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risuola · 2 years ago

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Please hear me out!

i’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I wanted to write it myself but I can’t write for shit 😭 Here’s my idea, reader (she/her) is close friends with Satoru and Suguru. She takes Suguru’s place instead, and Suguru ends up not going insane, and decides to stick around in Jujutsu High. But because the reader takes his place in this story, she spirals and abandons the idea of being morally good. (She’s a sensitive softie at heart 🥹 the cruel reality of being a sorcerer really took a toll on her). She commits so many crimes that the higher ups urge the strongest duo to finally execute her after dismissing her for nearly a decade. She dies in their hands, and doesn’t get a proper burial. Kenjaku takes her body and uses it as vessel. When Shibuya arc finally unfolds, she shows up right in front of Satoru and Suguru, alive and well. Soon reveals that it’s Kenjaku who has full control of her body. Of course their guilts eats them alive, and the reader (more like kenjaku) rubs salt on their wounds by taunting them about how she’s a great vessel and also a waste that she had to die so soon.

LOST CAUSE — F. READER x GOJO SATORU + GETO SUGURU, but there’s no romance whatsoever, guest appearance of Kenjaku

cw: an au where SatoSugu have another close friend; spoilers for Hidden Inventory/Premature Death arc and the very beginning of Shibuya arc, so much angst and the usual that comes with JJK – blood, hurt, tears and depression : D also, possibly inaccurate references to the original plot, reader's death — 5,5k words

a/n: I’m hearing you out dear! Thank you for the conception, it certainly fulfilled my need to write long and angsty <3

It was stupid. All of it was stupid. Why? Which decisions led you to where you now stood, all of your mind and body filled with devastation as you stilled in time – above the piles of little corpses, disfigured and permanently contorted in a grimace of dread and suffering. A stench of blood and burned bodies irritated your nostrils, your eyes were teary from all the smoke that still was filling the air and as you looked down at your hands, they were covered in blood and purple goo. Sticky. Repulsive. And the screams. In the dead silence of your surroundings, your head was still filled with an echo of those, who were now dead at your feet. Those, who you were unable to save. The imagery of them running, begging, dying carved itself into your mind. Why were you here, again?

* * *

“Hey, y/n, you’ve lost some weight. Are you alright?”, Satoru asked, playing with pencil that just a moment ago he asked you to throw at him. A showcase of his new skills, the techniques he’s been perfecting for the last year after encountering Toji Fushiguro. You forced a smile, squinting from the blinding sun of the summer at its peak.

“Yeah, sure,” you replied, patting Suguru’s shoulder, because his attentive eyes were scanning you already for any sign of disorder; you could hear his analytic brain cranking up, his golden pupils drilling holes in your head. “I’m good, it’s just too hot you know?”

“Wanna go grab some ice cream later?”

“Always.” No, you didn’t wanna go grab ice cream with them. You didn’t wanna grab anything with anyone for that matter and already you had come up with some half-baked excuse to sell later to your two best friends.

You, Shoko, Gojo and Geto were all in the same year in Jujutsu high. You joined them a little late, but quickly found yourself inside the love triangle with the two boys. You called it love, but it truly was nothing more than just a bonding friendship that you wished will last forever; a really close one and you couldn’t imagine your world without their chaos. They were like brothers to you, the ones you’ve never had and Ieiri was like a sister, but she was smart enough to keep her distance from the mess of SatoSugu. You were not as bright in that matter, but for two years, you couldn’t appreciate enough the yin and yang that they created, the casual bickers and deep talks late at night, the cuddles and pinches, the pats and smacks, the tears and laughs, sleepovers, sleepless nights and everything between. You loved them, you couldn’t think of your future without them.

That’s until not that long ago. Few months, maybe. You felt like you’ve been spiraling slowly into something that could only be named depression, because if not that, then what else? Why would you randomly tear up nowadays, zoning out completely in the midst of sentences. Why would you spend nights, blankly staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, isolating yourself from your friends more and more? And why would you still hear that? The screams, the pleads of hysteric, the soul-tearing sounds of pain and frighten that you’ve been carrying inside your brain since that one mission.

Everything went wrong then, and you were alone. Shoko stayed at the campus, working her way towards becoming a doctor and you, Satoru and Suguru were assigned only to solo missions since the plasma vessel failure. You were strong, it was stated that your year was exceptional, that all of you have a chance to become special grades soon, but you hated that. Being strong came with a burden that you were not ready to take, and when you realized that, most of it was already heaving on your shoulders.

When you got to that school, it was already too late and it wasn’t your fault. You rushed there as soon as you were assigned with the job, but when you dropped the curtain and looked at the building, there was already smoke coming from the window holes, that some time earlier had glass in them. And when you kicked your way inside the little indoor sports arena, the view struck you in ways you couldn’t possibly prepare yourself for and certainly, you couldn’t process it as well. The school was primary, those people were just kids, but the curses pay no mind to age of their victims. This one was particularly playful – or rather, eagerly violent – spreading hellfire around, burning these children alive one by one, causing chaos, suffering and bloodshed. When you finished exorcising it, it was over. For the curse, for your job and for the lives of all of those children. None survived. Not even one.

Not always we can save everyone, Suguru always told you, rationalizing the sacrifices sorcerers have to make and you tried to repeat that in your head when you got out. You tried to play it over the screams, but eventually, the soft tone of your friend’s voice got lost in the catastrophic cacophony of sorrow, sizzling skin and burning death. And that, maybe wouldn’t be enough for you to lose your mind. Maybe you could recover from that, but soon after the incident you witnessed the group of people that stood behind the assault. A band of grown humans, men and women, who were convinced some of those children were possessed by devils or some other shit, so in all hypocrisy known to race, they hired a curse user to fight fire with fire. Quite literally. Those people were so blinded by their fear of unknown that they sacrificed lives of dozens of little children, they shattered so many innocent lives only because they believed in something absurd. And then, they tried to push the blame on you, on sorcerers despite the fact they hired one to do the dirty job. And then, they killed the user, fearing him too. When you’ve got to see the body of a sorcerer that you’ve never got to meet, or at least you thought so, you realized that probably, you wouldn’t recognize him anyway. You’ve seen corpses barely reminiscing of humans, twisted and broken as curses often chose the most petrifying, violent ways of killing, but this? This was something you’ve never seen before – a cruel, ruthless exhibition of pure hate, evidence of deliberate torture, the picture painted in stabs, burns and bruises. All of which, caused by people, who frankly, showed no remorse nor regret as their faces were painted in pride, origin of which you failed to notice.

Those humans. Used jujutsu to commit mass murder only to blame it on your people and kill them. Animals. No. Worse. Much worse.

“Y/n, please, let’s talk it through,” Suguru tried to reason, as you stood up against the two of your friends, in the middle of Shibuya’s scramble crossing. People were passing next to the three of you, unbothered by the way your worlds were colliding right here, in the busiest part of Tokyo. People didn’t care of others, they wouldn’t react if someone next to them would get stabbed to death, only caring about their own shoes to not get them stained in the dirt of blood.

“Don’t be stupid, it’s not who you are,” Satoru raised his tone, but all you felt was nothing. The emotions you’ve seen on his face were real, you knew it. Satoru wears his heart on his shoulder, he pours everything he feels into the words he aims at people that are close to his soul, and you were no exception, but at this moment, you felt nothing. “I know you couldn’t do that.”

“Couldn’t I?”, you asked, thinking back on the last Friday, during which you executed those same people that used jujutsu sorcerers to wipe the floors of that primary school. To wipe the blood and burned bodies. You remember how they knelt before you, how the women cried begging for their lives, yelping that they have children, families and yet, those same children and families were nowhere in their mind when they ordered a mass murder in the primary school. “And why would that be exactly? Because you two think so?”

“Y/n, I get it,” Geto stepped forward, but stopped as you glanced at him. “I really do. You know me, we talked about it. It was hard for me too after Riko, I know what you’re going through.”

“I know Suguru.”

“I thought you keep his side, y/n,” Gojo threw his hands in the air, helplessly trying to find the words to dress his mind with. “I thought you believe in doing good with your powers. That people won’t understand so we shouldn’t look at them and just do what we do. Wasn’t that what you’ve told me?”

“I did, yes,” you gave it a nod and exhaled. “But it changed. Yes, they won’t understand. Anything that they can’t comprehend is pure evil for them and yet they believe in such absurd like gods. They will use us to do their dirty works and then blame us for it, because they cannot understand a single thing. And then, they will kill us, one by one and we, the strongest, cannot do nothing about it. We’ll have to go through life through the corpses of our friends. People don’t deserve what we do for them.”

“Y/n, please, let’s talk about it. Let’s get back to school-“ Geto tried, but you cut him off.

“You two, get back to school. I know I have a sentence already, there’s no point for me to get back there only to get executed. And frankly, I don’t want to get back there, to take part in what they teach us is right when we die for those people. We give our lives for them and they have no idea,” you said, taking a step back. You could tell the lights will soon switch. “Look around, Satoru, Suguru. They crawl around us unaware of our sacrifice and yet, even if they are so fragile a single blow can kill them, they think we deserve to be killed. I’m not gonna take part in this anymore. I’m sorry.”

“We can’t let you go, you know that, we-“

“Then attack me. I’m sure any of you can take me down. I’d rather die by your hands, than on a job of protecting them.”

You turned your back on them, and Satoru raised his hand, pointing at your silhouette, blue already on his mind as his cursed energy gathered in front of his fingers. Suguru’s curses sprawled out of their dimension, but none of them pursued with the attack, unable to do that. They couldn’t kill you. You were too dear to them. They loved you too much to take your life like this. So they let you go, and soon enough, they lost the sight of you in the crowd.

* * *

Nine years. It's been almost a decade and many things changed. You changed your ways completely, making a point of protecting sorcerers from people, even if that meant killing them, but care for humans was something you’ve lost many years ago, having it slowly replaced by disgust. Your once soft heart turned hard and dark and all the good in you vanished as you time after time solidified your beliefs that humans are simply not worth saving, therefore there was no need to keep them alive the moment they became useless. Over those years, you used those people to your benefit, raising money and gathering intel and then, the second their use to you has become nonexistent, so were them. Blood burned permanent stains on your hands but screams of hurt didn’t phase you at all. Have you become a monster? You might have. But for the lives of sorcerers, it was worth it.

It’s been almost a decade since you’ve been dismissed from jujutsu community for crimes, that over those years piled up rapidly and during this time, both Satoru and Suguru tried to stay out of this, whilst Yaga turned a blind eye to the corrupted path one of his students went down by. The now principal felt responsible for not doing enough, for not saying enough, for not noticing soon enough and though the rest of his students, now teachers in Jujutsu high told him that some things were inevitable, it wasn’t that easy to switch off the thinking. Same went for both the strongest, but for years, they waited in hopes for something to change.

That was until you killed someone seemingly important. A politician of sorts, high government pawn that you learned was funding a unit of so-called sorcerer killers, ones that modelled after Toji Fushiguro in cold blood were meant to take down a menace that jujutsu users were, as if it was them who were the ones to fear. Opposite to little no-one’s deaths, this one was loud, this one was medial and this one, Yaga couldn’t let slip. So, an order was given.

Kill on sight.

Almost ten years, and yet Satoru still couldn’t believe what happened. Whilst young, the three of you were almost inseparable and you, out of the whole group, were the most sensitive person he knew. You were soft and full of smiles, kind above all else and yet, you were strong enough to hold back the tears he knew were threatening to roll down your cheeks on many occasions. You were soothing, an oasis that was easily able to turn any darkness into light, and what Satoru couldn’t forgive himself was that once that same darkness started devouring you, he didn’t notice. Too focused on his own missions, on lighthearted shenanigans, on perfecting his usage of limitless and six eyes, he had no idea about your state of mind and when he realized, you have already been sentenced. Suguru didn’t notice either. Or maybe didn’t want to notice, because you talked through many nights about the doubts you both had. He knew about the utter devastation that was slowly consuming your soul but hoped you’ll overcome it, because you always were a sunshine, and a sunshine couldn’t die down to shadows. Turned out, this shadow was pitch black and no light made its way through it.

“Y/n,” they called you and the beautiful music that their voices created brought back memories of your youth. Ten years, almost, had passed since you’ve seen your best friends the last time, and with curiosity sparkling through your system, you turned to face them.

“Satoru, Suguru,” addressing them, your lips curved up slightly in a manner of soft joy. Your heart fluttered at the sight; your pulse raised just as it would for person who’s just seen the love of their life. “Long time no see.”

“It’s not as pleasurable as we would like it to be, y/n,” Suguru sighed and you took a moment to absorb the view.

Both of them changed. Suguru, still tall and broad, seemingly even buffier than he was before stood there with his hair now longer and partially knotted and partially left loose on his back. His facial features sharpened, jaw got more edge to it, eyes turned more narrow and focused, but still, some softness remained from what you remembered and probably he would seem even more familiar if not for the tough expression he had going on. Satoru, right next to him, became even taller. His white hair was now pointing up, kept by a white wrap that completely covered his eyes – something that he probably adapted during the time of usage of his six eyes. Not much of his face you could see, but with ease you noticed his features matured. Both were dressed in uniforms that you could only tie to their unbreakable bond with Jujutsu high.

“You’re now teachers, the two of you, huh?”, you asked, smiling softly, but keeping their moves in mind. “I’ve heard this year’s students are exceptional, now it makes sense. Good they have such amazing senseis.”

“You could have been one of the teachers too,” Gojo snapped.

“How could I teach anyone something I don’t believe in?” a chuckle rumbled deep in your chest as you thought of the image. Abstraction of it made you amused. “How’s Shoko? Is she a doctor now?

“She is,” Geto muttered, unsure why is he answering your questions. “Yaga is the principal.”

“Oh, is he? Look at him, climbing up that ladder,” you laughed, “so, it’s on his orders that you two are here?”

“You killed a fucking politician, y/n,” Satoru spoke, sounding calm but you could tell his blood was boiling. Both of his hands hidden in his pockets were visibly clenched in fists and even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew his brows were furrowed. “Almost a decade we allowed you to do whatever you tried to do, but this time, higher ups stepped in. The sentence is decided, we cannot let you pursue your goals further.”

“And why are you both here? I’m sure just one amazing special grade would be enough,” there was a certain amount of poison in your words, though it wasn’t directed at your friends and both of them knew it. “Are the higher ups so desperate to get me off the board because it’s them who give green lights to those assholes that kill us? Did you know that that pathetic politician I’ve killed was in midst of creating an army of little Toji Fushiguros? How do you think he even knew about the dude, huh?”

“An army of Toji?”

“Yeah, remember that guy, that cut both of you into slices? Yea, that one. And who’s giving away the cursed tools to said army? Well, it’s not me and I assume not any of you as well.”

“Y/n,” Suguru made his way to the side in what seemed like an attempt on surrounding you, because in that same moment, Satoru began shifting to the other side. “I agree with you. People don’t deserve what we do. But no one else can do it. You’re killing those whom we swore to protect.”

“Tell me, Suguru… how many bodies of our friends did Shoko cut open?” you asked and the question made the dark-haired man tsk. It was the truth that hurt the most, he hated how precisely it hit the spot. “How many of our allies were spread across her metal table after Haibara was there? Well, half of Haibara?”

“That’s not the point,” Satoru scoffed and with an exhale, he raised his hand up to loosen up the bandages around his eyes. “We die just as people die. Sorcerers are not above death. You know that, right?”

“We’re not above that, but we are above people and we risk our lives, which we just like them have only one of, for them. And they fuckingstep on it. If I have to pick who’s gonna die from a curse, why would I pick a sorcerer, when a loss of a mere human will be much less tangible than the loss of one of us?”

“Because they cannot protect themselves from curses, and we can.” Geto replied and in a whiff, you felt the appearance of his curses around him. Both him and Gojo were getting ready for a fight, so you had to get ready as well.

“But can we really protect ourselves from them?”, you glared back at him; your tone calm but laced with icicles that pierced through Suguru’s mind as he struggled to see you inside of you.

All of the softness he had always equated you with dissolved into something he couldn’t quite place. Image of you killing someone just for the sake of killing somehow couldn’t materialize inside his mind and it pained him, breaking his heart to think that he will be the reason of your death. And it’s true that probably, just one of them would be enough for that fight, but there was no way they would be able to chose and no one else could do it. You were the strongest, you grew into a special grade quickly after leaving and your technique proved to have no flaws or holes. You were a threat above abilities of others, stepping down only to the two of your friends, if not being equal to them.

“Let’s do it quickly, Suguru,” Satoru sighed, tucking his wraps into one of his pockets.

“Oh, where’s your playful attitude, Satoru?”, you teased, but somehow it hurt you as well. It was your friend you were talking to. Both of them, that came here to kill you and only way for you to get out of it was to kill them.

And killing them, turned out, you couldn’t do. Even hurting them came with difficulty not physically, but mentally. But you fought them both at the same time, keeping a defensive stance, searching for an opening to vanish. From them, you wished to run away, to not make them take the burden of your death because you could see it in their eyes, you were just as dear to them still, as they were to you. But they left you no opening to run away, so you fought. Using everything you’ve got to immobilize them, because instead of taking their lives, that would give you more time.

The way you stood against them, with your cursed technique of energy manipulation, it gave them the hardest time since Toji, and considering they were both taking part in the fight now, ten years after and significantly stronger, just showed how much work you’ve put into your own development. And with pride you noticed, how strong both of your friends became as well. You countered all of their attacks, slashed away the curses and blocked the blues and reds, albeit it really was a matter of time and you knew that. And so, you pushed through, materializing in your hands weapons made from pure, solidified cursed energy, using swords and needles and creating armor around your body that effectively, shielded you from any attack. Your weapon was different from cursed tools. It was made only from energy, strong and unbendable, changing shapes and forms as you deemed it necessary, allowing you to use it in close combat and on long distances. Any curses Suguru summoned stood no chance against what you wielded, but the sheer amount of them was just short of overwhelming you. On top of that, Satoru’s constant offensive, his fists saturated in limitless abilities, the sheer strength of both bodies that were attacking you, slowly rendered you weaker. And it didn’t surprise you.

The end has come when one of the curses stopped you mid-way, engaging in a fight that distracted you enough for a hollow purple to reach your body. The blast threw you away as your body pierced through three buildings straight, through thick concrete bocks and hard steel reinforcements like it was tearing through wet paper and it’s only thanks to the full body coverage of your cursed technique, that it didn’t kill you on the spot. But it hurt. All of your body felt broken once you finally stopped, back pressed against the wall that still cracked underneath the impact of your frame hitting it. Blood covered your vision and a cough shook your body with painful wave overtaking your entire nervous system.

“So that’s the infamous hollow purple, huh?”, you muttered, leaning your head back against the cold solid behind you. There wasn’t much in your body that wouldn’t be fractured at least, you could tell without a mistake that your heart was still beating only because of the cursed energy that still circled throughout your frame.

Both men appeared in front of you, jumping from above – Suguru coming from one of his flying curses and Satoru, probably just teleported here.

“I’m sorry, y/n,” Gojo whispered, squatting in front of you and Geto followed his motion to level his vision with yours.

“’ts alright, ‘toru,” you muttered, feeling the dizziness taking the best of you. After the hit you took, you were certain not even a genius like Shoko could save you. “Sugu… both so strong.”

Exchanging a quick glance, both sorcerers sat down, on your sides, paying no mind to the puddle of blood underneath you. They took your hands, so small in comparison to theirs, now red and wounded severely, but the pain you couldn’t feel much of anymore.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take this mission for you. Back in our days. It was meant to be mine, but I was training,” Satoru confessed, squeezing lightly the fractured bones in your palm, reminiscing of the day that was the beginning of your end. The elementary. That day engraved itself in his memory as one of many days that seemingly mattered nothing. Yaga told him about the issue, the curse and fire in school for the youngest, but he brushed it off, focusing all of his mind on perfecting the last touches of his technique. He still remembers how sensei was mumbling profanities, but couldn’t care less because he was that close from teleporting.

“’ts okay, ‘toru.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there either,” Suguru added, his voice barely a whisper as you leaned your head against his shoulder, desperate to ease the heaviness. What Geto remembered from the day in question was that he had an issue with his own technique. Little difficulty, as he was absorbing one of the special grade curses he just caught. It wasn’t severe, it wasn’t even that important, he could have fix this on another time and take the god damn mission, but instead, he declined. “I thought if I don’t take the job, Satoru will, but turned out, it got to you.”

“Sugu, ‘ts ok.”

“Remember how we used to sneak out the dorms to get ice cream in the middle of the night?”, Satoru changed the topic completely – a defensive mechanism to lighten up the mood, to prevent him from crying. And you hummed in response, lowering your heavy lids.

“And how Satoru got drunk after three sips of a beer? That’s when we all knew he’s the lightest head in the history,” Suguru added and faded images of how Gojo discovered that he cannot drink to save his life rushed to the front of your mind.

You had no idea how long it took, was it few minutes or merely few seconds, but you listened to both men rambling above your head, reminiscing of your school days and everything that you did together. Of every prank you witnessed that they took on poor first years, of every little mischief and menace they performed, following Satoru’s lead, because it’s always him who stood tall in the name of chaos. You were humming softer and softer, quieter and quieter.

Until you were not.

“And then we put those cupcakes in Nanami’s bed and-“

“Satoru,” Geto cut him softly, looking down at your stilled frame. At your frozen chest and softened features, sensing no more heartbeat. And Gojo turned his eyes towards you as well, taking in the last picture of you, who he loved as his little sister, even though there was no age gap between you and him. And then they both cried in silence, spending another hour with your dead body before gathering you and taking home.

* * *

October 31, 2018

21:18

Only word that could describe what was happening in Shibuya at this moment would be chaos. Pure disorder, people frightened and running, some unconscious on the ground and some other hiding from what was happening in the Shibuya station. Most of them couldn’t see it but felt the terror, saw the blood, smelled the death in the middle of which, two men were standing.

Both Satoru and Suguru, when they came down here to fight whatever the hell was attacking people, couldn’t move; their heads void of any logical thoughts as memories rushed to the fronts of their minds. Stunned to the core and frozen, they looked into the eyes of the person in front of them, distrusting their own vision. The person that wore the familiar look of you, the energy of you and what seemed like – the same cursed technique, and voice, and face, and hair, and everything. Not one thing betrayed trickery or deception as there you stood, facing them both with a smile on your face – one of those soft ones that had melted their hearts on the spot a decade before. Your features relaxed, genuine, borderline joyous as you breathed the air around them once again.

“What…?”, Suguru snapped first, forcing his own body to move and smacking his friend’s shoulder. “How?”

“Who the hell are you…?”, Satoru whispered, voice stuck in his throat as all of the information that his senses were receiving contradicted with what his soul was telling him.

“Aah? It’s been few months, but do you not recognize me anymore?”, your voice flew through your mouth, the very same gentle and bright tone they used to fall asleep to. “It’s hurting my feelings.”

“Cut it,” Gojo snapped, now putting more pressure on his vocal cords, a groan escaping his throat in effect. “Cut the bullshit, you’re not her. You cannot be her. Y/n is-“

“Dead? Yeah, that purple really messed me up,” you chuckled, shrugging your shoulders slightly and stepping forward. “I have to admit, restoring the body wasn’t the easiest of all.”

“Reveal yourself,” Geto took the defensive stance, ready to pursue with attack if needed and his curses floating behind him on standby. “You’re not fooling us.”

“Ah, how stubborn,” another laugh brightened your face, only now more menacing, more teasing as your dainty fingers reached up to gather the lose hair out of your forehead, revealing a line of thin stitches across your skin there. “See, you really did me a favor by burying her body oh-so traditionally. Isn’t that the procedure to burn every deceased sorcerer?” your mouth was moving, spilling the words interlaced with taunt as the, what looked like, thread was pulled out of the horizontal line above your eyebrows and soon after, grabbed by the hair, the top of your head was lifted, revealing the terrifying image of a brain. With mouth of its own.

“What did you do to her?!”

“Oh, I just took what you two threw away,” you replied, slowly putting the upper skull part down on its place, matching the lines as the thread went through the holes by itself, securing the head together. “And I have to thank you for your little sentiment. If not for that, I wouldn’t have my perfect vessel. Ah, but it’s sad, isn’t it? Such a young, pretty girl had to die so early, and more so, killed by her own best friends. What a waste to jujutsu community, don’t you think?”

Both the boys stood there in shock, guilt eating them alive as the salt and acid was being rubbed into the wounds that just opened. The scabs of the past were ripped away, revealing the gushing pain and Satoru growled in anger, realizing that once again, he might have been responsible for what happened to you. This time, Suguru kept up with him in terms of fury, feeling his own blood boiling in his veins, unable to watch your body being possessed like this, used like a toy.

“Y/n, I know you’re there-“ Gojo called, but got stopped quickly by another pilfering laugh.

“Oh, but she’s not. Her soul is long gone and dead. You made sure to have her soul dead, and you have to know I nearly teared up reviewing her memories when I took the body. Such a poignant story, oh, so heartbreaking.” The teasing had no end as more and more poisonous venom spilled through your mouth, contradicting the carefree and joyful tone of your voice.

“What makes you believe that even if you take her body, you can win here? We’ve defeated her already,” Suguru narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, you’ve won but that’s because she let you two won. Wasn’t that surprising how easily you finished her? A special grade? How she didn’t even try to dodge the hollow purple, like the little curse that she was fighting with was really that much of a struggle? Oh, don’t be silly, you two. It wouldn’t be that easy if she tried.”

“We won’t let you-“

“You must understand your situation. What you’re standing in is a special grade cursed object. A prison realm, and to say it simply, you’ve already lost,” you pointed at the floor, from where the four corners of a cube stretched into a mass of flesh, with an eye – giant and bleeding, staring at its target, as the next stage of sealing began before either of sorcerers reacted. “And what’s more interesting, the prison realm can seal only one person at the time, but with the incredible technique of my current host, I was able to fuel its capacity to two occupants, by manipulating the cursed energy it used. Marvelous!”

The cursed object began enveloping both men, rendering them helpless and immobile, as their cursed energy became unavailable for their use.

“We’ll save you, y/n, you hear me?”, Satoru yelled in unison with his friend and the lone tear rolled down your face, before your hand reached up wiping it in amusement.

“Gate close.”

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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idgaf about eddie but i’ve wanted venom since i was a wee lad. venom who’s all big and mean and manhandles you because you’re nothing. talks about how he could squash you like a bug between his fingers yet here you are letting him fuck your interesting little human pleasure hole

FUCK indy i've had this brewing in my inbox and now i've finally got the time to give it the attention it deserves <3

this post is 18+, minors dni. cw for mentions/'threats' of extreme violence/death, don't like don't read.

"I could kill you," Venom grunts, not a threat but an observation, "I kill lots of people."

Your face pinches down into a grimace but the waver in your voice isn't from the imagery, "Venom, no, don't- don't say that! I don't want to know."

His viscous appendages, more tentacle than hand, edge deeper into your hole, filling in every inch of space and unconstrained by defined mortal flesh. A web of the black goopy substance holds you against an empty wall in Eddie's apartment, pinning your back to the brick and scraping your skin.

"But you liked hearing me tell you," The symbiote practically purrs, his voice gravelly and miles away from the safety of human baritone, "Your hole got tighter around me when I said it."

"No, it- I don't like- no!" You gush, unable to defend yourself but desperate to save face, "That's not true."

"It is," Venom presses, another stray tendril suctioning to the curve of your ass and leaving burning skin in its wake, "I will do it again. I am stronger than you."

As a testament to his statement, he expands the web of black fluid that's holding you against the wall, forcing it around your neck like a snug sleeve. He's right; you can't move. Of course you'd known it since the first time you laid eyes on the alien, but the effortless proof he offers you has your hole fluttering around his tendril once more.

"I could smother you," Venom continues, and you feel a distinct throb between your legs, his makeshift dick only seeping further into you, "I could flood your lungs and drown you," He threatens, the slime crawling up around your chin and mouth, hovering teasingly over your nose as you frantically gasp through it, "I could squeeze you until each of your bones break and you are helpless."

You do more than clench around him. The acrid stab of fear in your chest couples with the rising swell of bliss below it, and you wriggle your hips pathetically in his strong grip as you ride out your orgasm on his tentacle.

"I was right," Venom concludes, far from human niceties, though he still suspends you against the wall as your limbs sag with exhaustion, "You want me to kill you."

"No, Venom," You swear, though you don't have the energy to be as alarmed as you should be, "I- I don't want you to kill me. It's just- sometimes I think it's hot to remember that you could."

Milky white eyes blink at you, once, twice, and Venom decides, "I do not understand humans."

But you're saved the effort of explaining yourself when he draws his tendril out of your sensitive hole, letting his obscenely long tongue draw your wetness into his mouth, "But if you think it is hot, I will not let you forget that I could crush you."

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irishmammonagenda · 11 months ago

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cw: graphic imagery bordering on gore PLEASE DONT READ IF YOURE SENSITIVE TO THAT !!!! inspired by a dream i had <3

The castle dungeons are dark, damp and desolate, with the only light source being the flickering flames in their holsters on the walls. Bhí an t-urlár fuair fliuch. The stone walls were cold to the touch.

Occasional dripping sounds were all that could be heard until a series of harsh hurried footsteps and muffled screaming cut through the eerie silence like a butcher's knife to a pig.

The demon is thrown harshly into a cold, stale cell, before the lock clicks shut, and they're left to stew in the cursed ciúnas.

Momentarily a calm clacking of pointed shoe soles sound on the stone hallway. The demon listens with bated breath as the cell door is carefully opened. The unoiled hinges screech like a bean sidhe. A cart is pushed in, one that delicacies would be served on.

But instead of sweet treats and teacakes the trays hold something far more sinister.

The demon shivers as forest green eyes lock onto them. The most feared butler in all the Devildom takes a tantalising step forward. Barbatos doesn't break eye contact, politely sinister smile unwavering; he's in full demon form, intricate horns and a strong, glistening tail stand out in the light of the flames.

"Oh, my dear subject...how careless could one be?...." The butler drawls slowly, polite demeanour not yet wavering.

"I-...P-please!-...." The demon finds that the words get stuck in their throat, a chuckle is pulled from Barbatos' chest.

"Please what?" Barbatos cocks his head, smile tightening ever so slightly. "Please let you live?" A deep, sultry chuckle erupts from his chest as the demon nods frantically.

Barbatos steps away.

Towards his tray of tools.

With his back turned to the chained demon his polite façade drops as he listens to that parasite's begging and pleading for mercy.

He hums softly as he slowly removes his gloves, revealling long slender fingers underneath. "Begging me to let you live?...Oh, the navieté...." The butler turns around, gentlemanish smile back on his face. "You see, when I'm done with you you'll beg for death...."

"I didn't even do anyth-!" The demon begins to protest, squirming in their chains, before Barbatos' súile glas meet theirs with such a ferocity, words fail them.

"Don't." Barbatos grabs a tool not unlike one a dentist would use, before approaching the chained demon with such anger in his eyes it trumped even the Avatar of Wrath's. "Don't say that you have done nothing. You see. You tried to hurt his Majesty, by trying to hurt the exchange programme....that already would have landed you some time down here....had I so felt it necessary...."

Barbatos takes the Periodontal probe and slowly inserts it into the demon's right eye. They howl in pain as the sclera is pierced, eyes watering so much, they're unaware if everything is becoming blurry because of that, or because they're going blind.

The turquoise haired demon steps back, as if admiring the handiwork already completed on his soon to be broken toy. Something else flashes in his eyes, polite smile still trained on his face. "You see...you tried to hurt the exchange programme by attempting to hurt someone I hold very dearly....and for that...." Barbatos' smile widens unnaturally. "I'm going to show you just how much the rumours at RAD completely downplay my dungeon of horrors..."

With the demon's wailing as his motif, Barbatos approaches his tray once more. "You know, I've been meaning to try out some new....methods....but alas, I felt it wouldn't be ethical to test them on the Little Ds....I'm quite fond of them you see....even Little D No. 2...." He turns around, eyeing the state of agony the demon is already in.

He smiles. "Perhaps if you're a good test subject, I'll kill you earlier than I'd originally planned to..."

The mangled corpse lay on the ground, legions of muscle and bone exposed, joints jutted out in painfully unnatural angles. The deceased demon's damaged eyes were poked until massive holes formed, in which fire ants were placed in them, the creepy crawlies still stinging and crawling around the eyesockets of the now dead body.

Barbatos leans against the wall, panting. Pale skin covered and splashed in the most beautiful of reds. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat . Pupils completely dilated.

The tools on the tray are bloody and sanguinary. Not a single one clean.

The door to the cell creaks slowly open, the Butler's head snaps to the sound.

A small black blob trots shakily into the room, shivering when it meets Barbatos' bloody gaze.

"E-er...Mister Barbatos....?"

The demon tilts his head, eyes blown wide. "...Yes?"

Little D No.2 shivers, fiddling with its tiny tophat. "Er....Little D. No.1 s-said to tell you MC is on their way t-to the castle....."

Barbatos nods, eyes softening ever so slightly at the mention of you and the sight of Little D No.2 fainting upon discovering the mangled corpse in the corner of the room.

Barbatos chuckles softly, tension not as firmly molded into his shoulders as he scoops up the tiny demon in one ungloved hand and places it in his bloodied breast pocket.

The turquoise haired demon strides out of the cell with learned poise, muttering a spell to clean the blood and entrails off of his muscular form as he puts his ivory gloves back on.

Walking out of the dungeons, he motions to Little D No. 6 who bobbles its little head and begins to make its way into the dungeons.

(Meanwhile....) A portal opens in the dark cell. Flat sneakers step out of the abyss and halt upon seeing the gory scene.

The figure tightens the grip on the scythe and sighs, pulling down her hood, revealling long ombre hair.

Thirteen sighs, watching as Little D No. 6 chomps down on the dead body's liver. "Oh for fuck's sake."

She groans, leaning against the wall of the cell, uncairng of the blood getting on her stupid official reaper robe seeing as she hated it anyway.

"Barbatos owes me a new motorcycle for this." Thirteen grumbles, she was woken up from her nap for this. The reaper watches as Little D No.6 uses the demon's pierced, leaking stomach as a trampoline. "...and he better make it a pink one."

With Little D No.2 still in his breast pocket, Barbatos opens the palace doors, eyes glinting with something unreadable as he sees you.

His smile is geniune as he welcomes you into his abode. "Oooo! Barbs! In your demon form today? What's the occassion?" You ask, bouncing from your tip-toes to your heels.

Barbatos just chuckles, tail wrapping around your waist as an arm wraps around your shoulders, guiding you to the kitchen. "Oh, I just felt more comfortable in this form today....pay it no mind, my dear MC."

"Meh, I won't, your demon form's pretty, now...." Your eyes glint excitedly as Barbatos steps away to grab some bowls and ingredients for your cookie baking/gossiping session. "...you won't believe what Asmo's done now.."

Barbatos raises an eyebrow playfully, polite poised smile still on his face, although more relaxed than usual. "Oh, do tell...."

And so, you're launched into your tirade about the latest scandal you and the brothers caused and reaped the consequences of said scandal.

You both bake, with Little D No.2 waking up from his nap in Barbatos' pocket and then attaching himself to your shoulder halfway through.

With a sharp exhale you place the batch of cookies in the oven, before moving to clean up with the BUtler. (Even though he protested it very much.)

And hey, if Barbatos' tail wraps around your midsection and wont seem to let go, that's not something he's going to acknowledge. ;)

dia daoibh a chairde!! ( translation: hello friends) [pronounced: jee-ah deev ah hard-jeh] dividers by @/saradika-graphics

its summer so im on my grind fr. i've been obsessed with the concept of feral barbs and also have had a few pretty bad nightmares so now im making it the entire obey me fandom's problem.

also I can't characterise Barbatos why is this man so polite

[moth anon i am so sorry im planning out ur ask rn]

NOW ONTO THE IRISH (you thought you were safe since i haven't been including irish as of late? 🧐)

(1) 'Bhí an t-urlár fuair fliuch.' - The floor was cold and wet. pronounced: Vee an tur-lair [tur as in t(air)] feh-where fluck.

AGAIN ‘ck’ is okay to use but try to pronounce with your throat!!

try to pronounce fuair as like one syllable sort of? as per usual i cant write pronunciations, so as a special treat have this:

irishmammonagenda voice reveal😨 (i tried to speak slow and clear </3)

since its a sentence here's my shitty handwriting explaining the structures.

(2) 'ciúnas' - silence prnounced: q-un-ess q as in queue un as in how you'd pronounce the un in 'uno'

(3) ;súile glas; - green eyes pronounced: sool-eh glass the 'ool' in 'sool-eh' is pronounced the same way as the 'ool' in 'school'

'súile' means 'eyes' and 'glas' means 'green' as i've said before, in irish the adjective comes after the noun.

Go raibh maith agaibh a chairde. Slán <3. [Thank you (plural) my friends. Bye <3.] [ pronounced: gerah muy ugg-eev a hard-yeh. slan.]

#obey me shall we date #obey me imagines #obey me x reader #obey me mc #omswd #obey me babatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me scenarios

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slyakoch13 · 13 days ago

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tw: dante corpse!!!

read a fic or two about them. i'm feeling feelings.

#my art #8:11 #811 game #basilio dante #dante basilio #811 vittorino #811 dante #cw: sensitive imagery #cw: death

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naeverse · 5 months ago

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Dear My Beloved (2/2)

~Ｖｉｃｅ＃３~

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝟑: 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥

(𝐎𝐜𝐭. 𝟏𝟑-𝟏𝟗)

----

𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳:

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

"𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯."

Ｍｕｓｉｃ：

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘰 𝘔𝘦" - 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 ��𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨" - 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥

🤎staring: Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

👗preview: But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with an foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

“Nothing is what it seems… Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

💄summary: It’s your husband Miguel’s birthday, a day that should be filled with love and celebration. Yet, something feels…off.

🎂tw/cw: 1950s Era, Abuse, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Death, Despair, Disturbing Imagery, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Grief, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, No Smut, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Violence,

💙Pet names: Amor (Love), Bebé (Baby), Cariño (Darling), Esposa (Wife), Mi amor (My love)

♥️Rating: 18+ explicit I ANGST I

🎵 Word Count: Total - 14.5k, Part 2 - 8.2k words

Art found on Pinterest, all credit go to original artists/designers/photographers

All credit also goes to musicians as I do not own the two songs heavily used in this oneshot. 😊

Dividers and mood board was created by me.

⚠️⚠️ Trigger Warning: This section contains highly sensitive content, including blood, trauma, verbal abuse, mental health struggles, and death. If any of these topics may be triggering for you, please proceed with caution and at your own discretion. ⚠️⚠️

“MAMA!!”

You froze, eyes wide, breath catching in your throat. Hastily, you pushed Miguel away, panic rising in your chest. “Did you hear that?!” you asked, your voice tight with alarm.

For once, Miguel’s expression mirrored the terror that gripped you. Rising from the couch, he reached out to steady you as both of you looked toward the stairs, your pulse pounding in your ears. The air between you was heavy now—this wasn’t just the innocent sound of a child’s call.

Something was wrong…

Your husband moved first, his long legs quickly striding to the stairway. He climbed them in an instant, with you close behind.

“Princesa!? Gabriella!?” Miguel’s thunderous voice echoed down the hall of your family home.

“Gabi?!” you called out, your heart hammering, never feeling this level of panic before.

Miguel walked briskly down the narrow upstairs hallway, flanked by four doors—two leading to bathrooms, one to your shared bedroom, and the last to Gabriella’s room.

Frantically, you tore through each room, throwing open doors, your eyes scanning for any trace of your daughter. With each second that passed, the dread in your chest grew heavier. “Gabi?!” your voice cracked as it echoed off the walls. But the silence that followed was unbearable.

She wasn’t there.

Meeting in the hallway, your teary eyes locked with Miguel’s. His stern gaze didn’t falter, but the tension in his clenched jaw betrayed his growing desperation.

“One last door, cariño. She’s here,” he said, his voice resolute as his knuckle brushed your cheek in a soothing gesture. But the flicker of anger in his eyes spoke volumes—anger at the unknown, at his own helplessness.

Swallowing hard, your throat dry, you both turned toward Gabriella’s bathroom.

Miguel let out a frustrated grunt, and with the force of a charging bull, he bursted the door open. You pushed past him, your feet hitting the cold tiles when you entered the room.

The bathroom hit you like a slap. The air was heavy, unnaturally still, and it clung to your skin in a way that made every nerve scream with unease. The cold tiles beneath your feet were a stark contrast to the warmth of the hallway carpet, a biting reminder of how wrong everything felt.

⚠️⚠️(Trigger Warning Approaching!!)) ⚠️⚠️

Skip to this if you wish to avoid it >> 🤎💙

Your hand scrambled along the wall, fumbling for the light switch. When the harsh fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life with a sickly hum, the scene before you came into focus.

And you froze.

The color drained from your face, your breath caught in your chest, and your knees felt as if they might give way beneath you. The bathtub, the room, the sight—it all sucked the life out of you in one brutal instant.

‘This has to be a dream. Let this be a fucking dream.’

But it wasn’t.

Gabriella was there, hunched over the edge of the bathtub.

Your sweet little girl—the same one who had just been beaming with joy as she dashed upstairs to fetch her gift—now laid lifelessly. Her small body was draped over the edge, twisted in a way that made her look like a discarded, broken doll. The innocence of her form had been stolen, transformed into something grotesque.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The world had stopped spinning, leaving you trapped in this moment of unimaginable horror.

🤎💙 Safe to continue reading💙🤎

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.”

Your voice broke, a sob ripping through your chest while stepping back on trembling legs. “My daughter. My sweet little girl.” Tears blurred your vision, cascading down your cheeks as you sank to your knees.

“Oh, gosh, w-what happened to you? This can’t be real. No, no, no.” The words spilled from your lips in a torrent of grief and denial.

A guttural cry tore from your chest, raw and unrelenting, shaking your entire body. Your hands gripped the fabric of your blue dress so tightly that your knuckles turned white, the tears soaking the material until it clung to your trembling form.

Your heart raced, your breathing uneven, and your head throbbed with disbelief and terror. The questions, the pleas, the desperate prayers poured out of you in a relentless stream, each one more frantic than the last.

But the pain was too much.

Your vision blurred further, darkening at the edges as the world around you began to fade. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of grief, your body gave out, collapsing into unconsciousness.

As darkness enveloped you, fragments of thoughts slipped through the cracks of your mind.

‘Please don’t be real.’

‘My sweet girl, Gabriella.’

‘I can’t lose you.’

And then, like a flickering light extinguished, your final thoughts faded into the void.

“Mi amor…”

“Shh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

“You are okay.”

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, your body weak and trembling. A pounding headache reverberated through your skull—a pain so excruciating that even thinking was a grueling task.

“W-where am I?” you whispered, struggling to sit up from your crumpled position on the ground. Surrounded you a cold, dark hallway—one that sent a chill down your spine. The memories came rushing back, sharp and unbearable, as a strangled sob escaped your throat.

“G-Gabi. Oh gosh.” You wept into your hands, the ache in your chest only intensifying when the horrific moment played out in your mind once more.

Above, the lights flickered on, one by one, casting an eerie glow over the hallway. The endless stretch of white doors along the walls appeared stark and unnervingly perfect. Each was identical—smooth, sleek, and disturbingly pristine. No wood grain or signs of age, no layers of paint chipped over time. Just a clinical, sterile design that felt foreign. These weren’t the familiar, warm doors of your home.

Your gaze stretched down the corridor. The symmetry of the doors and the sterile glow of the flickering lights heightened the unsettling atmosphere. Your stomach churned, a sense of dread sinking deep into your bones.

Shakily, you rose to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you. You were still barefoot, dressed in the pastel blue dress you had worn earlier, although your jumbo curls were now a mess and in need of another douse in hairspray.

Everything about you was the same, yet you felt completely different—wrecked by despair that gripped you tighter with every thought of your little girl and…

Miguel.

Your eyes darted around frantically, trying to seek him to find no other being in sight.

Where was he? He had been with you when…

“Y/N!?”

His voice boomed through the hallway, shattering the silence.

Your head whipped toward the sound—a desperate yell followed by loud bangs against one of the white doors.

“Amor! Esposa!” Miguel’s frantic voice echoed as he jiggled the doorknob. “Fuck, it’s locked! I’m in here, baby! Open the door!”

“Miguel!?” you cried out, rushing toward the source of his voice.

“Y/N! Oh, bebé, I’m so happy to hear you are okay,” he said, relief breaking through his panicked tone.

“M-me too. But Miguel, Gabi—”

“I know, amor,” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. “First, I need you to open the door. There’s…something in here with me.”

His words sent a chill through your entire body.

“It’s chasing me through these halls. I can’t see it, and—shit—it stabbed me.”

“It stabbed you!?” you exclaimed, horrified, pressing yourself against the door wishing to be there next to him more than anything.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Nothing fatal, though.” But his weakening tone betrayed his words.

“It’ll be okay, Miguel. I-I’ll open the door. I’ll get you out.”

Your hands shook as you gripped the doorknob, turning it desperately. However, It didn’t budge.

It was locked…

Your heart sank. “M-Miguel, it’s locked!” you whimpered, twisting and pulling at the knob repeatedly in a frenzy.

“Try again. Stay calm for me, baby. Just try again.”

“I am!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face, completely helpless as fear tightened its grip on you. “Try it from your side!” you begged.

You stepped back, letting him attempt the lock from his side. The sounds of his struggle filled the hallway, but the door refused to open.

“Mierda!” He cursed in frustration, hands slamming against the door with a loud bang, making you jump.

“M-Miguel, what are we going to do? I-I can’t leave you, I can’t…” You sobbed, not wanting to be alone and leave your husband to die at the hands of that thing.

Instead of an answer, your stomach turned into knots at his response. “It’s here! Fuck!” Miguel stated, harsh bangs and kicks to the door filling the quiet hallway at your husband’s futile attempts to escape. “Get out of here, esposa!”

A new wave of terror crashed over you. “N-no! I’m not leaving you!” you cried, not wishing to leave and lose him too. You tugged at the door in desperation alongside his assaults upon the relentless door, crying all the while.

“Y/N!” Miguel’s stern voice cut through your panic, startling youfor a fleeting moment. “I love you, but you have to leave. Understand me!?”

You choked on your sobs, every fiber of your being screaming to stay, but his command left no room for argument.

“Y-yes. I understand,” you whimpered in a trembling voice. “I love you too.”

However, silence fell on the other side of the door.

Your eyes widened when a loud, sickening thud from behind the door filled your ears. In that moment, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

“Miguel!” you screamed, banging your fists against the wooden surface. Your cries were frantic, pleading for any response, begging for his death not to be real.

A harsh, coppery scent filled your nose, like a punch in the face. Sharp and metallic, it clawed at your every sense as a wet, sticky sensation spreading under your foot made your breath hitch.

Your eyes darted down in alarm.

Blood.

It pooled from beneath the door, crimson rivulets spreading across the pristine floor, soaking into the soles of your bare feet.

You staggered back, trembling, disbelief gripping your entire being.

“N-no, not you too. Not you too.”

The words spilled from your lips in broken, anguished sobs, a mantra of denial as tears blurred your vision. The reality was too much to bear, too cruel to endure.

You turned and sprinted down the hallway, no longer caring where it led, no longer caring if you’d be lost.

The sterile glow of the flickering lights stretched endlessly ahead of you, the hem of your blue dress billowing behind you as you ran. Your breath hitched, your sobs growing louder, hair whipping wildly around your tear-streaked face.

And then, your legs gave out.

You collapsed to your knees, chest heaving, despair consuming you.

You sobbed uncontrollably, your trembling hands clutching at the cold floor. The weight of the loss crushed you, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its wake.

‘First Gabi, my little angel…and now Miguel.’

The thought shattered you. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much emptiness.

Your tears fell harder, your cries echoing down the lifeless corridor.

And then—

A sound.

The soft creak of a door swinging open.

Your head snapped up, your breath hitching and your heart plummeted into your stomach. One of the white doors stood ajar, its perfect surface now marred by a sinister shadow.

A cold, unnatural wind blew from the pitch-black doorway, tousling your hair and sending a shiver down your spine.

You froze, your body rigid with fear and grief, staring into the darkness.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself yearning, besseching for whatever had taken Miguel to take you too. To end this nightmare. To reunite you with your family.

But instead of a monster emerging from the void, you saw something else.

You and Miguel…

But not really…

You were sitting in a fancy restaurant with your husband, Miguel, donned in a glamorous dress and him, a pristine tux. This world was nothing you were familiar with, nothing like your checkerboard floors, poodle skirts, and pin-up curls. It was more futuristic to what you were used to, yet familiar all the same.

The waitress completed taking your order and collected your menus. Innocently, your husband exchanged a glance with her, his eyes lingering a little too long for your liking, his smile too warm and it all riled you up.

As soon as the waitress left, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I saw you.” You spat, glaring at him, the tension between the two of you growing thick. “I saw you look at her. You think I didn’t notice?” You asked with a scoff. "Anyone could see how your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull."

Miguel’s charming features shifted to a mix of confusion and frustration. He leaned in close, trying to keep your conversation down. “What are you talking about? I just glanced at her, it was nothing.”

“No, no, don’t lie to me! You think I’m stupid? T-That I cannot see what is evidently in front of me!?” Your voice rose, attracting the attention of nearby diners. “Well, I assure you, husband, I’m not fucking blind.” You said harshly, spitting his title that was meant for endearment like it was venom in your mouth.

Miguel steadily placed his glass down, his large hand reaching across the table to hold yours in hopes of quelling the raging storm. “Calm down, please, amor. Let’s not ruin our date.” He whispered hopefully, stroking your knuckles with his thumb. “You’re not seeing things clearly. Nothing happened.”

The look on your face was of pure rage from something so harmless as a glance. You were lost in your own chaotic thoughts—a belief that he would leave you for someone younger, someone more beautiful. The waiter, the clerk, the neighbor down the street—anyone could take him from you.

Anyone.

You yanked your hand from his, standing up with a loud squeak of your chair on the floor, gaining the attention of the entire restaurant. “Since you wish to ogle at waitresses, you can eat dinner by yourself. I'll be in the car.” You said, storming out and leaving an embarrassed and pitiful Miguel in your wake…

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, snapping you out of the long-lost memory. “W-who was that? What was that?” you stammered in utter confusion and horror at the person who looked like you but was anything but.

“That… could not have been me,” you thought, but you couldn’t shake the familiarity of the situation.

You could practically feel the red dress you wore upon your body, remember the paranoia and anger, smell the spices wafting through the restaurant, and see the look of pity your husband gave you amidst the storm of your deranged thoughts.

You rose on your shaky legs, the tears you shed now dried upon your cheeks. Your bare feet wandered down the flickering hallway and found yourself wanting answers to the many questions that plagued your mind.

Suddenly, you heard another door to your left fly open, forcing you into that terrible world once more—one that was far from the perfect world you remembered.

Or thought you remembered…

You were in the hallway, walking into the kitchen when you heard Miguel on the phone. His voice was lower than usual, speaking to someone in hushed tones. You couldn’t make out the words, but you could hear the familiarity in his voice. His voice was warmer. Softer. He didn’t speak to you like that.

Not anymore.

You stormed into the room, catching the last part of the conversation. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up later. Miss you too, sweetheart. Bye.”

Your mind instantly spiraled: Who was he talking to? Who is “she”?

Miguel looked back startled at your sudden appearance. “Hey, cariño, you scared me-”

“Who is she?” Your voice shaking in desperation and anger. “Who the hell were you talking to?”

He looked at you in perplexion, a flicker of hurt in his eyes at being accused of such a thing. “I was talking to Gabi. She’s at my mother’s for the weekend, remember?” He stated in betrayal. “Why are you constantly accusing me of cheating. I love you, amor. Only you.”

Miguel tried to convince you, but you didn’t believe him. You couldn’t.

You never could anymore.

“No, no, you’re lying to me. You’re having an affair. I know it. You don’t care about me anymore.” You wholeheartedly believed, could even see the loving looks he'd give her—hear the dirty things he would say to her.

“You are just using our daughter as a coverup!” You shouted at him, stepping up to jab a finger to his chest. “And I would not let you make me look like a fool, Miguel!”

The memory faded away, throwing you back into the endless hallway, the door swinging closed.

Your eyes watered up, tears beginning to fill your cheeks. “No, this can’t be true. What is this?” You whimpered, shaking your head. “This is a lie. Miguel and I were happy. He would dance with me, hold me, sing to me with his guitar. No, this isn’t real!” You shouted aloud, more to yourself in hopes of dismissing such riveting tales this nightmare was trying to plague you with.

“I won’t believe these false tales! I won’t let you lie to me!” You cried out, walking, or more like, stumbling down the hallway. Your body felt weaker, unable to hold yourself up as you walked to the next door that would surely bring you back to that hellish world.

Like you predicted, dread engulfed you when another white door flung open, pulling your consciousness into the world of false once more.

You sat on the sofa in the living room, sipping at a mug of coffee. Watching your daughter, Gabriella drew at her mini table, her small hands carefully drawing stick figures with bright red crayons. “What are you drawing, sweetie?” You asked, noticing her become tensed at your question.

“I’m…I’m drawing us, Mamá.” You hummed, peering over her shoulder with a smile until you noticed one of the three stick figures with their head tilted, a red line crossed through their face.

“What is this?” You demanded, pointing a finger at the crossed out figure. “I-Its-” Gabi’s eyes widened as you snatched the paper out of her hands before she could explain. “I-It’s just a…picture, Mamá.”

“A picture? And what is Mama doing here, huh? Being crossed out of your life?”

“N-No, Mamá…” She began to weep. “You are just sad.” Gabi cried, trying to point out that the red streaks were instead tears, but to you, they were anything but.

You turned to Miguel, who was watching from the kitchen. “This is what she learns from you, huh!?” You shouted in a voice full of accusation. “Filling her head with ideas of hating her mother?!”

Miguel hastily raced into the living room, hiis burly arms reaching out to place Gabi behind him, shielding her crying form from you. “It’s just a child’s drawing. She’s drawing what she is seeing.” Your husband stated. “Please, stop being like this. Please, amor.”

But you can’t let it go. The image haunts you, filling your mind with fears of what Gabi might be learning from her father, and what she could be thinking of you.

You storm out of the room, the paper crumpling in your hand, heart pounding with a sense of betrayal.

“No more.” Was the first thing that escaped your cracked lips and scratchy throat. You shook your head from your crumbled position on the floor, hair and blue dress a mess. “Please, don’t show me anymore.” You begged, knowing if you moved, you’d be brought to that horrid place again—feel the overwhelming anger, fear, delusion that raked your body, practically eating you alive—and your family too.

A faint, yet familiar noise began to echo down the hall. It was quiet and undiscernable, but you were sure it sought to drive you insane.

You didn’t want to make sense of what you were seeing, because if you made sense of it, it'd only mean they were true. “This isn’t real. I loved my Gabriella and she loved me.” You affirmed, remembering the memories you deemed true. “S-She’d draw me pictures all the time, work with me in the kitchen, a-and we'll play with her dolls together.” You cried, tears breaking free. “This isn’t real. I won’t believe it. I-I won’t.”

If to prove you wrong, another door bursted open further down the aisle. You instantly felt the pull, but this time, you wouldn’t let it easily take you.

You clawed at the floor, trying to fight against the force that was tugging you into the dark abyss. However, it only strengthened, seeking to haul you back to that horrid nightmare. The noise only grew louder, yet distant as if becoming angrier at your resistance. “No…please.” You begged, pleading for it not to take you as your fingers soon gave out, drawing you back again…

One afternoon, the thoughts have become too overbearing. ‘Miguel wants to leave, so I’ll help him.’ Your deranged mind thinks, believing you to be in the right as you heaved another load of his clothes, books, and personal items out onto the porch.

Only moments after Miguel comes back from work, Gabriella, at his side from school. He races inside in panic and sorrow. “B-Bebè, what is this?” he asks, his deep voice wavering for the first time.

You glared at him, breathing hard. “If you’re planning on leaving, then go. I already set your things outside, so get out!”

Miguel stares at you, heartbroken, whilst the sobs of Gabi behind his leg fills the hallway of your bedroom. “I-I never planned to leave, mi amor-”

“Then what is this!?” You exclaimed, throwing his personal journal at his chest, hearing it clatter to the floor. He didn’t even flinch. “You wrote in there that I was deranged, crazy, and needed help—help you cannot provide me. Isn't that right?” You asked with a wicked laugh, head falling back against your shoulders.

“I don’t think a handsome man like you would want a deranged wife, now do you?” The taunting words being spat at Miguel as he just stood there with Gabriella behind him, taking the full force of the lashes.

“I tried to stay strong for us—for Gabi—for you, mi amor.” He said once your verbal assault and endless pacing ceased. “But I can’t…not anymore. Not if you don’t seek help yourself, nor face the fact that you need it.” Miguel stated, his voice full of sorrow, but he should have been talking to the wall as nothing he said was reaching you. “If you want me gone so bad, I will-.”

“Are you still here?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him, the wildness of your hair in crazed disarray. Your husband met your gaze of pure rage with pity. “Not anymore.” He muttered sadly. “Come on, Gabriella.” Miguel said, ushering your daughter along who weeped all the way out the front door.

But you knew deep in your core that they would be back. That your sweet husband and daughter would never truly leave you. They would never leave you, no matter how much Miguel said it.

Like a punch to the gut, you sunk to the floor, sobbing. You didn’t want to believe it, but the more you saw, the more you remembered, and the weaker your body became, like the energy was being drained from your being.

The familiar tune of the hall was loud, practically driving you mad. “Stop this. Please.” You begged anyone who would listen. Your hands gripped the wall, dragging yourself up onto your feet, your frail legs trembling under your weight.

A gasp escaped you when suddenly, the lights shut off for a moment, leaving you in blackness before one flickered back on. Your heart skipped a beat at the table that the light shone down upon. “W-What is that?” You whispered so quietly you weren’t sure you said it.

Staggering slowly over, your feet dragging along the floor in an effort to walk on your weakened limbs. You leaned your weight on the table to find only a black, unnamed folder that sat atop it.

You gulped, not wishing to see what was inside, but was drawn to it, despite yourself.

Your fingers reached out for it, instantly feeling like you were holding a sack of bricks although the folder seemed almost empty.

You took a deep breath, trying to bring yourself to open it and when you did, inside, you found two items:

A singular letter and…

Divorce papers.

A tear ran down your cheek at the papers.

Never in your life did you ever believe you’d see them, but here they were, practically burning the skin in your palm just by reading the fine print.

The first thing you saw are names: Miguel O'Hara and Y/N printed side by side in formal, sterile black text. Beneath them, the words "In the Matter of the Dissolution of Marriage of" are bold, undeniable. It feels distant, like this couldn’t possibly be real—but the sensation in your chest makes it all too clear.

This is real.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. You swallow, and your eyes drift down, taking in the official stamp, the cold lettering, the case number marked by a court you don’t recognize. Every word is unmistakable, every letter sharp, a document that seems foreign yet irrevocably final.

You placed the papers onto the table, unable to look at them any longer.

The neatly folded piece of letter draws your attention. You opened it slowly, heart sputtering and stomach churning at the pristine ink of your lover’s perfect lettering—a handwriting he swore was chicken scratch, but one you always adored. Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first words.

"Dear my beloved,"

You hear his voice in your head as you read, soft yet unwavering, as if he’s right beside you, saying every word with sorrow but certainty.

“I hope that by the time you read this, you are in a better place. I wanted to say this face to face, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I would be brought to stay, and I know I can’t. Not anymore.

I am leaving. For Gabriella’s sake. You know as well as I do that things have been falling apart for a long time. And I can’t—we can’t—keep pretending we’re fine.

I’ve tried, Y/N. Goodness, I’ve tried so hard. But the constant fighting, the tension… it’s not good for Gabi. She’s been through too much. It hurts me to hear her cry, hear her fears about you, our marriage. I need to give her the stability she deserves, and right now, I’m not sure I can provide that in this environment. And neither can you.

I’m taking Gabi with me. I know this will hurt you, and I know you’ll never understand why; I only wish that one day you will. But please, for her, for both of us… get the help you need. You need it more than I can give you.

I will always love you, Y/N. You will always be a part of me. I want you to know that. But I can’t keep watching our family fall apart. Please forgive me.

With all my love,Miguel O’Hara”

Your chest constricts as you finish reading, the words sinking in like a weight you can’t lift. The paper crinkles in your shaking hands while you stare at the letter, a deep ache in your body that won’t go away.

The tears come, but they’re different this time. They’re quiet. They don’t scream for help or comfort. They just fall, knowing no one would come to wipe them.

Beside the letter, divorce papers rest, untouched, cold.

And for the first time, you are alone.

You sobbed silently, no sound passing your parted lips as you fell to your knees. Your body shook, feeling cold and empty, the sensation more real than the happy life you believed was true—more real than the blue pastel dress you wore from an era you never lived—and more real than the belief that this was all a dream.

You were so wrapped up in your grief and sorrow that you didn’t notice the lights shut off, the music now clear enough to identify that filled the hall again and the presence that now accompanied you.

The bulbs turned back on again, flickering eerily, the air thicker than before. Your gaze was blurry with tears, head pounding like a drum and you found yourself incapable of moving. You remained kneeled, slumped on your heels to look down at the end of the hallway, the table, folder, and note that was in your hand now gone.

You could feel that you weren’t alone, the familiar prickling on your neck beginning again. You weeped in fear, finally hearing the song that played on repeat, slower and slower, louder and louder.

It was your song.

‘You Belong To Me.’

The same song that you believed to have been the happiness of your relationship was also the catalyst of eternal ruin.

“See the pyramids along the Nile…

Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle…

Just remember, darling, all the while…

You belong to me…”

A loud thud to one of the doors made you yelp and break down into more tears. The song continued slowly, the female voice of Helen becoming horrendously eerie and croaky, almost inhumane. “P-Please stop! I-I understand now! Stop!”

“See the marketplace in old Algiers…”

“Send me photographs and souvenirs…”

“Just remember, when a dream appears…”

“You belong to me…”

Another bang that sent you cowering, shielding your eyes at the figure you knew was steadily approaching. The music continued to play, burning every lyric into your head and making sure you remembered that night.

“I’ll be so alone without you…”

“Maybe you’ll be lonesome, too

And blue…

Another voice—a deep, familiar voice sung along, causing the ache in your chest to intensify—the tears to run. “M-Miguel…” You whimpered his name, knowing the song well on his tongue.

“Fly the ocean in a silver plane…”

“See the jungle when it’s wet with rain…”

“Oh, mi querida, till you’re home again…”

“You…

Belong…

To…

Me…”

Your husband’s deep voice vanished along with the song, leaving you wishing to hear it again upon his lips—to hear his words of adoration—to see him again.

And for once, this nightmare granted your wish…

But with a price…

“Mi amor…”

“Shh, it's okay. Everything will be okay.”

“You are okay.”

Your heart leapt at the whispers of comfort that your husband always gave you. Frantically, your eyes searched the desolate hallway, only finding the doors before finally settling in front of you in the dark end of the hall.

His words were clear, coming from the blackness and calling out to you. “Mi amor, everything will be okay.” He consoled, footsteps slowly echoing closer.

Your chest heaved, rising and falling rapidly at being able to see him again. “M-Miguel!” You cried out for him, wanting to feel his touch, be in his arms again and found yourself craving that more than life itself.

However, your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach at the sight of him.

All you saw was…

Blood.

Shrieking, your hand clasped over your mouth, weeping. The white button-up and black slacks, the outfit he wore the last time you saw him still adorned his being, but it was completely ruined.

His once white shirt was now red, his dark brown slicked hair wet with blood and even worse was the wounds along his body. They were large and horribly fatal, littering his chest.

You sobbed into your palm, crying as he stepped towards your trembling form, unable to move due to being physically stuck in your spot. He shushed you in that soft tone he always used despite walking towards you like the undead.

“Shush, Cariño,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he advanced, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s okay; you’ll be okay.” His words, tender but hollow, slipped into your ears but it sounded so wrong, so unlike him in a way.

“No, no, no!” you wailed, voice cracking under the weight of terror and despair. “What is happening!? W-Who did this to you!?” Each cry came out strangled, desperate, as if voicing your confusion might somehow make sense of this nightmare.

Miguel’s body grew unnaturally still, his gaze sharpening, a twisted smirk spreading across his lips as he tilted his head to one side. “Oh, bebè, isn’t it obvious?” His bloody eyebrow rising in a mock question, daring you to confront the truth he already knew.

And then, before you could respond, his face seemed to explode with anger.

“ISN’T IT!?”

With a sudden roar, he lunged at you, your scream cut short as his hands found your throat, slamming you onto the cold floor. Your breath vanished instantly under his crushing grip. The impact jarred you, leaving your lungs heaving, begging for air.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his forearm, frantically trying to pry him off but his grip was unyielding, his hands like steel. The veins in his arms bulged underneath his button-up, his fingers digging into the skin of your throat and bruising the sensitive flesh. His face loomed over you, eyes blazing, dark and empty all at once.

“Look at me, Cariño. Look at what you’ve tried so hard to ignore!” He bellowed, each word cutting through you, sinking into your bones. “See it. Feel it, damnitt!” Your husband shouted, slamming you against the floor, feeling the air be knocked from you once more.

“You couldn’t hold on, could you? Couldn’t keep us together, not for me, not even for Gabi.” His grip tightened, further choking you. Your vision started to blur, spots of darkness creeping in. Tears began to prickle at the edges of your eyes at the thought of death by the hands of no one other than your beloved husband.

The blood dripping from his hair traced cold lines across your cheek that you could hardly feel against your numb skin. You could only stare up into the shell of your husband and see the inhumane rage, anger and spite that bled off him so tangibly you could practically taste it.

Your spouse’s amber orbs were devoid of warmth or light, his glowing skin now a lifeless gray, cold to the touch. “This is what you brought into our lives. This is what your love has done.” His tone, grueling and heartless, seeking to twist the already burrowed knife deeper into your gut until you were gone. Miguel leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath a harsh reminder of everything slipping away.

“Accept it, mi amor. Embrace it, because this is all that’s left.”

Your sight blurred, eyes fluttering closed as those final, chilling words rung through your mind like chiming bells. Fingers loosened from his forearm, dropping to your side, body stilling to leave you encased in a world of blackness.

‘Accept? How can I accept this?’

A thought was breathed like the fluttering of faint fireflies in the darkness. Your consciousness slipping away.

‘Who could possibly accept consequences such as this…?’

The inquiry repeated alongside your husband’s words until the abyss consumed you, dragging you under and into the oblivion you could no longer escape.

“Serum R9 has left Patient 1105. Patient 1105 is now conscious.”

An electronic voice announced as your eyes fluttered open. Instantly, the blaring lights from the ceiling seared your vision, forcing you to cower away. ‘Where am I?’ you wondered, unable to survey your surroundings with the glaring bulbs overhead.

The hum of machines engulfed your ears, seeming to be everywhere at once. Each beep and whir further disoriented you. Everything felt distant and detached, like something had chewed at your memories, leaving you clueless.

Then, through the haze, you heard the familiar sound of a record scratching, stuttering through a line from You Belong To Me, a song you knew all too well—“See the… see the… see the…”

Weakly, you glanced down, noticing a white gown adorning your figure, but not remembering how you obtained it nor how you ended up in this bed. Your head ached the more you tried to fill the gaping holes in your memory, but one thing rang true.

“Gabi? M-Miguel?” you called out in a scratchy, hoarse voice that you almost didn’t recognize as your own. Your lips felt horribly cracked, and your legs were stiff from inactivity. ‘I have to get out of here. S-Someone has taken me somehow,’ you assumed, fear rising in your chest.

You tried to sit up, but found yourself physically incapable. ‘What the hell?’ Panic bubbled up inside as you tried again and again, but when your arm started to flail, you felt a tug at your wrist. The metal cuffs cut deep into your skin and clanged against the bed rail.

In horror, your eyes snapped down to see your hands were cuffed to the cold metal of your bed. “What is going on?” you hardly whispered, your dull eyes finding other things attached to your body that you hadn’t noticed before.

An IV drip pricked into your inner elbow with withered tape, wires coming from electrode pads under your gown to attach to your chest whilst an oxygen tube was held up to your nostrils, filling your body with more air than you needed at the moment.

An ache in your neck made you reach up to touch your nape. There, you felt a lump and upon touching it, a sharp pain shot through your skull that made you further disoriented and terrified.

Your chest began to heave, hyperventilating. ‘What is going on? I-I need to get out of here. I don’t understand what is happening.’ You could only think, weakly tugging at your cuffs, becoming a sobbing mess.

“Patient 1105’s heart rate elevated to 145 beats per minute. Respiration rate above normal limits. Increased agitation detected. Subject is vocalizing distress; emotional levels are unstable.”

Your body jumped at the inhuman form’s sudden voice, coming from somewhere in the room. Instantly, you became rigid with fear.

“Sending for Dr. Owens. Sending for Dr. Owens.”

“What’s happening? Why am I here? What happened to my family?” you could only ask the electronic voice in a strained whimper, seeking answers amidst your confusion and cluelessness. Your vision was shielded by globs of salty tears running down your cold cheeks as you wept.

Almost instantaneously, a door burst open somewhere in your room, startling you. You whimpered in fear, eyes squinting to see the newcomer.

In a white coat, a woman entered. Her dark brown curly hair was tied up in a professional ponytail with a stern look on her ebony face that made you tremble. “W-Who are you?” you tried to ask between crackles in your voice.

The woman barely acknowledged your words. Her attention, behind her glasses, was focused on a screen beside you, fingers flying over the keys as though your questions were mere background noise. Ignoring your weak, desperate gaze, she muttered something under her breath and continued to work.

“Please…” you croaked, throat tightening with desperation. “Where’s Miguel, m-my husband? Where’s my daughter, Gabi? H-How did I get here?”

You couldn’t explain it, but a sudden rage exploded from your being at her indifference. “Give me back my daughter and husband, dammit!” you shouted, your tight voice strained. Thrashing in your bed, you screamed and yelled, the cuffs crashing against the metal bed railing.

“I know you took them! You took them away from me, you bitch! Give them back to me! Give them back!” you bellowed before breaking down into tears, feeling your cheekbones press against the taut skin of your face. Your emotions felt all over the place.

Without looking up, the woman clicked a final command, heaving a sigh. “Patient 1105, I’m Dr. Jessica Owens, and as stated many times before, you agreed to this.”

Your eyebrows quivered, believing you’d heard her wrong. “W-What?” you rasped, your ghostly features scrunching up in confusion.

“Indeed. It was either receiving your normal sentence here or assisting us in a few tests,” the ebony doctor explained. You could only look at her in bewilderment. “And… w-where am I?”

“Obscura Psychiatric Facility,” she replied, her voice emotionless and straightforward. Your dull eyes studied her for a moment, trying to recall your past memories, but it felt impossible. “Why am I here? Why can’t I remember anything? What… tests did I agree to? And where is my family?” you asked, desperate for answers, or else you feared you would lose it.

Dr. Owens stepped up to your bedside, and your body instinctively recoiled from her. “You’ll be surprised how many times I’ve answered these exact questions from you before, Patient 1105,” she muttered, running a calculating eye over you from behind her frames. “But I’ll bite.” The doctor cleared her throat, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Patient 1105, or Y/N, you’ve been in our care for seven years. Upon arrival, you were miserable and depressed, seeking an end to your troubles that the judge took away from you.”

“T-The judge?!” you exclaimed in confusion, needing her to backtrack and explain. However, it seemed Dr. Owens only wished to tell you what she wanted, questions be damned.

“We presented you with the decision to continue your usual routine here at Obscura or to partake in testing of a new drug being administered. You chose the latter.” Dr. Owens said, walking over to a cabinet in the room and retrieving a pair of latex gloves to snap onto her hands.

“You were cautioned about the addictive effects, memory loss, and life-long dependency on this drug, but there was one thing about this medicine that fascinated you more than anything, causing you to choose it regardless of the consequences.”

“W-What was that?” you asked, watching her return to you and ignore your question like before. The doctor began checking your facial features, under your throat, along your arms, legs, and back, feeling for any abnormalities. “Serum R9 is the drug that is being tested on you, Patient 1105. It is still being researched, but from your results, it’s a paradise, putting you in a dreamscape that you’ve always wanted.”

You listened to Dr. Owens, allowing her to finish her checkup and scribble on a notepad she pulled out from the breast pocket of her lab coat. It felt odd being told about your actions and words despite not remembering them.

Glancing up at her as she wrote, anger bubbled inside of you. “If I’m here, where is my family?” you asked. “Is there a reason I don’t remember agreeing to this? Did you force me to do this?! A-And what is this thing in my neck?! ” You demanded, the lump in your neck tingling once more.

“My husband, Miguel, would never have let me agree to such a thing. He knows I have a daughter—a family to get back to, for fuck’s sake!” you angrily shouted. “And you—lying assholes have made me sell my life to a fucking drug, and now I can’t get back to my family because of you—”

“Patient 1105, your family is dead.”

Your words halted, and you felt like your world had ended. Swallowing thickly, you wetted your cracked lips. Your eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists. “W-What the hell are you talking about?” you bit out, glaring daggers at her. “If you’re lying to me, I promise you when I get out, I-I’ll…”

Dr. Owens chuckled at your stammered threat, utterly unamused. She shook her head, her curly ponytail moving with the motion. “I'll expect that from a killer like you.”

Before you could think, you could yourself leaping up, reaching for the collar of Dr. Owens’ coat, and due to her closeness, you grabbed hold. A sudden burst of energy coursed through your being. Pulling her toward you, the chains of your cuffs jiggled with your movements. “Say that again,” you growled, staring directly into her cold eyes that gazed back at you.

“You killed them,” the doctor spat back with indifference. “You stabbed your husband to death and drowned your daughter when he decided to divorce you because of your insanity. I take it you didn’t like the fact they were leaving you.”

“S-stop lying to me!” you shouted, shaking her, not wanting it to be true. “I tell you nothing but the truth, Patient 1105. You’re here because of your actions, and you begged for Serum R9 to escape the despair you’ve brought into your life,” Dr. Owens stated with a glare, pulling away from your tight hold.

Delusions and unchecked rage were what you were known for, and even now, you sought to silence Dr. Owens’ words. You weren’t ready for the truth, despite having already lived it.

Acceptance was a lesson one could never learn without getting hurt in the process. Although you couldn’t remember it, you didn’t want to feel that pain, hurt, or loss ever again, so you ran from acceptance like hell.

You chuckled manically, your laughter growing louder and more deranged. “You lie. You lie! YOU LIE!” you shouted over and over again, pure rage bellowing from your voice.

In your mind, you saw your husband and daughter at home, calling the police in search of their missing wife and mother. Dr. Owens and the people at this facility were keeping you from your family. It was the only reason—the only truth you saw and was willing to accept.

Suddenly, you snapped, shouting threats at Dr. Owens, trying to break free from your handcuffs, and thrashing about in your bed. Security and more nurses entered the room as Dr. Owens typed away on the screen by your bedside. “You lie, you bitch! You can’t keep me here! I’ll kill you, I promise you, you piece of shit!” you screamed at the top of your lungs. The electronic voice from before filled the room.

“Serum R9 is being administered once more. Sweet dreams, Patient 1105.”

The staff released you as the IV tube was filled with a blue liquid, flowing from a nearby machine into your arm and soon bloodstream. The lump in your neck buzzed to life upon activation and instantly, you became weak and drowsy.

“W-What are you doing to me? I-I have to get out of here. M-My family is…w-waiting for me,” you said once more, trying to fight the drug.

“You are right,” Through your hazy vision, you could see Dr. Owens resetting the needle on the record player as the song You Belong To Me began to play. Your body became rigid, unable to help but focus on the tune.

“Your family is waiting for you,” the ebony woman added, her voice growing fainter as the music grew louder, until it was the only thing you could hear.

“So don’t keep them waiting any longer,” were the last words you heard before the song drowned out everything, and your eyes closed.

Your world of darkness was full of despair and turmoil. Like the speed of light, every memory you couldn’t recall before came rushing back.

Entering second grade.

Going to prom.

Meeting Miguel.

Getting Married. Having Gabriella. Kissing your husband. Drawing with your daughter. Family dinners. Night cuddles. The fights. The screaming. The crying. The blood. The guilt. The hate. The loss.

The Despair.

It came rushing back so intensely that it was grueling, before vanishing as quickly as it came.

You were left a hollow husk of a person. Your memories shed, leaving only two things behind: pure happiness and a need for your family.

~ I say, Oogum, oogum, boogum, boogum ~Boogum now, baby, you're castin' your spell on me. ~

The jolly tune of Brenton Wood resonated from the record player, your hips swaying to the song while you cooked. Sunlight poured in through the drawn gingham drapes, filling your home with a warm glow that energized everyone inside.

But, in particular, you.

Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from your and your husband's shared closet—a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthda-

“Wait,” you uttered, coming to a stop. Your eyebrows furrowed, feeling like you’d done this before.

You glanced down at the breakfast you were cooking, a sensation of unease gripping you. You tried to figure out the source of this déjà vu when your thoughts were instantly interrupted by a pair of burly arms enveloping your waist from behind.

Your heart fluttered as a blinding warmth of happiness, adoration, and peace engulfed you. “Good morning, mi amor,” your husband whispered into your ear, his deep voice of love enough to quell even your most chaotic days.

You leaned back into him, accepting his embrace. All previous worries and concerns vanished from thought, and the only thing you could think about was the feeling of how right everything was.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand caressing your stomach through your dress, his touch setting your body ablaze. Completely in love, you nodded, a huge smile on your rosy lips.

“Of course...

Everything is perfect.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the finale of Dear, My Beloved. Yes, it was very sad, tragic, and completely different from my other writings—aside from A Fate Worse Than Death—but that was intentional. The vice was Despair, so I went above and beyond. If you almost cried like me, then I did my job, lol. 🤧

To tie up loose ends and make everything clearer: Y/N ended her family due to insanity, abandonment, and mental health struggles after being divorced by Miguel. Serum R9 is the drug administered by Obscura Psychiatric Facility, which places Y/N in a 1950s simulation-like world where everything is "just right."

The scary occurrences were caused by the serum leaving her system and attempting to restore her lost memories. The entity that "kills" Miguel is, in fact, Y/N’s true self.

And yes, I was inspired by the psychological thriller Don’t Worry Darling. It has to be one of my favorite movies! 😍

If there are any loose ends or unanswered questions, feel free to DM me or ask in the comments. I know this was a rather complex, psychological, and angsty one-shot that might leave some readers with questions.

Also, let me know if any additional content warnings need to be added! I know the Gabriella section needed a warning, but please DM me if you think any more should be included.

Overall, I hope you enjoyed it! If you’re excited to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya, and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

<3 Taglist:

@oscarissac2099 @powerful-niya @szapizzapanda @mcmiracles @mreowmoreww @thedeva @jadeloverxd @lazyotakuofficial @migueloharacumslut @nattywatty @homewreckingwreck @kinkybandages @prazinos @huniedeux @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak @anniee-mr @crimin4llyins4ne @lynxslokley @rice-wife @oharafilipinawife @migueloharastruelove @rodriash002 @e1f-boi @user3732094737 @truth-dare-spin-bottles @taleiak @alurafairy @ddreabea @saturnistireddd @laysmt @reader-1290 @lazydreamer19

If you will like to be a part of the taglist in the future, just comment or send a DM!

**If you are currently a part of the taglist and didn't receive a notification, please check your settings to ensure that the tag notification button is turned on.**

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an-interview-with-j1janedoe · 8 months ago

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" AN INTERVIEW WITH URANIUM CITY'S PRIZED 'WRAITH.' "

(Ignore how the image text & the title text thing are slightly different I'm tired)

Yello, I'm back with another askblog! I didn't want to clog up my other Jane Doe/Penny Askblog.. so you get this! — @watermel0ns-dumb-cringe

[ALL ART USED BELONGS TO ME ; DO NOT REPOST. NSFW/PR0SHIP DNI.]

Format looks like this ⬇️

[⚙️]— "J-1 / Jane Doe."

" .. Must I be required for this? "

☆ RULES —

- No NSFW. Suggestive jokes are fine every now and then, but be wary for the person running this blog is a MINOR.

- Have basic human decency, please. This is an AU blog, being (partially) separate from canon. Ships most likely won't be included- aside from subtle hinting & already canon things. <3

- I'm completely fine with spamming asks just don't spam the same thing over & over.

J-1 doesn't have a larger role in the Target Aquired story yet— but you can read it here if ya want.

☆ IMPORTANT NOTE —

[May contain triggering/sensitive topics & imagery. Examples may include violence, blood/gore, & character death. Posts will have a TW/CW when necessary.]

FAQ under the cut

☆ FAQ —

Q: "What is the Target Aquired AU?"

A: Basic storyline for now is that that Penny Lamb was the only one to die in the Cyclone Roller Coaster Disaster, with the rest of the choir recovering in the hospital. She remains unidentified.

Before her funeral can be held, the unidentified body vanishes from its grave, the remaining alive members of the Saint Cassian Chamber Choir being found dead just after being released from the hospital.

Now having a robotic head, J-1 (Jane) essentially becomes something similar to The Terminator. Minus the time travel shenanigans. Not much is known about her other than the fact of Uranium City's residents slowly being picked off once they unknowingly are selected as a 'target' assigned to kill.

But maybe... Jane wasn't supposed to end up this way. Maybe she wasn't meant to be brought back as a killing machine. After all, a lot can happen when an incomplete 'machine' ends up in the wrong hands.

Nobody knows who she is, seemingly. Neither does she— her memories are gone. Programming blocking her feelings as to not get attached to 'targets,' and to not defy said programming pick those she's assigned to off.

However, J-1 seems.. a tad reluctant on the hunt for her most recent target. Is it rememberance? Is it pity? Or is it something else? Who knows. Her 'target?'

A painly familiar teenager. Perhaps someone she once knew before her death.

I'll leave the rest undiscovered for now. :) (fun fact, this doubles as a fic as well! .. even if it's from the pov of someone else.)

Q: "What are 'Targets?'"

A: Self explanatory. People that J-1 are supposed to hunt down & murder. She tends to leave odd symbols & writing at the scenes of the crimes.

Q: "Where can I read this?/Is there some kind of larger story?"

A: you can find it here! As mentioned earlier. :)

Q: "Who runs this blog?"

A: Yours truly! (@watermel0ns-dumb-cringe)

Q: "Who is he?"

A: ERROR. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.

[⚙️]—

" That's classified information. "

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ovwechoes · 10 months ago

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Recommending novels/books based on your support main! This is literally an excuse just to talk about the book's I've gotten through off my reading list this past week. My asks are open and any/all thoughts or opinions are welcome. TWs for any of the books mentioned will be listed as well. They're under the cut - enjoy!

Ana Amari: Ana used to find reading boring, often passing the time through other means. However, she's always found herself thinking about ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’ by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. The book explores the wild woman archetype, and explores mythology, fables and fairy tales throughout, helping her to feel some form of escapism. The themes of resilience, feminine strength and intuition make this a book that Ana would definitely recommend to you! Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault/violence, trauma, emotional abuse, death and grief, self-harm, mental health struggles, dark or disturbing imagery and cultural sensitivity (some of the mythology may be inaccurate).

Jean-Baptiste Augustin: With Baptiste's natural interest in healthcare/medical practices, the human body, and science with a hint of action and suspense, I think he'd recommend ‘Annihilation’ by Jeff VanderMeer to people similar to him or enjoy his character. It's the first book in the Southern Reach trilogy, and explores an expedition into an area known as Area X; a surreal place where psychological and physical expectations and limits are stretched and distorted throughout the novel. He enjoys the thrill the book provided him, and enjoyed the movie adaptation just as much. It's one that hasn't been able to leave his mind, and he won't stop talking about it when he rereads it every so often or if he's asked about it. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: body horror, psychological horror, death and violence, suicide, isolation/despair, loss of identity, insanity, and disturbing imagery.

Brigitte Lindholm: With Brigitte's life experiences, and her need to understand other walks of life (and partially because I headcanon her as wlw), I like to imagine Brigitte holds the novel ‘Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit’ by Jeanette Winterson close to her heart, helping to explore her own identity in a personal, retrospective way. The book explores the life of the protagonist with her adoptive, religious parents and her deviation from religion as she explores her identity in Britain. It's a coming-of-age novel that Brigitte found changed her perspective on certain things, and she would recommend it to anyone wanting to read something that's not the standard teenage autobiography. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: religious trauma, homophobia, emotional abuse, isolation and rejection, struggles with identity and psychological distress.

Illari Quispe Ruiz: Illari enjoys feminist books in my opinion, and enjoys dystopian novels that explore realities possibly not far from her own. It's something she's always enjoyed, with ‘The Power’ by Naomi Alderman being her favourite. She'd recommend it to anyone who enjoyed her character or was similar to her, and her reasons for it are understandable. This novel explores a world where women develop the power to control and produce electricity from their bodies/hands. This causes dramatic shifts in power dynamics within society, and explores the ways in which society would be different for women especially, with the moral questions lingering in the back of the reader's mind. Illari appreciates the outlook the book provides, and the ways in which it poses questions that shake your own morality. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault and r-pe, violence, torture, abuse of power, death and murder, religious extremism, trauma and psychological distress.

Kiriko Kamori: Kiriko enjoys introspection, and enjoys the idea of the afterlife as well as this. It's something she considers a lot, and about the life she'll be leaving behind in the future when her death comes closer. So, she would recommend ‘A Short Stay in Hell’ by William Blackwood to those similar to her or like her character - it explores the idea that hell isn't the stereotypical place with fire and burning, but a version where it's inhabitants have to endure a endless, meaningless and monotonous existence in a bureaucratic afterlife. Kiriko appreciates the way in which the novel sort of pokes fun at bureaucracy in real life/reality, and how much it degrades the human soul to do the same things each and every day. It definitely gave her a midlife crisis too early, but she thinks that everyone should read it at least once in their life. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: existential dread/despair, psychological distress, administrative and bureaucratic frustration, depiction of hell, isolation and loneliness.

Niran Pruksamanee / Lifeweaver: With the type of person Niran is, he would want to understand other walks of life, and explore realities far from his own but pose questions that relate to his own. He enjoys being left with his own questions about himself, and enjoys having those discussions with his soul about his identity or those around him. It's something he's always enjoyed, with the novel ‘The Left Hand of Darkness’ by Ursula k. Le Guin sparking this especially. Niran would recommend it to anyone with gender or sexuality questions within themselves, or anyone who shares the same passion for understanding humans in fictional worlds. The book explores a reality in which inhabitants of a planet can change their gender at their own will, exploring themes of identity, human connections and empathy. It left a stain on his mind for weeks after he finished it, and he would always recommend it to those similar to him or people who admire/like his character. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: sexual assault, psychological and physical trauma, gender and identity, cultural/societal oppression, isolation and alienation, death and conflict.

Lúcio Correia Dos Santos: Lucio has values regarding acceptance, community, and finding your place in society with support from others that he always holds dear to his heart. As such, he loves to explore stories with these themes. One of the books he'd recommend to anyone likeminded or those who like his character enough to main him would be ‘The House in the Cerulean Sea’ by TJ Klune. It's a heart-warming fantasy novel about a caseworker who works with magical children, discovering a new sense of belonging and companionship in the process. It's a meaningful book to Lucio, and he loves to talk about it any chance he gets. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: child abuse/neglect, discrimination, prejudice, trauma, emotional distress, loss and grief.

Angela Ziegler / Mercy: Honestly, I can imagine Angela being a splatterpunk fan, which is a genre that explores the human body's limits in a grotesque, gory and horror-filled way. As such, a book she would recommend to someone who shares this interest and enjoys her character too is ‘Earthlings’ By Sayaka Murata. It's a novel that explores the life of a young child, who believes she's been gifted magical powers from her plush hedgehog called Piyyut. It explores this, and how trauma impacts a child's brain when it comes to development, connecting with other people and morality in society. The ending wasn't at all what Angela was expecting, telling other Overwatch members about the horrors she read (that she also really enjoyed because of the implications left with the themes) and she would recommend it until she couldn't speak anymore. However, she knows that this book can often be too much for people with it's explicit details. So for those she knows wouldn't be able to handle the themes in ‘Earthlings’, she would recommend a dystopian novel such as ‘1984’ by George Orwell as Angela enjoys exploring realities that aren't far from the ones currently happening (or are about to happen. TW/CWs for Earthlings are as follows: mental health issues, childhood trauma, child abuse, sexual assault/abuse, sexual violence, family abuse/neglect, isolation and alienation, incestuous relationships, and generally disturbing content and themes. TW/CWs for 1984 are as follows: totalitarian control/oppression, psychological torture, physical torture and violence, oppressive ideology, propaganda, censorship and erasure of history, isolation and loneliness, dystopian and despairing themes.

Moira O'Deorian: Moira's also the type to enjoy horror books, but likes to explore serial killer themes with unconventional methods of killing. She enjoys exploring the psyche of people who kill, and enjoys the perspectives that they provide. It's always something she's loved, and so she would recommend ‘A Certain Hunger’ by Chelsea G. Summers to anyone who likes her character enough to main her or shares her personality/interests. It's a mock-autobiography that explores the life of a food critic that has an unusual and disturbing hobby: she's a serial killer who targets and devours her victims. It's an exploration of femininity, with the lines between pleasure, violence and pain blurring the more that the protagonist explores her life in each chapter. Moira loved the ways in which the violence was weaved into the love stories, and would recommend it to anyone who wanted to read something new. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: cannibalism, sexual violence, murder and violence, psychological distress, dark humour and satire, and explorations of morality.

Tekhartha Zenyatta: Zenyatta doesn't often read, and when he does it's mostly spiritualism-related content. However, he would always recommend to people similar to him or people that enjoy his character/personality the novel ‘The Name of the Wind’ by Patrick Rothfuss. The novel is about Kvothe, a gifted man who's on a quest for knowledge, personal growth and and intelligence. It gave Zenyatta a new perspective on things, continuing to grow his understanding of humanity in a different, unconventional way. He appreciates the outlooks and themes the book presented him with, and he enjoys the way it showed him more about humanity. Applicable TW/CWs are as follows: violence, child abuse, sexual assault/coercion, death and grief, trauma, psychological distress, and abuse of power.

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meatsex · 8 months ago

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Wait regarding bunny their blog got sniped too??? That sucks :( would you be willing to post the link for their diary blog thing?

yes, because it was a subblog of mine it was lost as well sadly, while it wasnt bunny's biggest show of their personality, i think it was still important to how they developed as a character and project throughout direct interaction

their website can be seen at :

cw for sensitive imagery for those who find it

#ask #other blogs that sadly also died were the trent tiger archival and a tf2 sideblog i had for fan content #ill update bunnys website when i can so theres no strange plotholes regarding the blog

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opalspring · 1 year ago

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Kotoko's justice and her motivations theory

While Kotoko is still pretty mysterious, there are some parts in Milgram that could hint at her inner workings and why she does the things she does. Here mostly content from her mvs will be discussed. Be careful as this theory discusses sensitive topics.

CW: discussion of kidnapping and SA

The wolf imagery and its possible multiple meanings

Before Deep Cover came out, one theory regarding the wolves in Harrow is that they represented Kotoko’s allies in her actions.

Now that it’s out, it seems more likely Kotoko was acting entirely alone for her actions (so more of a lone wolf image rather than hunting with a pack).

Kotoko has strong ties with both regular wolves and also werewolves, with distinct symbolism for each.

Jacques Roulet was the name of a French man who was accused of being a werewolf in the late XVIth century (source: https://www.historydefined.net/the-french-werewolf-panic/).

The wolf imagery seems to be associated with Kotoko’s sense of justice and her preference for working alone, unlike the werewolf imagery that represents her excesses of violence (imo). This is seen mostly in Harrow, featuring wolves and an overall positive view of Kotoko, then in DC which has her more questionable sides and the whole werewolf image.

Still, I feel like there’s more to the wolves regarding Kotoko’s case.

This article (https://www.psychologies.com/Therapies/Psychanalyse/Dictionnaire-des-reves/Loup) talks about some of the symbolisms of wolves, including violence, aggressivity, etc. This is psychoanalysis so take it with a grain of salt though.

One passage that struck me in particular was this one:

“Most of the time, in dreams, the wolf is a representation of a masculine sexual predator. Like in fairy tales, the wolf is an amateur of fresh meat (Little Red riding hood). Its presence in dreams can signify that the dreamer was exposed to disturbing sexual behaviors, abusive or pedophilic.” (translation)

This is what I think could be the hidden symbolism of the wolf in Kotoko’s mvs: maybe she was sexually abused as a child and developed her vigilante persona/obsession with punishing criminals as a coping mechanism to her trauma.

This part of Kotoko’s past might be hinted at with the flashbacks she gets at two points in Harrow, as she could be the little girl with the pink shirt we see (though this is still just a theory).

I feel like she’d need a very strong reason to go the lengths she goes for her hunt of criminals, unlike someone like Fuuta who also hates injustice, but takes much “lazier” actions for his beliefs for example.

In my opinion, wolves for Kotoko represent both her determination to hunt criminals, and werewolves her childhood trauma and her tendencies for violence depending on the scene/situation.

The wolf (both childhood trauma reminder and a representation of her violence here imo) haunting Kotoko. She also became the aggressor she hates so much like a lot of people pointed out, though in her case it's physical violence.

Kotoko doesn’t understand why she’s still not satisfied after dealing with all the criminals on her list and beating up the guilty prisoners. It could be because her trauma is still occupying her thoughts.

Many people have theorized that the girl with a pink shirt in Harrow could be Kotoko as a child. I completely agree with this, and it could be that Kotoko beat up Takao (the child kidnapper) to the point he died, because the orange dress girl’s situation reminded her so much of her past that she lost all control and killed him in the emotion (unlike the guy in the alley who she just beat up (iirc)).

Kotoko’s flashbacks while killing Takao (the car incident seems to have had an effect on her too).

A detail that’s a little strange is how the man in Kotoko’s flashback looks exactly the same as Takao (he’s even in the same outfit). It’s strange because Deep Cover confirms he’s 24 at the time Kotoko kills him, so he couldn’t be an adult if he was the one who hurt Kotoko as a child. Maybe she sees him as a stand-in for the person who traumatized her in the past?

As a side note, I think both the girl in a dress and the one in a pink shirt are Kotoko in the flashback. Maybe she changed clothes if she was kept captive for multiple days, and the floorboards look identical in both frames.

Some lyrics from Harrow that could refer to Kotoko’s past are these ones imo:

-I’ll teach you the pain you caused

→ as in the pain she suffered herself, hence why she feels like she has to punish criminals

- Becoming light-headed again, it all becomes crazy

The normalcy sought for, Fading away, Everytime death comes

The soul moves forward

and

Newly born “HARROW” “HARROW”

It’s ok to dislike, right?

Losing it, losing it, What should I hope for

Goodnight “HARROW” “HARROW”

Laugh and I can get to like myself

→ this could highlight how Kotoko constantly has something on her mind which makes her day to day life difficult (and that punishing criminals helps with it somewhat)

Kotoko’s self-hatred

If the theory about Kotoko’s childhood trauma is true, I feel like it could explain her general aggressiveness and dissatisfaction with life. Some lines in her mvs hint at her disliking herself too (“Feeding on food so I don’t burn out” etc).

“The feeling of being "cut-off" from peers and "emotional numbness" are both results of CSA and highly inhibit proper social functioning.” (source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Child_sexual_abuse)

(Since wikipedia isn’t always super reliable and I’m not an expert on the subject feel free to correct me if this is incorrect.)

Of course there are other explanations for this kind of behavior, but this info could potentially explain some things about Kotoko.

One thing is how Kotoko keeps her distance from the other prisoners in Milgram and isn’t really close with anybody, not even Kazui for example, who has the same hobby as her (training).

Other prisoners try to get to know her in timeline conversations , but she always stays placid and cuts the conversation short.

Mahiru: Hey, Kotoko-chan. There’s something that’s really been bugging me, so do you mind if I ask?

……how do you style yourself so well? Have you always dressed like that? But it also looks like something you’d wear for training. Do you play sport? Ah, or maybe some kind of martial arts?

Kotoko: ……you really are carefree. Everyone in here is a “murderer” right?

Is this really the time to be asking questions like that?

(tl by Rochisama)

Mikoto: Hey, hey, Koto-chan.

I’ve been thinking this ever since I first heard your name, but...

Don’t you think the names “Mikoto” and “Kotoko” kinda sound like siblings?

Kotoko: No.

Mikoto: Don’t say that!

Let’s get along well from here on as the Koto-Koto combo!

Kotoko: I’m not doing that.

(tl by Rochisama)

She could also just have an aloof personality by nature, but still wanted to point this out.

During Deep Cover, I feel like Kotoko’s diss on the other prisoners is mostly meant to show her own self-hatred rather than her dislike of the other prisoners (though this is definitely true as well).

It’s perfectly normal for someone to dislike some people, or a specific kind of people (like how she mentions disliking Mikoto because he’s loud). However, Kotoko goes well over all that and goes on a rant about each prisoner and their supposed faults in her eyes. In my opinion, it’s very strange that Kotoko dislikes All the other prisoners without exception, and to that degree.

Like said earlier, I think Kotoko’s obsession with justice and punishing “evildoers”, including people like Yuno, is not so much her caring about justice but a way for her to cope with her childhood trauma (Fuuta and his justice-seeking is also similar imo, though in his case my theory is that he was bullied in the past).

We see her beat up multiple people throughout Milgram, but so far her only confirmed victim is Takao. With the emphasis on her flashbacks when thinking about him in Harrow, Kotoko could have killed him instead of beating him up like said above, as his crimes were directly linked to her past experiences, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop before killing him.

I think Kotoko doesn’t really care about the other prisoners cases’ specifics in the end, she might be just searching for an excuse to prove to herself that she’s one of the “strong ones” who protect the weak, like she mentions to Es in her second vd and in a distorted line in one of the trailers:

“From the beginning I've never asked for your understanding! My actions, one by one, are bringing earth closer to peace. Useless Weaklings should just shut up and let me protect them!" (tl by milgram_en)

As in, she’s trying to prove all that to herself most and foremost.

Why does Kotoko look so restless here? Of course she’s happy to rescue the girl, but why is she sweating so hard and grabbing the girl by the collar? In my opinion, this could be because she’s still shaken up from Takao’s killing (in the sense that she just killed the equivalent of the person who hurt her as a child, if we go with that theory). Maybe Kotoko sees herself in the orange dress girl, and she wishes someone had been there to save her too when it happened to her in the past.

It could be why she instinctively pushes the girl away (?) when she hugs her (though later in the mv we see they get along).

Another detail in Deep Cover that’s pretty interesting is the last line in the lyrics:

“They’re still here, still here, it grates me”

From the previous lines it’s implied she’s talking about the other prisoners, more specifically the innocent ones in T1. So they get on her nerves because they were incorrectly judged and couldn’t be punished by her (imo).

The Japanese line however is a lot more vague:

“ほら残ってさ　残ってさ　鬱雑いね”

The line means the same thing, except the subject isn’t made clear. So a literal translation could be like “X is still here, X is still here, it grates me”

The English translations are official so maybe I’m overthinking this, but maybe Kotoko could be talking about her thoughts here? This is a reach, but “X” might refer to flashbacks of her childhood trauma, especially if we go along with the theory that the wolf at the end of DC= Kotoko’s trauma personified. This is just speculation though.

I feel like the subject in the last line being the wolf/Kotoko’s trauma could explain why she looks so distressed here, despite just having finished insulting the prisoners.

Plus, the next frame shows Kotoko’s chess piece being covered in blood/marked guilty like the other prisoners’. Imo this shows both Kotoko’s realization that she went too far with her “justice”, and that even after enacting it, she’s still not satisfied (because the real cause of her justice-seeking could be her trauma).

#can't wait to see Ktk's reaction to her verdict in T3 #angry at her for beating up other prisoners but it's interesting to think about what could have led her to get her mindset #though it's hard to know for sure #milgram #milgram theory

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