— in which you and damian are broken up, but what happens when you drunk call him at a party?
“Bye, it’s me howsmmm call do you me still love?”
──────────
You knew you should be going easy with the drinks, but you pushed the thought of being responsable aside for tonight and downed a shot of Vodka.
You were at your best friend’s house for her birthday party, the music was so loud and there were so many people. Normally you would’ve hated it, but you knew you needed to get out of your apartment. It had been weeks since you and Damian broke up and to say the last few days had been hard was an underestimating. Your bestie Lydia basically had to push out the bed to get you here.
But honestly you were kinda glad she did, you were sad and hurt, and getting drunk at a party sounded like the perfect solution to your problems.
You coughed a little as you took another shot glass and held it to your lips, the people around you cheering loudly as you swallowed it.
You were pretty tonight, with a cute dress hugging your body, Lydia told you there would be many boys tonight but as you looked around, you scrunched your nose at each one of them. They just weren’t him.
And plus, your friends, as in your best friend and her boyfriend making out on the kitchen counter next to you didn’t help to your I-miss-my-ex situation.
So you stuck to drinking.
The first two shots had been easy, you felt normal. Then you got dragged by some random girls to take drinks in red cups.
They were nice, they complimented your outfit and made you laugh. Then one of them handed you your drink and you sipped it without even asking what it was. You were too far gone to care.
By the fourth drink, they dragged you to dance. You moved your hips to the beat of a Britney Spears song, your mind was a bit fogged, but still you thought of Damian.
He would hate to see you drinking, he probably would’ve stayed in a corner and watched you dance. Then he probably would’ve smiled faintly at you and secretly enjoyed watching you move, but he never would’ve said that to you.
Fuck it. You sang your heart out, the music ringing in your ears. Lydia was by your side too, you didn’t know when she got there, but she started to dance too, cheering on you.
Then a boy randomly came up to you and asked you something you didn’t understand. You frowned, “What?”
“I said I think you’re pretty!” He yelled, making you wave a hand at him.
“I have a boyfriend!” You said, but Lydia shook her head. “No, she doesn’t!”
The boy laughed at you, then kindly asked “Complicated?”
You nodded, “He’s an idiot! And I’m in love!”
“Okay okay,” he said with a smile, holding his hands up in surrounder. “A drink could help, though”
You smiled at him, he was cute too. You took the drink from his hands but didn’t drink it, hesitant.
You were still not drunk enough to be reckless. The boy understood, “I promise I didn’t put anything in it,” he took the plastic cup from your hand and took a sip, “here!”
You laughed at him when he handed back the drink. You downed it in one go, wanting to get more drunk.
“I’m Jaden” he said, holding a hand out. “Y/N.”
By the fifth drink, you needed a bathroom. Your vision was blurred and you couldn’t walk straight, but you managed to make it to the top floor of the house on your own.
You held your face in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees as you sat down on the toilet. The fun was dead now that you were alone, you kept thinking about Lydia and her boyfriend, how it should‘ve been you and Damian.
You hated that he left you. You hated him.
As a matter of fact, what was stopping you from telling him?
You didn’t even know what time it was when you clicked on his number, the phone ringing just two times before his sleepy voice answered.
“Y/N, hello?”
He never called you by your name, you could’ve cried at the sound of his voice. “I hate you.”
You heard a ruffling sound, “What?”
“Yes, because you’re not here and I want you and there are too many people and they aren’t you” your words were slurred and you could picture the frown forming on his pretty face.
“Where are you now?” His voice was surprisingly soft.
“Dami, do you still love me?” You suddenly said, and there was silence for a moment.
“Because I love you.” You stated, “But I hate you because you hurt me.”
“Just tell me where you are.”
You chuckled, but didn’t answer “You know what the funny thing is? I won’t even remember this tomorrow, I’m too drunk to even stand straight.”
“Beloved?” You paused at the nickname, suddenly going quiet now. “Mh?”
“Can you tell me where you are?”
You scoffed, “God, you’re so dramatic, I’m at a party! Can’t you hear the music? I’m partying!”
He sounded like he was putting on his jacket, he probably remembered today was Lydia’s birthday. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming over.” He said, his tone confident. “No.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
You frowned the second you saw him entering the house, unsure if you were happy or not. He didn’t look exactly happy either, he looked… worried?
When he spotted you, he quickly approached you. Lydia was by your side smiling at him, she wasn’t as drunk as you, but she was grateful he had come to pick you up.
He eyed you with an unreadable expression, “I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t wanna go anywhere with you.” You said, but you were already willingly following him outside.
Lydia yelled something like “I’ll call you tomorrow!” and you waved a hand at her.
The cold air hit your body, making you shiver. Didn’t you have a jacket? You were sure you had brought one. Without a word, Damian gave you his. You looked at him with an angry pout.
You stumbled over your feet and he caught your arm, sighing. “How much did you drink?”
You mumbled, “I think five?”
Damian shook his head, “You shouldn’t drink that much, especially if you had to walk home.”
“Don’t lecture me! It’s your fault I even drank in the first place.”
“You drank because of me?” He looked at you like he was shocked. You nodded, “I should hate you.”
He knew you were drunk and you probably weren’t fully processing what was going on, but he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t you?”
“No.” You muttered.
An uncomfortable silence fell between you. His hand was still holding you and you still were shivering (you didn’t think it was the cold).
You suddenly stopped in your tracks, “I think I have to-”
You doubled over and threw up in a bush, Damian rushed to your side holding your hair and saying something in Arabic, probably cursing.
“Easy, we’re almost at your apartment.” His hand was caressing your back gently, you finished with a groan. You felt so hopeless, drunk on a sidewalk with your ex in the middle of the night.
When you reached your flat, he helped you up the stairs and opened the door for you. There was an awkward silence as he stood in the doorway, you didn’t want him to leave.
“Dami.” You said, “Yes?”
“I miss you.” You admitted, with a quiet voice.
He froze, he knew you were gonna say it eventually, but he wasn’t prepared. He knew you missed him, just like he missed you. He wished he could tell you, instead he just said, “I’m sorry.”
Your heart dropped and your face saddened. “Why can’t we be together?”
He froze, didn’t answer right away, brushing it off. You thought maybe he would walk out, leave you alone like he had before. But instead he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Come on,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly, guiding you to your room silently.
He was avoiding your face, he would’ve caved in if he saw the sad look in your eyes. The love despite the hurt he caused.
He helped you to sit on the bed, then gently took off your heels with careful precision. He got up and you swayed forward, grabbing his wrist, refusing to let go.
“Stay.” You said, the desperation evident in your tone. “Please, just for tonight.”
He parted his lips, torn between sleeping beside the person he loved once more or walking out and (not) complicating things even more.
He hesitantly kicked off his shoes and slid into your bed beside you. He kept his distance, lying on the edge of the bed, but you had other plans.
You turned and curled to his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Damian froze, didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move away either.
A single tear slipped from your eye, and you asked, “Why can’t we, Damian?” your words weren’t so slurred anymore, but the alcol did nothing to cover the sharp hurt in your voice.
“I don’t care about anything else, I just… I want you.”
His voice came out as a whisper, “You deserve better.”
“Damian-” you said, but he cut you off. “You’re still drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Your throat tightened, you really tried to compose yourself, but a sob escaped before you could stop it. Damian froze, the sound hitting him harder than any blade could.
“Habibti,” He whispered, his hand finding the small of your back like he never forgot the shape of you and shifted closer despite himself.
You tried to muffle your tears against his shoulder, but they only fell down harder, your body trembling with the weight of every word you couldn’t say. Damian’s heart warred against his head, his arm tightened around you all the same.
“Don’t call me that,” you whispered, your voice so small “Not if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.” he admitted immediately, “I still do.”
You desperately asked, “then why do you keep pushing me away?”
He sighed, “I- You just deserve better.”
You shook your head against him, “I don’t want better, I don’t- I love you. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
His silence stretched long enough that you thought he might ignore the question, until he finally muttered, “It does… I- I love you too.”
“Then why can’t it be enough?”
His jaw clenched, you knew he was conflicted. Damian closed his eyes, forehead resting against the crown of your head. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Not truthfully. Not the way his heart begged him to. So instead, he whispered the only thing he could manage:
“Sleep, beloved. Please.”
You shifted closer, your eyes heavy with alcohol and exaustion, but you still whispered against his body.
“Don’t go, Dami.”
His arm tightened around you, “I’ll stay.” Whether he meant forever or for the night, you didn’t know.
You started to drift off, but you silently wondered how long you had to keep breaking your hearts till you understood you needed each other.
──────────
author’s note
this is just aghhh- I’m addicted to angst I swear. this is also my first damian wayne fic omg. I love this new sabrina song, it makes me happy. also, how many times have you drunk called an ex?
october masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/a-secret-writer/796235343331573760/october-dc-masterlist-welcome-to-my-new
hi i've been a bit obsessed with your writing it's really amazing especially your angst so i was wondering if you could do one where the jjk men react to their gf/wife dying also i've been obsessing over the 10 Years That I Loved You The Most story so to make it more angsty could you make the men jjk and reader have been in a long term relationship for years but all of a sudden they start treating reader badly and ignoring her (there can be infidelity if you want 👀) they do all of this without knowing that reader is suffering from a terminal illness until they find out when it's too late and reader dies
Hate me 'til it's too late.
A/N: who hurt you anon. like. what is this. (also ehheeh thank uuu). currently cackling and rubbing my hands like an evil evil person.they are fucking assholes. everyone say BOOOOO, also i cried writing this so :)
Warnings: major character death, not a single happy ending, everyone suffers, infidelity, angstansgtangst and tears. wee woo, ooc for gojo? INSANELY LONG SORRY
Characters: Nanami, Toji, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Choso, Shiu, Higuruma. (in that order)
Nanami Kento had never believed in forever.
It was a child’s dream, he used to say. A foolish illusion born from romance novels and late-night confessions under city lights.
The world he knew was finite, cruel, and constantly demanding more than it gave. So when he let himself fall in love, it wasn’t with the promise of eternity. It was with a quiet, steady kind of hope. The kind of love that came with the soft clink of coffee mugs in the morning. The kind of love that understood silence, that didn't require vows whispered over moonlight but gave them anyway.
Your name was like a song he never got tired of humming.
You had met him when he was fresh out of the sorcery world. Disillusioned. Jaded.
Just a man trying to pretend that he didn’t carry ghosts on his back.
And somehow, you loved him anyway.
Your relationship had been the slow kind of burn that built itself over late-night dinners, mutual respect and the subtle gravity of simply choosing each other every day. Eventually, love turned into marriage, and marriage turned into shared spaces, routines, inside jokes.
Safety.
Until Gojo asked him to return.
“You don’t have to do this,” you said that night, your voice trembling in the kitchen, eyes ringed with worry. “You got out. You made it out, Kento.”
He had looked at you then, his hands tight around a ceramic cup.
“I can’t leave them to die.”
And maybe that was when something started to splinter.
He went back.
And you followed.
Not because you wanted to.
Not because you were strong enough to.
But because he had always been alone in that world, and you couldn't bear to let him go back to it without someone who still saw him as Kento.
Not Nanami, the sorcerer.
Just your husband. Just a man.
But it changed him.
The nights grew longer. The touches became fewer. His eyes, once full of tired affection, began to look past you.
You started eating dinner alone.
He stopped texting back.
And you told yourself, again and again, that this was just the toll it took. That maybe it was okay to be lonely beside the man you loved if it meant he lived.
But you had never felt so cold.
“You’re not sleeping,” you murmured one night, lying next to him, eyes open to the ceiling.
Nanami exhaled slowly. “Neither are you.”
“I miss you.”
A long pause.
“I’m right here.”
But he wasn’t. Not really.
Not anymore.
*-*
The day it happened, the sky was grey.
It was always grey when tragedy decided to take. As if the world itself braced for the grief it would soon bear witness to.
They were on a mission with Itadori. Mahito. Again.
Motherfcuker just couldn't stop.
And you shouldn’t have been there. Everyone knew that.
You were good—skilled, precise—but you weren't him. Not even close.
But you'd insisted.
Because if something happened to him, you wouldn’t survive it. Not after everything.
“Stay behind me,” Nanami said, his voice the sharp, commanding tone he only used on the field.
You nodded, even as you held your side, blood seeping through the gauze wrapped hastily around your ribs. Mahito laughed in that unhinged, high-pitched-evil-little-shit way that made your skin crawl.
“So sweet,” he said. “You still think you can protect each other.”
You saw the curse’s hand move before Nanami did.
Instinct. Love. Fear.
You moved.
You didn’t scream.
But he did.
Your body collided with his, pushing him back just enough.
Just enough for the curse to drive its transfigured hand through your chest instead of his.
Nanami's eyes widened. A sound escaped his throat, animal and broken.
Time fractured.
Your body fell.
And you smiled.
Smiled.
“Kento,” you breathed, blood bubbling at your lips, fingers twitching as they reached for him.
He caught you.
Cradled you like something sacred. Like on your wedding night, like the first time he held your hand.
“Why…”
“Because I love you,” you said.
And then you were gone.
*-*
He sat beside your grave for hours.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t cry.
He just stared.
The others didn’t know how to approach him. Not even Gojo, who stood silently behind a tree, sunglasses in hand, eyes uncharacteristically red.
Nanami pressed a hand to the cold stone.
“You should have let me die.”
The wind carried no answer.
He went home that night.
Not their home.
Just a house now.
Every room held her scent, her smile, her voice. The humming from the kitchen, the laugh that used to echo when he surprised her with pastries, the quiet sound of her slippers on wood floors.
Gone.
His world was full of ghosts.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
Because he had ignored her. Because he had chosen duty over the woman who had chosen him again and again.
Because in the end, she had still loved him more than he deserved.
He opened the drawer in their nightstand.
A note.
Written in her handwriting.
He recognized the curling loops of every letter.
If something happens to me, please forgive yourself. I love you. I always have.
Nanami folded in on himself.
The silence pressed in.
And for the first time in years, Nanami Kento prayed for a world where forever was real.
Because he didn’t want to live another ten years without you.
Not when the ten they had were already not enough.
Toji had always said they’d go out together.
Back when you were stupid, young, and starless—just two shadows running through Shibuya’s back alleys, guns tucked into jackets and laughter bleeding out between stolen kisses. Back when the world was simpler.
Blood was blood, love was love, and death was theirs to choose.
"If we die, we die together," you'd whispered into his neck once, after a job gone wrong and a getaway that left you half-soaked and breathless on a rooftop, the sirens screaming like banshees below.
He'd laughed, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes like stormclouds. "Deal."
You'd even picked out the bullet.
And that was that.
*-*
Years passed. Megumi came. You stayed. The jobs grew fewer, the world heavier. You made a strange family out of the wreckage, the three of you. You were more mother than Megumi ever had, more a partner than Toji had ever known.
You were good. For a while.
But good things decay in silence.
And Toji started coming home late.
No explanations. No kisses. No promises.
Just tired feet, blood on his collar, and muttered apologies that didn’t reach his eyes. The warmth that once swelled between you—like a cigarette shared at midnight, like hands clasped beneath table tops, like understanding without words—began to vanish.
He left Megumi with you more often. Yu didn’t mind. Megumi was sharp, like his father, but soft with you. Still, you felt the shift. The way Toji started looking through you like you were glass.
Invisible.
You'd started feeling tired, more than usual. Dizzy spells, breathlessness, a cough that wouldn’t go away. But who were you to complain? He was working. He was tired. You could carry this. You always had.
It wasn’t until the diagnosis hit that you realized you didn’t have time to wait for him to notice you again.
Terminal.
You'd laughed in the doctor's office. Not because it was funny—but because there was nothing else to do. It was a lonely kind of laugh. A bitter one. Like the kind Toji used to give when the world spat on you and you'd spat back.
You came home with the envelope in your coat. Hid it in the drawer. Sat at the kitchen table while Megumi did homework, and watched the clock tick until the door opened past midnight.
He didn’t notice the shadows under your eyes. Didn’t ask why your hands shook pouring tea.
*-*
It went on like that for days. A week even.
You tried to tell him. Once. Twice. But the words fell off your tongue like glass—sharp and wrong and too fragile to hand over.
Until one night, the liquor made you brave.
Toji came in smelling like smoke and rain, jacket slung over his shoulder, phone still in hand.
You were curled on the couch, eyes glassy, diagnosis paper spread out like a confession on the coffee table.
He paused mid-step, brows furrowing.
"What the hell is this?"
You looked at him. Long. Hollow. Like you'd been waiting for him for a lifetime. And maybe you had.
"I’m dying."
Silence.
Just the quiet tick of the clock and the soft rustle of Megumi’s breathing down the hall.
Toji’s throat worked, but no words came.
You smiled. It cracked at the corners. "I didn’t know how to tell you. You’re never really here anymore."
He stepped forward. "What do you mean you’re dying?"
"Exactly that," you said. "I’ve got a few months, if that. Maybe a year."
The paper trembled in his hands. Terminal. Stage four. Inoperable. Metastasized.
You reached for the half-empty bottle beside you, took another sip. Your voice came quiet:
"Do you remember what we promised each other? That night on the roof?"
His eyes snapped to yours.
"Don’t," he said.
"We said we’d go out together. If it ever came to that."
His hands clenched.
You leaned your head back, eyes watery, smile bleeding sorrow.
"I don’t want to die in a bed, Toji. I don’t want to rot away while you’re out cleaning blood off your hands and forgetting I’m here. I want—"
Your voice broke. You wiped your face with the sleeve of his old shirt you wore.
"I just wanted you to see me. Before I go."
Toji sank to his knees in front of you.
"I see you," he said. Like it hurt to say. Like it was a truth he’d buried under guilt and time and the ugliness of what you'd become. "I’m sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve seen you."
Your fingers found his. Cold. Shaking.
"You were the only good thing I ever had. You and Megumi. And I wanted—I wanted more time."
He pressed his forehead to your knees. Silent. Broken. Wet. He stayed there a long time.
*-*
He didn’t kill you.
Not then.
But he stayed.
Every day.
He carried you to bed when you were too weak to walk. He fed you soup with trembling hands. He let you cry into his chest at 2 a.m. when the pain became too much. He read to you. Sat with you. Talked about the old days—stupid things. He took Megumi out for fresh air, brought him back with sun-warmed cheeks and quiet smiles. But his eyes were red.
And when the time came—when your breaths turned shallow and your skin turned to paper—he held your hand.
He kissed your knuckles like he used to, like they weren’t turning blue.
"Still want me to pull the trigger?" he asked, voice cracked and barely a whisper.
You gave him a ghost of a grin. "Too late for that."
He laughed. God, it hurt.
"You remember that rooftop?"
You nodded. Your knuckles were wet.
"You were wearing that stupid leather jacket."
"You said it made me look like a badass."
"You were."
Your eyes fluttered. Your grip on his fingers slackened.
"Toji..."
"I’m here."
You breathed out.
And didn’t breathe in again.
*-*
The house was too quiet without her.
Megumi didn’t cry much. Toji did.
When no one was looking.
He kept her jacket. Hung it by the door. Never touched the couch again. The bullet he never fired stayed on his desk, cold and waiting.
He never made another promise he couldn’t keep.
And he never forgot the ten years that he loved her the most.
You'd been together since they were kids—high school sweethearts woven into the fabric of tragedy, forged in fire and stitched together with trembling hands.
You had been Gojo Satoru's anchor when Suguru left, when Nanami died, when the weight of godhood settled upon his shoulders. You held him when the silence grew too loud. He kissed you when the screams in his head were too much. You stayed.
But something changed.
It started small, as it always does. Missed dinners. Silent nights. An almost imperceptible pull away from you. His words, once honey-slicked with affection, grew clipped. Cold. Detached. His touches became rare—phantom impressions rather than the grounding force they had once been.
You never blamed him.
He carried the weight of a dying world on his back. You, a mortal girl in love with a god, simply did what you always had—waited. Waited for him to see her again.
To remember. To choose you.
But he didn’t.
Not until it was too late.
*-*
You sat alone in your apartment, the white noise of an unfinished life humming in her ears. The results lay open on the table. Stage IV. Aggressive. Terminal.
You stared at the page for a long while, then folded it shut. Your fingers trembled.
When Gojo finally walked through the door that night, late and smelling of blood and cursed energy, he barely looked at you.
"You're home late," you murmured.
He didn’t respond. Just walked past you, peeled off his jacket, and vanished into the bedroom.
You followed him. The words sat heavy on your tongue, a leaden truth begging to be freed.
"Satoru... I need to tell you something."
His back was turned to you. The faint blue glow of his Six Eyes flickered in the dark.
"What?" Flat. Impatient.
"I'm dying."
Silence.
Then, a low laugh. Bitter. Disbelieving.
"Don’t joke. It’s not funny."
You stepped closer. "I’m not joking. I have a few months, maybe. Less if—"
The air shifted. A crackle of cursed energy surged and died just as quickly.
He turned, slowly. His eyes weren’t just blue—they were ice. Shards of a frozen heart.
"No."
"Satoru—"
"No. You’re not. I can fix this. I’ll take you to Shoko. I’ll—"
You reached for his hand. He flinched.
"You can’t fix everything. Not this."
He shattered.
*-*
From that day on, he never left your side. He wrapped you in layers of affection, guilt woven tightly into every gesture. He cooked, he cleaned, he kissed your fevered skin, he held you as you shook and cried.
But something darker stirred beneath the surface.
He began studying late into the night. Scouring ancient texts, forbidden jujutsu techniques. Speaking in half-whispers to people no one should talk to.
You didn't know. Couldn’t know.
Gojo Satoru had decided.
If you must leave this world, he would not let you go far. He would not let you vanish.
He would curse you.
Beautifully. Elegantly. Permanently.
*-*
The day you died, the sky fractured.
Gojo held you in their bed, your body frail and too light in his arms. Your eyes, once bright, now dimmed with pain and resignation.
"I’m scared," you whispered.
He kissed your temple. "I’m here."
You smiled. It was soft. Forgiving. Just for him.
"Thank you... for loving me. Even when it hurt."
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not through the knot in his throat. Not through the howl building in his chest.
Then—silence.
Yourhand fell limp.
He didn’t scream.
He broke.
The jujutsu world held its breath.
The strongest sorcerer had lost the one person who kept him human.
And he did it.
He kept his promise.
You returned three days later—silent, spectral, a ghost bound in talismans and sealed under Gojo’s control. Your eyes were glassy. Your skin, translucent. Your cursed form shimmered with residual pain and lingering love.
You did not speak. You could not.
But you watched him.
Every battle, every mission, you hovered near, called forth like a divine punishment. A reminder. A regret.
The higher-ups called emergency meetings. Debated containment, assassination, exile. But who would move against Gojo Satoru? Who would dare?
He stood in silence as they discussed, your cursed form floating quietly beside him.
They let him be.
The world turned.
But Gojo never healed.
He visits the old apartment sometimes. Leaves your favorite tea on the counter. Talks into the silence.
"You remember that café in Kyoto? The one with the terrible coffee but those stupid fluffy pancakes? You loved those. Said they tasted like clouds. I still go. Order for two."
No response. Just the quiet hum of your cursed presence nearby.
"I miss your voice the most. It’s weird. I can see you, but... you’re not you. I thought... I thought I could live with this. But I think I was wrong."
The curse flickers. As if understanding. As if mourning, too.
He sighs.
"I don’t know how to let go."
There is no happy ending. Only this: a man who loved too much, too late. A girl who died with grace, and a curse that lingers in her stead.
He was the strongest.
But without her, he was just a man—trapped in a memory he refused to release.
And so she stays.
Not because she wants to.
But because he needs her.
Forever.
Even in death.
The first time Suguru Geto ignored you, you thought it was a mistake.
He was busy. Always busy.
The cult had grown monstrous in size over the last year, their reach stretching past the shadows and into the light. People worshipped him. Followed him. Feared him. And you—you were his left hand, the quiet presence at his side who pulled the strings behind the curtain. There was no Geto without you.
So, when he walked past you one day—your voice soft, calling his name, asking a simple question about their next move—and he didn’t even glance at you, you simply blinked, exhaled, and told herself he hadn’t heard.
But it happened again. And again.
Not outright cruelty, no. Geto didn’t scream at you. He didn’t curse your name or raise a hand. No, he just... forgot.
Forgot to eat with you. Forgot to check in. Forgot to ask why your hands trembled when she held a pen. Why your footsteps were softer now, like you were trying to walk without bothering the earth. Forgot to ask about the blood you coughed into the sink.
You stopped bringing it up.
The diagnosis had come quietly. A doctor, too afraid to speak above a whisper. A file folder sealed with trembling fingers. Five months, maybe six. The poison was ancient—slow, rotting, made to mimic sickness. It had been in the tea. The tea meant for Geto. The tea you drank because he’d forgotten it on his desk, as always, and you hated waste.
You hadn't told him right away.
Not because you didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to hear you. He barely looked at you those days.
Only when they were in front of others, when he needed your image beside his to project power. You smiled through it all. Smiled until your ribs ached from pretending.
Finally, it had taken you collapsing in the corridor for him to even glance at you long enough to scowl.
“What?” he snapped, as if your shaking hand on his sleeve was an inconvenience. “I’m in the middle of something.”
You had looked up at him, breath rattling, chest sunken in, and said quietly, “Suguru, I’m dying.”
That got his attention.
Silence fell like a blade. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared.
And in your heart, which was already struggling to beat in rhythm, you swore you heard a crack.
You explained it all. The tea. The symptoms. The diagnosis. The timeline.
By the time you were done, it was Geto’s hands were shaking.
“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not—it can’t be.”
But it was.
He changed overnight.
Every room you entered was warmed. Blankets, cushions, your favorite tea brewed by his own hands (he never let anyone touch it again).
He carried you when you were too tired to walk. He laid with you at night again, arms around your waist, murmuring apologies into the curve of your spine until you fell asleep.
“I’m sorry,” he’d whisper, again and again. “I should’ve seen. I should’ve known. You were right in front of me.”
And you would smile, fingers tracing the scars on his knuckles, and whisper, “I was always yours, Suguru. Even when you forgot.”
Your decline was steady. Predictable. The poison ate at you like a quiet fire, consuming muscle, bone, will.
Still, he fought.
He summoned healers. Threatened gods. Offered pieces of himself for your health. But it was a death sentence written in blood and old magic. There was no cure. Only time. Only waiting.
And when the final day came—
The compound was silent. The cult held its breath.
You lay on silk sheets, window open, sunlight catching the edges of your hollow cheeks. Geto sat beside you, his fingers laced with yours.
“Do you remember,” you whispered, voice almost gone, “when we first dreamed this place into being?”
He nodded, tears slipping down. “I remember everything.”
“I wanted to build something that would last.”
“You did.”
“I wanted to die with you holding my hand.”
“You are.”
Her last breath was a sigh, soft and grateful, as her lips parted in the shape of his name.
And then she was gone.
Geto didn’t move for hours.
They burned her body with the incense she loved. Candles lit for seven nights. And on the eighth day, Geto walked into battle.
He didn’t return.
Gojo found him, his oldest friend, and ended it.
They said Geto died smiling, whispering her name.
Two weeks later, the cult disbanded. Her room was locked. Her picture placed in a shrine.
But in the world beyond, where souls waited and grief unraveled, she opened her eyes to find him there.
Arms open. Smile broken. Heart healed only by her touch.
“I’m sorry I was late,” he said.
And she laughed, tears streaming down, as she reached for him.
“You were right on time.”
They held each other then. In the quiet. In the always.
At last.
The temple was colder than usual.
Not in the sense that the wind howled louder through the crumbling pillars or that the air bit harder against the skin. It was a deeper cold—an absence, a stillness that slithered down the spine and settled deep in the marrow of his bones.
Ryomen Sukuna sat high upon his throne of ruin, half-draped in shadows, half-illuminated by the reluctant kiss of the setting sun bleeding through the cracks in the stone.
He was bored. Monstrously, painfully, violently bored.
The world offered no thrill. No challenge. No song of battle that stirred his blood like it once had.
And you—his girl, his little flame—you had dulled.
He remembered when your soul had first brushed against his. Bright. Brazen. It didn’t tremble. Didn’t cower. It dared to exist beside his. And Sukuna, cruel god that he was, had been enchanted. He hadn’t slain you, hadn’t devoured you, hadn’t shattered your spirit.
He’d kept you.
Owned you.
Not in the delicate way of men with soft hands and softer hearts. No, he possessed you the way fire owns the forest it razes. The way the sea takes and takes and takes.
And you let him.
Years had passed. Centuries, maybe. Time had blurred.
But now, something had shifted. You no longer came to him with defiant fire. You no longer filled his halls with your honeyed voice, laughter laced with thorns.
Your steps were softer. Slower. Your scent faded like the final embers of a dying hearth.
And Sukuna noticed.
Not at first.
Not when he was too consumed by restlessness, by his own endless hunger. But when your presence began to flicker, like a candle devoured by wind, something inside him began to snarl.
One evening, he summoned you.
You came. Of course, you came. She always came.
But you looked like moonlight stretched too thin. Pale. Hollow.
He narrowed four crimson eyes at you, the air around you crackling with an unspoken storm.
"You're fading."
Your lips curled. Not into a smile. Not quite. Just something sad and secret and resigned.
"Yes," you said simply.
Sukuna's claws dug into the stone armrest. "Why."
You stepped closer, robes trailing like sorrow. You didn’t flinch when he stood, towering, monstrous.
You had never flinched. Not even now.
"I do not know. I’m simply dying."
The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was the wail of the cosmos breaking apart. It was the roar of ancient gods cursing the stars.
"No, you are not."
You tilted your head. The sunset caught your lashes. "I am. It’s been eating at me for a while. I didn’t tell you. I thought... maybe I’d burn brightly one last time. That maybe you’d see me again. But..."
"You thought I wouldn’t care."
You didn’t answer.
Sukuna stepped forward, his aura a storm. “What is it? What dare touch what is mine?”
You sighed. “Something even you can’t kill, Ryomen. Something small and silent and slow. It doesn’t roar. It whispers.”
His hands reached for you without thinking, fingers curling around your arms as if by holding you tighter, he could strangle death itself.
"I will find it," he hissed. "I will gut it."
"You won’t. There’s nothing to kill. It’s in me. In my blood. My bones."
He searched your eyes then, looking for a lie. He’d have forgiven you if you lied. He would’ve forgiven her anything.
But you didn’t lie. You never had.
And the rage in him turned inward. A beast with nowhere to run.
He left that night.
Tore across the realms. Demanded answers. Tortured the gods. Shattered shrines. Crushed priestesses beneath his heel. Ripped healers apart when their trembling fingers offered no cure. He screamed at the sky, ripped open the veil of the living and the dead.
But there was no answer.
Only silence.
Only time, ticking down.
He returned days—weeks?—later. Blood-soaked. Mad-eyed.
You were in his bed. Pale. Quiet. Smiling.
"Come to watch the end?" she whispered.
He fell to his knees beside you.
The throne forgotten. The crown abandoned.
"You do not have permission to leave me."
You laughed. It sounded like bells in the wind. Fading. Beautiful.
"I never needed your permission, Sukuna."
His hands trembled as they brushed your cheek. For all his strength, he could not stop your body from growing colder.
"I’ll wait for you," you murmured, eyes fluttering. "When you’re done raging against the stars. When you’re tired of the blood. I’ll be waiting. Somewhere quieter."
And then—
You stilled.
Your soul slipped from him like mist, no scream, no sound. Only the quiet hum of a thing breaking. Irreparably.
And something inside Ryomen Sukuna died with you.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t roar.
He simply sat. Held her. For hours. For days. The world passed, and he remained still.
And when he finally rose, the earth wept. The sky cracked.
Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, had lost the last tether to what made him almost human.
And the world would pay the price for taking her from him.
They say he still walks the earth, sometimes.
Silent. Searching.
But the fire in his eyes is colder now.
Because the one soul that never trembled had slipped through his fingers like sand.
And all the blood in the world could never fill the hollow she left behind.
You had known Choso for years—since the days when you were both nothing more than two survivors in a world that refused to be kind.
There was something beautiful in the way he loved you, at least at first: quiet, unwavering, like the stillness of a lake after rain. His love had always been silent but solid, a presence you never questioned. Until you did.
It started small.
Choso stopped saying goodnight.
You thought it was just exhaustion. Missions were piling up. Curses getting stronger. He would come home with blood on his hands and shadows beneath his eyes, and you would still wrap your arms around him like he hadn’t changed. Like he wasn’t drifting.
"You're tired, I know," you whispered one night, pressing your cheek to his back. He didn’t reply. Didn’t even flinch.
The silence between you grew like rot.
At first, it was easy to lie to yourself. That he was still your Choso. That he hadn’t stopped brushing your hair behind your ear, or whispering soft confessions in the middle of the night. But weeks turned to months, and he barely looked at you anymore. The warmth of his gaze had cooled, as if you had turned into someone he couldn’t bear to look at.
"Do you love me?" you asked once, voice trembling in the low light of the apartment.
He didn’t answer. Just turned his back and walked into the bathroom. You heard the water run. The door shut.
You didn’t cry.
Because you already were.
The pain was subtle at first. A slow ache in your bones, a tremble in your fingers. The doctors gave you looks they shouldn’t have. You saw it in the way the nurse gripped your wrist just a second too long, the way the oncologist said your name like a eulogy.
"Stage Four," they said. "There’s not much we can do."
You nodded. Smiled. You didn’t tell Choso.
What was the point?
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes in nearly three months.
Your days blurred together. You spent them wrapped in blankets on the balcony, watching the clouds, talking to yourself in your head because no one else was listening. You wrote letters. You never addressed them. Sometimes you left them in drawers. Other times, you burned them.
There was one you kept. Folded and tucked inside a photo album. It simply read:
"I was still here, even when you stopped seeing me."
*-*
Choso started coming home later. Sometimes he didn’t come back at all. When he did, his eyes were red—not from tears, but from the kind of tired that eats away at your soul. You wondered if he had someone else.
It didn’t matter.
Because you were dying, and he didn’t know.
And maybe, a part of you wanted him to regret it.
The day your body gave up wasn’t dramatic. You were in bed. The same bed you once curled into his chest in. The same bed you once laughed in. The same bed you had bled in, quietly, when you first collapsed in the bathroom weeks ago and told no one.
You knew it was the end.
Your breath rattled like a secret trying to get out.
You looked around the room. Photographs on the wall. Your favorite sweater draped over the chair. The book you never finished. Your fingers curled around the sheet, and you whispered into the silence:
"I forgive you."
And then, you were gone.
He came home an hour later.
He called your name once. Twice.
"Y/N?"
His voice held irritation, like you were a nuisance. Like you were a ghost before you even died.
The first sign that something was wrong was the smell.
Hospitals and salt.
Then he saw you.
You looked asleep.
He reached for you. Your skin was cold. Not just cold. Gone. Empty. Hollow in the way that only death could be.
"No."
His hands shook.
"No, no, no, no. Y/N."
He collapsed at your side, gripping your body like he could pull your soul back in. Like he had a right to grieve. Like he hadn’t ignored you into silence.
And then he saw the letter. The one in the photo album. The photo of the two of you at the beach, sun in your hair, his arms around you.
He opened the letter with trembling fingers.
Read the words.
"I was still here, even when you stopped seeing me."
He broke.
Not a cry. Not a scream. Something deeper. Something animalistic. A sound wrenched from his ribs as he fell forward and pressed his forehead to yours, shaking, begging, choking on a grief he had earned.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t..."
But you weren’t there to hear it.
Choso didn’t leave the apartment for days.
Then he found the doctor’s letters. The reports. Tucked in your drawer, under the sweaters you wore when you were trying to feel warm again. The truth was everywhere, and he had simply refused to see it.
He didn’t attend your funeral. Couldn’t. He stood outside the gates, fingers clenched, as if he could turn back time with enough rage.
He stayed up all night rereading your journals. Watching videos of you laughing. Staring at old voicemails just to hear your voice.
He tried to remember the last time he said he loved you.
He couldn’t.
And that’s when it hit him.
He would live a hundred more years and never stop paying for it.
Because you had loved him until the end.
And he had stopped looking long before that.
Your death was not loud.
But the silence you left behind screamed in his ears every day for the rest of his life.
And every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was your smile, fading, and the words:
"I was still here."
You always knew what kind of man Shiu Kong was.
Even in the early days—when the nights were still sweet, the sheets still warm with affection, when his hands trembled a little each time they touched you like he couldn't believe you were real—you knew.
He wasn't gentle. Not really. Not in the way that counts. His love was never loud, never adorned with poetry or grand gestures. It was in the way he locked his door every night, the way he slid his pistol under his pillow like a lullaby.
Love, for him, was survival. Quiet, constant vigilance.
And you? You weren't a saint either. You were stubborn. You liked your silence sharp. You met his cruelty with your own—biting sarcasm, a temper that cracked through your ribs like lightning in a dry storm. You both learned early how to dance with fire, and neither of you ever stepped back.
But there had been love. There had been years of love.
The quiet mornings where he'd press coffee into your hand without a word. The way he'd rest his hand on the small of your back in public, always claiming you in the smallest of ways. The way he would come home smelling of blood, but shower before he touched you. Small mercies. His kind of affection.
And then, the silence began.
You can't pinpoint when it started. Maybe a year ago. Maybe more. One day, he just... stopped looking at you. The cigarette between his fingers became more interesting than your voice. You'd talk, and he wouldn't answer. You'd reach for him at night, and he'd turn over. Cold. Distant. Cruel in his absence.
At first, you thought it was work.
"Rough day?" you'd ask. No reply.
"Shiu, you're bleeding. Come here, let me—"
He'd shove your hand away. "Don't fuss."
You tried. God, you tried. You made dinner. You wore the lingerie he used to love. You let him yell. You let him ignore. You stopped talking about your pain. The coughing fits that lasted too long. The blood in the sink. The fatigue that wrapped around your bones like a noose. You didn't want to burden him.
He already had one foot out the door.
The doctor had said it so plainly.
"Stage four. It’s aggressive. I’m sorry."
You laughed, soft and breathless. "Of course it is."
You didn’t cry. Not then. You didn’t scream or sob. You sat in that white room with your hands folded in your lap and thought about the way Shiu hadn't said "I love you" in six months.
He didn’t notice you coming home later and later. He didn’t ask where you were going. You had treatments alone. Sat in waiting rooms with couples holding hands across IV poles and thought: I used to have that.
And you never told him.
Because what was the point?
What did it matter, if the man you loved more than anyone else had already buried you in his heart?
The days bled into each other. You grew thinner. Weaker. Your clothes hung off you. The color drained from your face. You slept more. Cried quietly in the bathroom with the fan on. He never asked why you stopped eating. He never asked why you winced when you walked.
One night, you collapsed in the kitchen. Your body just... gave up. You remember the cold tile on your cheek, the flickering light above, the iron taste in your mouth. And him, finally, finally, kneeling beside you with wide, terrified eyes.
"Hey," he whispered, voice cracking. "What the fuck... What happened?"
You smiled. Blood stained your teeth. "Guess I should've said something sooner."
He carried you to the hospital. Hands trembling. Eyes wide, almost boyish in their fear. He barked orders at the nurses like they were soldiers. Threatened a doctor. Broke down when they told him the truth.
"She’s dying."
"No. No, you don’t fucking get it. She can’t be. I didn’t—I didn’t know."
The doctor looked tired. "She knew. She’s known for a while."
And then he was alone in the hallway.
He sat there, in that sterile silence, for hours.
It was the first time he had cried since his father died.
You woke up two days later. Tubes. Beeping. Pain. And him, sitting there like a ghost of himself. Disheveled. Dead-eyed.
"You knew," he said.
You nodded.
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
You looked at him. Really looked at him. Took in the unshaven face, the crumpled clothes, the way his fingers were bruised from punching a wall or a man or maybe both.
"Would you have cared?"
He flinched like you shot him. But he didn’t deny it.
"I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt," you whispered. "I wanted you to love me."
"I do love you."
You closed your eyes.
"Then why did you stop?"
He had no answer. Just tears.
The end was slow. And fast. Painful. Quiet.
He never left your side after that. Sat by your bed, holding your hand. Read to you. Fed you when you couldn't lift your arms. Kissed your forehead. Sang to you when you couldn’t sleep.
One night, you opened your eyes and said, "It hurts."
He whispered, "I know, baby. I know. I’m so fucking sorry."
You looked at him, eyes hollow. "It doesn't hurt as much as you forgetting me."
He broke. Wept into your chest. Told you he loved you, again and again, until your breathing slowed.
Until it stopped.
He didn’t speak for weeks after you died.
Didn’t go to work. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t fight.
He kept your mug in the sink. Your toothbrush next to his. The last book you read stayed on the nightstand. He listened to your voicemails on loop. Fell asleep to the sound of your laughter. Prayed to a god he didn’t believe in.
And sometimes, at night, he talked to you.
Told you how he hated himself.
Told you how he wished he'd listened.
Told you how the silence in the apartment screamed louder than your death ever could.
He sat where your hospital bed used to be, knees pulled to his chest.
"Come back. Please. I’ll do better. I swear. Just come back."
But you didn’t.
And he lived the rest of his life with your ghost in every shadow.
You had always known what kind of man Shiu Kong was.
And now, so did he.
The days had been getting colder.
Not the kind of cold that settles in your skin, but the kind that curls its long, brittle fingers around your bones. The kind that whispers in your ear while you sleep, that turns your breath into a silent plea you don’t even recognize anymore.
You used to wake up with Hiromi’s arms around you. He used to kiss your forehead like it was the most sacred part of your body. There was a time he remembered the little things: your favorite tea, how your hands trembled in the mornings, how silence could be a comfort when shared.
But now, you woke up alone. Sometimes he was already gone, sometimes he lay beside you like a statue, cold and turned away, like the warmth between you had been a dream you misremembered.
You tried to understand it.
Maybe work had been hard. Maybe he was unraveling in his own way, the justice of the world too heavy on his back. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he snapped, when he looked through you like you were the window instead of the home.
But it never stopped hurting.
"Hiromi?" your voice cracked one evening, small and frail in the doorway where he sat on the couch, his eyes glued to his phone.
He didn't look up. "What?"
"I made dinner. It's your favorite."
A pause.
"Not hungry."
Your fingers clutched the fabric of your sweater, the one he bought you three years ago for your anniversary. You still wore it like it meant something. "You haven’t eaten all day."
He sighed, the kind that wasn’t tired, but annoyed. "I said I’m not hungry, alright? Stop nagging."
You flinched. Not because of the words, but because you saw it in his eyes – the way they didn't soften anymore when they met yours. The way love had been replaced by something distant. Indifferent.
You didn’t tell him your nose had started bleeding again that morning.
Didn’t tell him the headaches now came with ringing in your ears, so loud you sometimes cried in the bathroom with a towel over your face so he wouldn’t hear.
Because what was the point?
He didn’t ask anymore. Didn’t touch you like you were something worth holding.
It wasn't always like this.
You met him in court, young and so full of fire. He was justice, and you were something soft he never thought he needed until he had you. You moved in together after a year, built a life out of shared toothbrushes and late-night ramen.
He used to read to you.
Now, he didn’t even notice when you stopped reading altogether, your vision too blurry, your hands too unsteady to hold a book.
Your doctor called it aggressive.
Stage four. Terminal.
You were dying. And he didn’t know.
Not because you didn’t want to tell him. But because he didn’t ask. Because you stopped being a person to him and started becoming background noise, a ghost that lived in his house.
The day you collapsed, he wasn’t home.
You were reaching for a glass of water, but the world tilted. The floor met you like a lover. Your lungs stopped playing along. It was quiet when your head hit the ground.
When he came back, hours later, the house was dark.
And you were cold.
The hospital room smelled like bleach and stale breath.
He sat by your side, eyes rimmed red, and for the first time in months, he held your hand. It was too late.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" his voice was hoarse.
Your eyes fluttered open, and you saw it: the man you fell in love with, buried under layers of guilt and grief.
You smiled, barely.
"You stopped listening."
And that broke him more than anything ever could.
The machines beeped in protest when your heart slowed. He begged. Cried. Called your name like it was a prayer.
But God was never in this house.
You died at 2:37 AM.
He didn’t go to work for weeks. The apartment stayed untouched. Your toothbrush was still in the holder. Your sweater still draped over the chair.
He read your journal.
Every page was agony. You had written about the pain, about the loneliness, about him. About how much you loved him, even as he pushed you further away. You wrote, *"I hope he remembers me as someone worth loving. Even if he forgot how to."
He screamed when he finished the last page.
And he never stopped hearing your voice in the silence.
Even now, when he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling.
He imagines you there.
Smiling, forgiving, dying all over again.
And him, still too late.
Always too late.
A/N: cried writing this, i'm not even kidding, this fucking sucked, no offense annon, but wtf
Inspo: this playlist I made (+ Damocles by Sleep Token)
Synopsis: their current friends don’t seem to want Y/n around. Why is that? They can’t figure out why either. They don’t realise just how much of their life and motivations revolves around their friends until everything crashes down around them.
Tags: gn!Reader, androgynous terms for Reader, use of Y/n, generally affection-starved reader, angst, angst no comfort, reader struggles with loneliness and touch-starvation, reader is implied to have OCD, reader’s quirk isn’t explicitly stated
A/N: the angst post I was talking about some week or two ago!!! I hate it here 😍😍 also I decided to highlight important warnings by italicising them and putting them in green! Does it look okay, and did you notice it? Also also, the self-harm isn’t as prominent as I made it sound because it’s a different type of self-harm this time, but it is still an explicit depiction of it!
You didn’t even like these people.
You were sat by yourself next to the support course building on a Friday during lunch, opting to wait for your friends to come by; Uraraka, Midoriya, Iida, Todoroki, Asui, and occasionally Shinso and Jirou would sit with you too.
But they hadn’t been sitting with you as of recent. Granted, it was your third year—you guys had busy lives, and to be honest, you thought they were spending their time training or studying more.
Turns out that wasn’t the case, and that they had moved where they sat without telling you. They left you specifically out of the picture, and when you asked someone from your class about it, say Kaminari, you noticed that he knew right away where they sat and, after telling you they moved to sit in the cafeteria, he asked why you didn’t know when everyone else did.
It didn’t make sense, why they’d move to the cafeteria.
Them and you initially sat in the cafeteria, but after a couple weeks, Iida, Todoroki, and Asui found that they didn’t like sitting in the cafeteria because of how loud and disorganised it always was. So, you guys had opted to sit outside during the warmer months, and to a quieter place inside during the colder months.
That was until now, at least.
A couple of support course kids had seen you sitting by yourself and invited you to come walk with them, and you, being bored and feeling lonely after what you had realised, decided that you didn’t have much to lose anyway and bit the bullet.
And so, that prologue brings you to now, walking around with Hatsume and some other random support course kids that you could barely remember the names of.
Now, Hatsume wasn’t relatively popular among your group. Midoriya and Uraraka didn’t really care about Hatsume’s status in general because they didn’t mind her, but Iida, Todoroki, and Asui didn’t like Hatsume all that well because of her chaotic, loud, and peace-less nature.
You had your own vendetta against Hatsume—she often sprung costume changes on you with short notice, which annoyed the fuck out of you despite how well-intentioned she may be—yet here you were, hanging out with her and her friends anyway.
So no, you didn’t like these people.
As you walked, you guys weren’t really talking. It was mostly Hatsume and one of the randoms filling the silence with rambling about whatever came to their mind. You had better things to do than this.
Maybe training could get your mind off of the crippling loneliness.
“Hey,” you interrupted their talking, “sorry to cut this short, but I think I’m gonna go train a little. I’ll see you guys around,” you tried to be as polite as possible with your dismissal, then proceeded to turn your ass around and jog to just any training ground that would work, tie flailing around in the wind.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ💿་༘࿐
Improving your physical strength by training did wonders for your body, sure, but did it really do anything to take your mind off of why your friends would just ditch you like that?
Admittedly, no.
The intrusive thoughts gnawed at you; something about isolating yourself and never talking to anyone ever again, self-harm, cutting people off, jumping off the building…
Y’know, just your average Friday!
A deeper feeling ate away at you though, a deeper desire… a want to make them feel the way you felt. A want to make them feel as lonely and isolated as you did. A want for revenge.
You couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t. It just… wasn’t in your nature to actually hurt someone, despite always feeling an urge to hurt someone. You’d never do it, you knew you wouldn’t, but the thought is always there in the back of your head.
‘Hurt them. Make them feel what you felt. Make them regret leaving you like this. You won’t be treated like a fucking doormat.’
But you’d never do it. You never could. Because at the end of the day, you relied on being a people-pleaser to make yourself likeable.
You came to a stop as you snapped back to reality, the shrill of the first bell bringing you back down to earth. Time to start getting to class.
You stared at the pillar you’d accidentally left in shambles, and you could probably make a metaphor about this thing being your heart or whatever, but you can’t dwell on that for much longer.
Time to get back to class.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ💿་༘࿐
Something was going wrong here, but you couldn’t tell what.
It’s been a couple weeks since your friends had stopped sitting with you, and you don’t know what happened, but your grades just… dropped.
Dramatically, too.
20%? 15%??
What the hell were you doing wrong?!
You hadn’t changed anything about your routine. You hadn’t changed your studying habits. Sure, you scrolled more in your free time because all of your hobbies felt too draining, and it’s not like you had friends to hang out with, but that shouldn’t be affecting your grades so much.
It shouldn’t be burning you out so much.
You went from As and Bs, to… fails. All within a few weeks.
How fucking pathetic is that?
God, your parents were going to be so mad.
And who were you going to vent to when your dad inevitably threatens you with pulling you out of the hero course? The only thing you currently enjoy in your life?? The only thing you feel like you have control over???
Nobody.
You had nobody to talk to. Nothing to cling to. Nobody to treat as your anchor despite being everyone else’s anchor.
They always thought of you as the reliable one. The loyal one. The one that can keep secrets. The one that’s okay to tutor and teach others.
What happened to that? What happened to you?
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ💿་༘࿐
Monday. Again.
Time to drag your ass out of bed.
Time to stick to a different, unfamiliar routine. One that prioritised going to class earlier and studying later into the night. One that prioritised grades and output rather than input. One that skipped meals and sleep to fit more study time.
5:00AM.
Your parents were blowing your phone up again to make sure you were awake. All you did was send them a simple ‘morning’ message before turning your phone off again and getting up.
Your phone still vibrated from your nightstand, more messages from them. You ignored it.
You stretched your back and legs, sun not even out yet, stars still coating the sky. You’d have admired the way they looked if it weren’t for your list of tasks you’ve made for yourself. Your body felt heavy, like you were dragging it through water, and your eyes threatened to close again.
Whatever. You made your bed, so you laid in it.
5:30AM.
You were dressed, finally, and went through the motions that should start to feel familiar. Brushing your teeth without eating breakfast because you didn’t have time for it, packing your bag with books and no food or snacks (you typically pack food since the cafeteria doesn’t have anything you deemed ‘safe’ to eat), keeping your phone in your pocket with some mints, shoving on your shoes and leaving your dorm.
You should probably make yourself a coffee, but you just brushed your teeth…
Fucking whatever. You brush them like three times a day, you’ll just shove a mint in your mouth after your coffee and leave.
5:35AM.
You’re in the common room kitchen, making a coffee for yourself, waiting for the machine to heat up as you pile what you like with your coffee in your chosen mug.
When the coffee machine finished heating up, you placed your mug under the dispensers, clicked a button, and watched the coffee pour down into the ceramic. The kitchen quickly started smelling like coffee, the dim yellow light making it feel cozy.
It would’ve been cozy, if it weren’t for your mental state.
The morning seemed to drag on slower than usual.
Your coffee was still slightly bitter, and it mixed with the taste of the toothpaste, making it taste like shit, but you’d still drink it, because you needed the pick-up if you were to survive today.
6:00AM.
You were standing inside of UA’s library (which really should’ve been closed but you maybe perhaps stole and copied Aizawa’s keycard), printing off some practice questions for your upcoming exams, because of your grades were dropping this dramatically, you needed to work harder.
Whoever was the librarian here—since you had never seen them—was going to be so mad with you sneaking in before school even started, before the teachers were even here, all because you wanted to work yourself into the ground.
When the questions finished printing, you took the stapler from the librarian’s desk and stapled the pages together that corresponded with the right subject (math questions get stapled together, English questions get stapled, chemistry questions get stapled, so on and so forth), until you had more than six booklets.
One booklet for English, one for math, one for chemistry, one for hero history, one for ethics, one for quirk analysis, and finally, one for heroics.
Your parents had stopped texting you by now.
6:30AM.
You were still studying in the library, looking at those questions you had just printed out and trying to answer them from memory, correcting any answers you got wrong when you finished the booklet and looked through the proper answers on some website where you pirated these from.
You were starting to get a few messages from some of your classmates, asking where you were and why you weren’t in the dormitories, considering this is when you’d typically be making a coffee while already dressed for school, sans shoes.
Speaking of coffee, you should go get one from the cafeteria while it’s still mostly empty…
Two people surprised you when you saw the messages, though: Midoriya and Bakugo.
You somewhat understood Midoriya’s reason: he was your friend, but he worried about everyone. He was just concerned like that. You didn’t think he wanted to start hanging around you again—he had Iida, Uraraka, Asui, and the others to do that.
Bakugo was more of an enigma. He wasn’t known for really caring for anyone, at least not so outwardly, so maybe someone asked him to ask for them…? But who would do that? Sure, not everyone in Class 1-A has your number, but who’d ask Bakugo to do it?
…whatever. You’d figure it out later.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ💿་༘࿐
Cut to Friday, again.
Your new routine’s exhausted you.
You’ve gotten somewhat used to it, sure, but every morning you wake up tired and every evening you go to sleep feeling even worse than when you woke up. Sleep feels like it’s doing nothing, and your body in general just feels… worse.
You’ve gotten skinner, which made you look better, you supposed.
But you’ve been falling behind again—this time socially, and in training. Your new study habits didn’t even help you in yesterday’s test, so you’re sure you’ve failed that.
You kind of forgot about the physical exam to test everybody’s strength and potential as a hero in your frenzy to improve, so you… haven’t been training. And the physical exam is in a week!
You might as well just flunk it already.
You’ve noticed some of your classmates giving you weird looks during class and lunch. Even your teachers have started to look at you like they do.
You can’t tell if they’re disgusted or not.
Whatever. Just make it until exams.
Just keep going through the motions.
Last until exams.
You can do that.
A/N: let me know if yall want a part two! It won’t be coming anytime soon tho, not with my exams coming up at least lol. I was thinking of making a version of this where y/n gets comforted by Izuku about their thoughts but I’m not sure 😭 my grades have been dropping dramatically (literally exactly like in this post) and my exams are in two weeks, so I won’t be online for a while, in which I won’t have time to draft and post and indulge in hobbies, so :/
poorly disguised vent posts my beloved <3 and this is one of my longest fics I’ve posted in here, I think!
Blizzard. How dare you make a pookie directly up my alley like this?? How dare you make me like Emre Sarioglu so much???
Warning: heavy angst ahead, emre kills his loved ones and guilt eats him alive
It isn't supposed to happen like this. He knows he's become a danger to everyone he cared for, so why did he foolishly give in to his desires?
The familiar smell of smoke and burnt flesh fills his nose, his eyes watering from the heat as he surveys the burning wreckage. His memories are a blank, a black spot in the images that swirl inside his head. The last thing he remembers is shouting your name, shouting for you to run.
Y/N.
"Y/N!" He panics. "Y/N!"
He prays that you've somehow escaped the devastation he's caused, that you've somehow gotten out of the explosion's range and are safely hiding away, but he can feel his heart sink the more he searches through the rubble. His throat tightens as he stumbles around the pile of concrete, looking for any signs of life.
"Please," he whispers. "Please be alive."
His heart stops when he sees a bloody hand sticking out from underneath a steel beam and he pushes the beam with all his strength, panic screaming in his veins as he braces himself to recognise your corpse underneath, but it's not you. He exhales shakily, guilt twisting in his chest for feeling relief at another's death but tells himself it's only because it isn't you.
His fingers bleed with every stone he turns, painting over the grey with red and sending spikes of pain through him, yet he pushes on. He has to know, even if it means confronting the fact that he killed you.
"Y/N!" He tries again, hoping that this time you will reply, even if it's with a weak cry, but his ears don't pick anything up.
Please, please, please, please. Don't be dead. Don't stain my hands with your blood. Don't make me the reason for your death.
He slumps against a nearby wall scorched with burn marks, exhausted from the search, fingers tingling from the various cuts, and closes his eyes. Maybe it's good that he hasn't found any sign of your body, it could mean that you managed to escape, that he hadn't killed you.
But it could also mean that he's obliterated you beyond recognition, and that's why he hasn't found your body yet.
The latter line of thought scares him and he feels his hands clench into fists. He can never forgive himself for this, for not resisting his foolish heart's desire to see you once more, for putting you in danger when he swore to protect you.
He reluctantly opens his eyes to resume his dreaded search, combing through the rest of the rubble for any sign of you. He almost gives up, almost deludes himself into thinking that you made it out safely when something catches his eye.
The light from the flickering flames glints off a familiar piece of metal, a simple key attached to a chain, and he crumbles to his knees. A wail of grief claws its way up his throat, ripping free with a sound that echoes amidst the crackle of fire. He screams, clutching the broken necklace to his chest as memories flash in his mind in tattered pieces, glimpses of a time when everything was brighter.
A soft smile. A laugh that made his heart flutter. A gentle touch.
"You didn't have to do all this for me, Emre."
"I didn't. But I wanted to. Take it as my promise to make sure you always have the freedom to choose your own path."
The blush on your cheeks. The way you buried your face in your hands.
"May I?"
The way you turned around. The way you bared your nape to him. The way you trusted him enough to show your vulnerable spot.
The coolness of the metal as he put the necklace on for you. The warmth of your body traveling up his fingertips as he closed the clasp. The warmth of your hand as you grasped his hand.
"It looks perfect on you."
"Thank you, Emre."
The heat of the fire flares, a stark contrast to the cold metal pressing against his skin, and he feels something wet on his cheeks.
Tears.
He can still cry.
So he weeps. He doesn't stop, doesn't try to hide it. After all, he's the only one who can hear it, see his broken self. No one else will ever know what happened here, no one else will remember the lives that were lost here. Only him. Only he will know of the blood that was spilled, the tragedy that occurred, and it will haunt him for the rest of his life.
He prays that you died quickly, that you didn't suffer, but he doesn't know who he's praying to anymore. All the gods out there have forsaken him; the only god that's left who can hear him is the one that takes over his body — and that god never listens to him.
He can still hear it in his head, the command to return, to get up and move. Its robotic voice threatens to take over his body once more, to force him to leave but he stubbornly refuses. He wants to stay put, to curl up beside you, close his eyes and see you again. He hates this nightmare he's trapped in, and wants nothing more than to wake up.
But he's already awake. The nightmare is real, and there is no escape.
He punches the broken slab of concrete in frustration, ignoring the way his knuckles burn from the abrasion. It's nothing compared to what you would have felt, flames devouring you whole, white-hot pain tearing you apart.
All because of the man you loved.
He wonders what you thought when you looked at him. If the colour of his right hand whenever he takes out his siphon blaster is any indication, you would have seen him transform into a mass of black and red, heard the robotic voice he hears in his own head. Had you run in fear from the monster he had become? Hated him as he aimed his gun right at you? Had he even aimed at you, or had you only been caught in the radius, fleeing for your life?
Did you hate him in your final moments? Did you regret loving him? Would you want to see him again?
He doesn't know if he can bear seeing hatred in your eyes. You've been angry before, but never for long, and it's normally not aimed at him. Maybe it's good that he doesn't remember what happened after the entity took over, then he doesn't know what it looks like for the one he loves to be afraid of him, to hate him. Still, a part of him wants to know so that he can burn the image into his mind, a penance for his sins.
The self-hatred eats away at him as he sits next to your corpse, which has been burned beyond recognition. The only reason he knew it was you is because of the necklace. He'd had it engraved with your initials on one side, and the other with his.
"Why a key?"
"Keys unlock things right? I want you to unlock your own path, and me giving you a key is me promising to help you with that."
He'd said all that, and still left you anyway. He tells himself it's because you needed to find the path on your own, that only you knew what you wanted, but a small voice in his head sneers at him, pointing out that it didn't matter because you just wanted him by your side. He didn't need to do anything, he just needed to be there, as an encouragement.
He'd felt guilty the night he left. Unable to face you, he'd slipped out without saying a word. The only thing he did was leave you a note, explaining why he left. He knew why you wanted to stay in Overwatch, and he didn't want you to follow him just because. All your life you'd been dragged around by various people, told what to do, and he didn't want you to leave Overwatch just because he did. It was better if you didn't know until it was too late, that way it was up to you what you did.
Would it have gone differently if he'd just taken you with him? No, you might have been taken over by the same entity that's inside his head now, and he would rather die than subject you to that.
He's tired. He's so tired of all this. At some point, he drifts off to the only place where he can't be haunted and memories begin to flood back.
He remembers the first time he met you. He'd been sent in with a squad to bail your squad out, but when he got there, the only ones standing were you and one member of your squad.
"Don't recall asking for help." You'd frowned at him, bleeding from various wounds.
"Clearly." The grin on his face immediately faded when you swayed, then collapsed into his arms. "Falling for me already? We just met."
You didn't answer. You'd fallen unconscious and wouldn't wake up until a week later. That was the next time he saw you. He was at the firing range when you'd stepped into the booth next to him, loading your pistols.
"I have yet to thank you."
"So are you going to?" He grins, taking aim with his rifle.
"Do you want my thanks or not?" You deadpan, firing a round.
"Of course I do! I put in so much time and effort to catch you before you hit the floor, you know?"
"Thank you for your sacrifice." You roll your eyes, loading another round into your pistols. "That's all you're getting."
"You're very welcome."
The second time he'd met you was at the same firing range. This time you were there first, fully focused on the target in front of you.
"Sheesh, what'd that target do to you?"
"You here to talk or shoot?"
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed today."
You only grunted in response, firing another round into the poor, beaten-up target.
He left you in peace as he warmed up, then turned to look at you. "Care for a challenge?"
"Only if you don't mind losing."
He had laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed like that. Maybe that was when he started falling for you.
You'd won that challenge, then demanded a rematch because you'd noticed how he'd let you win. You'd even threatened to keep him there until he stopped letting you win, and he found himself asking for a rematch after a while, no matter who won. It was only when Reyes had come in, asking why you were running late for a meeting, that the two of you decided to put the challenge on hold.
After you left with Reyes, he'd checked your target. You'd held back on the last rematch to make the score a draw, if the smiley face made with bullet holes was any indication. He huffed a laugh to himself and saved an image of your target for safekeeping.
He still has that image.
Against his will, he opens his eyes once more. The flames have died down, leaving only ashes in its wake. Your necklace is still sitting in his hand, the metal as cold as your body. He pockets it, fingers brushing along the engraving of your initials as he lets one last tear slip.
P.s You're a mortal. This fanfic also has pure angst only. Also it's in third person pov.
You died of old age and Alucard is mourning you, even if he knew it was coming soon.
The gaze of longing lingers over the corpse of his lover. Alucard can feel his heart beating by how agonizing the death has caused. His long and slender fingertips stroking the face of whom he cherishes, all Alucard can sense is coldness. The eyes of the corpse are closed.
Human withers as a flower, they are both a cycle of life and death. The aging molding them until death beholds them, elastic skin becomes dull. Youth fades away. Mortals chasing time because they are aware their life is short.
He could not bear any longer to see the corpse, it was disintegrating slowly. The face Alucard loves is fading away. His lover contorting expression reminds him of humanity, how human they are now is the opposite. The corpse is as cold as him but they're not living.
The castle remains silent, no noise of footsteps and lifeness. Period of seasons became a long period of fallow for Alucard, nothing matters to him when the most matters to him have been taken away.
Alucard can only hope his lover can find him in their next life, like how his mother, Lisa Tepes did to his father. He became disinterested in life and humans.
The nature of humans is innately evil, their selfish desires willingly to hurt other people for it. Alucard is repulsed by humans and at the same time, he's amazed by how good of a companion they can be. He can recall his past friends whom grew old and pass away, it is the same for his lover.
All the paintings he hanged on the wall, Alucard often gazes at it. He can recall the bittersweet memories, going through time together. Nobody is willing to do that with him anymore.
Alucard never hopes to forget the face of whom he yearns. He is haunted by his past, what's full of his mind is the person he loves. They are his past.
What if Shen Yuan transmigrated into Yue Qingyuan?
He is thrust into the body of a powerful sect leader. And as soon as he's able to unlock ooc he starts using his position to help his beloved protagonist.
He brings binghe to Qiong Ding Peak, away from that horrible master of his. He spoils him and showers him with affection and praise. It's great all around. He gets to ensure that the protagonist will have no reason to burn the sect to the ground in the future, and gets to equip Binghe with leadership skills and power up his cultivation which will help him rise to power more efficiently.
He has to foil sqq's plans along the way, can't have him traumatizing Binghe. But he's perfectly capable of dealing with him. His hater experience from his first life is well suited to knocking shen qingqiu down a few pegs. Verbally that is. But a few stern words turn out to be all it takes to get rid of the scum villain. He leaves the sect, seems to disappear entirely.
Binghe grows up loved. When his heavenly demon blood is discovered Yue Qingyuan has the power to keep him in the sect.
Binghe has the backing of CQSM when he ventures to the demon realm to claim his birthright.
He rises to power with minimal casualties.
And of course along the way feelings develop and the human and demon realms are formally unified through marriage.
Everything wraps up. The story seems perfect
Except. The whole time, Yue Qingyuan is still there.
He's trapped in his own head
Watching everything play out and incapable of stopping it.
There's a higher power keeping him pinned down. Out of the way.
Synopsis: Reader and Suguru ended their relationship because it became too complicated by emotional struggles. The reader is really having a hard time with the breakup, and the depth of her love might even be part of what makes her struggle.
ⓘ divider credit to @cafekitsune
w.c 3,242
You and Suguru had broken up a few months ago because of the complex emotions that had been wavering in your relationship. You always kept your guard up, a result of past traumas. Even though you loved Suguru with all your heart, as he loved you, you just couldn’t really put it into action like you would’ve wanted to. At some point, the relationship had just turned into sex. Suguru loved you. He did. But at some point, he felt as if you were just using him for his body. So you two had talked about it and decided to break up. You understood him, as you always were understanding.
But you did not take it well. To be exact.
You were currently in a bar, having your... god knows fourth glass of beer. At least your friend was with you.
“Seriously, you said you weren’t going to drink too much,” she said with a defeated sigh, not in a mean way. She understood your situation, and you hadn’t been in the best mental state even before the breakup, anyway.
She wouldn’t normally do this because she knew you wouldn’t want her to bother him after the breakup, and because you were putting the blame on yourself.
She called Suguru to pick you up. Since she herself didn’t have a car and couldn’t really carry you back, it just seemed like the best option, even though she cursed herself a bit inside her mind.
Suguru did come. He knew what you were like. You two had broken up, but not on bad terms. It wasn’t like he hated you. He still did care. And maybe he was a fool for that.
Suguru arrived at the bar and saw your friend, who held up a hand for him to notice.
The long pink-haired girl gave Suguru an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for bothering you, really. I know y/n will probably have my head after she sobers up because of this, but I don’t think she can really go back on her own at this state.” She sighed and gestured toward you, who was face-down in your arms on the table. Were you even awake or asleep?
Suguru gave a polite smile back. “It’s alright. No need to apologize,” he said, helping you up. You grunted, then raised your head and looked up to meet his gaze. You blinked like a confused fish for a few seconds. “... Suguru?” you said in a raspy voice after staying quiet for a while.
Before you could say anything more, Suguru cut you off.
“It’s me. Come on, I’m taking you to your apartment.” His voice wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t the tone you longed for either. You wanted to throw a tantrum; tell him you didn’t need any help. But you also didn’t want to bother him. No. You would rather disappear than do that. You’ve already done enough to make him feel that way in your relationship.
You just gave a subtle nod, offering no answer other than a soft hum.
You two walked out of the bar, and he held you steady, his hand just above your waist. Not where it used to be. He was close, yet he felt so far away.
Suguru opened the passenger-side door for you and helped you sit down. Then he closed the door as he made his way to the driver’s seat and closed the black door with a soft thud.
You leaned your head against the window and decided to remain quiet.
…
“Sorry for bothering you with this,” you murmured, your voice tired and apologetic. “I’m sure you were already tired at this hour.” You still didn’t look at him. Maybe only a glance when he wasn’t looking.
Suguru remained quiet. One of the things he never managed to make you accept was that you would never stop taking the blame and saying sorry. It became a problem after a long while. Not that it made him love you less, but it did bother a little part in the back of his mind.
“You didn’t bother me, don’t worry,” he said, not looking at you either. His eyes remained fixed on the road. “I came because I wanted to, after all.” His tone was soft as silk. It would always make you feel safe, even in the worst situations. Now it just made you fall even deeper into the sorrow of your heart.
You didn’t reply. The rest of the ride was quiet. Only the sound of the warm breeze flowing through the slightly ajar window on your side.
The car stopped, and the rather gloomy sight of your apartment came into view.
You hated the apartment. It sounded funny to hate a tower of bricks glued together. But it wasn’t the look, nor the colors of the building. It was the memories.
You couldn’t count how many times Suguru had parked his car in this parking lot. How many times had he come to pick you up, bring you home, or just bring you your favorite snacks whenever you would fall back into depression?
“Y/n?” The soft tone of Suguru’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You couldn’t help but give a visibly confused reaction, then pulled yourself together.
God. You were a mess.
You slowly looked toward him and opened your mouth to speak, but for some reason you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything.
“Do you need me to help you into the apartment?” Suguru said with an almost concerned tone. No, he was concerned, but you just didn’t want to accept that he was concerned for you. You thought you didn’t deserve even an ounce of concern or pity.
“No. No, I’ll be okay,” you said, opening the door and getting out of the car. Good thing your alcohol tolerance was above average, so four glasses of beer didn’t hit you…that badly, at least. You could walk fine.
You were about to leave without saying anything, but that would make you more of an asshole.
You bent slightly to look inside the car before closing the door. “Thank you for coming and bringing me here,” you said, giving a kind smile. As if you were just two strangers who had just met and were trying to make a good impression.
Using that tone made your throat hurt.
Suguru could see whatever was on your mind, always. He was good at reading people, especially you. He thought you’d get better, maybe, at accepting yourself and giving yourself some space to relax and let your guard down. But it seemed as if even when you were alone in your apartment, you still carried the same heaviness.
“It’s nothing,” he replied. His tone was the same, but a bit heavier, maybe from nostalgia? Something like that. He didn’t really know himself.
“Good night, Y/n. Take care, okay?” Of course, he would say that. Even if he was feeling bad, he would still care. You wanted to yell at him for still being kind and caring toward you. But you didn’t. You swallowed and nodded. “Okay,” almost a whisper. “You too.” The same small smile graced your lips. You used to smile like that at people you had just met and wanted to get away from. Did you want to get away from him? Even the thought of it almost made you choke on your own spit.
He gave a subtle nod, and you closed the door.
The moon’s light fell on the apartment, as if the ugly building were trying to be appealing to you for some reason. You entered the PIN code for the door and went into the apartment, then made your way upstairs to the third floor.
You looked for your keys in your leather purse, which had too many keychains attached, making noise. You opened the door and let yourself in.
Closing the door behind you, you turned the lights on. The messy apartment gave you a rather warm welcome.
You let your purse fall on the feet of the hanger. Truly, you didn’t have the energy to do anything right tonight.
Suguru waited until you got inside and the apartment door closed behind you.
Normally, he would push the door and keep it open for you, then you would grab his hand and pull him inside with you, a stupid smile on your face.
He never thought things would go this way. But then again, this was for the better. At least for him. He brought up the suggestion of the breakup because he felt uncomfortable at some point. There was no point in continuing a relationship like that.
Though you both had your moments, happy and sweet memories, it perhaps wasn’t really that healthy for both of you.
You weren’t a healthy person. You didn’t say this to yourself to pity yourself or to excuse your actions. You loved Suguru. You still couldn’t believe that a guy like him loved you and dated you. You loved him that much. So much that you let him go.
Because you would prefer to let your heart skip a beat rather than watch Suguru waste himself because of you.
It had been ten minutes. You hadn’t texted to let him know that you got inside your apartment, or anything of the sort. He knew you wouldn’t. But he had waited for it anyway.
He couldn’t bring himself to go back to his own place. You were messier than usual when you were drunk, especially when you were this drunk.
Suguru let out a heavy sigh, leaning his head against the wheel. Part of him screamed to go inside and stay with you until he made sure you were okay. But another part told him to stay away and look after himself first.
Suguru wasn’t the one to take advice, anyway.
He got out of the car and locked it with the keys. The soft, warm breeze of the night hit his skin. It made him feel a bit less stressed.
You just got out of your clothes and into your sleepwear when there was a knock on the door.
…
“You’re a fool, Suguru,” you sighed under your breath, rubbing your eyes to wipe away unshed tears.
You walked toward the door. You didn’t need to look through the peephole. You opened the door a little.
A long silence fell over both of you. You couldn’t help but eye him as if you hadn’t seen him just twelve minutes ago.
“You waited outside? Really, Suguru?” You tried to keep your voice slightly playful, as you did most of the time. Even though you knew Suguru could see through you, you still did it anyway.
Suguru didn’t loom over the doorway or put his hands in his pockets. He just stood there, looking a little confused. He sighed before speaking. “I just wanted to make sure you are okay. You don’t really get along with hangovers,” he said. Was he scolding you or just stating a fact?
“Can I come in?”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I really shouldn’t. You know,” you murmured, not knowing what to do or even what to say. “I took off enough from your schedule by making you drop me here. If I let you come in, I think I would hate myself a bit more.”
Suguru paused. Was that just an honest comment about your feelings, or were you just joking about it?
“... I guess I’ll just hate myself.” You gave a low scoff and let him in, opening the door fully. Not waiting for him to get inside, you went to the kitchen, which was also a part of the living room. He wasn’t really… a guest anyway. Was he?
A friend. Not a stranger. Not that far away yet.
Nothing really happened. Suguru was there. He made sure you drank water and took painkillers so you wouldn’t feel like hell in the morning.
Now you two were sitting on different sides of the couch.
You decided to break the silence. You couldn’t let him do all the work now, can you?
“How are things? With... you know.” You didn’t really want to say “How are you dealing with the breakup?” But you hoped he was doing well, perhaps with someone new in mind.
You were quite good at manipulating your own thoughts.
Suguru’s gaze shifted from the TV, playing some stupid show on mute, to you. “Nothing different, really. I can say I’ve improved at feeling okay. Soon maybe I can say good.” Was that supposed to be playful? Well, you hoped so. You hoped he was truly happy with the decision he made. You gave a little smile back. “I’m glad to hear that. You deserve it.”
Silence. You averted your gaze from Suguru, but you could still feel his eyes on you.
You didn’t know what had come over you or what had triggered it. But the tough walls you had set around your emotions crumbled, sudden and with a hard force.
Maybe it was nostalgia.
You couldn’t stop the water from filling your eyes.
You remained quiet, looking at the TV as if it were actually interesting. When did you even put this channel on?
“Y/n.” Suguru said. He called out to you, sensing the emotions flowing within you. He looked concerned when you met his gaze.
Because this was different.
You had cried in front of him before; you both did. But Suguru felt something was different with this one. It was sudden. You didn’t even try to cover your face or eyes. You didn’t move yourself as if you weren’t even aware of the fact that you were crying.
“What’s wrong? Y/n, talk to me.” His voice was deep but soft with concern. He moved a bit closer, but not like how close he used to be. Physically and emotionally.
You wished you weren’t like this.
You wished you were emotionally mature, perhaps.
You wished that these problems wouldn’t be with you. You would give everything to love Suguru like he deserved this time. You would notice if something was wrong.
But all of them were empty wishes, and you knew it deep in your heart.
Still, the tears didn’t even dare to touch your cheeks; they just overflowed down to your lap.
But you weren’t sobbing.
You swallowed. And looked, really looked into Suguru’s gaze.
“... You know, Suguru.” Your voice was wavering, with a certain heaviness. “I would make a good girlfriend.” The words dropped from your lips before you could even have a second thought.
Perhaps that’s how you should’ve been from the start. Not overthinking everything for once.
Suguru’s eyes almost snapped open at your words. He opened his mouth to say something but didn’t. He eyed you closely. This was the you he wanted to see. The way he wanted you to be for yourself, honest to your own.Sharing your burden with him.
Flowers. Flowers were like relationships. You needed to water the flowers for them to grow. You needed to form an emotional bond in a relationship for it to grow.
Suguru swallowed a lump in his throat. A heavy one, so heavy that it felt like he had swallowed a rock from a pile of mud.
His gaze softened. His eyes didn’t leave you. He wanted to hold you close. He did.
“You would, Y/n,” he answered. His voice was emotional, too. In that moment, both of you were sharing the same emotions.
You gave a little smile, looking up at him. “But you won’t love me as you used to.” The words felt heavy to you. Too heavy, maybe. You felt as if your heart were heavier than usual.
Suguru’s eyes bored into yours, as if searching inside your mind.
“No,” Suguru said in a low tone. It wasn’t meant as a rejection. He just gave her the realistic answer, as she would’ve given him. Both of you knew the truth, and you were not fools.
“You’re an amazing person, Y/n,” Suguru said, always genuine. You knew by heart that he meant it. You kept the smile, a sad chuckle escaping you.
You almost felt relieved. Your heart heavy with the loss you both had. But even letting someone go required such intimacy on both sides.
That night, Suguru didn’t stay the night. You fell asleep on the couch, and he carried you to your bed for the last time.
He wished he had known it would be the last time.
April 8th was the last time Suguru closed the door of your apartment.
August 25th — 4:00 pm was the date he opened that door again.
Suguru pushed the door open, a small puff of dust escaping from the corners as he turned on the lights. The apartment remained just as he had left it.
You rarely opened the curtains, saying it wasn’t necessary since your apartment had no view. Suguru often mentioned that you weren’t getting enough sunlight and always cared about your well-being.
The medications were just as he last arranged them when he helped you recover from the beer you had. Suguru’s heart felt a gentle ache. He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t anger or bitterness in his mind. But there was also a bit of a lightness. Maybe, for you.
You had passed away. July 7th. – 12:03 am
The doctors found out you had heart disease, specifically severe Bradycardia, a condition you hadn’t mentioned before. You lost consciousness but didn’t feel any pain. Your heart rate gradually slowed, from one beat every 4 seconds to every 8 seconds, until the monitor lines flattened into asystole.
Suguru was heartbroken when he received the call. It felt like just as you were starting to settle back into your life, something unexpected took you away, away from yourself and from him.
You didn’t leave anything behind other than your belongings and small details that happened in the apartment after you both broke up.
In your bedroom, the drawer where you let him keep his things was still there. Your own drawers were usually messy and unorganized, but his drawer was kept almost perfectly tidy. It was almost as if you had taken inspiration from his habit of keeping things in order, especially since he wasn’t around to do it.
Suguru packed your things. Every bit of thing you had left of yourself.
The apartment no longer carried your warmth. Suguru couldn’t bring himself to linger too much. He had cried for a good while a few days ago, and now he mostly felt a bit empty in his heart. But it wasn’t a heavy emptiness.
As if you were still here, still thinking about him and giving him a playful chuckle while dismissing your heart's own burden.
Suguru walked out of the door.
August 25th —- 6:00pm
It was still the ugly, cold building as he looked at it for the last time.
Maybe you were right, the building was just gloomy after all.
It did bring a stupid little sad smile to his lips that lasted a second.
Suguru would move on. He would not let himself be dragged down into the feeling of hallowness. He would keep you in his heart. Where you always belonged.
After all,
You would prefer to let your heart skip a beat rather than watch Suguru waste himself because of you.
Wouldn’t you?
A/N: Hello hello! Wow. So, I've been wanting to write some angsty stuff and finally did. So that's one thing off my book! I literally rawdogged this. I have two final exams in the morning too, but oh well!
Hope you all enjoyed! Comments and feedback of any kind are appreciated as always! Thank you very much for reading <3.
⁺ . ✦ sum. {ANGST ONLY. PURE SADNESS} Post ending 7. You struggle to grieve a man you cannot remember.
⁺ . ✦ an. i hate this ending so much and i had to write abt it bc im just, so sad. inspired by this tiktok. this fic is meant to be listened to with this song (sometimes memory fails me sometimes - everyone asked about you)
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‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. It starts with a pain in your chest, fire spreading through your body, like your veins were on fire with every moment. It’s a pain you can’t understand, you’re not hurt. You didn’t get injured, you’re physically fine. It’s as if your very soul itself was ablaze, threatening to consume and to wither away in an instant.
The sun is no longer warm. You do not feel comforted by it. For the past few months, the warm sunlight does nothing but etch away at your bruised soul, exposing the raw pain as it erodes all that is you.
Sunlight… why is it sunlight?
You had half a mind to consider yourself a vampire, but the very idea was preposterous.
-
There was a festival recently. You watched the fireworks through your apartment window, watching the fleeting beauty pepper the night sky. Every explosion was like a punch to the gut, every crack of the fireworks a slash to your already bleeding heart. You physically cannot take your eyes away from the spectral display, locked into place. Almost like it was the first time you ever experienced fireworks. But you know it wasn’t your first time, you’ve seen them countless times, so why now? Why can’t you look away now??
Before you could comprehend it, warm streaks of liquid trailed down both of your cheeks. The salty streams dripped onto the floor, leaving you a sobbing and sniffling mess. You only remember curling up into a ball on your bed, sobbing into your pillow that smelled like someone you had never met before.
Why does it hurt so much? It’s as if you’re grieving someone who doesn’t exist, someone you don’t know and will never know.
It’s as if your soul was grieving the loss of your other half, the person that completed you, that made you whole. A person you can’t remember.
—
Wilted petals fall onto your desk. Sunflowers you don’t remember receiving, wilting in a vase you don’t remember putting them in. You can’t bring yourself to throw them away, as if the slightest movement would crumble them into dust. Sometimes you stare at them, perplexed and confused. Who gave these to you? And why can’t I remember it?
Why sunflowers?
Lately you’ve started snuggling your pillow, taking comfort in a foreign, yet familiar scent. It’s like if moonlight could be turned into a scent, leaving an impression on your senses forever. You inhale it, the smell of who he was consuming your presence. And for the first night in months, you sleep peacefully. No nightmares of falling into an abyss. No pain. Only soft comfort, as if the moon itself was wrapping you in a hug. You could swear you felt someone beside you, if only for a moment.
Every day you try to remember who this person was. The person you seemed to have cared so deeply for, but your mind draws a blank every single time. It’s as if the act of trying to remember brought searing, white hot pain to your very soul. As if someone went inside the very depths of your soul, and stole what made you, you. As if they erased that very part of your existence, and tossed you aside. But you push past the pain, trying to connect to yourself, trying to remember.
One afternoon, while cleaning, you found hair clips you swore you had never bought in your life. One was a sunflower… another was a cute skull. You stood there, tears welling in your eyes for a reason unknown to you. You clutched the hair clips so tightly they dug into your skin, slicing it open and leaving a nasty gash.
You couldn’t bring yourself to care. The inconveniencing pain of a small cut incomparable to the soul shattering despair of grief with no one to love.
A fluff of white hair pops into your mind. The memory is painful, fleeting, but recognizable. You pick up the nearest pen and paper, and with your bloodied hand, begin to sketch what flashed in your mind in an instant.
You can’t remember his face, you only remember layered, long, white hair. Your hand whips around the paper, trailing blood along the page as you ignore the pain and try to commit what little of him to memory that you have left. You try to sketch a face, and fail, there’s no way you could recreate that when you have no idea what he looks like.
Maybe he never existed. Maybe I’m misremembering.
Splotches of blood smear across the paper. Droplets splatter onto the eyes you’ve sketched, and it’s like an epiphany in your soul.
Crimson red eyes.
You sob, tears streaming down your face, gazing at the sketch of a man you’ve never seen before. Where did you go?
