ᴊᴜɴᴏ

[junos-library]

⋆𐙚 ̊. 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄

ִֶָ☾.࣪࿐ we cannot become what we want by remaining what we are - max depree

JUNO | 6.20 | any pronouns | bi

a local around the block who dabbles in a bit of writing for anime and videogames.

⋆𐙚 ̊. 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐎'𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒 (masterlist.)

⋆𐙚 ̊. 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐒 (rules.)

ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙ 𝐋𝐘𝐂𝐄𝐔𝐌 (socials.)

WATTPAD & AO3

© junos-library | 2026

[only-cat-memes]

[clinquantribbons]

in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.

kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.

simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.

john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.

but this isn’t a perfect world.

john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.

kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.

simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.

john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.

[mutt-mutt]

Seeing everyone talking about Price and Ghost in the mw 4 trailer, but to be honest I’m kind of more excited to meet the new characters. I think they seem like interesting characters, and I hope they get the amount of depth and growth (and also attention) that they deserve. I’m excited to see how Parks interacts with things, and yeah I’m excited to find out more about what happened with the 141 but also. I want to meet the new guys :(

[zeitvon]

wheres gaz well who do u think was holding the camera

[void-of-existence]

HE KNOWS OH MY GODS

I SCREAMED ALOUD

[lum1natriiix]

happy iron lung day to all who celebrate

[staytrueblue]

I’m so whatever sexuality this is

[allemantheias]

OKAY hear me out.

This takes place right after MWIII, so, what if Alejandro actually went after Valeria like he said he was in MWII's season 2 cutscene.

Then Alejandro teams up with Ghost (and Gaz) who are trying to get to Price before he does even more stupid things. Laswell isn't telling them where Price is, as she agrees that he needs to do whatever he is out to do.

I assume that's killing Makarov, as seen in the trailer, but then there is a bigger threat he's sucked in.

So in the end Alejandro helps Ghost and Gaz, as Price is with Valeria.

This makes me think it's VERY possible.

[cippicat]

I am re-watching the gameplay of Call of duty Modern warfare for the plot

The Plot

The plot

The plot

The plot

The plot

The plot

The plot

The plot

THE FUXKING PLOT

PLOT PLOT PLOT

PLOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTT

The plot (You know...I think I might have a problem)

[silverlullabies]

GUYS HE’S WEARING SOAP’S SCARF

[ravinouzz]

Ghost is wearing soaps scarf in the MW4 trailer. I’m not fucking okay.

[animentality]

[junos-library]

I just finished watching the musical of Next To Normal and I'm bawling my eyes out- UGH ITS SO GOOD-

everything is so blurry right now- my tears-

[junos-library]

Hi just woke up and rewatched mw4 trailer-

PRICE IS WORKING WITH VALERIA, PRICE AND GHOST ARE ENEMIES NOW AND GAZ IS STILL NOT IN SIGHT.

GUYS. IM WORRIED.

WHERE IS GAZ???????

[junos-library]

MW4 Campaign Trailer is out and I dont see Gaz.

What the fuck is going on.

Where is my boy? Where is he????? OH FUCK GUYS I HAVE A FEELING WE NEED TO PREPARE SOME TISSUES IM GETTING SCARED.

Also Valeria in MW4 trailer?? 👁️👁️ thats all Imma say. I feel like I heard her voice I gotta rewatch the trailer.

Im curious whats gonna happen for the plot stuff. Cause now its held in Kpop Land yk?

Anuwau thats all Im geekin about gotta nap again

[sc6ro]

the king of curses' biggest curse is falling in love with a human

angst death of reader reader has a terminal illness Viewer Discretion is Advised

ryomen sukuna hadn't made many mistakes in his long, bloodstained life. but you—you were his greatest miscalculation. the way you laughed, breathless and bright, when he carried you through the palace gardens at dusk, your fingers tangled in the folds of his kimono like you weren't afraid to hold on. like he wouldn’t ruin you. “slower,” you'd chide, cheeks flushed from the evening chill, and he'd scoff but slow his steps anyway, just to feel the warmth of your back pressed against his chest a little longer.

it was almost cruel, how easily you fit into the spaces between his ribs. the first time you coughed into your sleeve—a wet, ragged sound—he'd pretended not to notice the flecks of red staining the fabric. but sukuna had survived centuries of war; he knew death when he smelled it. and now it lingered in the sweat-damp curve of your neck, in the way your hands trembled when you reached for him.

you never spoke of it. instead, you filled his silence with stories—foolish mortal things, about fireflies in summer and the way the river sounded when it froze over. once, half-asleep against his shoulder, you mumbled something about wanting to see the plum blossoms with him next spring. he didn’t have the heart to tell you that by then, you’d be gone.

sometimes, in the dead of night, he’d press his palm to your chest just to feel the unsteady flutter beneath your skin. it was wrong, how small you felt under his hands. like he could crush you by accident. like he already was.

the first time you collapsed, it was in the middle of threading a needle. sukuna had been lounging across the room, pretending not to watch you squint at your embroidery—some ridiculous pattern of cranes you insisted would bring him luck. then the needle clattered to the floor, and your knees buckled like cut strings. he caught you before you hit the tatami, your breath coming in shallow, awful gasps. “idiot,” he growled, but his voice cracked around the edges. he held you too tightly, fingers digging into your sides like he could keep you from unraveling if he just pressed hard enough.

you woke with his face hovering above yours, closer than you'd ever seen it. in the dim lamplight, the lines of his brow were softer, almost uncertain. “haven’t I told you not to scare me like that?” he muttered, but the hand cradling the back of your head was gentle. you tried to smile, but your lips felt stiff, like cracked parchment. “sorry,” you rasped, and his frown deepened. he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the low table where your abandoned embroidery lay—the crane’s wings half-finished, the needle still gleaming where it had fallen.

he didn’t set you down. instead, he settled you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other reached for the teapot warming over the brazier. “drink,” he ordered, pressing the cup to your lips. the tea was bitter, laced with something earthy—medicine, you realized, as warmth spread sluggishly through your limbs. “you’re terrible at taking care of yourself,” he grumbled, but when you coughed, his fingers tightened around the cup. you wanted to tease him, to say something about the great king of curses playing nurse, but the words dissolved into another cough, wet and rattling.

later, when your breathing evened, he dragged his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of tea. you caught his wrist before he could pull away, pressing his palm flat against your cheek. his skin was rough with old scars, but his touch was careful, like he was handling something fragile. “kuna,” you started, but he cut you off with a sharp click of his tongue. “don’t,” he said, voice low. “don’t say it like that.” like a goodbye. you swallowed, watching the way his throat worked as he stared past you, at the unfinished embroidery. “the cranes,” you murmured. “they’re supposed to—” “i know what they’re for,” he interrupted. longevity. a wish for a thousand years. his jaw clenched.

there was something obscene about the way he loved you. it felt like a wound that wouldn’t close, a fever that burned through his marrow long after the fire should have died. sukuna had spent lifetimes carving his name into history with violence, and yet—here he was, undone by the press of your fingertips against his pulse. you were mortal. fragile. temporary. and still, when you sighed against his shoulder in sleep, something in his chest twisted so sharply he had to bite back a sound.

he hated it. hated the way your laughter made his ribs ache, hated how your scent lingered on his clothes long after you’d left the room. most of all, he hated the way your sickness made him helpless. for all his strength, all his curses, he couldn’t tear this from you. couldn’t rewrite the rot in your lungs with his own hands. the realization sat like a stone in his throat, heavy and suffocating.

sometimes, when you slept, he’d trace the shadows under your eyes with his thumb and imagine ripping the illness from your body, even if it meant swallowing it himself. but that was the cruelest joke of all—he’d survive it. you wouldn’t. and so he stayed, pressing his lips to your clammy forehead while you trembled through another night, his arms a cage meant to keep you whole even as you splintered apart in them.

you asked him once, voice drowsy with exhaustion, why he stayed. “you’re trouble,” he’d lied, flicking your nose. but the truth tasted like blood in his mouth—he stayed because you were the first thing he’d ever had that was worth losing. and losing you would ruin him in ways no enemy ever could.

it was pathetic, really. the king of curses, reduced to counting your breaths like each one might be your last. he’d catch himself memorizing the slope of your shoulders, the way your fingers curled around his wrist when you dreamed, as if he could keep you with him through sheer force of will. but time slipped through his fingers like sand, and every morning, you woke a little paler, a little further away.

times where you'd chase him in the garden, panting with laughter, were long gone. now you could barely walk without sukuna's arm around your waist, your legs trembling like a newborn fawn's. he hated it—hated the way your knees buckled after three steps, hated how you'd bite your lip to keep from groaning when the pain flared up. but most of all, he hated the way you'd still smile up at him, like this was just another inconvenience and not the slow unraveling of your body. “rest,” he'd growl, lowering you onto the engawa when your breathing turned ragged. you'd protest weakly, “i wanna spend time with you,” and his chest would tighten like a vice.

each time someone dared ask him why he didn’t just discard you—some simpering courtier or wary servant—he’d crush their windpipe before they finished the sentence. their blood would splatter the shoji screens, their bodies tossed into the courtyard like discarded rags. no one questioned him after the third one. it was easier that way. less to clean up. less to explain to you when you woke from your feverish naps, blinking up at him with those tired, trusting eyes. “what happened?” you'd murmur, nodding at the fresh bloodstains on his sleeves. “hunting,” he'd lie, and you'd hum like you didn’t know better, like he wasn’t drowning in the weight of your faith.

he stopped leaving the palace altogether. the world outside could burn for all he cared. instead, he spent his days hauling you from one sunlit spot to another, chasing the weak warmth like it could stitch you back together. today, it was the engawa overlooking the koi pond, where you sat propped against his side, your fingers trailing absently over the embroidery in your lap. the cranes were nearly finished now, their wings arcing toward each other in an imperfect symmetry. “see?” you said, voice thin but triumphant. “told you i’d finish it.” sukuna stared at the way your knuckles whitened around the needle, the tremor in your wrist as you pulled the thread taut. “stupid,” he muttered, but his hand came up to cradle yours, steadying the shake. “should’ve just let me buy you one.” you laughed, a sound like dry leaves. “where’s the fun in that?”

it happened on a morning so ordinary it felt like a betrayal. the air was thick with the scent of plum blossoms, their petals drifting lazily onto the engawa where sukuna had propped you against his side, your head lolling against his shoulder. you'd been quieter than usual, your fingers limp around the half-finished embroidery—one crane’s wing still missing its final stitches. “kuna,” you'd murmured, voice so faint he almost didn’t catch it. when he turned his head, your eyes were already glazing over, your breath shallow as a wounded bird’s. he knew before your chest stilled. before the needle slipped from your fingers for the last time.

he didn’t scream. didn’t roar. sukuna simply pressed his lips to your temple and held you there, your body cooling in his arms as the plum blossoms kept falling, indifferent. it wasn’t until the servants found him hours later—your corpse cradled against his chest, his fingers tangled in your hair—that they realized he hadn’t blinked. hadn’t moved. “my lord,” one dared whisper, and his head snapped up, eyes hollow. they fled before he could gut them.

sukuna couldn't physically cry, so the plum blossoms wept for him instead. petals fell like wet ink drops onto your still-warm cheeks as he pressed his forehead against yours, your lashes casting spiderweb shadows he'd never see flutter again. someone had left the shoji screens open—stupid, careless—and the morning light painted stripes across your collarbones like prison bars. he wanted to hate it, the way the sun dared touch you now, when it had done nothing to keep you here. but his throat was too full of your name to speak.

“i've never been more sorry,” he rasped against your temple, his voice breaking in ways it never had—not in battle, not in fury, not in the centuries of carnage that had shaped him. his lips moved against your skin like he was trying to press the words into you, to make them stick where breath no longer could. "i love you." the admission came out mangled, a confession wrung from the hollows of his ribs. he'd fought gods and men, but this—this stillness beneath his hands—was the only thing that had ever brought him to his knees.

he didn't know how long he sat there, your weight limp in his arms, before his fingers found the half-finished embroidery still tangled in your lap. the crane's lone wing stared back at him, thread dangling like a snapped noose. sukuna didn't believe in prayers, but his thumb brushed over those clumsy stitches anyway, as if he could will them into flight. “stupid,” he choked out.

he didn't burn your flesh—which was one of the greatest mercies sukuna had ever allowed himself. instead, he dressed your body in layers of silk the color of dawn, fingers lingering over the embroidery at your collar where your cranes would never fly completed. he tucked the half-finished piece beneath your folded hands, thread still clinging to the needle like a final plea. when they lowered you into the earth, he didn't throw himself after you, though the weight in his chest begged him to. the hollow where you'd lived between his ribs ached like a missing limb.

days bled together without the rhythm of your breathing to mark them. servants stopped announcing themselves at his chambers, leaving trays of untouched food outside the shoji where your scent still clung to the tatami. sometimes he'd find himself turning to speak to you, the words dying on his tongue when his eyes caught the empty space where you used to curl against the low table, squinting at your needlework. the palace felt like a tomb, every corridor echoing with the ghost of your laughter, every garden path haunted by the memory of your fingers brushing petals he now crushed underfoot.

he would grow older, yet never wiser—just angrier, at himself and the world for allowing such a thing to happen. sukuna had once laughed at the concept of graves, yet now he found himself kneeling before yours every morning, pressing his forehead to the cold stone marker as if it could bridge the impossible distance between flesh and memory.

[junos-library]

I love angst so much. So well written and I adore it to bits. It tore me apart.

*hands author a mug full of my tears* do you want to make tea with this or coffee? Or do you just want to drink it for hydration? The choice is yours. The world is your oyster.