Ardent Hope II. Chainsaw Man x Male Reader Insert.

10. Devotion.

Perhaps, Nayuta wouldn't be able to understand these memories all by herself, not without a context, not without something to guide her. She stared through countless and countless of scenes being replayed, over and over, making sense of a name that was entrusted by many to be forgotten, forging a reputation to that name, and encumbering her to bear that burden on her back for the days to come. And for the first time, a memory different from those she saw made itself present before her. Although never discovered by himself, Makima's hivemind had crept deep into his brain more than anyone ever imagined, and some of her memories had been left there too, in the mind of her servants, waiting to be discovered by those daring enough.

There were images, sentiments, voices, and the constant melody of the rain, ever present in the memories she held dear. Why did everything seem so shallow from the view of this strange, sad lady? She had everything she ever needed, an apartment of immaculate beauty and unpolluted bed sheets, why did she ever felt the need to do something like that?

The strange sound of her own laughter, sounding like an abhorrently out of tune instrument that had never been played correctly, stood out from the rest. Tarnished wings, both delicate and frail, perhaps had been too weary of the bright blue sky.

It was strange for Nayuta to be taken care of by Denji, wasn't it? In the couple of memories shown by her own self, only the image of (Y/N) remained ever present. Why was she, the current incarnation of the Control Devil, being taken care of by Denji, who Makima had hated so much?

Why wasn't she being taken care of by (Y/N), who Makima loved the most out of anything else in the world?

Did he not love her back?

"Nayuta." The voice of Power first called, such dirty tone still engraved in the back of her throat.

"Nayuta." Then Denji said, almost as a plea, and although his raspy voice seemed tired enough to not demonstrate any emotion, it did the complete opposite. Much like before, his voice seemed full of emotion, of sentiments completely different than the last time, although renewed of vigor and determination.

And as the voice of (Y/N) called her name with a simple "Nayuta." of completely indescribable meaning behind the tone of his voice, Nayuta woke up once again, only staring at the slumbering figure of Denji still sleeping before her. His face was a mess, actually, full of tears and a rather anticlimactic crying snot hanging from his cheek. Perhaps, the remembrance of her memories was not only something Nayuta could see, but rather, she was forcing Denji to dream about it, and relive those moments. She couldn't bear herself to look at him once again, and although she tried and tried to look back at her caretaker the way she had done before, the centered reminiscence of Makima's own hatred was still embedded deep beneath her soul whom they, unfortunately, shared.

Nayuta's hand reached into Denji's chest, and touched the cord protruding out of his skin with her bare fingers, almost an invitation to bring something back, something that had been righteously hers. She felt pity for such a living thing, so inferior, so subtle yet so easily manipulated, and a stinging though raced through her mind in that very moment. Did Denji take care of her, not because he loved her still, but because he was afraid she could end up like her old self?

Was her whole life planned this time? Just a convenience for her to not turn up like Makima, and none of them actually loved her?

As Nayuta closed her eyes, only that question remained still present on her mind. Even after hugging Denji, even after she fell asleep just like any other day of the week, even after reliving her own memories, over and over again, brought to her in countless dreams.

"I was planning for our weekend plan to go..." (Y/N) fought to find the right words. "Better than this." He finally opted to say. Longingly staring from the small balcony of his apartment, (Y/N) took a sip from his cup of tea as the rain kept pouring down and down, and the slow jazz playing on the rather broken radio of a neighbor was loud enough to be heard from his own living room, a rather discordant symphony combined with the gentle hum of the microwave in the kitchen.