Synopsis: Senku Ishigami prides himself in almost never being wrong. If he was, it would only be for a moment. Because of this, there was no room for doubt. No time to look back. But when his eyes scan the green light that slowly engulfed his surroundings again and again, the one thing that made him turn was you.
Contents: Angst, little comfort (?). Orpheus and Eurydice typesshi cause I just rewatched Hadestown again 😋 More narrative than dialogues cause, well, just cause... Uh, mentions of blood (like once or twice), Senku is a yearner because I say so (I'm the one true Senku truther)
WORD COUNT: 1.9k
"Wow, President, you really know your stuff!"
Yet another compliment slips from one of the new members of the Science Club. Another compliment that makes Senku's ego boost farther up that it already was.
Senku only scoffs with a smug smirk, "Well, if I didn't, we'd all probably blow up, wouldn't we?"
The frightened look plastered on the boy's face was enough to let Senku snicker mischievously.
"Stop teasing your members." You hit his shoulders slightly with a rolled up paper of the monthly financial records, to which he glares at you first before gracefully accepting. "I'm only stating facts. No idiot would be refining plastic caps for fun."
"Taiju's really confessing?"
"Apparently so."
"That's good."
Senku's eyes soften a tad bit before it returns to a gaze of mischief. "Only someone as corny like you would think that's a good thing."
When murmurs about Taiju's confession from the other members catch his attention, he slides behind one of the counters to watch from another window.
"I bet 100 Yen on him getting dumped." One snickers, leaning against the metal frame.
"I bet 500 on him getting full-on dumped."
"Yeah? Well put on 1000 for me."
There's a shift in his space when you stand beside him, watching your two friends from above with a smile.
That damned soft smile you always wear unknowingly when you notice the tension between the two before they even realized it themselves. That smile that makes his throat dry up without a single hypothesis to back it up. No facts to explain it.
Senku sighs, walking away from his post to the vending machine for a drink. And when the hall is filled with snickers, he speaks.
"I bet 10 Billion Yen on him unexpectedly not getting dumped." He smirks, popping the metal tab off.
The booming voice of Taiju turns soft when there's a strange light that covers the sky.
And before he could even think, his body turns around enough for his eyes to meet yours.
To meet you. You who was reaching out to him first.
And it shatters him because no matter how hard he tries to reach you as well, his body goes immobile. And though he wanted to hold you, the ten meters that separated your unresponsive bodies felt like miles away.
Over 3,500 years later the first thing Senku looks for upon waking up from his first revival was your solid body still reaching out for him. Now farther than it was centuries ago.
His previously coarse fingers that felt rough due of chemical burns and handling too many tools, now felt fragile and renewed as they traced the little cracks starting to form on the petrified skin. The same fingers that traced the lines on your palm as if he knew how to read what they meant.
"God, even as a damn rock you still look stupid." He huffs, placing his hand atop your head. "I'll get the oaf first, then you. I promise." It's almost more to himself. Making his own pride swear to get you, just after he ensures someone can protect you.
Because though his might comes strong from his brain, he can never shield you from anything else. The lease he can do is use his head to think for your safety.
When he successfully revives his best friend, he knew then he had to work twice as hard to get you back.
~ ~ ~
The second time Senku's heart shattered was when he couldn't do anything while you stayed on the ship with the rest of the crew.
With only Kohaku, Chrome, Gen and the new recruit, Soyuz, accompanying him to scout the island, you had to stay behind with Ryusui. It was already a bother with the blond's constant insistence on "claimining you"
"Senku, I still think you should've brought Y/n along!.." Gen whines, dragging along the metal box that served as their form of communication.
Just as the scientist would give him a half-assed response, he's cut off by Kohaku pulling on his sleeve. "Senku, I'm really worried. What if Suika really did come with us secretly."
"That's just something Gen made up so you wouldn't drag him along." He deadpans, pulling his arm away and pulling his stretched sleeve back in place.
"Senku, I think I left my special knife!" Chrome would panic, rummaging through his satchel.
Senku irks at the continuous complaints from the three, his blood starting to drain from the overstimulation.
What he wouldn't give to just bury his face on your nape while he embraced you from behind in the quiet of the Ishigami villages observatory.
Before Senku processes the familiar green hue in the sky, his body sprints for the hills, pulling out a telescope to check on those left behind.
On you.
His lips purse shut when he sees your body covering Yuzuriha's smaller frame.
"No... No, not again." When his body can't decide between running for you or collapsing, Chrome places an arm on his shoulder to ground him.
Kohaku grabs the telescope from him and watches in horror as the strange army of men toss the rest of the crew's body into the waters. It doesn't take an idiot to miss that. And Senku was no fool. He wouldn't make himself one, especially when it would put you in more danger.
So he grits his teeth and stands firm as he calculates his next move to get you back.
~ ~ ~
The third time Senku feels as if air was being blocked from his lungs was not when Stanley Snyder shot him through the chest.
It was when even though everyone knew he was the target, all he thought about was you.
And while he was running for cover, he still slowed down enough to scan his surroundings for your wherabouts. And when he found you back to back against Ukyo with your own weapon in hand, he doesn't think enough to hide until the second shot was fired.
"Senku, you idiot! Hide!" You yell, clearly more agitated than he ever saw you. So he does, and as quick as Senku's brain works, so do his hands.
Oh, but a mere bag of flour and a few cups of water can never be stronger enough against a marksman like Snyder.
"Why did you look back?" You ask in frustration, burying your head in your hands as you sat beside him.
Bloody bandages across the floor, medical supplies scattered on the table nearby, and half a bottle of antiseptic sat beside you as you stopped yourself from crying. Senku's face contorts. A face of disdain to cover up his vulnerability.
"Were you the one who got shot or me?" He asks incredulously, making you look up at him with disbelief.
"Don't joke right now, Ishigami."
"Oh, we're back to last name basis now, are we, L/n?"
You groan, standing up to tidy the medical bay, anything to clear your mind.
"I wanted to make sure you were safe." Senku speaks to kill the silence.
You turn back to him, arms full of rolled bandages and cotton. "I was the farthest reason of target."
"You don't know that." He huffs, trying to sit up only to fail and end up in his usual laid position.
"Senku, it was a matter of your life or death situation. You'd think you can save yourself for once without shielding me when I can protect myself better than you."
The male feels his heart shatter at that. Just like it did when his eyes met yours in the first petrification. Like it did when your body was thrown overboard. Like it did when you begged him to hide for cover before he was shot.
But you were right. In all those times, he could never protect you. So what reason does he have to look back?
"At least when I see you, I know whether your safe or not." He mutters, mostly to convince himself. To make it known to him that your safety mattered most beyond anything else.
When you keep the supplies into certain cabinets and drawers, you walk towards him, sitting on the stool beside his bed.
Your hands find his in a tender manner and you lift your intertwined fingers to your head. "Thank you. For always looking out for me." You sigh, averting your gaze from his own, looking down at the white sheets that covered half his body. "But I think I can handle myself, you need to focus more on reviving modern civilization."
"I don't think I can do that when you're not with me."
"You won't have to. I'll be here. Right behind you."
Senku sighs before laughing softly, "Is that a threat?"
You finally meet his eyes and his heart feels like melting right there and then. "You don't have to look back to find me."
~ ~ ~
When Suika escapes the threshold of their base for safety, Senku feels a relief wash over him.
"Suika's safe!" His bother turns to you only for his eyes lock on the crimson stain grow and dampen your clothes. The gunshot sound comes late when he sees the blood drip from your chest.
Senku comes rushing, to catch your numbing body, his eyes scattering around your face. "Hey, hey, listen!" His hands quickly tear a large portion from his tunic, letting the cloth soak up the blood from your injuries to stop the bleeding.
"You need to keep breathing, okay?" He panics, putting pressure on your wound as you take ragged breaths.
Every inhale that felt forced was a stab to his chest as his hands struggled to place more pressure for the bleeding. "Yeah, that's it. We— we're going to the Moon together, remember?" He rambles, one hand moving to card yourhair away from your face.
"We'll— we'll go to the m- moon, a-and we'll be Taiju and Yuzuriha's people of honor or w-whatever... So, you gotta stay breathing until Joel fixes the medusa..."
Chrome runs to him with their batch of revival fluid, Kaseki and Gen in tow. But Senku couldn't think about that. Not now. Not when there were lower chances of The Medusa ever working.
Not when he would lose you again. Possibly forever.
When Senku's about to speak again, maybe to calm you, maybe to bark orders at Chrome and the others, another shot is fired.
And before he knows it, he can't breathe again.
"S— Shit..."
Senku's body slumps forward and the pressure he was holding on your chest loosens.
He should just give up. There was no point in this if that damn alien weapon wasn't going to work.
At least if he dies now, he's with you.
At least he won't have to turn back when you were in front of him.
"Y... You sh- should'— ve ran... W-While you c-could..."
Senku breathes heavily when you speak, blood running up his throat as his tries to talk back. "That's just nonsense..."
"Wh— why do y-you keep... turning b-back?.." You hands weakly lift up just enough to rest atop his on your chest.
Senku couldn't gather enough thought to answer.
Because I love you, he'd like to answer. Because knowing you were still there would give him peace of mind. Because he feared when you were not beside him.
Because to love was to look back.
"I love you, that's why..."
And when the green light cascades along the atmosphere, he embraces you, at ease.
Author's notes: I lwk made it with 20 ish minutes to spare (where I'm from at least) Happy Birthday, Senku! I love you so so so so much. I love nerds so much, I wish they were real 😣
Prompt: Vampires stalking prey. WC: 6.3k Oneshot (Don't get used to it)
Pairing: King!Tsukasa Shishio x Wife!Reader x Mystery Man
Summary: On the last ship adrift from a dead Earth, the emperor’s forgotten wife is summoned again & again to a life she doesn’t want—while the man who once loved her remains dead. Inspired by Love, Death & Robots.
Warnings: Existential horror, Death imagery, Themes of grief, Memory loss, Obsession, Implied body horror (immortality/vampirism), Psychological manipulation, Confinement, Mild Sensual content (no explicit sexual scenes).
A/N: Hey everyone. I’m a little under the weather right now (periods are winning), so a few of the other Darktober entries might be late. Honestly, I lost the plot with this one more times than I can count—but somehow it became one of my favorites. It’s loosely inspired by my fav Love, Death & Robots (“Beyond the Aquila Rift”) & by the question of how far someone would go to keep you from dying, even if it meant never letting you wake. Hope the cosmic melancholy makes sense through the fog of exhaustion. Thank you for being patient with me. ♡ Dividers by: @saradika-graphics
The corridors of the Elysian Ark were built for silence. Not the gentle kind, but the kind that clings—metallic and unyielding—to the ribs of the ship, to the tongues of its passengers. No natural light reached this far anymore. Beyond the static field that guarded what was left of humanity’s inheritance, even the stars had burned out.
The Ark drifted through a starless dark, its hull whispering as radiation scraped across its skin.
Inside, an artificial dawn glowed over glass gardens and chrome streets. The humans above believed they were settlers en route to another world. They woke, they worked, they loved beneath projected constellations, raising children who forgot the faces of the dead and celebrated anniversaries of a world that no longer existed.
They did not remember Earth’s collapse.
And they would not remember dying.
Every twenty years, a memory reset cleansed their histories—a skipped beat in their bright routine. Beneath their shining avenues, in catacombs the architects never named, their blood was siphoned and filtered through machines that sang lullabies in static.
You lived beneath those domes, where the light never reached.
The lower decks were a different country—corridors polished to black ice, air thick with the hum of unseen vents. You had stopped counting the cycles since you last saw real sunlight.
The Ark simulated everything except freedom.
Sometimes, when the filters changed, you swore you could smell forests. You knew it was synthetic—the ship’s idea of mercy.
You rarely left your quarters. The walls pulsed with shiplight, marking hours in a rhythm that blurred sleep with death. You walked barefoot through the dim halls, your reflection multiplying in the glass panels—thinner each year, more transparent.
Once, you were called Empress Consort, the eldest of his chosen. Now the ship simply called you Unit 01.
The title suited you. Numbers don’t dream.
Above you, the farms sang their mechanical lullaby—pumps beating, veins humming, prayers dissolving into vents.
You used to pray, once.
The words died centuries after you did.
Sometimes you still heard them, faint as memory: Senku’s voice arguing with the wind, campfire smoke tangled in his hair.
The image dissolved when you blinked. Only the hum of the Ark remained.
Up on the surface decks, they still believed they were bound for paradise.
You never had the heart—or the cruelty—to tell them they were livestock.
Tonight, your husband summoned you.
It was rare. Centuries had dulled your fear, yet the sound of his voice still reached into your body like a command etched in bone.
The others—his wives—did not visit you anymore. You had stopped attending their gatherings long ago.
You had stopped attending anything.
When you did appear, moving slow and devoid of color through the corridors, the human workers turned away.
They said you were a ghost from the ship’s first age, or one of the first to die and never stop walking.
You let them believe it. It was easier than speech. You seldom spoke now.
But when he called, you went.
The summons came as it always did: a single tone through the comms, no explanation, just your name.
The old syllables scraped like glass in your throat.
Not the number.
You found him in the throne chamber—though ‘throne’ was too primitive a word for the vast, cold room lined with empty cryo-pods and mirrored spires.
He stood at its center, black uniform catching the sterile light, hair a river of night down his back. He did not look five hundred. Immortality had preserved him at the brink of ruin, each muscle honed by violence and centuries.
“Come closer,” he said, not looking at you.
Your bare feet whispered against the titanium floor. The air smelled faintly of ozone and blood—and for an instant, of smoke and copper tools, as if a memory had brushed past.
He turned, and the stillness bent around him. The cape over his coat—lined with white feathers—made him seem an inverted angel, a fallen god too proud to notice heaven’s absence. His eyes were a dull crimson—sleep-starved, hungry—and you wondered, absurdly, what color they had been before.
“You still wander the lower decks,” he observed. “The humans say they hear a ghost humming in the vents.”
“I don’t hum anymore.”
He smiled faintly. “A shame. You used to be beautiful when you lied.”
That was your husband’s kindness—cruelty dressed in nostalgia.
The truth was a quiet thing, a hollow space in the ship’s hum.
Your husband had never cared for you—not in the way a star cares for the light it casts.
As his first wife, you were a title, an edict made flesh. He did not hate you; hatred would have been a kind of recognition.
Instead, he regarded you with the passive tolerance of a king for a monument he no longer visited.
You were older, and his world was built for the new, the sharp, the unforgiving. You had been plucked from the soil of your own life, roots and all, and transplanted into the sterile metal of his. It was his idea to take you, to bind you to his dynasty, but the act itself was the entirety of his interest.
The transaction was complete.
In the first decades, you tried to be a language he might learn. You spoke with gestures, with silence, with presence. But his eyes slid over you, finding more interest in the newer opponents or the posture of a newer, younger wife.
So one day, you simply stopped.
The effort left you like a final breath, and the silence that remained was not peaceful but absolute.
His indifference became your ecosystem. The other wives, the ministers, the sycophants—they took their cue from him.
They did not strike you, for you carried his name like a shield.
But they did not see you, either.
You became a ghost in your own life, a portrait fading on a forgotten wall.
You were alone, but you were safe.
You were forgotten, but you were.
And so the centuries had worn you down to this: a woman who was mostly memory, a presence who was mostly absence, waiting in the lower decks for the rare summons that reminded you that you still had a name to answer to.
You bowed your head. “You summoned me.”
“I did.” He reached for the console beside him. Lights flared along the floor, tracing his outline like veins of fire. “Tonight, the humans’ rations are insufficient. Senku miscalculated. We’ll need to cull.”
You felt your stomach tighten. “Cull?”
“The livestock,” he said softly, as if it were a mercy. “We must reduce their number.”
You had seen it before—whole families lulled into sleep with oxygen-rich fog, their blood drained in orderly procession.
No screams, no rebellion.
Just worship, silenced by suction.
You met his eyes. “You have enough for yourself.”
His expression didn’t change. “It isn’t for me.”
“Then for whom?”
A pause. The ship’s heart pulsed—a low metallic echo.
“For you.”
The words hit like a misfired bullet—painful, impossible. You almost laughed. “You’ve never cared whether I feed or not.”
“You’re fading.” He moved closer, the scent of iron and static following. “You think I don’t notice? Your reflection doesn’t register on the internal sensors anymore. You’re becoming incorporeal.”
“Would that be so terrible?” You asked, your voice so low that one might have mistaken it for the wind. “To disappear?”
His hand caught your chin—gentle, but too strong to resist. His thumb brushed your throat, feeling the hollow pulse that barely stirred beneath your skin.
“Death is mercy you forfeited centuries ago when you chose to remain.”
The touch sparked an echo: Senku’s hand, warm and calloused, brushing dust from your face centuries ago beneath an open sky.
The memory vanished as quickly as it came.
Your husband was built for conquest, not companionship. His mouth hovered near yours—not affection, but curiosity, a scientist examining a dying specimen.
“You should drink.”
You shook your head. “I don’t want to.”
“Want has nothing to do with it.”
He pressed something against your lips—a glass vial, warm and pulsing faintly. Human blood, fresh from the farms.
You kept your mouth closed until it spilled down your chin, streaking your neck in red.
His gaze followed the line of it with predatory stillness. Didn’t move to wipe it away.
Instead, he tilted his head, watching you like a beast uncertain whether to feed or admire its prey.
“Still defiant,” he said softly. “After seven centuries.”
“I’m tired,” you breathed.
He leaned in, his breath cold against your ear. “Then sleep.”
The last word wasn’t a command—it was an invitation to surrender.
And for a moment, you almost did.
But the ship trembled. A sound rose from the depths below—something between a wail and static interference. The lights flickered.
He turned sharply, senses catching what yours couldn’t. “They’re awake.”
“Who?”
“The livestock we are to cull tonight.” His voice deepened, threaded with something older than rage. “Someone’s tampered with the containment grid.”
For the first time in years, you saw your husband unsettled.
He moved fast, his cape whispering like wings, summoning holographic feeds from every deck. Human faces appeared—terrified, confused, aware.
The sedatives had failed.
A voice crackled through the comms, distorted, manic, and painfully familiar. “Tsukasa—our little flock learned to pray to a new god.”
Your husband’s jaw tightened. “Where are you, Senku?”
“Everywhere,” came the reply. Then laughter—high, fractured, and mechanical.
The Ark’s pulse stuttered beneath your feet, a second heartbeat thrumming under the metal.
He turned to you. “Stay here.”
You didn’t answer.
You’d heard that before—before every purge, every cleansing.
He was already striding toward the exit, his shadow splitting and stretching across the mirrored walls.
When he was gone, the silence filled with the hum of the blood engines, vibrating through your bones.
You pressed your palms to the trembling floor.
Beneath the machinery’s rhythm, you felt something else—a pulse, small and human.
Then, faint through the static, came a voice you had once known by heart.
“Don’t be afraid.”
You followed the sound.
The maintenance corridors narrowed as you descended—air colder, walls sweating condensation. Frozen decks stretched below, filled with discarded clones drifting in preservation fluid. The scent of blood grew thicker, metallic, and sweet.
At the bottom of the stairwell, you found her.
A girl—barefoot, pale, barely twenty—crouched beside a ruptured tube.
Her hands were slick with red; her eyes glimmered with the awe of someone who had seen too much.
She looked up at you.
“You’re one of them,” she whispered, which still ended in a small cough.
You didn’t deny it. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She smiled faintly. “Neither should you.”
You wanted to tell her to run, but there was nowhere to go.
The Ark had no exits.
Not from vampires, at least.
She reached into her coat and drew out a fragment of metal—a splintered data chip, glowing faintly blue. “He told me to give this to you.”
“Who?”
“Ishigami.”
The name was both a curse and a prayer.
You hesitated before taking it.
The chip was warm. Alive.
“It’s proof,” the girl said. “Of what he’s done.”
Before you could answer, the walls groaned.
A dark mist seeped from the vents—cold, electric.
The girl gasped, clutching her throat. Her skin paled, veins blackening like ink in water.
Your husband stepped out of the fog.
He didn’t look angry—just calm. Which, if you knew him, was terrifying. “You disobeyed me.”
You moved between him and the dying girl. “She’s just a child.”
“She’s a breach.” His gaze flicked to the chip in your hand. “And that—what is it?”
You stayed silent.
He crossed the distance in an instant, his hand closing around your wrist.
The chip flared, a shock racing through your nerves. Images burst behind your eyes—memories, data streams, screams.
Senku’s voice, whispering equations into darkness.
The first vampires suspended in glass.
Tsukasa’s body—empty—waiting.
You saw the truth in fragments: Senku’s experiments, the genetic coding of the “new humans,” and the artificial evolution of your kind.
You weren’t born immortal. You were engineered. And Tsukasa—he wasn’t born either.
He was the original prototype.
You staggered back, horror burning your throat. “You lied.”
“I created life,” he muttered. “And I destroyed gods. Lies are the scaffolding of truth.”
He turned to the girl, who was barely breathing. “This one will feed the engines.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.”
He pressed his palm to the girl’s chest.
Her heart stilled.
Without breaking eye contact, he drew her essence—not from flesh, but from the wound he opened—until she folded in on herself, lightless.
When it was done, he looked almost human again, lips stained red.
“She would have died anyway,” he mused. “I made it meaningful.”
Your voice trembled. “Meaningful for who?”
He smiled. “For you.”
The world tilted.
Your hand moved before thought could stop it—slashing the chip across his arm.
Blue light erupted, searing through him.
He staggered, eyes wide. “What have you done?”
You backed away, the chip still glowing in your grip. “What I should have done centuries ago.”
The Ark screamed—alarms blaring, engines convulsing. Cryo-pods shattered one by one, spilling shadows into the room.
He straightened, the wound already knitting. “You can’t kill me.”
“I don’t need to.” Your voice was steady now. “I just need to open the cages.”
You slammed the chip into the control panel.
The world dissolved into red light.
All over the ship, the humans woke from their dreaming cells, surrounded by gods who had forgotten mercy.
At the center of it, trembling and half-alive, you watched Tsukasa realize—for the first time in seven hundred years—he had lost control.
He stared at you through the blaring sirens, something ancient in his expression. Not rage or grief, but something colder.
“Then die with me.”
And the Ark fell toward the sun.
---
You woke to light.
Not sunlight—there hadn’t been sunlight for centuries—but the sterile glow of the Ark’s false dawn washing over your skin.
For a moment, you thought you heard screams.
Then the sound flattened into the ship’s endless hum.
You couldn’t remember how you got back to your quarters.
The last thing you recalled was heat—a blinding red light—and the sound of your name, screamed through static.
After that: silence.
Now, your limbs ached as though you’d been frozen and thawed again. The walls pulsed softly, marking time in the same indifferent rhythm as before.
Nothing had changed.
Or everything had.
When the summons came through the comms, it was your name—your old name, the one no one had used in centuries. It scraped down your spine like a memory trying to surface.
You dressed, hands trembling, and walked the long hall toward the throne chamber.
The doors parted with a hiss of pressure. The room beyond was vast, beautiful, and silent.
He sat at the far end.
Shishio Tsukasa, King of the Ark. God among liars.
There were officers, wives, and attendants in the hall with him.
When you entered, they left.
Their eyes didn’t meet yours. They never did.
But you heard the muffled laughs in your direction when the doors sealed behind you.
He was dressed in black again—always black. The suit clung to his frame like armor, hair tied loosely at the nape. Around his shoulders, the ceremonial cloak shimmered with white feathers, relics of a world extinct before memory.
You stopped a few paces away.
He didn’t speak at first. His gaze swept over you, analytical, like a machine scanning for faults.
“You’ve grown thinner,” he said finally.
You nodded.
“You’re not feeding.”
“I forget,” you said—though the words felt strange on your tongue, like something rehearsed long ago.
He rose from the throne, unhurried.
The sound of his shoes—expensive leather that was once human—echoed not just in the hall but in the hollow of your chest cavity. It was a percussive reminder of the new taxonomy: Tsukasa and his revived kind were now above humans, and the rest of the species had been reclassified. Livestock. Poultry. A lower rung on a food chain that had been brutally simplified.
“You forget,” he repeated, the words a clinical correction. “That is not a luxury you can afford.”
You let your gaze fall to the sterile floor. “It doesn’t matter.”
He closed the distance in the next instant, and you kept your weaker body from reacting.
The heat that radiated from him was a paradox—the body heat of a furnace with no fire, a metabolic process that should have ended centuries ago.
His cold fingers tilted your chin up, forcing a meeting with his eyes.
They glowed, amber irises encircled by a thin band of bloodlight, scanning you with detached interest.
“Your kind decays faster when it starves,” he stated, as if reading from a manual.
It wasn't a warning; it was a diagnosis.
“My kind?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You still think of yourself as human?”
The words fell like stones in deep water.
You couldn’t answer.
Somewhere, behind your silence, something tugged—an echo of another voice, another life.
He released you and turned to a table of glass vials, each tagged with a faint white code.
He selected one and held it to the light.
The liquid shimmered gold-red, like sunset trapped in crystal.
“Drink.”
You hesitated.
“Do you intend to disobey me, little wife?”
You stepped forward and took it.
The vial was warm in your hand. It smelled of iron and something sweet you couldn’t name.
You pressed it to your lips and swallowed.
It burned, as it always did—though you couldn’t remember the last time you’d tasted it.
Tsukasa watched until it was gone.
Then he took it and set the vial aside. “You’ll survive another cycle.”
“I didn’t ask to.”
“Survival isn’t a request.”
His tone was mild, almost distracted, as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat—more ritual than gesture.
“Remove your robe,” he said without looking at you.
You stared at him, confused. No matter what you did, your husband had never taken any interest in bedding you before.
But you obeyed when he didn’t react outwardly. The cold air hitting your skin.
He circled you slowly, his touch impersonal: shoulder, back, the edge of your jaw.
His fingers were steady, gloved, clinical.
“You’re deteriorating,” he observed. “The dermal transparency is increasing. You’re losing density.”
“I’m tired.”
He paused behind you. “Of me?”
“Of being.”
A silence stretched—too long to be comfortable, too deliberate to be kind.
Then, softly, “You’ve said that before.”
You blinked. “Have I?”
“Yes.” His voice dipped lower. “You always forget afterward.”
You turned to him, a flicker of unease threading through you. “Always?”
He studied your face for a long moment, something flickering in his expression—regret, maybe, or recognition.
When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “You should rest.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Then pretend.”
He brushed a strand of hair from your face. The gesture was too gentle, too practiced.
For a long moment he studied you, and something almost human flickered behind his eyes. “You’re still fading,” he said quietly. “My mistake. You need more than rations.”
Before you could protest, he drew a gloved finger across the side of his throat. A thin line of red welled there—darker, thicker than human blood, carrying a scent that was all his own: ozone, cold iron, and the electric sweetness of a storm.
“Take it,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the hollow of your chest. “You are fading to a memory. I won’t allow it.”
You froze.
For seven hundred years, he’d never touched you without contempt.
Never an offering.
The very gentleness of his tone was the most disorienting weapon he’d ever wielded.
“That’s… not necessary,” you whispered, but the lie crumbled as the scent hit you—a primal call that bypassed thought and went straight to the raw, starving core of you.
He didn’t move, a statue of perfect, patient power. “Drink.”
Hunger won.
Not just for blood, but for this.
For a look from him that wasn't contempt, for a touch that wasn't meant to cause pain.
You leaned in, your lips parting.
The first touch of your mouth to his skin was a revelation.
His blood didn't just burn; it sang on your tongue, a cold fire that spread through your veins like a resurrecting lightning strike. The strength that flooded back was dizzying, a heady, false warmth that made the room tilt. And beneath it, a more dangerous heat bloomed low in your belly—an intense, weakening arousal that made your knees tremble.
It felt like coming alive after being entombed.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch steadying and possessive. “Good,” he murmured, and the praise was a drug more potent than his blood. “You have been starving yourself of everything for too long.”
You hated how the sound of his voice soothed the ragged edges of your soul.
You hated how desperately you wanted this to be real.
When you swayed, utterly unsteady, he caught you effortlessly, one arm sliding behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting your legs around his waist with too much ease.
The world tilted—the hum of the ship faded into a distant whisper, your own frantic pulse syncing to a slower, borrowed rhythm deep within him.
He carried you to the large cold bed—his bed and his wives'—that had always been a symbol of your barren status, laying you down upon silks that had never known the heat of you and him.
His weight followed you down, caging you, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a prison.
“A reward,” he breathed, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, sending shivers of lightning down your spine. “For your endurance.”
His gloved hands, usually instruments of violence, were surprisingly deft as they traced the line of your jaw, your collarbone, the delicate architecture of your ribs.
Each touch was a brand, not of ownership, but of a scary, newfound reverence.
Drunk on the intoxicating power of his blood and the shock of his tenderness, you felt a boldness you hadn't known in centuries.
Your teeth dug deeper into the wound at his throat, not to harm, but to take his offering fully.
A low, ragged groan vibrated from his chest into yours.
"Finally," he rasped, the word thick with a meaning you couldn't place.
More of that dark, potent blood flooded your mouth, a paradox of cold fire that sang in your veins, your arms tightening around his shoulders where you’d been holding him.
Suddenly, his hand was at your chin, guiding your face to his.
Then, he did something you had never seen—with a deliberate motion, he released his fangs and bit his own lower lip, a dark bead of blood welling against his skin.
He closed the distance, and his mouth found yours.
It was not a gentle kiss.
It was a collision.
It was the answer to seven hundred years of silent, starving want.
The taste of his blood—his blood, from his lips now—mixed with the cold, electric scent of him, and it was everything.
Tsukasa’s hand tangled in your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pressing you into him until not a sliver of light could pass between you.
You kissed him back with the desperation of a dying woman granted a single breath of air. Your hands, once limp with resignation, came up to clutch at the dark fabric of his coat, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a universe of ghosts.
In that dizzying, soul-wrenching kiss, you thought, with a terrifying, hopeful clarity, that perhaps you didn't need to disappear.
Perhaps you could finally, finally, live.
But… but—
The pulse in his lips thrummed against yours—a frantic, double beat, slightly out of sync.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
It was that rhythm, that tiny, broken flaw in his divine facade, that finally broke the delirious haze. The voice was wrong—softer, layered with a curiosity beneath the king's command.
The touch was wrong—not taking, but giving, with a gentleness Tsukasa had never possessed.
The air seemed to crystallize.
With a gasp that was half-sob, you twisted away, scrambling back across the sheets. “You’re not him.”
He went perfectly still above you. “What did you say?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird.
You shook your head, pulling the robe over your exposed skin. “I… I mean your other wives… they will not be pleased with this… favoritism.”
It was a pathetic shield, and you both knew it.
A smirk, small and sharp and utterly unlike Tsukasa’s cold smiles, touched his lips.
“Do you think I do anything for their pleasure?”
He leaned closer, and for a terrifying moment, you saw a flicker of different intelligence in his gaze.
“But you are right, little wife. Things have been… unacceptable for you for a very, very long time. Consider this the first correction.”
But the thought was already a splinter in your soul, working its way deeper. His way of speaking was wrong. His kindness was wrong.
He didn’t press you, simply rose from the bed with a fluid grace that was all Tsukasa, turning his back to you as he faced the control panels, his feathered cloak rustling like a sigh.
“You may leave.”
You dressed in a silence that screamed, your body still thrumming with his stolen power and the ghost of his touch. As you crossed the immense chamber, your bare feet were silent on the cold floor, each step taking you further from the devastating, beautiful lie.
Before it opened, you asked quietly, “Why me?”
His back remained turned. “Because you are the first.”
The doors slid apart.
The corridor beyond pulsed with dim light, the rhythm slow and steady—like a heartbeat.
You drifted back toward the lower decks.
The air hummed with faint static noise.
Somewhere behind the walls, you could almost hear the ship breathing, or maybe remembering.
You pressed your palm to the metal.
For a moment, something pulsed back—faint, human, trying to reach you through the static.
Then it was gone.
You told yourself it had always been gone.
In your quarters, the air felt thicker—like the ship was holding its breath.
On your desk sat a small cube, blinking faintly. You didn’t remember leaving it there.
When you touched it, a projection bloomed to life—green code cascading like rain.
Then a voice. Warm, quick, alive.
“Hey, you.”
The sound froze you.
“Still spacing out, huh? Don’t panic. It’s just a backup feed. If you’re seeing this, I probably already—”
Static bled through.
“—borrowed something I shouldn’t have.”
That laugh—light, human, impossible.
Senku.
Your breath hitched. You hadn’t heard that voice in centuries.
“Listen, he’s gone. The body wasn’t wasted. I just… had to improvise. You’ll understand when you see me. Don’t—”
The feed cut out.
You stared at the fading light until the cube dimmed, the silence around you thick and unreal.
Gone.
Borrowed something?
A sound stirred behind you.
You turned.
Tsukasa—no, the one wearing Tsukasa—stood in the doorway. His eyes caught the low light, gold flickering through the crimson.
He shouldn’t have been there. You hadn’t heard him enter.
“Who were you speaking to?”
Your throat tightened. “No one.”
He stepped closer. The lights dimmed as he passed, drawn toward him like gravity.
“You’ve been wandering again,” he said softly. “Found something?”
“I don’t remember.”
A small smile. “You never do.”
He stopped close enough that the cold from his body brushed yours. The scent of him was the same mixture as always—ozone, iron, faint earth—but underneath it was something warmer, almost familiar.
“You think I don’t know you,” he murmured, “but I remember every iteration. Every time you forget, I start again.”
His hand lifted, cupping your face. The touch was reverent, steady, wrong.
“You used to laugh,” he whispered. “You used to call me reckless.”
Your pulse stumbled. The sound in his chest carried a rhythm you knew by heart.
“Senku.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Finally.”
You couldn’t speak. The air between you thickened until it felt like drowning.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly. “It was the only way. His body was strong enough. I couldn’t let you fade again.”
Your chest tightened. “You—took him?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “He was already gone. I just… continued the work.”
“What work?”
He smiled again, small, unbearably gentle. “Saving you. Saving us. Humanity was just the excuse.”
You wanted to move, to run, to fight the truth unraveling inside you—but his voice anchored you in place, familiar and terrible and utterly sincere.
It was a lie.
But all Senku had left were lies.
Now you were his last wife.
Once, you’d been something else—someone else.
Before Tsukasa claimed you, before the experiments and the blood and the Ark, you’d been sunlight-drunk and human. The world had just begun to breathe again. You still smelled like campfire smoke and wet earth.
Senku teased you endlessly for writing notes in your tattered book instead of trusting your memory. “Primitive data storage,” he’d say, laughing, and you’d smack his arm with the back of your pen.
He was brilliant, impossible, and sooo… exhausting.
Yet you followed him anyway—through ruins, through half-broken ‘experiments,’ through nights that hummed with the promise of new beginnings.
You argued about everything: the speed of regrowth, the flavor of resurrected wine, and whether humanity deserved another chance.
But beneath the arguments was something quieter, unspoken, alive.
His hands stained with soot, your hair tangled with wind—two people too clever to call what they felt ‘love’ and too human to hide it.
Then Tsukasa appeared.
He was a legend made flesh, strength that commanded belief. He wanted a purer world—one rebuilt by will, not machines.
You admired him in that distant way people admire statues: powerful, cold, not made for touch.
You never imagined you’d end up bound to him.
But when Tsukasa’s army rose and the schism split the fragile peace, Senku became a target.
You stayed, trying to buy him time, to reason, to stall.
You thought loyalty could protect you.
You were wrong.
Tsukasa’s men caught you before dawn.
Senku escaped with Gen.
You saw him once more—far off through the smoke, shouting your name—but the sound drowned under the scream of the petrification weapon. The world froze mid-breath, and your last thought was of him running toward you, too late.
Gen didn’t let him stick around the island long enough to find your statue.
But Senku returned many times to find you.
Centuries passed before Tsukasa found your sea-bound statue.
By then, he and his followers had rewritten themselves with regenerative cells, chasing power and perfection.
When they revived you, it wasn’t out of mercy.
You were proof of concept, material for an heir.
He married you for legacy, not affection.
He told his court it was for lineage; privately, you understood it was revenge.
Senku had refused to join him.
Taking you was the cleaner wound.
So he never touched you.
On your wedding night, Tsukasa simply looked at you and said, “You will bear a stronger future.” Then he left you alone with the scent of dried blood and incense thick in your lungs.
Weeks later, Senku appeared at court.
Rumor said he came to negotiate.
The truth was more complicated.
You saw it in his eyes—grief alloyed with guilt.
He started working beside Tsukasa, researching regenerative mutations under the guise of alliance, but every discovery was a punishment.
He built the device that turned Tsukasa’s blood into immortality.
He told himself it was science.
He told himself it wasn’t his fault when you looked at him, searching for recognition, but all he ever gave was a head turned in another direction, like you didn’t exist.
Indifference was the only way to make sure you lived long enough.
Then the rumor spread: Senku Ishigami had died in the final testing phase. No body. No proof. Only silence.
The truth was that he’d banished Senku to the lower decks, and so did anyone he didn’t wish to see unless summoned.
That same night, Tsukasa summoned you. His eyes gleamed like wet steel when he said, “He’s gone.”
Before you could answer, his hand caught your face and shoved a vial of his own blood down your throat.
Then snapped your neck.
His blood filled your mouth. Cold, metallic, endless.
You died.
When you woke, the hunger had already replaced the heartbeat.
The centuries that followed erased you piece by piece—first the laughter, then the questions, then the memories of the man with the soot-stained hands, the sunlight grin, and celery-tipped hair.
Tsukasa called it evolution. You called it nothing.
For the first few of those centuries, Senku used to listen to you hum in the lower decks.
And now he was here again, wearing the body that had destroyed you, speaking in the voice that had once saved you.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to remember everything. You wanted to stop wanting.
The ship shuddered beneath your feet, alarms flaring red across the walls. A voice bled through the comms, distorted by interference: Containment breach in Sector Twelve.
For a heartbeat, the scientist flickered through the monster.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice softening. “You’ll be safe.”
He started for the door.
You swallowed, the word rising before you could stop it. “Senku.”
He paused.
“Am I alive?”
He looked at you for a long time. Then—quietly, almost tender—“Not exactly.”
The lights flickered out.
For an instant, the Ark vanished.
You were standing somewhere else—stone corridors melted into a dark ocean of glass, light bending like breath. The hum of the engines became a heartbeat you could no longer tell was yours.
A voice cut through the dark. “She’s remembering again. She’ll burn herself out if you don’t stop the feedback.”
Then Senku’s, close enough to feel against your ear. “Not yet. Let her finish the dream.”
The darkness folded.
The Ark returned—whole again, gleaming. The floor solid beneath you.
The others materialized: Kohaku, Gen, and Ukyo.
But something in their eyes was wrong—flat, repeating the same moment, like a looped transmission.
You blinked, dizzy. Their mouths were moving, but the words came a second too late, echoes out of sync.
Gen stepped forward, his voice gentle in a way you’d never heard before. “Attachments don’t suit you, Senku.”
“Neither does eternity,” Senku murmured, and you realized he was hugging you close to him, almost like your husband should have.
The illusion faltered. The wives froze mid-step. Kohaku’s blade hung in the air, suspended. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Gen turned toward you. “You shouldn’t be here, you know. You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
The walls cracked. The red glow of the Ark bled away, revealing a different chamber: not chrome but bone-white, filled with floating bodies—motionless, preserved in amber light. Wires hummed through their veins like roots.
You recognized them all: Kohaku, Ukyo, Gen. Chrome.
And at the center—Senku and Ryusui, seated at a console tangled in cables, their faces pale and ageless.
“Senku,” you breathed.
He opened his eyes. They were tired, not red but human. “Hey, you.”
Your knees gave out. “What… is this?”
Ryusui’s voice came from somewhere above, half-sung, half-broken. “A monument. To what we couldn’t save.”
Senku’s hand brushed the console, and the Ark flickered around you again—the corridors, the stars, the endless hum of life.
“A stray solar flare hit us soon after we left the planet. The others didn’t make it,” he said softly. “Their bodies, memories—they’re all that’s left. I couldn’t let them go. Couldn’t let you go.”
You shook your head, the truth settling like ash. “This isn’t real.”
He smiled faintly. “It’s real enough to keep you from being alone.”
Outside the glass window, you saw into the other room—hundreds of preserved minds drifting in the void, bathed in quiet light. The Ark wasn’t a ship anymore.
It was a graveyard dreaming of itself.
You wanted to be angry, but the grief was too heavy. “You should’ve let me die.”
He reached out, hand ghosting over yours. “I did. I just never stopped talking to you after.”
The illusion shimmered. The hum softened, becoming almost like a lullaby.
Your body felt weightless. You tried to hold his gaze, but his face blurred into light.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream of Earth. Dream of the sun.”
And as the Ark dimmed back into its perfect lie, you felt it: the faint warmth of a hand still holding yours in the dark—steady, unyielding, impossibly human.
A/N: I wanted this story to feel like mercy disguised as horror—Senku keeping her alive inside a dream because love refused to die even when everything else did.
If you reached the end, I’d love to know what you think: was his illusion cruel, or was it kindness?
(Also, thank you for reading through the static. I promise the sun still rises somewhere.)
And i personally like to think that with the leftover gold dust and the smallest bit of platinum he could manage from treasure island, Senku creates some kind of totem or charm to remind him of Byakuya, his dad. Because even after all that time, the life he created after the petrification, he never stopped thinking about his son, about Senku.
He spent the rest of his life building, planning everything out for Senku to find without ever knowing if he would see him again because he believed in him so much, trusted that he’d be able to rebuild civilization.
So to remember that, the last gift he would ever receive from his father, he creates something. It feels childish, but he keeps it on his person at all times.
CW: sexual assault/rape, forced consent, suicide attempt.
.
.
.
After the moon mission Senku finds the opportunity to talk to Gen alone, he's been wanting to since the day he made things for everyone, well everyone but Gen. He's been wondering why he was the only one who didn't ask for anything. Back then he had been hoping he would ask for something, so he can return the favor for the observatory.
He finds Gen sitting on a rock on a small cliff overlooking the ocean.
Gen seems to notice his presence before Senku could even say anything because he speaks up.
"Senku-chan shouldn't you be back with the others celebrating?"
"They've been celebrating for days now, you'd think they'd be tired of it."
"Why-man was taken down, the threat of being turned into stone again is gone, can't blame them for wanting to celebrate."
"Then why aren't you celebrating Mentalist?"
"Why aren't you Senku-chan?"
"I was looking for you."
"Well congratulations Senku-chan you found me!" For the first time since the conversation started Gen smiled but it was one of his fake ones. "What did you need from little ol' me?"
Senku sat on another rock near Gen.
Senku then tells him that he was the only one to not ask Senku to make him anything and he wants to know why.
Gen knows if he says anything but the truth Senku will see right through it.
"It's complicated. And honestly a bit illogical considering it's you, but I've also learned not to be surprised by people doing something unexpected."
"you're losing me. How can asking me to make something be complicated? Unless it's something like a ray gun."
Gen laughs, but it's hollow.
"Senku-chan do you really plan to revive everyone?"
He raises an eyebrow at the change of topic but answers anyway. "As long as they are not completely destroyed, then yeah."
"Even criminals?"
"We'll have to set something in place for those who had been incarcerated."
"What about those who were never incarcerated? Those who committed crimes but were never punished. It's been over three thousand years. Any evidence of any crime is gone. We can't hold trials based on people's accusations alone."
"Is that what you've been thinking about out here all alone?"
"yeah."
"Why....is there someone you don't want revived?" Given what Gen had said before about criminals not being caught and now there no longer bringing any evidence he had a feeling the answer is yes and that put a cold hollow feeling in his stomach.
"yeah."
The feeling in his stomach increased.
"Gen.... what happened?"
And Gen tells him about when he was 13 and just starting out as a magician. How the producer of a show his manager was trying to get him on, took him into his office and forced Gen to take his clothes off. How he stole Gen's innocence, all while saying "I'm doing you a favor by letting you on this show, this is the least you could do for me."
He didn't tell his manager about it, but when he got home he told his parents who didn't care, said something about it being his fault, and kicked him out. He didn't have any friends or family, so he went to the only other person he knew, his manager.
At first it seemed like his manager sympathized with him, helped him get a small apartment a block away from his and his wife. Then one day his manager came to his apartment and told him that he'll show Gen how to properly pleasure a man. That's when the lessons began. Always leaving Gen feeling sore, scared and hollow.
Eventually those lessons become his new normal.
Eventually he starts doing these things for producers of shows, TV executives, he'd be snuck into seedy clubs where men would just have their way with him.
He was 16 when he learned alcohol and whatever drug was being passed around, helped with getting through those nights.
He was 18 when he made it to the top, people knew his name, he had a book coming out.
He was also 18 when I realized he lost count of how many men he's been with. How many times he's used his body to get here. How many times those men had mentioned "a favor for a favor."
He was 19 when he's sitting in his bathtub, razor blade to his wrist.
He was 19 and fading when he saw a green light.
"A favor for favor is burnt into my soul. So while I know you are so much better than those men, if you were to make me something, I'd be forever wondering if you'd want THAT in return. And for you I'd do it gladly, but I know afterwards it'd hurt me more than anything."
That cold hollow feeling in Senku's stomach increased ten billion precinct. Gen went through hell. If it weren't for the petrifaction he'd be dead. Gen also just somewhat confessed to him.
He's left speechless and for the first time wondering if bringing everyone back is worth it.
His head aches directing his eyes toward the doorway, but Senku does anyway to get a glimpse at your figure.
Your fierce expression tells him you refuse to get any closer, as if punishment for the suffering he subjected himself on the dock of the Perseus just a few hours ago. Senku had caught a glimpse of you at the far back of the crowd when the crew had rushed him in from further ambush.
He remembers pain, a lot of it, Luna tending to him, and various members coming both to check on his condition and to receive instruction and advice. He’s found himself with a rare moment of true quiet and space for himself. Until you appeared, that was;
Angrier than he ever expected to see, yet he immediately knows why. The realization makes a frown settle over his own features, and he doesn’t dare break away from your tense gaze.
You strode towards him suddenly, hand slowly coming up in the air as if to punch him, tell him off with a disapproving finger, do something to express your fear and anger toward him for his stunt. All he did was stare with his mouth firmly planted in a deep frown, not wavering in his expression for a second even when you stopped suddenly by his side, keeping your hand in the air and staring at him with a fury hardly being kept in check. His stare almost challenged you to try and retort against the sacrifice he made, and oh how it made you wanna—
But then you sighed. Stepped back. Lowered your arm back to your side. Your brows creased upward in distress, and, oh, no, was your bottom lip quivering?
“You’re an asshole.”
“Well, isn’t that a pleasant way to greet a friend?”
“You shut up with that, I thought you—“
You halted your words, turning your back toward him as horrified eyes stared forward in an attempt to steel yourself. A hand ran down your face, stopping at your mouth. What a horrifying sight that was. Not even a sign of warning.
“C’mon,” he wheezed out with a slight upward curl of his lip. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
Yet the silence his remark was met with brought his lips back to a frown, a more melancholic expression. He called out your name and was met with nothing.
“I braced myself: what more could I have done?”
And you know he’s right. He’s being realistic. You have no right lashing out so aggressively toward him. If anything, you should be praising his bravery, his sharp thinking, his ability to still uphold witty banter with you in the state he’s in. But you can’t. Not when your racing heart hasn’t settled it’s violent thrumming against your ribcage, bruising it and your mental sanity, since the shot rang out. Not since you saw the blood spill out of him. Not since you saw the intense look of pain on his face.
So for now, you hate him for it. For all of it. Even though it wasn’t his fault. He anticipated it at least, so you hate him for it.
He calls for you again.
And finally, you look over your shoulder, eyes glassy and expression fierce. The sight makes Senku want to shiver.
“I did…what needed to be done…” he starts gently. “It’s up to you guys now. And I’ll help where I can.”
Ever the efficient one, that Senku. How it could infuriate you like nothing else. You would think him made of steel at times with the way seemingly nothing fazed him. But with the way you saw his blood pour out from him so quickly, the anguish on his face, it reminded you that he was more human than anyone you’ve ever met. So passionate, so full of life. Nearly childlike in the way he winced as every uncomfortable stir and breath he in and exhaled.
The tension in your face dropped. Senku’s own expression perked up, but mostly stayed firm as you approached him tiredly, pulling up the chair by his bed and taking a seat, hands hesitating as they reached for his.
He stared down at the space in between them, and then back at you just in time for you to raise your own exhausted gaze toward him. Don’t you dare push me away, they pleaded with him.
A little knock of his knuckles against yours gave you the permission you were looking for, and your carefully took his limp hand in both of yours, holding them gently. He chuckled a little as he stared upward, while your gaze remained steady on the bed, and offered a small squeeze in return, which in turn relaxed the tension in your shoulders.
Things were okay between you two. Things would be okay. The sentiment didn’t need to be voiced aloud.
So I keep seeing edits of SuperBat (Batman and Superman) with the song Colors by Halsey and now I can’t stop imagining a version with Byakuya and Xeno 😔
Byakuya clearly being the color blue and Xeno being grey.
Now my mind is itching to write an angsty fic with the reader describing every moment with Byakuya like the color blue and slowly that color starts to drift to grey, with Xeno slowly replacing the spot that Byakuya left…💔and maybe the reader doesn’t actually love Xeno, maybe the reader is just focusing on the hints of blue in Xeno’s cool grey.
romantic; fluff, hurt-comfort , established relationship au (married), modern au
[ ukyo gets deployed , reader misses him :( , why did i make this so sad in the beginning , lots of kissing ]
requested from wattpad
dr stone masterlist | main masterlist
when people say they can't bear to do long distance relationships, your first thought would be "oh, so their s/o is not in the military force then" because months and years is nothing to you. it may be a normal occurence at this point─ seeing your husband off, wait for like half a year (if fortunate), welcome your dear husband back ─but your heart clenches every time either way. more so the fact that your lover has no guarantee of coming back alive.
and maybe because the day after is valentines.
maybe that's why the dining table feels so empty. or that watching the kids from your neighbourhood making snow ducks is your only source of happiness now. winter has always been this cold but you've never found yourself craving an insane amount of warmth, you only just realise this when you catch yourself slipping into the 6th layer of clothing.
ukyo had told you before his deployment that he would probably not make it for valentines. apologies fall past his lips and you only shake your head in understanding. you can't blame him, it's not like he can do anything either. he doesn't miss it when you turn your head for a second to purse your lips, and when you turn back to him, your eyes are slightly glossy. his mouth seals shut then, arms bringing you closer instead and in the next moment, his lips are gently molding onto yours. he brings a hand to your cheek, slightly leaning back and his breath tickles your skin when he whispers.
"i love you". a little thud is heard when he knocks his forehead lightly onto yours. "so, so much".
your lips tremble when you say it back and you waste no time to connect your lips again, urgently pressing your body to him. ukyo's eyes flutter close as he reciprocates, hand cradling the back of your head. because tomorrow, you'll be lonely again.
you remember going to bed that night with your lover's pajamas close to your nose. you don't however remember falling asleep but when you open your eyes, the clothing in your hand is slightly damped and there's a pleasant smell coming from the kitchen. shrugging off the layers you've had the night before, you mentally curse yourself for being too into your emotions as your body has gotten sweaty from all those clothes. great. ukyo is not here, your body is itchy and everything feels so stupid and annoying and now you have to get up to make breakfast and─ wait. there's a pleasant smell coming from the kitchen.
there's a pleasant smell coming from the kitchen?
immediately jolting up, you pinch your nose before taking in the scent again. did you miss ukyo so much that you're even hallucinating right now? somewhere in your heart, you hope that you're proven right since that's the most logical reason. but to your dismay (or is it), the scent is still there.
you approach the kitchen with heavy steps, scrutinizing the surroundings warily. your illusion must be so powerful that you're seeing the familiar mop of white. so so powerful that when he turns around, he's even greeting you a 'good morning'. so so powerful that he's even taking steps towards you, eyes looking into your widen ones. you barely register it when he closes the distance and suddenly, there's a moist sensation on your forehead.
"oh"
ukyo simply watches as the gears inside your head turn before he feels a sudden weight on top of him. "ukyo...", you whimper. he's here. he's here. he's here. he's here.
your partner's expression softens, hands circling your body to hold you in his arms however long you want. "i made breakfast by the way", he adds as his hand trace a heart on your back. you pull away a little, enough to see his face without detaching yourself, and a pout is visible on your face. "i thought you weren't coming until next week..". ukyo lets out a breathy laugh at that. his lips curve even wider when he replies, "got work done early and wanted to suprise you". your lover pecks your lips afterwards. how can he not when yours are puckered like that just for him to see? he smirks satisfiedly at your parted lips, your heart hammering faster against the rib cage from how casual that was.
for a moment, you had to remind yourself that you've been together for years and a simple kiss shouldn't have bothered you that much. but who is he to deny when you pull him in for another taste.
