turn off the highway of normalcy and drive screaming into the wormhole of cosmic horror.

One day you’re just a person trying to buy goat milk, and the next, the sky rips open like a microwaved burrito, belching out monsters that look like someone tried to 3D print your worst nightmare with a spaghetti code of malice and slime. Scientists call them "Gate manifestations." Everyone else calls them "oh no no no NO—"

But humanity, being the scrappy little infestation it is, adapted. Not by solving the actual problem (of course not, that would require shutting up billionaires and redirecting global funds from "missile measuring contests"), but by evolving. Or rather, mutating—suddenly a percentage of the population started exhibiting terrifying, physics-optional powers. 

These people are called Espers—a sanitized title that really just means "Congratulations! You are now licensed to punch interdimensional horrors in the face and traumatize yourself in the process."

Now, if the Espers were just laser-wielding sad little soldiers, that would be one thing. But no, their powers came with a side effect: unmanageable psychic noise. Think psychic radiation plus the emotional intensity of a sleep-deprived theatre kid on their third espresso shot. 

This is where Guides came in. Not to lead anyone (the name is misleading, like “boneless chicken wings” in Ohio), but to stabilize Espers before they exploded into a Category Five Meltdown and leveled half a city block because someone forgot to restock the vending machine.

Guides don’t just talk you down—they shove their psychic aura into your brain like a weighted blanket made of competence and condescension. They are therapists, emotional janitors, and living surge protectors. Some are kind. Some are terrifying. Some, unfortunately, are hot.

So now the world runs on a system: gates appear, Espers go in and fight, Guides catch them when they fall out twitching and covered in monster goo. Rinse. Repeat. Cry. Go to therapy if you’re lucky. Take a nap if you’re not. Don’t die. (Please. HR paperwork is a nightmare.)

And if you’re very unlucky—like catastrophically, cosmically doomed—you fall in love with your Guide.

But that’s not your fault. That’s life now, baby.

You’re an Esper. A good one, actually. Or you were. You were ranked S-Class and living the dream: minimum paperwork, maximum destruction, and you had a Guide who made you drink tea and pretend your trauma was a garden to be tended. You even humored him and tried to visualize your “inner zen koi pond” until the koi started screaming back. Good times.

But then came The Incident.

Now, to be fair, the gate had looked normal. It wasn’t your fault it turned out to be a Class Alpha Instability Spiral—whatever the hell that means; you don't read the reports, you're just the explosion part of the team.

It also wasn’t your fault the emotional stress made you unlock a new tier of Esper abilities mid-battle. And it definitely wasn’t your fault that you accidentally bent the laws of physics so hard that five square kilometers of space-time decided to just... sit this one out.

But sure, blame the walking psychic warhead. Classic.

Congratulations! You're now SS-Class. The extra “S” stands for “Somebody please help.” Your previous Guide has politely resigned, citing “irreconcilable sanity differences.” HR gave you a pamphlet called So You’ve Accidentally Become a Government Weapon, and you were told your new classification required a compatibility reassignment.

Soul-sorting algorithms that spat out exactly one name. One room number. One very troubling lack of further details. Because while every other high-ranking Guide had reviews, commentary, threat assessments—your new match had... whispers.

"Doesn't take anyone."

"Turned down a whole squad of Espers."

So naturally, you knocked on the door.

Then knocked again.

And on the third knock, after contemplating whether this was some elaborate prank designed to push you into spontaneous combustion, you heard it: a whispered, "Come in," like the voice of someone who’d been emotionally concussed by mere social interaction.

The office was dark. Not ominous-dark, more... someone-didn’t-want-to-pay-the-electric-bill dark. The curtains were drawn. The monitor light was the only glow in the room, and behind it was a figure so slouched, so cocooned in hoodie and existential dread, you almost mistook him for a sentient couch cushion.

Idia Shroud.

SS-Class Guide. The Anti-Social Sorcerer. The Mothman of Mental Stability.

He looked up at you like you were the ghost of an unpaid internship and visibly recoiled.

"Hi," you said, very brightly, like this wasn’t clearly a mistake and the man before you hadn’t just contemplated leaping through the window to escape human contact.

He blinked. Slowly. "You're the SS?"

“Apparently,” you replied, sitting down calmly and very much not vibrating with barely-leashed doom energy. You folded your hands in your lap like someone who hadn’t just melted part of the training center during compatibility testing. “And you're going to be my Guide.”

That clearly short-circuited something in his brain because he made a strangled wheeze that sounded like a laptop dying.

So, obviously, the next logical step was pretending to be emotionally stable.

“Yes, I’ve been told I have excellent boundaries,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I meditate. I go to therapy. I drink water.”

Your nose might have twitched at the last one. Idia squinted.

“I’ve... seen your incident reports.”

Ah. Well. Time to double down.

“And yet,” you said, flashing a smile that could win awards for Most Suspicious Aura, “the test matched us. Fate, right?”

Idia looked at you like fate had personally wronged him.

You maintained eye contact. Calm. Cool. Collected. Just another emotionally well-regulated citizen of the world, absolutely not about to snap and launch a fireball into a vending machine if it ate your coins again.

And to your surprise, after a long, tense silence and a muttered line that sounded suspiciously like, “If I ignore it, maybe it'll leave,” he didn’t kick you out.

He just sighed. Opened a drawer. Pulled out your file like it physically hurt him.

And so it began.

You and the man who looked like a sleep-deprived curse word.

Esper and Guide.

Chaos and more chaos. 

Willing participant and deeply unwilling participant.

Honestly, this was going to go great.

Idia sits next to you like someone forced him into a live-action horror movie adaptation of his worst social nightmares. He perches at the very edge of the couch, knees turned sharply away from you, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting to spontaneously combust just from proximity. He’s sweating. Actively. You can hear it.

He doesn't look at you—doesn’t dare to. Eye contact might trigger some kind of emotional subroutine he’s buried under six years of anime quotes and avoidance. So instead, he glares at the floor like it owes him money and says in the driest, most pained voice you've ever heard:

“…I’m going to initiate touch now.”

You blink. “Cool. I won’t bite.”

“Statistically, there’s still a 17% chance.”

Before you can ask how he got that number, he reaches over—very gingerly—and clasps your hand like it’s a ticking time bomb. It’s the least affectionate, most clinical hand-hold imaginable. And yet—

Your brain goes silent. Completely. All the psychic noise, the static, the ghost of that one Gate entity that’s been whispering “eat drywall” for three weeks straight—gone. You breathe out, deeply, for what feels like the first time in months.

“Oh,” you say, blinking slowly. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

Meanwhile, Idia has gone stiff as a corpse. He looks at you, then at your hand, then back at you like you’ve just transformed into a philosophical dilemma.

“How are you alive?” he asks, genuinely horrified. “You’re… you’re an unstable esper. Your baseline resonance is like an overcooked spaghetti noodle wrapped around a hand grenade. You should be fried. You should be paste. What the hell have you been doing for guidance?”

You shrug. “My last guide made me listen to podcasts. And sometimes put a warm towel on my neck.”

Idia just stares at you in disbelief. “A warm towel?! A warm towel?! That’s like trying to fight a house fire with herbal tea!”

You grin at him, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since your promotion. “Hey. I’m adaptable.”

Then you wink.

He jerks his hand back like you just slapped him with a legally binding marriage proposal. “Okay, what does that mean?! Are you flirting? Threatening me? Both?!”

You stretch luxuriously on his couch, now absolutely high on the absence of psychic distress.  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Guide boy?”

He looks at you like he’s re-evaluating every decision that led him to this moment—including being born.

You close your eyes, content, while Idia frantically Googles “how to tell if your newly assigned Esper is insane.”

You don’t need to see him to know he’s panicking.

But you feel better than you have in weeks.

You exit the Gate with all the dignity of a baby deer on roller skates. Technically alive, mostly upright, and riding the high of “I didn’t die today” like it’s a stimulant. There’s smoke rising from your gloves, your hair’s doing a very bold interpretation of ‘windblown,’ and you’re about three seconds from either vomiting or adopting nihilism as a full-time lifestyle.

And then—you spot him.

Your Guide.

Idia Shroud.

He’s lurking in the far corner of the clearing, half-shielded by a vending machine and what looks like pure, unfiltered spite. His hood’s up, his glowstick hair is practically vibrating, and he’s watching the post-Gate Espers like a cornered Victorian orphan who’s about to throw hands over the last piece of bread.

One comes within five feet of him and he physically recoils, clutching his comms tablet like it’s a crucifix. You're ninety percent sure he hissed.

So naturally, you make a beeline for him.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” you chirp, still crackling with energy like a downed power line.

He jolts like you just poured emotional commitment down his spine.

“Oh my GOD,” he mutters, dragging you by the sleeve like you’re radioactive (which, in fairness, you might be). “What took you so long?! I was standing here surrounded by—by unregulated feelings and eye contact and—oh my god, one of them tried to hug me.”

You let him pull you behind a barrier, where he sits you down with the dramatic flair of someone absolutely done with his entire existence. He doesn’t even wait—just snatches your hand and starts stabilizing you like he’s diffusing a bomb, holding on like letting go might summon the apocalypse.

Instant, blessed silence.

Your brain, which had been screaming like a dial-up modem on fire, goes quiet. Your chest unknots. You remember that oxygen exists and taking it in is actually encouraged. You sigh, blissed out, while Idia makes a face like he just stuck his hand in radioactive soup.

“I know it was, like, a gate collapse or whatever,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the skyline like he’s begging some higher power for patience. “But maybe next time don’t take so long to get out? You were in there for seventy minutes. I counted. Every second was emotionally damaging.”

You grin, eyes still hazy. “Aw. You missed me.”

“I panicked,” he snaps. “There’s a difference. I had a backup plan. It was called ‘run.’”

You lean toward him with a smug little hum. “You care.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, voice cracking like a damaged violin string. “I just don’t want you getting so emotionally unhinged you come back here all weepy and soulbond-seeking and—” he gestures vaguely. “Clingy.”

“I’m not clingy,” you say, still not letting go of his hand.

“You’re currently latched onto me like a trauma koala,” he deadpans.

You wink. “So you do care.”

Idia looks at you like he’s actively calculating how many regulations he can violate before someone notices. His expression lands somewhere between “why me” and “I should’ve become a dental assistant.”

But he doesn’t let go.

In fact, he shifts slightly so you can lean against him more comfortably. Not that he says anything about it. No. That would imply emotional maturity and gross things like “communication.”

Instead, he mutters, “You smell like space lightning and poor decisions.”

You beam at him. “Thanks. It’s my natural musk.”

And despite everything—despite the chaos, the imminent paperwork, and the looming threat of another Esper trying to trauma-bond with him—Idia doesn’t move away.

You’d like to think it’s because of your immense charm.

He’ll tell himself it’s just because it’s the most efficient way to keep you from frying your nervous system.

But deep down—deep down—he’s already doomed, and you both know it.

Congratulations. You’ve adopted a reclusive Guide with the emotional range of a scared wet cat.

And he cares.

Desperately.

You were having a very productive day doing absolutely nothing.

Flat on your bed, hoodie pulled over your face, limbs at the exact angle of maximum immobility, you were experiencing true stillness. The kind of stillness monks meditate decades to achieve. You hadn’t moved in hours. If someone were to enter your apartment right now, they’d probably mistake you for a corpse, but with worse fashion sense.

And then your phone rang.

You ignored it. Of course you did. Whoever it was could wait. You were on a spiritual journey to become one with your mattress. But it rang again. And again. And then came the messages. Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping—

With the groan of someone who’s known true peace and been dragged back to hell, you reached for the phone.

[Guidia]: B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. He's monologuing. [Guidia]: SOS. EMERGENCY. COME NOW. I’M NOT KIDDING.  [Guidia]: HE'S OUTSIDE MY OFFICE. HE HAS A CLIPBOARD.  [Guidia]: I’M HIDING BEHIND MY ROLLING CHAIR.  [Guidia]: IF YOU DON’T COME I’M FAKING MY OWN DEATH.

You stared at the messages. Debated pretending you didn’t see them. Debated harder. Lost.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of the office building, internally mourning the loss of your free day and dressed like a walking stress nap with an energy drink in hand. You shuffle into the building, make your way to the guide floor, and as soon as you turn the corner—

There he is.

A junior Esper. Knocking on Idia’s door with the determined rhythm of someone trying to summon either a guide or God himself.

You slow down, then stop completely a few feet away, watching the scene with mild interest and the deadpan curiosity of someone who’s just been pulled out of bed to witness this madness.

He looks fresh out of training. Blue hair perfectly combed, posture painfully upright, shoes that don’t have a single scuff on them. He’s also got that nervous, earnest vibe that screams “will fill out extra paperwork if asked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

He turns, a bit startled, then gives you a hopeful little smile.

“I’m here to meet Guide Shroud,” he says. “I heard he’s an SS-Rank and that he has only one Esper on his schedule, so I came to ask if he’d consider guiding me!”

You blink slowly. “You’re…?”

“B-Class!” he says proudly. “But I’ve been training hard. My instructors say I’ve got potential!”

You resist the urge to say “uh-huh” and pat him on the head. It is bold, you’ll give him that. You’d admire it more if you weren’t already picturing Idia foaming at the mouth behind the door.

Before you can respond, the door opens a crack—and a pale hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and yanks you inside like you’re being abducted.

The door slams shut behind you. You spin and there’s Idia, crouched behind his desk, wide-eyed and absolutely vibrating with panic.

“WHY is he still out there,” he hisses.

You shrug. “He’s got dreams?”

“I SAW THE CLIPBOARD.”

“What’s on the clipboard, Idia.”

“I DON’T KNOW. GOALS? AMBITIONS? A LIST OF ICEBREAKER QUESTIONS?”

You give him a flat look. “So you dragged me out of bed—on my day off—because a baby Esper wanted to talk to you?”

“Did you SEE him?! He’s wearing a BUTTON-UP. He brought a PEN.”

“And your solution is what? Hide in your office until he dies of old age?”

“YES,” he says, without shame.

You sigh, long and dramatic. “Fiiiine.”

“You’ll get rid of him?”

“Yes.”

“WITHOUT making a mess?”

“No promises.”

You step out of the office, roll your shoulders, and walk up to the junior Esper with your best tired-but-stern government-employee face.

“Hey,” you say. “Guide Shroud can’t take you.”

His face falls. “Oh. Why not?”

“He’s bonded.”

“Oh.” He looks down, disappointed. “Wait—bonded? Like, permanently?”

“Yep.”

“…To who?”

You tilt your head and flash a smile. “Me.”

A beat passes.

“Oh,” he says again, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t know. That’s amazing. Congratulations! You two must have a really powerful connection.”

You nod solemnly. “We do. He definitely doesn’t hide under the desk every time I sneeze.”

“I hope someday I get to experience something like that,” he says, eyes shining.

You pat his shoulder like the elder cryptid you are. “Maybe. But for now, go back to your training. Don’t skip on the cardio. Gates love people who skip cardio.”

He scurries off with a polite bow and a visible resolve to become the best version of himself.

You reenter the office. Idia’s peeking from behind his chair like a horror movie extra.

“Gone?”

“Gone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re soul-bonded to me and emotionally unavailable.”

Idia goes still. Then slowly slinks out of hiding and collapses into his chair like a dying star.

“I can’t believe you just lied to a government-registered Esper,” he mutters.

“I can believe I did it to get my day off back.”

“…Fair.”

You yawn, stretch, and head for the door. “Anyway, congrats on our fake bond. I expect fake anniversary gifts.”

“I'm gonna submit a fake complaint to HR.”

“Romantic.”

Idia glares.

You blow him a kiss and leave.

You realize just how feral Espers are for high-grade Guides when one tries to poach yours in broad daylight, in public, with the social grace of a raccoon trying to steal your fries at a bus stop.

You’ve just finished a gate run, which—if you ignore the part where you took on three more phantoms than assigned, broke your regulator, and got launched through a wall—went rather well. Minor details, honestly. 

Idia, however, is not ignoring any of that. He is, in fact, still cataloging your crimes in a tired monotone that suggests he’s preparing a very long, very strongly worded complaint for HR. Possibly engraved on stone tablets.

“You absolute menace,” he mutters, slumped against the wall beside you. “You promised—promised—you wouldn’t go after the untagged ones unless backup arrived, and what did you do? You ran at it. With a stick. A stick.”

“It was a long stick,” you say helpfully, grinning as you lean a little more of your weight against him, fully aware he’s too drained to push you off.

“I had to leave my desk, you tyrant,” he hisses. “Do you know what it’s like being forced to cross a city-wide barrier while wearing socks with holes in them?! My soul is chafing.”

You laugh, and the sound is light and easy, the kind that says this is all routine for you now—him grumbling, you ignoring, the two of you attached at the hand like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow just work.

It’s been nearly a year since you first met, and though Idia still resembles flight response in human form, he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore. He doesn’t hide behind walls of screens and sarcastic muttering. These days, he’ll even look you in the eye if he’s feeling particularly emotionally reckless.

And today, you’re halfway draped against his side, gripping his hand like it’s your personal grounding wire, while he complains about your irresponsibility with the dulled, weary cadence of someone who has long accepted his fate.

Everything is calm. Peaceful. Slightly sweaty, but serene.

Until it happens.

You feel it first—a disturbance in the air, a sort of psychic shift like a mosquito entering your periphery. And then a hand—not yours—wraps around Idia’s other hand.

You both freeze.

You turn your head slowly, like a haunted doll in a horror movie, and lock eyes with the offending Esper: a stranger, grinning with the unnerving intensity of someone who’s never once respected personal space in their life.

Their grip is firm. Their eyes are gleaming. You get the immediate and unshakable impression that they brush their teeth with motivational speeches and do pushups while listening to alpha wave affirmations.

“Hey,” they say brightly. “I felt your energy from across the lot. You’re an SS-ranked Guide, right? I need a sync. This is urgent.”

You blink. They just walked up. Grabbed his hand. Started a conversation. Like you’re not right there. Like you’re not holding his hand already.

Idia makes a noise. A terrible, high-pitched, panicked noise that sounds like a dying computer fan combined with a stress wheeze. His grip on your hand turns into a death clamp so intense you briefly lose sensation in your fingers.

You can feel his aura spiking erratically, his hair going from blue-flame to fire-hazard, his whole body broadcasting something between fight and flight but mostly error404.human.exe has stopped responding.

The other Esper keeps smiling.

So naturally, your half-dead, gate-fried, emotionally responsible brain decides to handle the situation with grace, poise, and logic.

“That’s my bonded Guide, how dare you?” you say loudly, voice ringing across the field like you’ve just declared war at a royal banquet.

The Esper blinks. “Wait—bonded?”

You stare them down with the weight of a thousand lies and the calm of someone who has absolutely no plan but is fully committed to whatever this is now. “Yes. Bonded. Anchored. Spiritually entangled. Aether-twined in the eyes of the Bureau and every known deity.”

The Esper takes a step back. “Oh. I—I didn’t realize, you weren’t listed—”

“It’s private. Sacred. We don’t believe in paperwork,” you say solemnly, as if this is an ancient vow passed down from your ancestors and not something you just made up to avoid watching Idia break down like a damsel in the middle of a syncing field.

“I—I’m sorry,” they stammer, already backing away like you’ve slapped them with a restraining order made of pure energy. “I didn’t mean to—good luck with your, um. Bond.”

And then they run. They actually run. Kick up dust and everything.

You turn back to Idia, who’s frozen in place like his entire reality has blue-screened.

“What,” he croaks, “the hell was that?”

“A problem solved,” you say, settling back into your lean like nothing happened. “You’re welcome.”

“You told them we were bonded. In public. Do you have any idea what you just—? That’s a federal registration. There’s ceremonies. There are retreats. I’m going to start getting targeted ads for matching sync robes!”

You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder with the peacefulness of someone who knows, with every fiber of their being, that they have zero intention of fixing this. “Eh. If the ad algorithm knows something before you do, maybe it’s just fate.”

“You’re the worst,” he whispers, deeply and with feeling.

And yet, his grip doesn’t loosen. Even with both your hands clasped like that, even after the emotional equivalent of a car alarm going off in his soul, he keeps holding on.

So really, you figure everything’s fine.

After one little white lie (okay, two), things spiraled faster than you expected. Who knew that telling two different Espers that you and Idia were bonded would spread like someone set the office gossip group chat on fire and dumped rocket fuel on it?

Now you’re both sitting in HR.

The room is sterile in that special, soul-draining way that only HR offices can achieve—walls too white, chairs too plastic, a single wilting plant in the corner that’s seen more existential dread than most therapists.

You’re slouched in your seat, one leg bouncing like a ticking bomb, while Idia sits stiffly beside you, arms folded, looking like he wants to sink through the floor.

He's glaring at you with the intensity of a thousand blue suns. You can feel the judgment radiating off him like he's trying to guilt-force an apology through sheer mental anguish.

"Look," you mutter, nudging his boot with yours. "It’s not that bad."

"You told people we were bonded,” he hisses under his breath. “Twice. You turned it into an office-wide feature presentation. They sent us an official celebration cake, do you understand how terrifying that?”

You grin. “People love love.”

“I’m allergic to attention,” he snaps. “Do you know how many people tried to make eye contact with me this morning?”

“I made your life more efficient. Think about it—if we just roll with it, you never have to guide another Esper again. No more weirdos grabbing your hand in public. No more field calls. No more small talk.”

Idia pauses. You can see the moment he processes it. He goes very, very still, like a prey animal realizing the trap is actually a very comfy bed with Wi-Fi.

“…If I say we’re bonded, you're the only Esper I’ll ever have to guide,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s consulting an invisible divine entity. “I could work from home forever. No more missions. No more rando Espers breathing at me. I could build an AI version of myself for you to sync with. I wouldn’t even need to be conscious.”

“There you go!” you whisper, triumphant. “Fake it till we make it. Just smile, nod, and look like you tolerate me.”

“I don’t know how to smile on command.”

“Perfect. That’s our natural chemistry.”

Before he can spiral further, the HR door opens and a clipboard-toting, tired-eyed official waves you both in.

You sit. Idia sits like he’s never sat before. The HR guy folds his hands and gives you both that “I don’t get paid enough for this” expression all HR personnel master within the first week of their job.

“So,” he says. “You’re claiming a bond. You understand that means your sync scores, mission pairings, and emotional resonance charts are now considered federal data.”

“Absolutely,” you say confidently.

“Nope,” Idia says at the same time.

The HR guy pauses. “Right. Let’s just verify a few details.” He flips through the clipboard. “When did you begin your relationship?”

“About eleven months ago,” you reply smoothly.

“Two months ago?” Idia echoes, blinking. “Wait, what?”

“Where was your first official sync?”

“Field 17,” you say.

“The cafeteria,” says Idia.

A silence. You shoot him a quick look and whisper, “Why would we sync in the cafeteria—”

“I was thinking of lunch!” he hisses back.

HR guy clears his throat loudly.

“Okay,” he says, clearly fighting for patience. “Can you describe the moment you knew you were psychically compatible?”

You nod solemnly. “He touched my hand during decompression and I felt peace.”

“...When I almost blacked out from terror on field 206” Idia mutters.

You both blink at each other. There’s a horrible, choking silence.

The HR guy just sets down his pen, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs like he’s about to file for retirement. “Are you sure this is a real bond?”

Panic grips you like a sudden gust of wind. You think, fast. There’s only one thing left to do, one final act of desperation.

You rise from your chair.

Idia blinks. “What are you—oh no.”

You drop to one knee. “Oh yes.”

You pull out a ring. It’s a candy ring, the one you were saving in your jacket pocket for a sugar crash emergency. It sparkles like cheap sugar-coated destiny.

“Idia Shroud,” you say, with all the theatrical sincerity of a soap opera star in a season finale. “From the moment we synced, I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

Idia makes a noise that’s one part static feedback, one part soul exiting the body.

“Will you continue this extremely bureaucratically convenient charade with me?” you say, offering the candy ring with reverence. “For the tax write-offs and the peace of never having to talk to anyone else ever again?”

The HR guy is stunned. Mouth open. Not blinking. Probably buffering.

Idia stares at the ring. Then at you. Then at the HR guy. Then at the ring again.

“…I hate you,” he whispers, but lifts his hand anyway. “It better be lemon flavor or I walk.”

You slide the ring onto his finger like this is a fairy tale gone deeply, deeply off script.

HR makes a note. “...Right. Well. You’ll receive your bonding paperwork in three to five business days.”

And just like that, the meeting is over.

You and Idia walk out in silence, side by side, your new “engagement” ring glinting like the chaos it truly represents.

“...I hope you choke on candy,” he mutters.

“You love me.”

“No one will believe we’re bonded.”

“Oh, honey,” you grin, linking your arm through his. “They already do.”

These days, you and Idia have reached what scientists might call a stable orbit, and what HR calls a “gross misuse of company time and space.” But whatever. That’s between you, Idia, and the slowly dying office fern neither of you have watered in months.

You don’t bother him too much anymore—which is to say, you only rearrange his collectible figurines once a week now instead of every time you enter his office. And in return, he no longer looks at you like you’re an invasive species he’d like to report to pest control. Progress.

Sometimes, your days are quiet. Idia’s hunched over in his gaming chair, absolutely violating some poor boss monster on screen while whispering insults under his breath like, “Die, you HP-bloated RNG hellbeast,” and you’re sprawled face-first across the couch like a very emotionally fulfilled potato.

You’ve made a perfect depression nest out of spare jackets, your limbs dangling off the side like you’ve been freshly thrown there by fate itself.

You should be working. Technically. But Idia’s the one who put the “Do Not Disturb Unless You’re On Fire” sign on the door, so really, you’re just honoring the sanctity of that promise.

Other times, you swing by with takeout—because you both forgot to eat lunch, and if left alone, Idia will subsist off instant noodles and spite. You shove a container into his hand and collapse next to him on the couch, your thigh pressed against his as he awkwardly elbows you for space but doesn’t actually move away. Not that you’re keeping score.

(You are. You're absolutely keeping score.)

"Okay," he says, opening his container. "So this season's adaptation is garbage—they cut the backstory arc, the budget tanked, and the studio didn’t even animate the hair properly, it’s criminal. But the original light novel? Peak fiction. High literary art. Shakespeare is in shambles.”

You nod sagely as you munch on your fries. You don’t know what the hell he’s talking about—something about time loops and cursed bloodlines and a vampire love interest who’s actually a sentient program??—but you listen anyway.

Not because you care about the plot.

But because he talks with his whole soul, voice quickening, eyes gleaming like he’s just rolled a nat 20 on the Charisma check against social anxiety. He flails with one hand, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks like a tiny conductor of chaos, while his other hand never leaves yours.

And sometimes, in those moments—when he’s mid-rant, flushed with nerd rage, and you’re half-listening, half-dozing, fingers tangled with his—you catch yourself looking at him a little too long.

You catch the sparkle in his eyes, the way his shoulders drop around you, the way he stops stuttering when he gets excited and trusts you to listen even if you don’t understand.

And it takes every single molecule of willpower in your rapidly melting brain not to say anything.

Not to say how much you like these moments. Not to say how much you like him.

Because, sure, you’re fake-bonded. Pretending. Faking it for HR and for peace and quiet and to stop weird Espers from flirting with your favorite (and only) antisocial Guide.

But maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind if it weren’t pretend at all.

Despite being a somewhat unmotivated little gremlin who once filed a formal complaint about being asked to show up to a meeting before noon, you have a bad habit of pushing yourself too far when it came to gates.

Not for glory. Not for stats. Not even for the sweet, sweet serotonin of a job well done. No, you did it because you’d seen what happened when gates breached—when help came too late, when the wrong Esper got caught in the crossfire, when someone broke apart in a way no guide could patch back together.

You remembered one of your old friends, a Guide with the sunniest smile and a laugh that always rang louder than anyone else’s. Until one day it didn’t. They’d walked out of a particularly bad gate breach in stunned silence, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like they wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t. They handed in their resignation the next day.

So yeah. Maybe you were lazy about laundry and paperwork and showing up on time. But when it came to gates, you didn’t play around.

You fought like hell to make sure no one else had to go through what your friend did. You fought out of bounds. You fought monsters that weren’t yours. You fought so Idia never had to wear that hollow, too-still expression you remembered from that day.

And today?

Today was bad.

A sudden gate, not enough backup, and you were the highest-ranked Esper present. Which meant it fell on you.

You lasted twelve hours in there. Twelve hours of back-to-back fights, suppressing, clearing, burning through your stamina like your life—and everyone else’s—depended on it.

By the time the gate sealed and spat you out, you were barely standing. The world tilted hard to the left, your vision turned into that weird static-y filter they use in horror movies right before someone dies, and your stomach made a noise that might’ve been a scream. You took one step before your knees gave out.

You didn’t hit the ground.

Because suddenly, there were hands on you—arms catching you just before you collapsed, dragging you out of the danger zone with a surprisingly solid grip for someone whose most strenuous physical activity was switching charging cables.

You didn’t even need to see him to know who it was.

Idia. Your Guide. Your terribly anxious, semi-voluntarily associated handler, whose voice was sharp with panic as he dragged you to the safe zone and sat you down with all the gentleness of a malfunctioning robot.

“Oh my god—oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to die? Is this your new thing? Is this a hobby now?!”

You tried to respond but only managed a weak groan and a half-choke that might’ve been, “I’m fine,” or “I’m dying,” honestly it was 50/50.

He pressed his hands against your temples and started guiding immediately, energy steady and practiced. You felt the tightness in your chest start to ease, your pulse gradually slowing, your lungs actually filling up for once instead of fluttering like a dying balloon.

It was kind of nice. You hadn’t realized how close to blacking out you were until the static started fading. And then—

SMACK.

“OW—!”

“Shut up,” Idia hissed, yanking his hand back after slapping your shoulder hard enough to knock your soul a little looser. “You—you absolute fool of an Esper, you think I have time to be picking your half-dead corpse up off the ground like this?! I have three games on cooldown and a raid to prepare for next week and a life, you inconsiderate idiot!”

You opened one eye. “Wow, you’re yelling so much. Are you worried about me or just mad your stream got interrupted?”

“I’m both,” he snapped, color rising fast in his cheeks. “This—this can’t happen again. If you do this again, I’m gone. I’ll walk. I’ll— I’ll turn off my communicator. I’ll delete my file. I’ll fake my death. I will abandon you.”

You hummed, barely keeping your head upright. “You’d never.”

“I would.” His voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Don’t—don’t you dare test me. I mean it. I don’t want to… I don’t want to see you like that. Not again.”

You blinked at him slowly, the weight of exhaustion settling back into your limbs now that the adrenaline had burned out. And maybe it was the guiding haze, or maybe it was just him, but you let yourself rest.

Just for a little.

Because despite the dramatics and the hissy fit and the aggressively uncoordinated yelling, you knew what that panic meant. You knew what his hands trembling over yours meant.

And if your Guide was threatening to fake his own death for you, well… wasn’t that kind of romantic?

You took a few days off after The Incident™, otherwise known as You Being A Reckless Maniac Who Nearly Died On The Job While Your Guide Watched In Real-Time. The official report called it “extreme physical exertion in a high-risk environment.” You called it “a regular workday.”

But now, by some miracle of medical leave and your supervisor’s desperate plea for you to “please just stop doing this to us,” you were free.

And what did you do with your precious, well-earned downtime?

You healed your soul.

Which, for the record, looked a lot like wearing the same hoodie for three days, eating spicy chips with reckless abandon, and watching a reality show so unhinged it had to be imported from three countries over and aired exclusively at 3 a.m. due to moral concerns.

It was everything you wanted. Stupid people making stupid choices while you lived vicariously from the safety of your couch.

You were mid-cringe—some poor contestant had just confessed their love to the wrong twin—when someone knocked on your door.

You paused the TV and blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone. Delivery? Nah, you hadn’t even ordered anything today. Maybe the neighbors—

You opened the door and froze.

Idia stood there. Hoodie too big. Hair slightly frizzed as usual. One hand holding a plastic bag that looked like it could house a small cow, the other awkwardly dragging a suitcase. A suitcase.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

Then, without saying a single word, he walked right in. No greeting, no explanation, just brushed past you like he’d done it a hundred times before and knew exactly where he was going.

He set the bag down with a thunk, the suitcase with a thud, plugged a drive into your media player with all the confidence of someone who had practiced this, and loaded up an anime you didn’t even recognize—something with neon colors, probably three timelines, and a cast of beautiful characters with extremely tragic backstories.

Then he turned to you.

And stared.

Not a single word. Just pointedly stared until you sighed, flopped back down on the couch, and scooted over to make room for him.

He joined you immediately. Threw a blanket over the both of you with the elegance of a man conducting a sacred ritual. Pulled your hand into his and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Still didn’t say anything.

You glanced at him. “So… are you living here now?”

No answer.

“Did you bring me snacks at least?”

He reached into the bag with his free hand, pulled out your favorite candy, and passed it to you without looking.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the whole silent anime protagonist thing, huh?”

He finally opened his mouth.

“Shut up. The sad backstory part is about to start.”

And that was that.

Apparently, your healing arc had a guest star now. One with a suitcase, great taste in melodrama, and a grip on your hand that never loosened.

You wake up with a distinct sense that something’s wrong.

Not life-or-death wrong. Not “gate-breach-imminent” wrong. More like “you-fell-asleep-in-a-position-that-defies-basic-anatomy” kind of wrong.

Your limbs are a mess. There’s a hoodie-clad arm loosely wrapped around your waist. Your face is very much pressed into someone’s collarbone. Someone who is radiating body heat like a human furnace. And you, like the enlightened creature you are, sniff before you register what your eyes are seeing.

Wait.

Wait.

You blink blearily, and that’s when you realize: the human furnace is Idia Shroud.

You’re practically draped over him. Your leg is slung over his hips like you own him. His fingers are curled gently in your shirt like you’re his last tether to life. It’s less “sleepover” and more “Netflix and accidental marriage.”

And just as you situation begins to settle in, he stirs.

You freeze.

He opens his eyes.

And then—it happens.

He makes a sound. A terrible, wretched sound. Like a dying Roomba. Or a haunted fax machine possessed by a demon with asthma.

Then he squints down at you, eyes wild with confusion and betrayal.

And with a trembling breath, he whispers, “…I hate you.”

You blink. “What.”

“I hate you,” he repeats, louder this time, like you’re hard of hearing and he’s your dramatic high school ex. “I hate you. This is all your fault.”

You squint. “Did the genre shift? Are we friends to enemies now? Or, like, lovers to enemies to something worse?”

He sits up with you still partially on him and gestures dramatically at the tangled blankets like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Look at this. Look at what you’ve done to me. I used to be a recluse. I used to avoid human interaction. I had peace. Quiet. I had ten hours of gaming time per day.”

“You still have that,” you point out. “You just make me sit in the room now and pass you snacks.”

“Exactly!” he snaps. “I started liking it! I started looking forward to your dumb commentary during boss fights! I started… craving your presence like some kind of socially-adjusted moron!”

You stare.

He rants on, wild-haired and red-faced and approximately one and a half steps from throwing himself out a window. “You fake proposed to get out of HR trouble! And then you stole my hoodie! And you keep showing up in my space and making it better and more tolerable and I hate you for it!”

Your mouth twitches. “You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

He glares at you. “Don’t flatter yourself. I am merely experiencing symptoms of long-term emotional contamination. Also known as affection. A known virus."

You’re laughing now, arms still loosely wrapped around him. “So you like me.”

“I can’t believe I fell for you,” he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of all the people in this world, I had to fall for the unhinged disaster gremlin who pretended we were bonded because it was ‘funny.’”

“You asked me to keep the lie going!”

“Because you said we were soulmates in front of an HR rep with a clipboard!”

You grin. “Okay, but was I wrong?”

He makes a noise that sounds like a tea kettle having an emotional breakdown.

Then he slumps like he’s aged thirty years in three seconds and mutters, “Just reject me already so I can go die in some cold, dark corner of a server room.”

You kiss him.

It’s soft and simple and smug. Mostly because he’s still glaring at you and now he’s also short-circuiting. His ears go bright pink.

You smile against his lips and ask, “So. You wanna make the fake bond real?”

He glares harder. “You’re the worst.”

And then he kisses you again like he’s never been more offended to be in love in his entire life.

Idia hated that he was a high-class Guide.

It was like being the rare shiny Pokémon everyone wanted to catch, except instead of admiration, it came with a nonstop barrage of overcaffeinated Espers trying to hold his hand without warning and HR emails that read like increasingly desperate dating profiles: “This one is only mildly feral! Just give it a shot :)”

He didn’t want to “give it a shot.” He wanted to crawl into his anime pillow fort and watch seventeen episodes of Mecha Scream Force: Ultimate Uncut Directors’ Deluxe Edgelord Edition in peace.

And then your file landed in his inbox.

Subject: SS– BATTLE-LEVEL ESPER. NOTES: Known anomaly. Exhibits unpredictable energy flux due to post-gate mutation. Possibly cursed. Re: Sync pair recommendation – IDIA SHROUD. Good luck. [Attached: a video of you almost biting into a monster’s neck mid-fight]

Idia stared at it for a full minute. Then he closed the file, reopened it, and checked the name. His name.

“Whyyyy me?” he whispered to the heavens, even though he was indoors and had blackout curtains drawn so tightly it looked like the void itself lived there.

Clearly, he’d wronged someone in a past life. Probably a whole list of someones.

When you walked into his office, he expected chaos. He expected explosions. He expected you to tackle him to the ground screaming “LET ME ABSORB YOUR AURA” or something equally traumatic.

Instead?

You looked at him, grinned like this was a lunch break, and approached him. 

Then you stuck your hand out like you were offering him a pen.

“Yo. You guiding or nah?”

Idia blinked. The sheer normalcy hit him like a truck. 

You just kept smiling, not even a glimmer of feral gate trauma in your eyes, and said, “Wanna do the hand thing or are you one of those forehead touchers?”

Idia was so caught off guard he actually stuttered, “J-just hands is fine.”

“Neat,” you said, and took his hand like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t allegedly suplexed a gate beast using only your pinky. Like you didn’t have a file thicker than some light novels.

And… that was it.

You let him guide you. No whining. No dramatic speeches. No weird vibes. Just sync.

When it was over, you looked at him and said, “Wanna grab noodles?” and then skipped off to bother a vending machine.

Idia stood there for several minutes, buffering like a corrupted cutscene.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t clingy. You didn’t even try to oversync. And your handshake? A solid 8.5/10. Firm, but not emotionally traumatizing.

He texted Ortho:

“I think I found a non-feral one. Do you think they’re a spy.”

Ortho replied:

“Or maybe they’re just not like the others.” “Bro do NOT fall in love.”

Idia stared at your file again that night. He looked at the chaos reports, the combat records, the notes scribbled in red pen by HR.

And then he thought about your stupid little grin and how you didn’t even complain when he made you wait twenty minutes while he charged his noise-canceling headphones.

Maybe—just maybe—you weren’t going to ruin his life.

Yet.

The first time Idia waited outside a gate for you, he genuinely thought, How bad could it be?

Spoiler: it was bad.

He was standing there with his coat flapping awkwardly in the breeze, hunched like a socially anxious gargoyle, trying to blend into the concrete.

But alas—there was no blending in when you were wearing a neon SS-rank Guide badge that practically screamed, “HELLO! I’m high value and emotionally unavailable for syncing, please invade my personal space immediately!”

Espers began swarming.

Like moths. No. Like moths with abs.

“Yo, you synced up with anyone?” said one particularly muscular guy who was chewing gum with the intensity of someone trying to seduce through molar power.

“Wanna test compatibility?” offered another, already reaching out like this was some kind of handshake.

“I could use a cool-headed Guide like you,” purred a woman who looked like she bench-pressed trucks in her downtime.

Idia, for his part, simply froze. Not because he was considering it. No. He was buffering. His brain was lagging so hard it was displaying the mental equivalent of the spinning beach ball of doom. Why were they all so close? Why was that one flexing?

He wanted to vanish. He wanted to dissolve into the sidewalk. He wanted you to COME OUT OF THE GATE ALREADY.

And then, like some kind of disaster-themed magical girl, you stumbled out of the gate with your jacket halfway falling off your shoulder, a smear of monster goo on your cheek, and your smile crooked from adrenaline.

You blinked at the scene. Idia surrounded by sparkle-eyed Espers. And you? You grinned like a menace and called, “Aww, were you being courted while I was gone?”

He immediately flushed three shades of cherry blossom pink and hissed, “W-would it kill you to come out faster?! I almost got bond-napped!”

You just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder (with the force of a medium earthquake), and said, “Don’t worry, Shiny Badge. I’ll be faster next time.”

And shockingly… you were.

Next gate, you practically threw yourself out as soon as the rift closed, stumbling directly into Idia like you were being ejected from a monster meat blender.

He squeaked. You beamed. And every other Esper in a ten-foot radius suddenly looked like they’d just found out their crush was married.

“You happy now?” you asked, trying to wipe blood off your face with a wet napkin. “Did I make it in time to preserve your purity?”

“I am never wearing that badge again,” Idia muttered, clinging to your arm like you were his emotional support chaos.

But secretly?

He was just a little happy you’d listened.

A few months into this partnership—not that Idia was counting (he totally was, he had a spreadsheet tracking your interactions and categorized emotional events, but that’s beside the point)—he was enjoying what he considered peak compatibility.

You didn’t ask invasive questions. You brought snacks. And most importantly, you didn’t try to poke at his psyche with metaphorical chopsticks like all the other Espers seemed to enjoy doing.

So when a baby B-class Esper showed up outside his office and refused to leave, he had one reaction.

Panic.

He were earnest. Bright-eyed. Starstruck. Speaking through the office door in a tone that suggested he was auditioning for a sports anime.

“I just believe it’s my destiny to be guided by the best! And the system says you have many open slots!”

Idia, crumpled in his gamer chair like a depressed shrimp, texted you in the most pathetic SOS syntax he could manage.

SOS. B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. They’re monologuing.

To his relief and eternal confusion, you actually showed up. On your day off. Dressed in sweatpants and judgment, hair a mess, holding an energy drink in one hand and existential dread in the other.

He thought—great, you’d flex your seniority, threaten the rookie with HR, maybe gently suggest they find a less traumatized Guide.

But no.

You looked at the Esper, and said, “Sorry. He’s bonded. To me. Permanently.”

The B-class Esper’s eyes widened with sparkling heartbreak. “O-oh. I didn’t… I didn’t see a bond registration?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s private. For, uh… spiritual reasons.”

The kid left with a sniffle and a salute—a salute, like they’d just witnessed a great romantic tragedy.

And you?

You slurped your energy drink and said, “You’re welcome. You owe me dinosaur nuggets.”

And Idia, poor Idia, just sat there in the background with his hands halfway to his face, mumbling, “I’m gonna fling you out the window. Then I’m gonna follow.”

He just curled up in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began calculating how long he could fake his own death before HR caught on.

And the worst part?

The lie worked too well.

Idia had survived a lot of things in life.

He’d survived MMORPG guild drama. The Y/N self-insert fic someone wrote about him that got 80,000 kudos and a spin-off comic. That fic someone wrote about him marrying Malleus in a pasta-themed AU that still somehow had an 8k comment thread.

But this?

This was unforgivable.

He was in HR. Again. With you. And no one had even punched a hole in the wall this time. This was all preemptive HR. Preventative HR.

The worst kind of HR, because it meant someone somewhere thought he might be a problem. Him! A problem! As if he didn’t already take up negative space in most social situations!

And you—you, the original source of his misfortune—you were just sitting beside him like you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of marriage fraud by loudly claiming, in front of at least seven witnesses and a vending machine, that the two of you were bonded.

Permanently. Irrevocably. Like a pair of idiot soulmates who'd stumbled out of a romcom written by an unpaid intern.

As if the “we’re bonded, teehee” debacle with the B-class Esper wasn’t enough to shave a year off Idia’s already stress-shortened life, it had happened again.

Some random esper held his hand post-gate when you were both still high on adrenaline and trauma, and instead of, Idia didn’t know, punching them or using your words like a normal person, you just went “excuse me, that’s my bonded Guide, how dare you,” like you were a jealous ex.

That was the moment the rumors really took off.

And now here you were. Both of you. In HR.

Because HR had questions. Many questions. And neither of you had done the bare minimum, which was maybe talking about what fake answers you should give in advance. Like you didn’t even rehearse. Not a single shared Google Doc. No coordinated lies. Just vibes.

So when the HR guy (who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, including the bottom of a sulfur pit) asked, “When did the bond occur?” you said October 3rd and Idia, with absolute confidence and zero hesitation, said March 22nd.

There was a pause.

Not a silence. A pause. The kind that echoes through generations.

“And where did it happen?” the man asked again, in the voice of someone whose therapist was going to be hearing about this in excruciating detail later.

You, smiling: “Field 17.”

Idia, barely restraining a grimace: “The Cafeteria.”

Another silence. This one more like an oncoming freight train.

“Do you at least know each other’s middle names?”

Idia blinked. “They have a middle name?”

You, helpfully: “His is ‘Trouble.’”

The HR guy looked like he aged six years in that moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed deeply, and began massaging his temples in slow, pained circles like a man who had seen the abyss and wished it had swallowed him.

And then.

Then you moved.

Idia saw it happen in slow motion. You stood up. Reached into your hoodie pocket. And pulled out something shiny and crinkly. Something artificial. Something glowing with malevolent intent.

A Ring Pop.

A goddamn Ring Pop.

“Don’t do it,” Idia whispered, “I swear to everything, if you—”

You dropped to one knee in the middle of the HR office like you were auditioning for a live-action soap opera.

“From the moment we synced,” you said, voice loud, clear, and completely free of shame, “I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

ILLEGALLY.

CLAIM.

GOVERNMENT BENEFITS.

In front of HR. 

Idia's soul left his body. Again. He was nothing but a faint outline of smoke and anxiety in the shape of a man.

The HR guy did not react. He simply stared into space like he had become untethered from time and reality. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s computer pinged. A bird hit the window. The printer made a noise like it was trying to weep.

Idia looked at the Ring Pop. It better not be raspberry flavored. The worst possible option. The flavor of betrayal and poor decisions.

“If it’s not lemon, I walk,” he muttered, even as he extended his hand like the fool he was.

You beamed like you’d just won a reality show. Slipped the candy ring onto his finger with great ceremony. He stared down at it, sticky sugar starting to melt onto his knuckles, and wondered what series of decisions had led him to this moment.

You leaned close as you walked out of the office and whispered, “We’re truly fraudulently bonded now. I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m the opposite of happy,” Idia hissed. “I am… anti-happy. I am negativity incarnate. We are legally entangled. We have created an HR file. I’m going to have to explain this to Ortho.”

You smirked.

“Tell him it was a shotgun wedding. He’ll love it.”

You didn’t let go of his hand.

And—God help him—he didn’t let go of yours either.

It definitely got worse before it got better. 

Ortho, for one, did not let him live it down. Not for a second. There was a party. A full-on celebratory bash. With banners. One of which read “Congrats on Your Emergency Government Sanctioned Soul Marriage!” in Comic Sans.

Idia had tried to crawl into the floor. The floor, unfortunately, remained solid. He was forced to attend the party in body, if not spirit.

Ortho had even made a slideshow, complete with sparkly transitions and lo-fi music, documenting “every known moment of you two being disgustingly bonded.”

There was cake. The cake said “Congrats, You Played Yourself.” It tasted like guilt.

But… after the glitter and humiliation settled… things became weirdly good.

You didn’t treat him differently. That was the weird part. You still flopped dramatically across his office couch like you’d just fought a battle with gravity and lost.

You still made horrendous snacking noises and tried to convince him to watch cursed reality TV. You still made offhanded jokes during his games that were so sharp and stupid that he had to pause the cutscene and stare into the screen like it was a black void of disbelief.

He never laughed—obviously—but his shoulders shook a little sometimes. Just from rage. Definitely.

Sometimes, you brought him takeout. Unprompted. Just dropped it on his desk like a raccoon delivering tribute and started poking through your own container.

You always let him talk about whatever show had emotionally ruined him that week. You even listened. Like, actually listened. Nodded at the plot twists. Called the villain a loser. Asked about the fan theories. Like what he said mattered.

And sometimes, when you were too distracted counting shrimp in your fried rice, brows furrowed like you were solving a shrimp-based tax puzzle, Idia would stare at you.

Not in a creepy way. Just in a very... intense... anime-protagonist-moment kind of way. Like if someone added a wind filter and dramatic music, it would be a whole romantic B-plot arc.

He’d stare and think: Please don’t change. Please don’t leave. Please let this be real, even if it’s dumb. Even if it’s fake government paperwork and Ring Pops and nonsense. Please let this nonsense stay mine.

And then you’d look up mid-chew, mouth full, and say something like, “Do you think shrimp ever get existential crises about tempura?”

He’d immediately look away, ears red, heart a mess.

He was doomed.

Absolutely, sugar-glazed, takeout-fed, soul-bonded doomed.

There was an emergency gate.

Idia was outside. He’d been outside for twelve hours. That was twelve hours of sunlight exposure, twelve hours of people trying to talk to him, twelve hours of not knowing if you were dead or just being dramatic. Which, okay, to be fair, the line between the two was thin when it came to you.

He paced. He vibrated. He glared at anyone who so much as breathed in his direction. Someone tried to hand him a water bottle and he hissed like a wet cat.

Every five minutes, he checked his comms, even though he wasn’t cleared for internal updates. SS-ranked Guide my ass, he thought bitterly, hands twitching. Can’t even get an accurate live feed on the one maniac I’m synced to.

He told himself—repeatedly—that he was only mad because he had to wait outside for twelve whole hours. That it was purely logical rage. That the sun had permanently crisped his skin and fried his nerves and this was just normal vitamin-D-overload fury.

He was a filthy liar and he knew it.

He was anxious. He was anxious because you were in there alone. Well, not alone—technically there were other Espers—but they were all juniors. Babies. Snot-nosed kids who couldn’t fight their way out of a tutorial level.

You were the highest rank inside. Which meant you would push yourself. Which meant he had to sit there for twelve hours imagining every possible worst-case scenario his very creative and extremely deranged brain could come up with.

So when you finally stumbled out—filthy, bleeding, and doing your best impression of a half-dead Muppet—Idia didn’t even think. He caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you like instinct.

You were half-conscious, mumbling something about how the last monster looked like your elementary school English teacher, and Idia just about blacked out.

He dragged you to the side with the strength of pure panic and adrenaline. You were barely upright, clinging to him like a sleep-deprived spider monkey, and he was guiding you with shaky hands and a full-body tremble of what the hell, what the actual hell, what is wrong with you.

And then—he slapped your shoulder.

Hard.

Harder than someone with his spaghetti-noodle limbs had any right to.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Do you have a single functioning brain cell?! Were you trying to die in there? Is that it? Were you like, ‘Wow, you know what would be awesome today? Ruining my lungs and my Guide’s entire life in one go’—was that the plan?!”

You wheezed a laugh and gave a thumbs up.

He smacked you again.

“You can’t do that again,” he said, quietly this time, guiding aura flaring warm and sharp around his hands. “You can’t. If this happens again, I swear, I’m done. I’ll walk. I’ll turn in my license. I’ll go live in the woods and talk to raccoons. I’ll abandon you. I’m serious.”

You blinked at him, eyes bleary. “That’s dramatic.”

“So are you!” he snapped, and ran another guiding pulse through your body, scowling.

You slumped into him, letting the energy steady your limbs, and mumbled something about him being overprotective.

He told you to shut up.

You smiled.

He didn’t mean it about leaving.

But you didn’t need to know that.

You took a few days off after the gate incident. Not that Idia was keeping track. Not that he had an entire spreadsheet titled “Gate Trauma Recovery: Dumb Gremlin Edition” with daily updates on your recovery status that he absolutely did not check every thirty minutes.

But okay, maybe he was spiraling a little.

Because no matter how many games he played or anime episodes he queued up, he couldn’t get the image out of his head—you, bruised and burned and half-conscious, slumping into his arms like you were seconds away from not existing anymore.

It lived rent-free in his head. It had set up a cozy studio apartment in his cerebral cortex and was not paying utilities.

So, naturally, like any emotionally repressed SS-rank Guide with the common sense of a decorative rock, he packed a suitcase.

In went his portable gaming setup. His backup backup controller. Six different cords for reasons known only to the universe. Two sets of headphones. His lucky gamer hoodie. A USB fan (essential). And then a bag of snacks roughly the size of 6 corgis, filled with everything from neon sour gummies to obscure off-brand Pocky flavors.

Then, in a fit of either romance or psychosis (jury’s out), he showed up at your front door.

You opened it mid–reality show binge, wearing pajama pants with some loud pattern that made his eyes hurt. He stood there, suitcase in one hand, snack bag in the other, looking like a socially anxious door-to-door apocalypse salesman.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what was he supposed to say?

“Hi, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way your breathing was shallow and your skin was cold and I panicked so hard I packed my whole life into a bag like we’re running away from a zombie uprising and now I’m here because not seeing you for three days makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl?”

Absolutely not. He would rather eat drywall. He would rather die.

So instead, he walked in silently like a weirdo, set his stuff down like it was totally normal, and plugged in his drive into your media player like this was just a casual day.

You, either out of kindness or shared delusion, didn’t question it.

You just moved things over on the couch to make room and handed him the blanket. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just barged in with a small suitcase of emotional instability and bad coping mechanisms.

He put on a new anime. One he’d been saving. One he hadn’t planned on watching until you could roll your eyes and make your dumb little commentary at the plot holes.

You leaned against him, not saying a word.

And he held your hand like you hadn't absolutely blown up his entire emotional firewall. Like he hadn’t nearly lost you. Like this wasn’t already his favorite memory.

He didn’t say a word the whole episode.

But his fingers stayed curled around yours like a promise he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

Idia woke up with a full-grown human person draped across his body like a weighted blanket with boundary issues.

His brain booted up slowly—first registering the dull ache in his spine from sleeping on your disaster of a couch, then the soft warmth of your face smushed into his shoulder, and finally the fact that your entire existence was currently entangled with his like some kind of romcom final episode cuddle position.

He did not survive twelve hours of panicked gate-waiting, emotional damage, and spontaneous suitcase-packing for this.

Actually, no. That was a lie. He absolutely did. And if anyone dared to move you right now he would bite.

But unfortunately for him—and also, somehow, for you—he had the emotional self-control of a feral raccoon near a garbage can of feelings. So when you stirred a little and blinked sleepily at him, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that slithered out of his traitorous brain.

“I hate you.”

Your eyes focused slowly. “...Huh?”

“I hate you,” he repeated, voice cracking like a cursed record. “I hate the way you act like it’s totally normal to almost die in my arms and then go eat egg tarts like it’s no big deal. I hate that you lie to HR like it’s your full-time job. I hate that you keep doing stupid dangerous things and now I can’t function unless I know you’re alive and breathing and not about to faceplant into death.”

You blinked. Then—as if you weren’t being confessed to in what could only be described as a monologue from a melodramatic anime villain—you grinned.

“You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

“I—!” Idia made a noise so high-pitched only dogs could hear it. “I can’t believe I fell for you. Out of everyone. I fell for a chaotic war goblin who proposes with candy rings and lies to government officials like it’s foreplay.”

You were still grinning.

“Okay,” you said, ridiculously chipper for someone in a horizontal cuddle chokehold. “So do you wanna actually permanently bond and make it official or are we just going to keep emotionally edging each other until one of us passes out?”

Idia stared at you like you’d just offered him the keys to the universe and then spit directly on his soul.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Short-circuited a little.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost missed it—he said, “...Only if you still have that candy ring.”

You beamed. “I always carry the candy ring.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and die from happiness. Instead, he pulled you closer and mumbled against your forehead:

“You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Then he kissed you again like he never wanted to let you go.

You and Idia actually end up permanently bonded.

Legally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Psychically. All of the above.

You signed the forms (well, you dramatically slammed them onto the HR desk and said, “Guess we’re actually married now, huh?” while Idia tried to phase through the wall from secondhand embarrassment), synced up your brain waves or whatever, and boom—done.

And honestly? It doesn’t feel like fireworks. Or fate. Or some dramatic crescendo of music and soulmates.

It feels like wearing your favorite hoodie.

It feels like sleep.

It feels like finally putting your phone on Do Not Disturb and flopping face-first onto your guide.

Gates still suck. They still open at 3 a.m. when you're already two bites into a reheated burrito. They still spit out eldritch horrors that look like tax fraud made flesh. And yeah—you still fight recklessly. You're still you.

But now there’s a pause before you push too hard. Now there’s a voice—his voice—filling your head mid-fight going, “Hey, I don’t mean to backseat or anything, but MAYBE don’t solo the three-headed acid wolf?”

And you listen. Mostly. Sometimes. At least you try.

Because you remember what it was like, the way his hands shook the first time he caught you after a gate—your blood on his shirt, your laugh too weak, your legs folding like bad origami. You remember the way he smacked you while guiding, voice cracking, saying, “Don’t you ever do that again or I’m uninstalling myself from this entire dimension.”

So you ease up. A little. For him.

Life is still a mess. You're still a mess. Idia is a different flavor of mess, like the kind that alphabetizes their video game collection but forgets to eat lunch.

But it’s your mess now.

Sometimes, you watch terrible reality shows together and he pretends not to care but makes offhanded, emotionally devastating comments about character arcs. Sometimes, he lets you nap on his shoulder as he games and blushes violently if you drool on him.

Sometimes, he just sits next to you with your pinkies intertwined and doesn’t say a word—but you feel it anyway. That weird quiet peace. That “please don’t ever go into a gate without telling me again” kind of love.

And sometimes, when the world isn’t ending and your head isn’t splitting and the shrimp-to-rice ratio is finally correct, you kiss his cheek mid-battle and he yells, “This is emotional sabotage during a DPS rotation!” but he doesn’t pull away.

Life is chaos. But hey, at least now it’s your chaos. And you’ve got a socially anxious gremlin who chose you—every unhinged, exhausting part of you—on purpose.

And you’d choose him every time.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[sheepispink]

how to survive a horror movie ft Simon

It was a small joke, something he had just been curious about since you first mentioned it when you first met. “Don't really like horror movies.. or maybe that’s just ‘cause I'm on my own—the sleep after is terrifying.”

Months had passed, and you weren’t alone anymore now he had claimed his place as your roommate. So he may have challenged you, perhaps once or twice, insisting you had to watch at least one horror movie. It’s not like he wouldn’t be merciful and, in the worst case scenario, he promised to stay with you so you’d actually sleep after.

And, he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

You spent nearly the entire time hiding behind something or someone—usually him after you accidentally dropped the pillow shield you were previously using. Even though you were terrified, your eyes locked onto each frame, afraid to miss something in case the second you looked away it’d come after you too. Nails digging into the couch and knees pressed tight to your chest, you yelped at every sharp movement, having to muffle your scream for the worse jumpscares. You even scowled at him when he had attempted to comfort you— his hand on your shoulder making you scream loudly before you realised.

When it had finally ended, you looked shaken, but not badly so, just.. well as most people look after them. Even as you tried to play it off, he could see you were tired as well and he kept his promise, walking you into your room and staying until you reluctantly dozed off. He was plenty satisfied anyway—watching you get all riled up was far more of an entertainment for him than any movie could, so it was technically a win/win for the both of you.

Until you woke up at 3am.

A loud rapping carves at the window, and you have to hold your chest before your heart lurches out.

Just the pigeon. Right.

Gritting your teeth, you manage to make it halfway down the dark corridor, hands trembling as you peer into his room. The bed is empty, covers tossed to the side and, for a second, you're filled with dread, swallowing sharply. Then, a small rush of water is heard, and you almost collapse in relief, turning towards the bathroom. “Si?” You whisper, and the tap stops.

“In here.” He groans as usual, and you melt almost immediately. Or maybe you’re being too calm about all of this.

This was going too smoothly—suspiciously like the intro to any horror movie.

“What was the colour of my first car?” You ask warily and ‘Simon’ falls silent, before his voice grows a little louder as he seems to near the door.

“Why’re you asking that? It’s three in the mornin’ y’know that righ’?”

“What colour was the car?” You insist, hand curling around the air freshener spray you grabbed off the small cabinet.

Which brings him to the current situation where he opens the bathroom door only to be immediately hit by the can, bouncing off his body with a clang against the tiled floor. Of course, you scream when he turns the light on, not understanding what the hell was going on in his haze.

It takes him roughly five seconds to catch you after you attempt to run off, easily hoisting your trembling body over his shoulder. “I dont wanna die!” You wail, feet thumping against his chest whilst your fists hit his back; they're barely hard enough to even hurt though, let alone leave a mark.

“You’re not going to die.” He grunts—a tad guilty for being the reason you’re terrified out of your mind— and lays you beneath his covers. The duvets are tucked over you before you try and scramble out, the bed dipping with his weight as he takes his place beside you. “Look ‘m sorry for scarin’ you, but will you please sleep now?”

“If slenderman comes i swear—“

“Y’know…the movie said he’s attracted to sound.”

That’s how you end up tucked between his arms, though not after still trying to insist you weren't all that affected. To be honest, he caved the second he saw your eyes dart around when a bird flittered outside, goosebumps practically littering your skin. Your face is pressed into his front, hands tightly grasping at the back of his shirt and legs tangled in his. There’s no way you’d ever let him go at a time like this, and he’d be damned if he ever left you alone when you were this terrified.

He figured that’d be the end of it when you scrambled out the next morning, cheeks warm and rambling on about needing to get dressed for something. However, he found you on his bed later that evening, nervously fidgeting with his pillowcases as you waited for him to shield you again.

—-

chat im deathly scared of slenderman but i’d be down to watch it if i had simon riley to cuddle to sleep send tweet

buy me a kofi!

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looks wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over onto his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[kingkaisen]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

♡ — FIND PART ONE HERE . . .

♡ — SUMMARY: After what happened to you & your son, Satoru couldn’t stop drinking . . .

♡ — CONTENT: fem! reader, canonverse, violence & blood, reader celebrates Christmas, mentions of food, Gojo not eating, heavy drinking, & wanting to die. Mention of Gojo’s son & the reader struggling with their disabilities.

♡ — WC: 5.4K

♡ — A/N: thank you @sircatchungus for the idea!

There was so much blood.

It stained the walls of your home. It covered the little markings on the archway of your kitchen where you and Satoru marked the growth of your little boy.

No amount of scrubbing could ever get rid of it.

It soaked into the hardwood floors, the floors that had formerly only known the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet running along it as your little boy would run across it, arms out as he eagerly ran to his father whenever he stepped through the doors after a long mission.

The curses attacked at night, fifteen days before Christmas.

Your baby boy waddled towards the Christmas tree with a blue ornament in his hand, carefully placing it on one of the lower green branches — as high as he could reach.

Despite the holiday classics gently playing in the background, and the sweet smile across your son’s face — he was missing a tooth or two, but even so — you couldn’t manage to crack a grin. Not even a fake one.

Satoru promised that he would return home on Christmas Eve. But, for you, it wasn’t good enough.

He knew that your little family often put more effort into the days following up to Christmas almost even more so than Christmas Day itself.

On that important day, you opened presents. But, on the days leading up to it, you put up the Christmas decorations. Watched cringy Hallmark movies and drank hot chocolate. Went ice skating. Baked cookies. Visited your family. Wrapped gifts for his students.

And he would miss all of it.

“Mommy?” Your baby boy looked up at you with eyes brighter than the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree. “When dad come home?”

You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t want him to cry when you told him that his dad couldn’t watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with him this year.

He was used to Satoru disappearing at random times for unknown periods, but Satoru never missed the important stuff. Birthdays. Events. Holidays.

He never missed it until now.

“Hey,” you leaned down, placing your hands on your knees as you looked at your son. “Wanna get ready for bed? Let’s go pick out a book!”

“Okay!” He squealed, making his way for the stairs as you followed closely behind.

But, on your way to the stairs, you noticed something lying on the floor in your foyer.

“Sweetheart, what did mommy say about leaving your toys on the floor?”

Approaching the item, you started to pick it up, and it unraveled.

It wasn’t a toy at all.

It was a finger. A cursed object.

“Mommy?” Your baby boy called out, standing on the stairs. “Let’s read, Mommy.”

The curses emerged from the darkness of your dining room, drawn in by the cursed object.

The sight of the horrifically disfigured monsters brought your son to tears. He ran for you instantly, screaming for you. It only made the curses move faster. They went straight for your loud, crying son first.

There was so much blood.

—

“I never thought you’d fall in love in general,” Kento Nanami sipped on his glass of water as he chatted with Satoru. “But to fall in love with someone who isn’t a sorcerer is risky.”

“How so?” Satoru shrugged, leaning back on Kento’s living room couch as he sighed in utter relaxation.

“Does she know about curses? About how powerful you really are?”

“Of course she does,” Satoru smiled at the other sorcerer. “I’m gonna marry her, ya know. She knows everything.”

“You could also get in trouble for that,” Kento rolled his eyes at his friend’s idiotic behavior.

“No, I won’t. She’s just like you.” Satoru smirked a bit, thinking about how strong his future wife really was. “She can see curses, and she can kill them too, but she decided not to become a sorcerer. She hates the system, and wants me to leave it as well, just like you did before you came back.”

“I see,” Kento sat down on the couch next to the white-haired man. “So she’s one of us, kind of.”

“Yeah,” Satoru smiled fondly. “My girl doesn’t mess around.”

—

There was so much blood.

Nearby neighbors heard screaming and called the police.

Sirens blared through the neighborhood as a police car and ambulance arrived at your home. When they stepped into your house, blood coated the bottom of their heavy black shoes. They were certain that you and your son were dead.

No one could survive having lost that much blood.

Not a normal human, at least.

But you and your son weren’t exactly ordinary, and despite being unconscious, your chests were rising and falling. Faintly, as it certainly wasn’t a fate that would last, but it was enough for the emergency services to rush you and your baby boy to the hospital.

The skilled surgeons spent hours operating on your bodies — fixing what they could.

To ordinary investigators, it seemed as if a woman and her son were attacked by an intruder, and survived.

But, to the sorcerer society who picked up the presence of cursed energy in your home, they knew what really happened.

That you fought two first-grade curses and one second-grade curse.

It was a brutal fight, but you killed them.

Even so, when you awakened from your coma, doctors and the sorcerer society elders staring down at you as you lay helplessly in your hospital bed, you were forever changed.

—

No one told Satoru Gojo the truth.

Only the surgeons, first responders, and the elders knew the real fate of Satoru’s family, and the elders didn’t allow the surgeons and first responders to contact the father and husband of the two victims.

Instead, they told him that his family was dead. That it was Sukuna’s fault. They took advantage of the situation and fed him a pack of lies, all so they could convince humanity’s strongest sorcerer to allow them to execute Yuji Itadori.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he spiraled.

He went on a killing spree. He moved to a new town and nearly drank himself to death every single day.

And, little did he know, his little family had moved to the same town as well.

—

SEVEN YEARS LATER…

Your ten-year-old son walked down the streets of his small, cozy town. The brown and crisp fall leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he made his way down the sidewalk, and headed to your coffee shop after school.

His thumb was tucked underneath the strap of his backpack.

As he walked, staring at the ground so the setting sun didn’t shine in his eyes, he couldn’t help but frown.

School was rough today.

His class went on a field trip, and he had to witness his classmates bring their fathers along with them to the planetarium.

It broke his heart. He barely remembered his father.

He could faintly remember a man — a tall man who used to pick him up and play with him, but he couldn’t remember his face.

And, after the day you and he got attacked — although he couldn’t truly recall the event — you both never returned to your old home, where all of your pictures were.

All of your memories.

All he knew was that he wanted a dad. And he wanted to remember the man who once filled the role and figure out what happened to him.

What was he like? What did he look like? Did he have the same head of hair? Your son felt like he might have, but he wasn’t sure.

What did he do for a living? How old was he? Did he ever love his son? What happened to him?

God, his heart ached. He wanted answers, and he couldn’t get them. Not from you. Not from anyone.

He couldn’t help but wonder if his dad would have even liked him.

Perhaps, it was better if he didn’t have one, as he couldn’t play sports like most dads wanted their sons to do.

The great incident had left him with a bad leg, and he walked with a limp that often exhausted him.

He was even tired now, despite the incredibly short distance between the school and local shops.

He should have used his forearm crutch today. The field trip took more energy out of him than he expected.

And, the fact that he refused to let you leave the coffee shop, pick him up from school, and return to the coffee shop certainly didn’t help.

A tear rolled down his cheek. Even if he did have a father around, what father would want him around?

He already felt like a burden, although you never treated him as such. He just couldn’t help it.

He didn’t bother wiping away his tears, even as they clouded his vision of the leaves coating the sidewalk.

As he walked past the local bar, a tall man gently bumped into him.

“Excuse me,” your son mumbled politely.

The man reeked of alcohol.

“Sorry,” the man slurred out, walking around the boy as he made his way down the street.

Your son never looked up.

And Satoru never looked down.

When your son arrived at your cozy coffee shop, greeting the familiar regulars as he made his way to the counter, you smiled at the sight of your sweet boy.

He sat down at one of the barstools, slinging his backpack onto the counter as he pulled out his math notebook.

“Hi mom,” he greeted.

“Hi sweetheart,” you made him a cup of water and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “My homework’s on decimals. Joshua tried to eat a bug during lunch today during the field trip. It was awesome.”

“Nasty,” you playfully wrinkled your nose, which made your boy grin. “Did you have fun? I’m sorry I couldn’t go.”

“Yeah,” taking a much-needed sip of water, your son pulled out his wooden pencil and started working on his math problems. “And it’s okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll do something really special for your birthday.”

The boy simply nodded.

Folding your arms across your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder if your lack of attendance was better.

Not only could you not afford to close the coffee shop during business hours — your only other employees were busy with college classes — but you didn’t want to scare any of your son’s classmates.

After all, the great incident took a toll on you as well.

You lost your left eye and had a deep scar running vertically down your face. Most kids thought that it was cool, claiming that you resembled a pirate with your black eye patch. But you didn’t want to risk the chance of anyone finding it scary.

You had your fair share of other scars as well, and one missing finger.

But, none of your physical injuries could compare to your mental ones, as you also suffered from amnesia.

When you awakened from your coma all those years ago, you couldn’t remember what had happened.

Or anyone.

Or anything.

A couple of old people forced you away from the home you couldn’t remember and the loved ones you couldn’t cherish, and into a new life in a new town.

The horrific head injury you suffered while trying to protect your baby boy wiped away your past until you were nothing but a blank slate. But, after a year of being around him and constantly seeing his face, you started to remember your son.

Years later, he was all that you could remember.

Everything else was fuzzy. You remembered people, but you couldn’t remember their faces. You remembered love, but not who you shared it with.

You remembered how to do things — such as make delicious coffee, of course — but not who taught you.

But, even so, you thought that it was odd for a group of old people to rip your old life away from you.

They said it was for your safety, so the person who attacked you and your son wouldn’t find you again, but, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone out there who missed you.

Who loved you.

Who you might have forgotten.

And, technically, you knew the answer to that question. After all, your son had to have a father, but who was he? Where did he go? What did he look like?

Perhaps, you’d never know.

—

The very next day, on his way to the coffee shop after school, your son bumped into the drunk man again.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Sorry,” the man slurred.

Several moments later, as your son passed the entrance of the local bar, the bartender opened the door, and shouted, “hey!”

The drunk man never turned around, as he didn’t hear the bartender shouting for him. Your son stopped walking, looking up at the bartender.

“Poor guy forgot his wallet,” the bartender frowned, clenching the leather pouch in his right hand. “Guess I’ll hold on to it. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Your son flickered his eyes between the bartender and the drunken man making his way down the sidewalk.

The bartender couldn’t leave the bar unattended, even for a second, but your son figured that the man might have needed his wallet before tomorrow.

“I can give it to him, sir,” your son smiled kindly, holding out his hand.

“Thanks,” the bartender handed the wallet to the boy but stood at the bar entrance as long as he could to make sure the kid actually returned the wallet to the stranger.

An unofficial challenge between the drunken man and the limping boy was underway; a challenge to see whether or not your son could catch up to him.

But, as the man staggered around, headed nowhere in particular but in the general direction of his home, your son caught up.

He reached up and tapped the tall man’s arm.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “You dropped your wallet, sir.”

“Hm?” Satoru stopped walking, his hands in his pocket as he looked down. He made eye contact with the young boy who held his wallet up at him.

—

— ONE YEAR AGO —

Three gentle knocks were heard throughout Satoru’s home. It was a Sunday, and the bar was closed. Even so, the depressed man had enough alcohol at home to make it through the day, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. It just wasn’t enough.

When someone knocked on his door, he knew immediately that it was Kento Nanami. No one else visited him. No one else knew where he was.

Satoru opened the front door, leaning against it as he glared at the man with bloodshot eyes.

“Hey, Satoru,” Kento greeted softly. “Happy birthday.”

Satoru stepped away from the door. The other man walked inside.

Kento stepped into Satoru’s living room, which was unpleasantly cold, and he turned around to face his old classmate, who took a swig of his beer, loosely gripping the bottle.

“I won’t stay long,” Kento said. “I just wanted to bring you a gift.”

“What?” Satoru blinked at him.

Silently, Kento handed him a bag.

As Satoru hesitantly grabbed the gift, Kento grabbed the beer bottle.

Satoru slowly pulled out a heavy-framed photograph. A tear slipped down his cheek as his heart snapped into pieces.

“When someone passes away or goes missing, there are people who create photos and art to show what the person might currently look like using age progression.” Kento pushed up on his glasses. “I contacted one of them. Your wife looks the same, pretty much, but . . . that’s your boy. He would have been around nine years old, and that’s what he would have looked like.”

Hot tears fell from Satoru’s eyes and splattered onto the glass.

It was really you and your son — what you would have looked like if you were still alive.

His beautiful, dead family.

“Thank you,” Satoru mumbled. His hands were starting to tremble.

Kento wrapped his arms around the other man, hugging him tightly. He had to use all of his strength to not cry as well. “You’re welcome.”

—

“Sir?” Your son tilted his head a bit in utter confusion, as the drunken man hadn’t yet taken his wallet back. “Do you need some help? Getting home and stuff?”

Suddenly, Satoru kneeled.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Maybe he simply had too much to drink.

Maybe he was imagining things.

Because what Satoru thought — what he wanted to think — was that he was staring into his child’s eyes. That he was looking right at his baby boy, who he missed so much.

But that wasn’t possible. He was told that his family was murdered. He saw the blood.

“Thank . . . you,” Satoru slowly took the wallet back. “You . . .”

Satoru closed his eyes, and opened them again, fluttering his eyelashes as he tried to shake off what he thought was yet another vision.

Therapists told him that it was a response to grief — seeing his deceased wife and son when they weren’t there. And the alcohol running through his veins didn’t help either, as it distorted his vision a bit.

But . . . maybe, just maybe . . .

“You have’a name?” Satoru slurred out, his drunken words laced with hope.

“Noa,” your son smiled softly. “What’s yours?”

Satoru’s heart ached as his spirit was crushed once again.

His boy’s name was Ren.

The hallucinations must’ve started to return once more. Slowly, Gojo rose to his feet, putting his wallet in his back pocket.

Without another word, the man slowly started to walk off, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so.

“Mister? I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk home by yourself, you could get hit by a car or something.”

Satoru didn’t respond.

“Let me help,” the preteen limped over, grabbed Satoru’s arm, and slung it around his shoulder as best as he could. Truth be told, he didn’t help much despite his best efforts, but at the very least, he would be able to rest knowing that the stranger was safely at home.

By now, Satoru was convinced that maybe he was with a real person, perhaps an actual kid, and he was simply imagining that the young boy had his hair, nose, and eyes.

Together, Satoru and Noa walked up the steps belonging to the drunk man’s homey brownstone, and after stumbling around with the keys, Satoru managed to get the front door open, and Noa helped the man collapse on his couch.

Suddenly, his phone started ringing. Noa had five missed text messages from you.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” Noa thought.

After all, he wasn’t responding to your messages, he was inside a drunk stranger’s home due to his overly kind heart, and he wasn’t at the coffee shop like he was supposed to be at this hour.

Not to mention; the great incident had resulted in you becoming even more protective over your boy, if that was possible.

“Hello?” Noa answered nervously.

“Noa? Are you alright? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m okay, mom,” your son said. “I was helping out a . . . friend, I’m sorry.”

“Get to the coffee shop. Now.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After hanging up, Noa faced the slumped-over stranger.

“I’m gonna go now, my mom’s waiting for me,” Noa announced awkwardly. “Do you have somebody around to watch you?”

“You look like a . . . like my son.”

“Okay,” the young boy shifted his feet on the hardwood floor. He truly didn’t know how to respond to the poor man. He must’ve been spouting drunken nonsense. “Well, have a good night, sir. Be safe.”

Noa turned around, coming face to face with a beautiful brown, brick fireplace. But what caught his attention was the photos hanging above it.

There weren’t many — only about four framed photos.

The first one he saw was a picture of a baby. It startled Noa, as the kid did look just like him. It wasn’t surprising, as Noa resembled the drunken stranger, but he had seen other people with white hair before.

“Maybe he’s my cousin’s neighbor’s dog’s mother-in-law’s brother’s uncle,” Noa childishly thought, giggling aloud at his own joke.

Then, he looked at the next picture.

It had that same kid — but it also had you. His mother.

The next picture was just of you and the stranger.

Then, finally, he looked at the last photo. It was an age-progressed picture.

It was you. It was him. But, at the same time, it wasn’t. He didn’t quite understand it — any of it — but it was creepy. And the child didn’t know what to do.

Noa turned to face the stranger, but he was fast asleep on the couch.

The young boy pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the photos, and left as quickly as he could.

—

Satoru awoke the next morning with a pounding headache.

What snapped him out of his sleep was the sound of his front door opening and closing. He didn’t bother raising his head to see who it was, as he already knew the answer.

“If you’re just going to leave your front door unlocked,” Kento called out from the foyer, stepping into Satoru’s home and shutting the door behind him. “Then I shouldn’t have gone through the trouble of having a key made.”

“What are you doing here?” Satoru croaked. “It’s only . . . it’s only — uh, Saturday.”

“No,” Kento stepped into the living room and glared down at the man. “It’s Sunday.”

Satoru frowned. If it was Sunday, then the bar was closed.

Not only that, but he went to the bar on Friday. He must have spent Saturday on the couch, doing absolutely nothing except making an occasional trip to the bathroom.

And Kento could tell. He looked horrible.

No human being was made to endure such self-inflicted mistreatment, no matter how powerful.

Kento had a key to the man’s home for emergencies, but eventually, he started to visit him every Sunday to help him out in any way that he could.

“Come on,” Kento sighed, “get up. You need to get out of the house and go somewhere that isn’t the bar.”

“No,” Gojo mumbled weakly.

“Gojo,” kneeling, Kento tried to look at his friend’s face, but Satoru’s eyes wouldn’t meet his. “Gojo, listen to me. You’re going to die if you keep going down this path. Maybe not soon, but eventually. When was the last time you had food and water?”

Satoru shrugged.

Kento raised to his feet. Walking away, he headed to the kitchen — which was incredibly nice for a man who didn’t cook — and opened the refrigerator.

It was empty. Of course.

“Alright,” Kento said to himself, walking back into the living room. “I’m dragging him to the grocery store.”

—

It was incredibly difficult, but Kento helped his friend get cleaned up and dressed and managed to get him outside. Satoru hated every minute of it. He felt nauseous. All he wanted to do was sleep and drink, or drink and sleep.

As the two men walked into the grocery store, Kento grabbed a cart and instantly started grabbing a variety of ingredients to put together at least a week’s worth of nutritious meals for Satoru.

He’d cook it and store it away in Satoru’s fridge and freezer, and all the man would have to do was heat it in the microwave.

After making his way through the produce section, Kento headed towards the cases of water, and Satoru sluggishly walked down random aisles to find a jar of pasta sauce that the other man asked him to go get.

He had to do some things on his own.

—

“I’m thinking we should go with asparagus instead of broccoli,” you scanned your eyes over the fresh, green vegetables, before smiling down at Noa.

“Asparagus is fine, but can you put cheese on it? Pleaseee?”

“You know what, as long as you’re eating them, I don’t care what I have to put on them,” grabbing the asparagus, you tossed them into your cart as your son clenched his fists in celebration.

You ruffled his head of white hair with your four-fingered hand.

“Stop it, mom. We’re in public,” he frowned playfully.

“Fine, fine,” you started to push your cart forward and reached over to grab a pack of tomatoes. “Go pick out your cereal. Gonna switch it up this week, or get Lucky Charms again?”

“Lucky Charms, always,” your son grinned as he started to limp away. Today, he had to wear his forearm clutch.

Helping that stranger a few days ago took a lot of energy out of him.

He didn’t speak of what happened a few days ago, either.

After all, who would he tell?

You wouldn’t have the answers — or, rather, you wouldn’t remember the answers.

He had planned on returning to the drunk man’s home to ask him the questions running rampantly through his mind.

But Noa wasn’t stupid.

He knew exactly what the pictures meant.

But he didn’t want to give himself any hope, just in case he was wrong somehow, and the drunk man wasn’t his father.

A forty-pack case of water bottles was what you needed, as you and your boy chugged water constantly. But, a careless worker had shoved the cases incredibly far away, and you couldn’t reach it and pull it onto the lower shelf of your cart. You’d have to lift it, and you simply weren’t strong enough.

The nicely dressed blonde-haired man standing further along down the aisle was.

He was rather tall and buff, standing by his cart as he scrolled on his phone, simply waiting for you — the lady in front of him, whose face he couldn't see — to move so he could grab his own case of water, grab his miserably sober friend, and take him back home.

“Excuse me,” you called out softly. “Can you help me? I can’t get this case of water.”

“Sure,” he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and he walked forward, reached down, and pulled the case of water on your cart.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

As the man was about to say “you’re welcome,” he finally looked at you.

His skin paled instantly as if he was staring at a ghost.

And he was certain that he was.

He stood there — staring at you, his throat drying to a crisp.

“I don’t know why the employees always shove the water back there,” you attempted to make small chatter, glancing away from the stranger, as you assumed he was staring at you oddly due to your eye patch, and the scar running along your face right beneath it.

“I . . .” the man couldn’t find the right words to say.

Suddenly, your son made his way down the aisle, putting his box of cereal in the cart.

“Mom, did you know they make Lucky Charms with just the marshmallows now?”

The man’s eyes flickered down to your son, and his eyes widened.

“This isn’t . . . possible,” he mumbled.

Both you and your son were still alive, and yet, you didn’t seem as shocked to see him as he was to see you.

Didn’t you remember him? He was your husband’s best man at your wedding. He babysat your little boy quite often. He cried when he heard that you and your son were killed.

And yet, you only gave him a stranger-friendly smile.

“I-”

“Y/N?”

Kento was interrupted by Satoru, who had suddenly walked down the aisle.

He dropped the jar of pasta sauce on the ground.

It shattered.

“Renny?” A tear slipped down his cheek.

He wasn’t hallucinating — he was sober enough right now to know that.

Your eyes darted back and forth between the two unfamiliar men. After all, you knew well that you suffered from amnesia, your doctors had told you, and considering the man with the white hair called you and your son by your old names — the elders made you change them — you figured that they must have been old friends of yours.

But the white-haired man bore a resemblance to your son as well.

“Hi,” you smiled awkwardly, flickering your eyes between the two men. “You two must know me. I, um, I suffer from amnesia, so I don’t really . . .”

“Remember us,” Kento finished your sentence for you.

He thought that he was going to pass out.

“Well,” he gulped, pressing a hand against his head, closing his eyes as he spoke. This was insane. “I’m . . . I’m Kento Nanami. I was an old friend of yours. And this is Satoru Gojo, he is . . . he was . . .”

Kento glanced back at Satoru. The poor man hadn’t moved an inch. He only stared at you with the saddest eyes, an occasional tear slipping from them.

“I was waiting to die,” Satoru spoke — his words struggling to come out as he did so. “I was waiting to die so I could see you two again, and you don’t . . . remember me.”

The tears were falling even faster now. It was a blessing and a curse at the same time, one that he couldn’t bear. He wanted to laugh and sob. He wanted to hold you, but he was afraid to move. His hands started to shake, but the rest of his body was still frozen.

For years, he dreamt of reuniting with you and your boy again, perhaps in the afterlife. Or, sometimes he’d dream about you coming back to life like a silly child. But a fate as cruel as you being alive, but suffering with amnesia was like a direct punishment from a god and a devil at the same time.

Gojo wanted to fucking die.

He wanted his life to end right now, even glancing up at the ceiling of the grocery store, hoping one of the gods above would grant him his silent wish.

“You don’t remember me,” Gojo repeated. None of it seemed real. “You’re alive, but you don’t remember me.”

By now, other nosey shoppers were strolling by, listening to the conversation, but pretending that they were simply searching the shelves for drinks.

Your eyes darted in Kento’s direction, and he knew that face.

It was the same face you gave him when he and Satoru returned home two days late from a mission. It was the face you gave him when you came home one day and discovered that he accidentally let your baby boy stay up past his bedtime.

That face meant that you wanted answers.

“I don’t know any better way to say this,” Kento frowned. “That’s your husband. And the father of your child.”

Noa — or, rather, Ren — limped forward.

“I knew it,” he whispered happily, approaching the crying man as a tear slipped down his own cheek as well. “I was right.”

Ren looked up at his father with the happiest grin of relief.

And, god, your son grew. He was only three when Satoru had last seen him, and now, he was staring down at his beautiful boy, who was turning eleven soon.

Your son hugged Satoru with the arm that wasn’t holding on to his singular forearm clutch.

“Finally,” your boy said, holding on to his dad as tightly as he could.

He couldn’t remember him, but he didn’t care. He was simply happy to have a father.

Satoru didn’t hesitate to hug his son back.

“God, Renny . . .” the man cried, as his heart ached terribly. “It’s really you, it’s my baby boy.”

Running a hand through his son’s white hair, Satoru pulled away from the hug, only so he could look his boy in the eyes, and see him.

“You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?” A sad chuckle fell from Satoru’s lips.

He only looked away from his son when he felt another pair of arms wrap around him.

It was you — you were hugging him.

Satoru closed his eyes in relief, his tears soaking the front of his shirt, and dripping onto the heads of his family.

You hugged him lovingly, although you couldn’t remember loving him.

Your husband — the father of your child — was nothing more than a stranger to you, but he needed this hug. You could tell how badly he missed you. How badly he wanted to hold you.

As Satoru held onto his wife and son, none of you truly understood what had happened seven years ago.

But Satoru was determined to find out.

And, in the meantime, you’d try your hardest to recover your sweet memories of him, just as you once recovered the memories of your son.

Perhaps, you’d start by making new memories as well.

♡ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤? 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

🏷: @sad-darksoul @sircatchungus @gojossocks @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @star-toruu @yobabymama @s7armin @minmin-minnie @jexx233 @asiaa2prettyy @roninishere @dreamsarenicer @starzcoffeelvr @delghoul @buttercupmuffins @dijaicar @tuliptoot @sweet-yzabelle @creative1writings @lympha @malikazz243 @bforbiblio @galagarts @enesitamor @luffysfav @chilichopsticks @misscellaneousisme @1plwushie @blackjou @gfmima @dazedflvr @safiest58ravenclaw @dyna-mights

[sanguineterrain]

(fem reader, size difference, some thoughts about jason being a big fella.)

Thinking about how it takes Jason some time for it to sink in how different you are physically after he returns, and how it seriously fucks with him.

Obviously, he knows rationally that he's taller and stronger and just bigger. He knows that his skills are sharper than when he was Robin. He fights better because he's grown, and he has the body to match it. He no longer has to worry so much about how to use his opponent's strength against them. He has enough strength for ten opponents.

But it's different with you. You're not an opponent, though Jason frequently feels conquered by you. You were his friend before and you're his friend now, but he can't help but question if that's the only thing that's remained constant. Jason was a small kid, unassuming, and he suspects that that's why you liked him in the first place. Jason wasn't a physical threat before. Of course you'd feel safe with him as a friend. Now what?

The stark difference between you manifests in fleeting moments, like when he gets a cup for you from the cupboard which you could get yourself, but it's easier if Jason does it. And then he watches your smaller, lovely hand take it from his, your fingers brushing together, maybe they're painted with that nail polish you love so much, and Jason has to take a lap. You squeeze past him in the kitchen or the hallway and Jason can't stop thinking about how you both grew up but he really grew up, and you're not small, Jason's just big. He could cover a good part of your waist or your face with his hands. He could pull you into a hug, into a room, into his lap with such little effort, it frightens him. Your spine would bend if he pressed right; your arms would stay up, down, however he moved them. You could be Jason's pretty little doll, and that makes him feel like a monster.

This thought about Jason growing up and seeing you in a new light shaped by want and warmth is wrapped in a richer, darker thought about how Jason sees you and a part of his brain demands you to be his. He pines for it. It's not a quick kink to release in the bedroom (Jason can't even fathom you letting him into your bed); it's a constant reminder of how even though Jason's dedication to you is the same, the way in which he can show you his dedication is different. He's scary now, and sometimes that fills him with so much self-hatred, he feels sick. But sometimes it leaves him heady with power, thinking yeah, you don't need a guard dog, you get on fine, but Jason's there nonetheless, solid and able to take on anything. He would kill for you. You're not helpless but if you were, Jason would take care of you. He'd carry you around the apartment like a loyal steed if you wanted him to. He'd put his hand on the middle of your back and arch you over him, if you wanted him to. Only if you wanted to. Jason would rather die than scare you.

But here is the kicker: you aren't afraid. Jason's this looming tank of a man (of a monster?) and you carry on without a worry. You laugh and tease and poke his ribs and make him lunch and look up at him without a hint of fear. This does not bode well for that richer, darker desire of Jason's. If you were afraid of him, well, Jason could work with that. He'd hate himself more, but he'd understand. It's only logical that you'd fear someone who has such a physical advantage over you.

But every warm touch, every smile, every plate of food that you make for Jason with the casual excuse that you were cooking anyway (you weren't—he knows what you look like when you lie), it all just makes that terrifying thing inside of him want you more. More than once, Jason's woken up from a dream about you. His beautiful, incredible best friend, who'd crawl into his wolf mouth and fall asleep on his teeth. He's dreamt of you offering a sparkly gala gown to him, then pulling off your shirt and waiting for him to dress you. He's dreamt about your horrified screams when you realize that all he's good for is killing, and who'd want a bloodthirsty dog for a friend? He's had other dreams about you that left him hard and self-loathing. Jason's terrified by his desire, but if you let him, if you wanted it, he'd overwhelm you with his size in the best way. He wants you to bury yourself in him, the way he so often does with you. Make him hold you, rest your feet on his back, sleep on his chest. He can take it. He can take it all and more. God knows he's strong enough.

[multific]

Moonlight 

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Wife!Reader

Warnings: childbirth (no detailed description)

Summary: Aemond loves his little wife, so naturally, when you give birth to your first son, Aemond falls in love even deeper. However, when a simple refusal of his breaks your heart, it will be difficult for him to win you back.

It was hard to keep you close. You were much like Aemond, a true fighter. You had a fire in you which couldn't be questioned. A fire towards him, pure love. And now, fire towards your son.

Aeren was only born a week ago, yet you protected him fiercely like a dragon.

And you refused to let the small child out of your hands.

When Aemond was allowed in the room, he saw the blood, he heard your screams and many times, he wanted to barge in but he knew he couldn't.

So, once he was allowed in, someone informed him that it was a boy and that you were in bad shape. 

Aemond could see it, you looked beyond tired, yet you smiled.

But your smile didn't last long.

Aemond refused to hold his son. 

"Give him to me." he heard your voice as he looked from the woman holding his son to you. You looked angry. Way too angry.

It was too late when Aemond realised what he had just done.

He refused to hold his own child.

And since then, you didn't speak a word to him.

You slept in a different room with your baby, sometimes, late at night, he heard the cries. He wanted to get up and go to you but he couldn't, his guilt was overbearing. 

"You should put a leash on her, brother. If I had a wife like that, she wouldn't be sleeping in another room." Aegon taunted his brother daily. 

One day, you were in the gardens, walking with your son in your arms when Aegon spoke up.

Aemond never heard his brother speak with such longing.

"I truly wish she was mine." 

Aemond looked at his brother who was watching you.

"But she's mine." was his simple and firm reply.

But you truly weren't.

You used to be, now, you just sat next to him during dinners. 

One night, you excused yourself, and he followed you.

In an empty corridor, he spoke up.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he knew why. He very well knew why.

"I'm sorry, My Prince." you turned and looked at him. "I believe you are mistaken. I'm not avoiding you, I just hate to see the disappointment on your face." this surprised Aemond. "I gave birth to a child you refused to even look at. I loved you, Prince Aemond, I truly did. But I love my child more. And if you cannot look at him, you won't get to look at me. Fill your bed with whores for all I care. Goodnight." 

"You are mistaken." he said, not letting you leave, but you did grab the handle. "You-You were in that bed, crying, screaming and bleeding for hours. I couldn't do anything. And when they let me in, the blood... so much... they told me you were weak, you survived but you needed a lot of rest. How-How could I hold my child when the love of my life almost died? How could I look at him when I was worried to even look at you? I feared you would die giving birth. I was shaking. I feared losing you and my child. That is why I didn't hold him. I was scared." you stood there, your hand on the door, you looked away from his eyes.

"Then you could have just fucking say so, Aemond! For fucks sake!"

"That is not very lady-like."

"FUCK lady-like, you made me believe you hate me and our son! I believed I disappointed you since you wanted a daughter."

"I said I would be happy either way. My emphasis was on a girl because I feared if you had a daughter, you would see that as disappointing my bloodline."

"You are fucking terrible at communicating." you opened the door and walked into the huge room in which you stayed the last couple of weeks.

Aemond followed you, and watched as you walked over to the small bed and picked up your son. "Next time, you should just tell me. Letting me assume things clearly don't work out." 

"Of course." a small smile found its way onto his lips, next time, it was the promise of a future, a promise of more, something he could work towards. He walked over to you after closing the door. "I wish to hold him." you handed him the small child who didn't even stir in his sleep. "Aeren you named him I recall." Aemond's attention was now fully on his son as you decided to leave the two alone after watching them for a couple of minutes.

You got changed and when you arrived back, Aemond was sitting on the bed, his son on his chest.

"Some nights I heard his cries. It broke my heart but I broke yours far more. I apologise for not being clear and for causing you pain. I am truly sorry."

"I'm sorry as well. I should have asked." you said as you sat down next to him. "I will have to feed him soon."

"I will stay here with you."

You smiled as the moon shined through the window, illuminating the room a little more, helping the fire so you could see your husband's face.

"I love you so much Aemond."

"I love you too, My Queen." you giggled, moving closer to him as he leaned down to kiss you.

You two kissed in the moonlight until your son made it clear that he was hungry.

It all made you look towards a better future.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse  @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @brascaris @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[tender-rosiey]

MY DEAR AND BEAUTIFUL ROSE<3. I saw that your requests are open and I wanted to ask about my husband (Sukuka cough cough) a scenario where the husband Sukuna saves the reader from the enemy, or someone tries to kidnap and hurt his wife! you write Sukuna's feelings so beautifully <3

fools' sentence — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: bro you're too kind ilysm; I really hope you like this too <3

if only you listened to that rude servant about not going out of the castle.

it’s a bitter thought really, but you just couldn’t let your pride be scarred by somebody who doesn’t even speak to you in a minimal amount of respect.

so, in a way, you’re okay with dying a proud queen who doesn’t let anybody disrespect her.

“oh, we are going to have so much fun with you, and that monstrous husband of yours will just see your mutilated body after we’re done with you,” the guy grins devilishly. you back up slightly.

okay, so maybe, you don’t want to die just yet.

“that impudent woman! she disobeyed me, and now, we are stuck looking for her, so we can find her before sukuna returns!” the servant complains loudly while walking the halls of the castle.

“and who is that impudent woman you speak of? surely, it isn’t my wife you’re addressing in such a manner,” a voice—a very distinct and well-known one—says from behind the servant.

only then does she realize the shadow that suddenly was casted from above her.

she quickly falls to her knees and starts stuttering out her apologies and excuses, “o-of course not, my lord! how could I ever speak ill of the lady of the castle! her presence is to be respected, naturally!”

after she is done, she lets silence fill the room. assuming that sukuna has believed her, she lets out a sigh of relief, and her body relaxes ever so slightly.

however, an ear-piercing scream is ripped out of her throat when sukuna steps on her foot, so roughly that it breaks.

sukuna groans, annoyed at the incessant scream and wailing of the lady, and he throws a question, “where is your queen?”

the woman keeps on sobbing but tries to speak out nonetheless, “s—she, she,” she hiccups, but sukuna has no time to listen to her bellow.

“faster! where is she?”

she buries her face in the ground to quieten her sobs, but she doesn’t get the chance to respond to him when uraume appears out of thin air.

they kneel to the ground and speak humbly, “my lord, lady y/n has been taken as a hostage by a group of sorcerers.”

sukuna eyes’ widen, and he frowns.

he quickly turns to leave but not before making a command, “uraume, every servant who was careless and caused her disappearance is to be beheaded immediately.”

you thank god for men being prideful creatures who love speaking about themselves. you only asked them once about their accomplishments and raids, and they never stopped talking.

with a couple of positive encouragements from you, they talked and talked till the sun went down.

the doors of the room you’re trapped in slams open, and a fearful boy screams out, “sukuna—sukuna is here!”

“what?!” they all snap, and you grin. finally, you were going to be freed from this cage.

unfortunately, one of the men notices your beaming expression. his face contorts, livid, and he quickly fists your hair in his hand. you let out a scream, but he slams you against the wall.

he shouts, “shut up! you’re the one that lured him here! you stalled till he could find you! you wretched woman!”

“are you stupid?! you take his wife, and you expect him to stand idly by?!” you reply, voice hoarse, and unable to accept taking what he said lying down.

you can’t, however, control the dizziness that hits you, and you can feel blood trickling down your nose.

the only thing that comforts you is the sound of slashes and the calling of your name by your darling husband.

you smirk at the man above you and whisper, “ever saw sukuna in action?”

the man grits his teeth and before he throws a punch at your face, the door flies and gets crushed into pieces. the man quickly throws you away, so he can focus all his energy on sukuna.

but, sukuna instead moves to be right by your side and shields you from the ground.

he wraps an arm around you and pulls you a bit closer.

his eyes carefully scan you; he clenches his jaw at the sight of the blood. he carefully wipes it and moves your face towards him with one of his hands. he speaks up, “you alive?”

“don’t you ignore me, sukuna—” the man sneers, but he is quickly silenced. he sees his tongue flying to the ground. the sight scares him to the core, he starts screaming—or his attempt at one.

his knees feel weak, and he falls to the ground. his blood pools slowly on the ground.

sukuna shifts your focus back to him again, and you respond slowly, “alive and kicking,” raising a thumbs up. he nods and gently lays you down on the ground.

you wince a little and complain lightly, “this place is dusty.”

he hums, “wait a second.”

your husband rises to his feet and turns to the man. sukuna approaches the man, taking his time with each step. anger swirls violently inside of him, and his eyes looked down sharply at the man.

the sorcerer quivers and covers his mouth; he quickly backs up to the wall. he sukuna scoffs, “you’re still annoying even after taking your tongue out?”

the man’s pride almost causes him to retort back with a yell of his own.

but then sukuna snatches him up by the hair and stares him right in the eyes, “for every strand of hair you’ve touched on her head, I will make you bellow in pain till your vocal chords are ripped into shreds.”

you groan and stir lightly. you slowly open your eyes and examine your surroundings. you’re back in the castle; you smile and relax back into your pillow.

“so you’ve finally awaken?”

you turn to your husband with a grin, “hey handsome.”

“why did you leave the castle?”

straight to the point. you prop yourself up on the pillow and sit up. you look at him then look away, “it’s kind of embarrassing actually.”

“not your first,” he responds, and you pointedly ignore him.

“I wanted to greet you before you arrived at the gate,” you murmur then quip, “but I didn’t even go beyond the fence! I was still in the area!”

he listens quietly and sits beside you. he pulls you against his chest, “you do not need to do anything like that.”

you look up at him with a small smile and he finds himself letting out a small breath—of fondness?—he closes his eyes and speaks in absolute manner, “you should know that I will always come for you.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author @stray-npc @libbyistired @anon1412 @anakalana @maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will write your name on the list I give to sylus

[amoressb]

───── TOO LATE 西村 力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ you thought you and him were meant to be, but he chose someone else…until he realized his mistake too late ｡｡ bsf!riki x reader .

ANGST & wc. 1500 + / just pretty sad for y/n :( ｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

read part 2 here !!

you’ve always believed in signs. the way the universe nudges people together, how timing seems to work out perfectly for those who are meant to be. for years, you thought the signs were leading you to him.

nishimura riki, your best friend, your safe place, the boy who made the world feel lighter just by being in it. you swore he felt it too.

the way his eyes always searched for yours first in a crowded room. the way he pulled you close when it was cold, wrapping his jacket around your shoulders even if it left him shivering. the way his fingers brushed against yours a little too often, lingering, as if waiting for you to just take his hand already.

you convinced yourself that he was waiting…just like you were. so when he asked to talk one afternoon, looking nervous, you thought this is it.

this is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

you sit under your usual cherry blossom tree, a place that’s always felt like yours. rikis leg bounces slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. he’s nervous. just like you.

“i’ve been thinking a lot about something,” he says, exhaling. “and i really need your help.”

your heart pounds. this is it. he’s finally going to say it. you smile, trying to contain your excitement. “of course, ki. you can tell me anything.”

he looks at you then, his eyes shining with something intense—something you think is for you.

“i really like someone.”

the world pauses. your breath catches, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your skirt. “oh.” he smiles, a little anxious, a little shy. “yeah…and i think i want to ask her out.”

every part of you is screaming say my name. just say my name.

riki takes a deep breath.

“it’s sohee.”

something in you breaks. you blink, convinced you misheard…but he keeps talking.

“i don’t know, she’s just different,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “and i don’t want to mess this up, so i was thinking…since you guys are close, maybe you could help me?”

help him?

help him get with your best friend?

the words echo in your head, over and over, like a cruel joke you don’t understand. you had been so sure.

every glance, every touch, every unspoken moment…was it all in your head? had you built something out of nothing?

riki is still looking at you, waiting, completely unaware that he’s just shattered you into pieces. so you do what you always do.

you pretend.

you swallow down the lump in your throat and force a smile. “of course,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “i’ll help you.”

at first, you tell yourself it’s fine. that you can handle it. that as long as riki is happy, you’ll be okay. but watching him fall for sohee is nothing short of torture.

you sit through conversations where he gushes about her laugh, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she makes his heart race. and sohee—completely oblivious to your pain—is falling too.

“i think i really like him,” she admits one afternoon, her voice full of excitement. “he’s just…he’s different, you know?”

different.

of course, he’s different to her. you want to scream. to tell her that it isn’t fair. that you loved him first, but instead, you smile. “i’m happy for you.” even though it’s a lie.

the distance between you and riki starts small. you take longer to respond to his texts. you stop waiting for him after class. you let conversations die down first, leaving messages unanswered for hours instead of seconds.

and riki?

he barely notices.

he’s too busy with her.

it’s not long before he stops texting first. stops noticing when you’re not around. one afternoon, you pass him in the hallway, your stomach twisting as you wait for him to acknowledge you, but he doesn’t.

because sohee is walking next to him.

because he no longer looks for you first.

the inside jokes stop making sense. the conversations become short. you don’t sit with him at lunch anymore, choosing the farthest table in the cafeteria while he and sohee sit close together, laughing over something you’ll never understand.

and the worst part?

he never asks why.

never pulls you aside. never tells you he misses you. he just…let’s you go.

one night, your phone buzzes. your heart stupidly leaps at the sight of his name.

riki : hey, you up?

for a moment, you consider ignoring it.

but old habits die hard.

you : “yeah. what’s up?”

riki : “idk. just feels like we haven’t talked in a while.”

you grip your phone, your chest tightening. now he notices?now that sohee isn’t around?

your fingers hover over the keyboard, a million things you want to say filling your head.

we haven’t talked because you replaced me.

because you never noticed me slipping away.

because you never loved me the way i loved you.

but instead, you type the safest answer possible.

you : “yeah, i guess so.”

you can almost see him nodding at your response, thinking that’s enough and for the first time in your life, you realize you’re done waiting for him to see you.

days pass. then weeks. you barely speak to sohee. you barely speak to him. riki still sends the occasional message, still smiles at you in the halls, but it’s different now. nothing is the same and yet, he still never asks you what’s wrong.

one afternoon, you sit alone in the library, staring at a book you aren’t reading. footsteps approach, but you don’t bother looking up.

“hey, stranger.” your stomach twists. you glance up, meeting his gaze. riki stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he’s just now realizing how far apart you’ve grown.

“you’ve been distant lately,” he says, brows furrowing. “everything okay?” a bitter laugh escapes your lips.

now he notices.

you search his face, waiting for something. a flicker of recognition. a sign that he knows what he’s done, but all you see is confusion. like he truly has no idea. like he hasn’t spent the last few months breaking you without even realizing it.

you exhale, closing the book in your hands. “yeah, riki,” you say quietly, standing up. “everything’s fine.”

a lie.

but this time, you don’t care if he believes it. you brush past him without a word, heart pounding in your chest. but before you can take another step, fingers wrap around your wrist.

gentle...familiar…

your breath catches as you freeze in place. “wait,” riki says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “what’s going on with you?”

you swallow, willing yourself to stay composed. you can’t do this. you won’t do this. so you force a laugh, shaking off his grip. “nothing’s going on, riki. you’re imagining things.” he doesn’t let go.

“that’s a lie.” your stomach twists. you’ve never heard him sound like this before—frustrated, desperate.

he tugs you slightly, forcing you to turn toward him. when your eyes finally meet, something in his expression shifts. like he finally sees you.

not just as his best friend. not as the person he left behind. but as someone who’s been hurting for a long, long time.

his grip loosens, his fingers barely holding onto yours now. “why didn’t you tell me?” his voice cracks. “why didn’t you say anything?”

you shake your head, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “and say what, riki?” the words taste bitter on your tongue. “that i was stupid enough to think you liked me? that i spent years waiting for you, only for you to ask me to help you get with my best friend?”

his eyes widen, “n/n…” you laugh, but it comes out broken. “it doesn’t matter now.”

but riki is still looking at you like he’s just now realizing everything. like he’s trying to piece it all together. and the worst part? you don’t even want him to anymore. because it’s too late. it has to be.

you pull away first.

for the first time in your life, you are the one to walk away. and this time, you don’t stop to wonder if he’ll come after you. but just as you reach the door, just as you think this is it…

“wait.”

his voice is barely above a whisper, but it stops you in your tracks. you don’t turn around. you can’t. because if you do, you might break. the silence stretches between you, heavy, suffocating.

“i think…i messed up.”

your heart stutters. slowly, you turn your head, just enough to see the look on his face. regret. realization.

like he’s just now understanding what he’s about to lose. your breath catches, fingers trembling at your sides and then—

“n/n, i—” the door swings open.

sohees voice rings out. “riki! there you are, i’ve been looking for you.” your stomach drops and riki stiffens. in that single moment, as he hesitates between you and her, you realize something. even if he’s finally starting to see you—

it might already be too late.

⋆｡°✩ @cheruphic @liwinly @chrrific @hyukabean @ijustwannareadstuff20 @jellyluv4eva

lmk if you guys would like a part 2 !!

[rose24207]

Hi! Sorry to bother my english Its not so good

Can you do one where Max and reader know each other since ever and They are best friends and reader was always in love with him but he start dating kelly but in the end reader and Max start dating? Super angst kinda lacy by Olivia Rodrigo but with happy ending jaja thank you!

Lacy

Summary: You’ve loved Max your whole life, watching in silent heartbreak as he falls for the impossibly perfect Lacy

Max Verstappen x reader

Genre: angst to fluff, happy ending

TW: jealousy, heartbreak, confession, loathing

A/N: thanks for the request! Not so sure about this one. Guess I got a little rusty! I chose not to write about Kelly because I respect the drivers and their significant others. So here’s and OC! Ironically I called her Lacy. #justiceformygirllacy

Navigation

Max met her in Monaco.

Of course it had to be Monaco.

The city of golden skin, white yachts, and smiles painted on like art. You’d spent your childhood summers here with Max—racing scooters down stone alleys, sunburnt shoulders, dipping fries into milkshakes at portside cafés. It was your place.

Until she appeared.

Lacy.

You hated how perfect her name was. Like satin ribbon or powdered sugar. The kind of name you couldn’t compete with, no matter how sharp your eyeliner or how clever your jokes.

She walked into Max’s life like she’d been born to fill the empty space beside him.

And you? You watched it all unfold.

Smile tight. Heart bruised. Mind screaming.

You told yourself it was fine. That you’d been Max’s best friend since the womb, and some girl with “vintage film camera” energy couldn’t erase that.

But then Max started looking at her the way you dreamed he’d look at you.

And it shattered you.

Lacy had skin like puff pastry—soft and warm and unfairly perfect. Her laugh made people lean in. She was gentle. Gracious. Intelligent. She never fought for attention, and still, the whole world leaned toward her.

You watched her from across the paddock—her delicate arms draped over Max’s shoulders, her cherry-gloss lips kissing his cheek after each race.

Max would smile at her like she hung the moon.

And you’d stand nearby, pretending to scroll on your phone while trying not to fall apart.

It wasn’t just that Max had fallen for someone else.

It was that he’d fallen for her.

Because Lacy wasn’t cruel. Or manipulative. Or fake.

She was perfect.

And you hated her for it.

You used to think Max saw you.

Really saw you.

The late nights, the messy laughter, the loyalty like a second skin—you thought it meant something. You were his ride-or-die. The one person who knew what he looked like when he was 16 and scared. The one who held his hand before his first pole. The one who kissed his bruised knuckles after fights with his father.

But he chose her.

He loved her.

And every time you looked at Lacy—at her floating hair and voice like soft piano—you felt sick.

Because she had the one thing you’d built your entire life around wanting.

The worst part?

She liked you.

She complimented your outfits. She laughed at your jokes. She called you “so effortlessly cool.”

Her kindness was a loaded gun.

Every sweet word hit like a bullet against your skin.

You wanted to scream. To rip her lace dresses and smear her lipstick. To make her stop being so nice so you could hate her properly.

But she was perfect.

And you were losing.

One night in Zandvoort, you couldn’t sleep.

The team was celebrating Max’s win downstairs—music and laughter echoing through the hotel. You stood barefoot on the balcony, blinking back tears, trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter.

Behind you, the door slid open.

“I thought I’d find you up here.”

Max.

He stepped beside you, barefoot too, hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. “You okay?”

You couldn’t look at him.

“Sure,” you lied.

He leaned on the railing. “You’ve been off lately.”

“I’m just tired.”

“From what?” he asked, gently. “Avoiding me?”

You froze.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you said.

“You haven’t sat with me on a flight in three weeks. You barely text back. You skipped dinner last night.”

You exhaled. “I’m just… dealing with some stuff.”

“Talk to me.”

You turned to him, sharp.

“Why? So you can play therapist before you go cuddle up with Miss Fairy Princess again?”

Max blinked.

You regretted it immediately. But the words were already out.

“Wow,” he said quietly.

You bit your lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

The silence burned.

He ran a hand through his hair. “This is about Lacy?”

You couldn’t lie anymore.

“I hate her,” you whispered. “And I hate myself for hating her.”

Max stared at you.

“She’s so… good. And I look at her and I know she didn’t steal you, but I feel like I lost you anyway.”

Your voice cracked.

“And it’s pathetic. Because I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, Max. And I never told you. And now I watch you give all your soft parts to someone else. And she deserves it, because she’s better than me. But it’s killing me.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“No one did,” you breathed. “I made sure of it.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Every time she compliments me, it feels like she’s twisting the knife. I see her everywhere—hear her in every song, smell her stupid perfume in my dreams.”

You laughed bitterly.

“She’s perfect, and I hate her. And I hate that I hate her. And I hate how much of me still loves you.”

Max was still. Like stone.

Then—

He stepped forward.

“I broke up with her.”

You froze.

“What?”

He met your eyes. “Last week.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t love her the way she deserved,” he said. “Not when my heart was somewhere else.”

You swallowed. “Where?”

He reached out—hands trembling—and touched your cheek.

“You.”

Tears spilled down your face.

“I thought I missed my chance.”

Max shook his head. “You never had to say it. I already knew. I just didn’t know how to choose you without ruining what we had.”

“But you did ruin it,” you whispered. “You picked her.”

“I was scared,” he said. “You’re everything to me. If I lost you…”

“You did lose me.”

Max looked broken. “Can I earn you back?”

You wanted to stay angry.

Wanted to tell him it wasn’t that simple.

But when he looked at you like that—like you were the only air he could breathe—it was impossible.

You leaned in.

Pressed your forehead to his.

“You already had me,” you said.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Shaky.

Years of longing poured into a single breath.

And for once, the ache dulled.

The envy melted.

The ghost of Lacy faded.

Because finally, finally—

He was yours.

Three Months Later

You saw Lacy again.

Briefly. At the paddock in Spa.

She smiled at you. Waved. Wore another beautiful lace dress.

But this time, when Max kissed you in front of everyone

You didn’t flinch.

You smiled back at her.

Because you didn’t have to worship her anymore.

Not when he was looking at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

And just like that—

You were free

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[ghostedbyalex]

"here and okay" - yelena belova blurbs

warnings: none, fluff and hurt/comfort, set after thunderbolts (no spoilers really), no pronouns used.

summary: you go home after the void, but the place is not empty.

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

-x-

You’re tired.

The kind of tired that settles in your bones and makes your eyelids feel like they’re carrying bricks. Work was chaos. The subway was worse. And don’t even get started on the chaos downtown—whatever that Void thing was, it turned half of Manhattan into a swirling, glitching nightmare. Buildings distorted, people screamed, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw—

No. You shake the memory away. It's over. It’s quiet now. Or at least it should be.

So when you reach your apartment door and find it slightly open, your heart doesn’t just sink—it free-falls.

You freeze.

Keys still in your hand. Bag slung over your shoulder. That door was locked this morning, you’re sure of it. You were late and barely caught the train, but you locked it.

Your breath catches. Thoughts spiral. Someone’s inside. Did they take something? Are they still there? Are you about to walk into something dangerous?

But then—something else. A scent. Faint but unmistakable. Tomato sauce. Mozzarella. Pepperoni. Pizza?

And then you hear it: the soft clink of a soda bottle against your coffee table.

You push the door open slowly.

And there she is.

Yelena Belova.

Sitting on your couch like she owns the place, one leg tucked under the other, a box of pizza on her lap and a bottle of orange soda on the table. She’s bruised—eye swelling slightly, a cut near her temple, knuckles scraped—but she’s here. Real. Breathing. Eating pizza like nothing happened.

You blink.

She looks up, eyes meeting yours. “Hey.”

Something in you cracks.

The sigh leaves your chest so forcefully it’s almost a sob, and your bag slides from your shoulder to the floor with a thud. She’s halfway through saying something else when you cross the room in a blur and throw your arms around her.

The pizza box nearly crashes to the floor, balanced precariously in one of her hands as the other pulls you close.

Yelena stiffens for a second, caught off guard. “Whoa—um—okay. You’re—squeezing very hard right now.”

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper, voice thick. “The Void—I saw things. People getting… hurt. And you—you were—”

You pull back just enough to look at her, fingers brushing over the cut near her eye, the purpling bruise on her jaw.

“I saw you die. Over and over. I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t do anything.”

Something softens in Yelena’s expression. “But I didn’t.”

“No. You didn’t.” Your voice breaks into a half-laugh, half-sob as your forehead falls to hers. “You’re alive and you brought pizza.”

“Of course I brought pizza. I’m not a monster.”

You both laugh, shaky and warm.

Her arms wrap around your waist now, more intentional, more secure. Her voice is quieter when she speaks again. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

You press your lips to her forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

She exhales into your shoulder, like she’s been holding her own fear behind a smirk all night.

The pizza goes cold. The soda goes flat.

But none of it matters.

She’s here.

She’s safe.

And so are you.

[asceluffy]

How OP MEN would react if you told them to leave you while you’re wounded during a battle.

cw: mentions of blood and injuries. gn!reader

Luffy

“Luffy, leave me and continue fighting.” You’d say as you lay on ground with blood dripping out your fresh cuts.

He’d pause for a bit, brows knitted.

“Huh? Why would I? Are you stupid?” Blunt as ever.

You’d cough up some blood when you chuckle at his words, in which in turn would alarm him.

“Oi oi oi, stop! you’re hurting yourself more!” A panicked look on his face.

You’d push him away with all the strength left in you and he’d contemplate.

“Just—stay here ok? I’ll kick the enemy’s ass in 10 seconds and come back for you.” Then he’d take off, a surge of determination coursing through him.

Law

“Captain, leave me and continue to fight!” You’d say with shaky breath.

He would click his tongue, clearly pissed.

“Don’t give me that crap, (name)-ya! You’re clearly on the brink of death!” He’d sigh as he puts up his hand so he can start treating you with his powers.

You’d swat his hand in protest, folding it before he could say “Room…”

“Hurry, Law! The others need your aid, I’ll be fine!” He’d glare at you but sigh.

While gritting his teeth he’d say, “You better stick with your words.” Before joining the others in the battle.

He had to be quick, he can’t bear the thought of losing someone he loves dearly again.

Zoro

“Zoro! Don’t lower you guard and continue fighting!” You’d say as you clutch on your torso—probably 5-8 broken ribs if your hunch is true.

“You’re an like idiot like that cook!” He’d reprimand you, helping you lean on a wall. “No way in hell I’m leaving you to die here!”

You’d groan in pain, making his angry look dissolve into a worried one.

“C’mon, I’ll get you to Chopper.” He’d say, putting your arm around his shoulder. But before he could do that, you’d pull away.

“I said I’m fine, Zoro!” You’d argue, trying to mask the pain behind your voice. “Or are you underestimating me?”

At your last sentence he’d smirk, putting the hilt of Wado Ichimoji between his teeth and biting on it.

“If you die, I’ll kill you.” He’d say seriously, before turning his back to you and continue slashing the enemies.

Sanji

He’d immediately stop on his tracks when he heard a blood curdling scream from you.

Knowing that it was because you were trying to protect him from an enemy who was about to attack his unguarded back, it made him feel much much worse.

As swift as he was, he’d be able to catch you before you could even fall on the ground.

You’d look up at him as he asks you if you were ok, immediately scanning the room and screaming for Chopper’s aid.

“Sanji, I’ll be fine—please, save our allies.”

Then, you’d notice how his lips trembled a bit. That voice you just spoke with him just reminded him of his mother, so delicate, so comforting.

“No, no, no. I won’t leave you here.” He’d say with a soft voice, using Sky Walk so the two of you can leave in the midst of the battle.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

By Your Side Always

Summary: You comfort Astarion after he breaks down due to your near-death experience.

The last thing you feel before the ground hits you is a burning hot pain in your stomach where a sword had run you through, your mouth opening in a small ‘oh’. The last thing you hear is a familiar voice screaming out your name, filled with anxiety and fear. The last thing you think about is how Astarion would react when he saw your body. Would he mourn? Would he continue on with his life as though nothing had happened? You hoped that he would find the strength to carry on and become his own person, unafraid of others. With the last of your strength, you try to search for his face, wanting to see the vampire you had fallen hard for one last time, but darkness claims you before your eyes can lock with his.

“Y/N!”

The first thing you feel when you wake up is the coldness of someone’s hand tightly wrapped around yours. The first thing you hear is the soft whisper of his voice telling you that you’re safe, that he’s right here with you, sending waves of reassurance through you. The first thing you think about is whether you’re in heaven or hell, but that wouldn’t make sense since Astarion was here. You were pretty sure you died or something when that sword ran you through.

“Y/N.” You look up into ruby red eyes filled with concern.

“Star.” The word catches in your dry throat, sending you into a coughing fit. Astarion quickly hands you some water and makes sure you finish it all before speaking again.

“Where are we?” You rasp.

“At camp, darling. Don’t you worry,” he presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“The goblins –”

“All take care of, dearest!” He chirps, far too chipper for your liking.

“Astarion, what happened to me?” The smile falls from his face, ruby red eyes downcast. He stares at the bedroll you’re lying on, playing with the cloth of his tunic before looking back up at you, his smile no longer reaching his eyes.

“Nothing Shadowheart couldn’t fix.” The smile is plastered to his face, a facade perfected over the course of almost 200 years but you see right through it immediately.

“Did I die?” You decide to go straight to the point.

“Well, I don’t believe I’m dead dead so I doubt you’d be seeing me if you were in the afterlife,” he gives a hollow laugh.

“Astarion,” you frown. “You don’t have to fake anything around me, I won’t hurt you.”

His face falls, his genuine feelings shining through at your words and you automatically reach out but he pulls away to compose himself. He fears he will simply break down if you were to hold him right there and then, giving you more problems. He’s on the cusp of baring himself to you, and the very thought scares him. He searches your face, looking for signs that you will tear him down after he’s shown how vulnerable he is but as per usual, finds nothing. The nagging voice in his head, however, says otherwise and he’s torn between trusting you and trusting that voice.

“If it’s too much for you, you don’t have to say anything. I’m just worried about you bottling it all up, I don’t want to see you suffer.” You force yourself to sit up despite the sharp pain the action brings, schooling your face to ensure Astarion doesn’t notice the pain you’re feeling. He’s already struggling with his own emotions, you don’t want to add to his burden.

“I thought you were dead.” The words leave his lips in a whisper. “I was afraid, far more afraid than I’ve ever been. Your barely conscious body scared me far more than Cazador ever could. You were lying so still with that damn sword sticking out of you and all I could do was wish that you were still alive, still breathing as Shadowheart did everything she could to heal you.”

He squeezes your hand so tightly it begins to hurt, his bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it to stop the trembling. Astarion can feel tears pricking at the edges of his eyes, a lump swelling in his throat that he tries to choke down.

“Didn’t work for me,” you grin, pressing a kiss to his tear-stained cheek. “I’m right here, alive, and the goblin who tried to kill me is dead.”

He clutches at your sleeve, desperately hugging you as he inhales your scent and feels the warmth of your skin against his. You’re here, alive, warm. Your heart is beating, a steady thrum in your chest that fills his ears and reassures him that you’re safe.

“I’m sorry,” he presses his forehead against yours, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left your side, I should have been faster, I should have seen the attack coming.”

“I failed you.”

He shrinks at his words, body tensing up. Sharp nails dig into his palms as terror floods his mind. He failed you. You’d punish him for it, kick him out of the party, leave him to fend for himself. He can’t bear the thought of leaving your side, he can’t envision a future where you’re not there, lying right next to him as you hold him in your embrace.��He doesn’t want to.

“My star,” you murmur, reaching out to wrap him in your arms despite the twinge of pain in your chest. You can feel him shaking and your heart shatters, an ache that is replaced by a wave of anger at Cazador for what he did to your lover. You nuzzle into his soft silver hair, pulling him close so that you can tuck him in your embrace. The pain from your stab wound is nothing, not when your beloved so clearly needs you right now.

“You didn’t fail me. I’m alive, you killed the goblin who attacked me, and you’re right here, by my side. That’s all I need.” Pressing your lips against the top of his head, you gently rub circles on his back all whilst cuddling him. He leans into your touch, gripping your shirt and curls against you, biting back his sobs. He’s supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around and yet here he is, getting all emotional while you console him.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” you whisper, pressing comforting kisses all over his face. “I promise, I won’t leave or abandon you. You’ll always have a place with me.”

“You…mean it?” He hates how pathetic he sounds but the soft look in your eyes eases some of his worries. You look at him with such genuine love and care, eyes devoid of the lust he’s used to seeing in the prey he brought back for Cazador and devoid of the malice Cazador’s eyes always held. Your every touch is filled with gentleness and warmth, flooding him with a nice feeling he can’t quite describe, he only knows he can never get enough of it.

“Of course, Astarion. You’re my star, I’ll get lost without you.” If your younger self could see you right now, they would never believe their eyes. It wasn’t long ago when you would do anything to avoid physical contact, hissing whenever anyone brushed against you, even if by accident, and yet here you were, initiating a hug so tight that Astarion would have suffocated should he have needed to breathe.

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut, imprinting the feeling of your arms around him in his mind. He feels safe, loved, needed in your embrace.

“Promise me,” he chokes. “Promise me you’ll never put yourself in such danger again, innocents be damned. I don’t care what happens to anyone else, I just need you to be safe.”

“Then I’ll need you to continue fighting by my side to guard my back, don’t I?” You run your fingers through his hair, admiring how soft it is despite its owner clearly not having taken care of it in a good while.

“I suppose you do. After all, what will you ever do without me?” A hint of confidence floods back into him, a small smile playing on his lips. He gives you a grateful look, undead heart soaring at your declaration of your need for him.

“Hmm, I don’t ever want to find that out,” you give him a peck on the lips, “but I would like my star to at least clean himself up before cuddling with me any further.”

“Anything for my love,” he happily nuzzles you. “I’ll see you in a bit, Shadowheart should be here any time now to check up on you. After that I’m all yours.”

“And I’m all yours too,” you smile. “Now go.”

With one last kiss, he reluctantly leaves your side and you let out a sigh of relief. He was dealing with your near-death experience rather well considering how new he was to having someone to call his own.

“No more martyring then,” you chuckle to yourself, “not when there’s someone who cares so deeply about me.”

[budbuddnbuddy]

You know how in the beginning of the exchange program where some of the demons were gossiping about eating us?

…What if we started just straight up juking them when they started to try?

Obviously at this point we can’t fight them off, we can’t really hide because they know the realm and RAD better then we do, and we can’t outrun them, at least for very long.

However it’s when MC is running away from a few demons a new idea comes to mind, slowing down in the middle of the chase.

You aren’t particularly sure who the demon was, probably some delinquent who skipped classes to smoke on the roof top, and you didn’t really care. Just another Demon at RAD that gave you nasty glances before gossiping over to what seemed to be their friend, no big deal. It’s not like they were actually gonna do anything to you, right?

You didn’t mean to stare, you weren’t even looking at them in particular just staring at the wall behind them while you waited for the line for the bathroom that extended out into the hallway to shorten, which means you certainly didn’t mean to pick up the words they were saying.

“-eat them.”

…Huh?

The air suddenly got cold, you watched as the last two words fall out of the demons mouth as his mouth curled into a sinister toothy grin. At this point your eyes met, he was staring at you this entire time…he…he didn’t mean he wanted to eat you right?

Maybe he meant something else? (he didn’t.) Maybe he meant someone else? (There wasn’t anyone else.) Maybe he meant the person behind you? (No one else was behind you.)

Then, he started walking towards you. Slowly.

It was only then that you noticed how close the distance between the two of you was, only then did you notice how large he was, how sharp his teeth were, how you were slowly backing away with each step you took. Then a realization came down onto you. Two of them in fact.

1. This guy totally wanted to eat you, right here, right now.

2. You didn’t need take a piss anymore.

Now you were running, bolting, sprinting, anything that you could do to possibly shake of the demon who was right behind you. Each corner you turned to put some distance between the both of you he just seemed to get closer, sped up, get more hungry.

Your feet are burning, your legs hurt but you can’t stop. He was right there, ready to grab you and rip off a chunk of your skin for what? The fun of it? Because he thought he just simply could?!

Of course when you needed Mammon to be here he wasn’t there! Of course when you needed any of the brothers to be here they weren’t there! You were a bug to them, a summer ant! The only importance you held to them was the fact that you were an exchange student! No one would really care if you got eaten!

…No one would care if you got eaten.

That alone just makes you stop in your tracks, in front of a long staircase that stretched down almost endlessly. You’re out of breath, tired, sweaty, aching, needing to pee, are about to die…and you’re thinking about the aftermath.

You’ll die, in a place that isn’t even your home. None of your friends or family will know what happened to you and no one would care to tell them.

.

.

.

Wait…you’re about to die!

Turning your body sideways, your eyes met with the demon who was now sprinting past you. You watched as his expression goes from blood hungry to shock and confusion. You watch as he moves right past you at high speeds with his arm reached out to grab at you, ready to dig his nails into you and make you bleed. You watch him in what seems to be in slow motion as he misses.

He tilts down, he turns around uselessly, letting out a scream and then…he falls down the stairs.

Slam!

Bam!

Crack!

Boom!

Slowly inching over the railing, you peak down at the end to where your attacker laid on the floor. Groaning and bruised in areas where you couldn’t see, his leg was broken from how aggressively fast he went down the stairs and it’s not like the stairs were treated any better, some were broken in half towards the end. Most likely causing splinters deep into the demons skin.

As you continued to stare down at the severely injured demon, a fairly large size crowd began to circle around him carefully, confused as to what happened and scared from his injuries.

“Oh my stars I can see the bone!”

“Are those…his teeth all the way down the hall?”

“Dude just what the hell were you doing up there?”

The delinquent flutters his eyes open meekly before letting out a high pitched scream at the fact that he to can see the bone from his broken leg jabbing out his skin.

“What the fuck are you idiots standing around for? Get me to a damn hospital!!” He yells at those around them, spitting out blood and saliva as his eye go bloodshot from panic.

All you can do is cover your mouth in shock, you didn’t even know demons could break bones! Nevertheless lose teeth! Gulping as you slowly started to back away from the staircase clutching your bag before scurrying off to the nearest bathroom that wasn’t crowded…

Man you really needed to pee…

——————

Soon enough there’ll be completion videos of you escaping from Demons on Deviltube. “Best vids of the human escaping demons in a badass fashion!!”

The brothers don’t find out until like…a month later when you don’t have to dodge demons anymore because the bros were the ones on top of you now constantly. (Don’t worry they absolutely geek tf out when they know lol.)

[hummingbird24220]

hello! This is my first time requesting and I saw your steel and shame post and was wondering if you could do that again but with law this time? With a happy ending and an established relationship please? Thanks!

Yes of course! Glad you liked the other one :3 Sorry it took so long to post!

Enjoy!

Scars on the Back

Law x Reader

You fought like fire beside him.

Steel clashed against steel in rhythmic violence, and Trafalgar Law was always just one step behind you—his sword sweeping wide whenever someone dared try to flank you. You were used to fighting alone, but ever since you'd started traveling with Law, you'd grown used to the safety of his presence at your back. His trust, his sharp commands, and the occasional brush of his fingers on your wrist when he handed you a painkiller mid-fight.

You weren’t just an ally. You were his partner.

"Y/n!" His voice rang through the battlefield like a blade slicing through fog. "Three o'clock—"

You twisted without hesitation, meeting the incoming blade of a pirate with your own, gritting your teeth as sparks flew between you. The man was stronger than he looked. He pushed with a maddened grin, and for a split second, you lost your footing on the blood-slicked ground.

"ROOM—" Law's voice was rising—

Too late.

Steel screamed.

The world shifted as the sword tore across your back—from shoulder to hip. You gasped, knees buckling from the pain. But before you hit the ground, arms yanked you back. Not Law’s.

A hand clamped around your neck. Another forced your sword from your grip. You were dragged backward into a swirl of smoke and bodies and chaos. You reached for your powers, your instincts, your training—anything—but the pain was searing and your limbs were too slow.

Law’s voice was swallowed by the battlefield, his shout muffled as your captors vanished into the treeline.

Gone.

When you woke, you were alone.

Your shirt clung to your back, soaked through with blood and sweat. The gash had crusted over, though it burned with every breath. You were in some kind of cell, bandaged roughly, but not tended to with care. They hadn't expected you to die—they wanted you alive.

You didn’t cry. You just lay there, fists clenched, eyes dry, jaw tight.

Not because you were scared. Not even because you were angry.

But because the blade had struck your back.

Zoro’s voice echoed in your skull. “Scars on the back are a swordsman’s shame.”

You’d heard him say it once to a kid with a wooden sword. He hadn’t meant it cruelly—but it stuck.

You felt hollow. Dirty. Like a disgrace to every duel you’d ever fought.

And Law— What if he saw it and thought the same?

What if he looked at you with that unreadable stare of his, quiet and distant?

What if he didn’t want to touch you anymore?

You pressed your forehead to the floor and whispered his name.

“…Law.”

Please find me.

-

The days bled into each other like the wound they wouldn’t let heal.

You didn’t know how long you’d been held. The room stank of mold and rusted blood. The only sound was dripping water… and their laughter.

Your captors were cowards. You learned that quickly. They waited until you were chained to the post, your wrists rubbed raw, your back exposed. They laughed when you hissed, when your body spasmed from the salt and iron being pressed into your open wound.

They made sure it scarred.

“This one’s for the pretty face. Think Law’ll still want you after this?” “Let’s make it memorable.” “You’re a swordsman, right? What kind of idiot turns their back?”

That one made you flinch harder than the knife.

They took your silence as weakness. You let them think it. You let the angry tears fall when no one was watching, biting your tongue so hard it bled just to stop yourself from screaming. They didn’t deserve your voice. They didn’t deserve your rage.

But deep inside—oh, there was rage.

Burning like wildfire.

You would remember their names. Their faces. Their blades. You would trace the shape of their laughter and turn it into something they’d never forget.

You would heal.

But they? They would not.

Every time they came, every time they poked and prodded and smirked and mocked, you reminded yourself: “Law is coming.” “He always comes.”

You clung to that thought like a blade between your teeth. Even if you bled for it.

Even if the scar on your back stretched and split again and again.

You weren’t broken.

You were sharpening.

You heard them before you saw them—drunk, loud, careless.

“Can’t believe she’s still breathing.” “Bet that pretty-boy doctor’s going mad lookin’ for her.” “Hah! What’s he gonna do, operate us to death?”

They laughed. Slurred. Staggered.

They dropped the keyring.

You didn’t.

The sound of it hitting the ground echoed in your skull like a war drum. Your body screamed with every movement, but you were already moving—slipping your foot through the bars, hooking the ring, dragging it toward you with toes that barely felt real.

Your fingers fumbled. Your heart roared.

Click.

Freedom didn’t feel gentle. It felt like a blade to the ribs.

You stood.

You stumbled.

And then you took your sword.

They never saw you coming.

One tried to scream—his throat opened wide just in time for your blade to cut it closed.

Another reached for his weapon—you took his hand instead.

The third ran. Smart. Too bad he turned his back.

You cut through them like mist. Quiet and absolute. No words. No mercy. Every scar they gave you came back to them tenfold—etched into flesh, into stone, into memory.

By the time the last one hit the ground, the walls were painted red. You weren’t sure if it was theirs or yours anymore. Didn’t matter.

You kicked the front doors open.

The rain hit your face like absolution.

It poured. Washing the blood, clinging to your skin and clothes like ghostly fingers. You stepped out, soaked and shaking, your blade dripping crimson at your side.

And then—

“Y/N!”

That voice.

Your knees buckled at the sound.

Law was running. Hat drenched, sword forgotten, eyes wide with something raw—something that made your throat tighten.

He skidded to you, hands reaching, hovering—afraid to touch.

His breath hitched when he saw your back.

“Y/N—your back—who did this to you—”

“Idiot,” you breathed, tears finally slipping from your lashes. “You stupid, slow idiot.”

And then darkness took you.

Later—

“Holy hell,” Bepo whispered, staring into the ruined base. Shachi covered his nose. “They deserved it, but… damn.” “Did she use her blade for everything?” “There's a leg on the ceiling.”

“Let’s… just let Law handle this one.”

They closed the door gently.

As if the blood might still hear them.

-

You woke to the sound of rain.

Not real this time—just the soft patter against the submarine walls. Steady. Soothing.

There was warmth by your side, and the distinct scent of antiseptic and him. That crisp, clinical smell—tinged with metal and citrus and Law.

“Y/N.”

You blinked slowly.

His face hovered just above yours—eyes ringed with exhaustion, dark circles smudging the tattoos under his lids. His brows were drawn in tight, jaw tense.

“...Hey,” you rasped.

Relief slammed into his features so fast it almost made you cry again. He let out a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to yours with trembling restraint.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re here. I’ve got you now.”

You smiled, weak but genuine, letting your fingers brush his collar. “Took you long enough, Captain.”

He huffed a laugh, but it sounded broken. “Don’t—don’t joke like that. I was going insane.”

The moment was soft.

Until you remembered.

You tensed. Your body recoiled before your mind could stop it. You tried to roll away, but your back flared with pain—and panic spilled through your veins faster than blood.

“No—no, don’t—don’t look at it—”

Tears came fast and hot. You curled in on yourself, as much as your body would allow. “It’s ugly. It’s on my back. I let them—Zoro said—I should’ve fought harder—”

“Oi.”

His voice stopped you.

Sharp, but not angry.

He sat beside you, hands gentle as he touched your wrist. You couldn’t look at him—but he leaned down, guiding your gaze to his.

“Zoro has two brain cells,” Law said firmly. “One screams ‘sword,’ the other screams ‘Luffy.’ Neither of them know a damn thing about you.”

Your breath hitched, and his touch softened.

“I don’t care about a scar. I don’t care where it is. You fought. You survived. You came back to me.” His thumb brushed away your tears with surprising tenderness. “You’re still here. That’s all I care about.”

You let out a shuddered breath. “But—”

“I love you,” he said. Quiet. Certain. “Nothing about you is shameful. Not one inch. Especially not something that proves you endured.”

He reached behind you, palm resting gently—lovingly—over the bandaged wound. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

“This?” he whispered. “This tells me they didn’t break you.”

Your tears returned. Not from fear this time—but from the overwhelming sense of safety.

You nodded slowly, swallowing down the ache in your throat. “...I love you too, Trafalgar Law.”

He kissed your temple. Once. Long. Gentle.

You healed. Not perfectly. But honestly. And when Law helped you change your bandages and you caught him tracing the scar like it was something sacred, something powerful—

You believed him.

You weren’t ruined. You were proof.

And that was more than enough.