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starmapz · 2 months ago

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what you know - ch15: aftermath || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 25.9k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

Your breaths come quickly as you exit the courtroom, gaze drawn to the ground to avoid the prying eyes of onlookers. Tears stream down your face as quickly as you can wipe them, leaving streaks of mascara in their place.

Trailing after Sukuna, you pause at the large wooden doors past the security check, sucking in a sharp breath. Holding it for as long as you can, you desperately attempt to wipe away streaks of makeup as you compose yourself the best that you can. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that you’re barely holding it together, but you need to remind yourself of something.

Whatever state you’re in, Sukuna’s doing worse.

No matter how scared you are for Sukuna and his brothers, your friend is experiencing it tenfold.

With a shaky breath, you swallow the lump in your throat, blinking away what you can of the remnants of your tears before pushing through the heavy wooden door.

The early spring air relieves only a modicum of the anxiety gripping your chest. Without the dull walls of the courthouse bearing down on you, you had expected the claustrophobia to lighten, but it only worsens when you spot Sukuna.

“That fucking bitch!” He roars, physically shaking as he pushes his hands through his hair, disheveling the strands. “FUCK!” He screams, gritting his teeth so hard it sends a jolt of pain straight to his head.

Keeling over, he lets out a shaky breath as he claws at his chest. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he explodes once more, ripping a box of cigarettes from his pocket and sending them flying across the parking lot. They collide with a van at the edge of the asphalt, falling to the ground as bent cylinders scatter across the ground.

Your heart shatters at the sight of Sukuna balling his hands into trembling fists as something between a pant and a panicked sob parts his lips. The muscles in his back rise and fall quickly, trembling just as his fists do. Finding your footing, you wipe at your tears once more as you slowly approach him from behind.

Before you can offer any comfort, he bursts once more. “What the fuck am I-?” His voice breaks as he stares into the distance, screaming out another “FUCK!” as he reaches into his pocket for whatever hits his fingers. Blinded by the pain of his anger and drowning under the weight of his anxiety, his movements become mechanical. Fingers brushing the cool metal of his lighter, he doesn’t register what he’s doing as he prepares to fling it through the air like he had so many moons ago.

A metallic gleam catches your eye as you finally find it in you to step in and stop his pained rampage. Your hand wraps delicately around his wrist seconds before he can send the lighter flying through the air.

Whipping around to face you, his eyes burn with emotion unlike anything you’ve seen in him before. White-hot fire burns and sparks behind foggy crimson irises as he turns to face you, his lip curled as if he’s ready to spew venom at whoever might touch him, but the flames sputter out when he’s faced with you. You’re not quite sure who he expected, given his lawyer has loose ends to tie and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Kaori wouldn’t care to be there for him.

But it’s you.

The one and now only constant in his life.

Confusion, uncertainty, and fear all fight for a place within the man’s hollow chest as he struggles to grapple with the weight of a decision that’s flipped his life on its head.

Failure.

It echoes deep in the recesses of his mind, serving as a reminder of everything he’s tried so desperately not to be. All these years, all the effort he’s put into making a life for him and his brothers, and he’s amounted to no more than what everyone has always seen him as. A delinquent. A failure. A man who’s spent so long trying to prove himself only to be beaten down into a husk of himself.

Your lips move, but he doesn’t hear you, stagnant as his eyes stare straight through you. Gone is the cunning history major with all his flirtations and bravado. Gone is the man who scoffs in the face of those who doubt him. The man who stands in front of you now, his pulse racing beneath the tips of your fingers, is completely and utterly unrecognizable.

If it weren’t for the defining tattoos and striking pink hair, you might even think you’d found some distant twin of the man you’d grown to love.

With another gentle squeeze of your hand to attempt to grab his attention, you say his name with more conviction. His eyes snap to you suddenly. Distant, but he hears you. He’s listening. “Don’t throw that,” you say softly, giving his arm a small tug.

Slowly, he begins to lower his arm, becoming more aware of his surroundings. It’s just you and him in the parking lot right now, though he hardly remembers getting here. Confusion riddles his mind as your words sink in and he finally pulls his arm free, holding his hand out before him to stare at his lighter.

His thumb brushes the engraving on it, leaving behind an eerie prickling feeling on the pad of his thumb. His chest heaves, jaw ajar as he struggles with air. He can only stare at the name, which was once dear to him as a reminder of the family whose surname he doesn’t share, but still belongs to. Now, it’s a reminder of everything that’s been torn away from him.

He inhales sharply, shutting his eyes as he clasps his hand around the device. Now conscious of his own decisions, he finds himself wanting to whip the lighter into the ground anew. He wants to erase every remnant of the name ‘Itadori’ from his life. He wishes his father never took her name when they got married.

“Sukuna, talk to me,” you plead, doing what you can to get his attention, but he’s trapped in his own world once more.

His breaths grow more harsh, scaling in anger until every exhale is a huff and every subsequent inhalation sounds downright painful. Unable to catch his breath, he finds himself stumbling to the edge of the stairs to cling onto the brick guardrail on either side, bracing himself on his forearms.

With three more unsuccessful attempts to call his name, you take a step forwards, placing your hand gently on his upper arm. “Kuna?”

Sukuna sucks in a breath at the sound of his brothers’ nickname, dropping his forehead onto his arm as he struggles to breathe.

Sukuna. His surname, and the name he’d chosen to go by after his father died. His father had chosen the name Ryomen for him, and he’d never been able to break that association once Jin had passed. The pain dulled with time, but that name, that part of him, remained permanently scarred. Now his chosen name stands as nothing more than a testament of what once was, too.

What’s left of him, if he does away with the damn lighter? If he does away with the silly nickname his brothers call him because both Ryomen and Sukuna are a mouthful?

It shouldn’t matter, he knows he shouldn’t let it get to him so much, but his very identity is ingrained so thoroughly into his family that he’s not so sure what he stands for anymore.

The name ‘Ryomen’ hasn’t even bothered him for a while now, but the pain of losing Jin feels like an open goddamn wound again. One in which he’s peeled the scab off so many times that there’s no blood left to spill. It only leaves behind increasingly deeper scars that don’t heal.

When Sukuna doesn’t respond again, you quell your own concern and anxiety as best as you can, wiping your silent tears once more before stepping closer. You take another deep breath as you slide your hand down from his upper arm until you find his hand. Slipping your fingers beneath his, you carefully pull the lighter out from his hands and tuck it back into his pocket given that your skirt doesn’t exactly have any.

“Please, talk to me,” you plead, unable to do anything but watch as Sukuna’s muscles tense and he pushes to his feet suddenly.

“How the fuck did she get away with this shit?” He barks suddenly as though he’s come to his senses, staring out at the parking lot. When he whips back around to face you, though, he’s as lost as he was while keeled over the railing. “Four fucking YEARS!” He roars, balling his hands into fists. “For fuck’s sake, I-” He pauses, clutching at his chest as he pants and heaves to catch his breath.

“Sukuna, plea-” you try to step in again with a hand to his shoulder, but it’s as though he barely registers your presence.

“Can’t fucking breathe, why can’t I fucking-” he cuts himself off, wrenching his hands painfully through his hair as he shrugs your hand off of shoulder. He pulls desperately at his tie, ripping it away from his neck and shoving it into his pocket. He proceeds to unbutton the top two buttons of his dress shirt, but it doesn’t help the lingering feeling of suffocation.

His chest heaves at a pace that does his lungs no favors as his hands drop from his shirt, hanging at his sides. His eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, and you can’t bear to let him choke himself in his own frustration anymore.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, stepping in front of him and taking a hold of his forearms.

Your steady grip grounds him enough that you manage to catch his gaze as he stares at you, though you don’t miss the way that something akin to pain glimmers in his eyes. “So fucking frustrating, I can’t fucking breathe-” he grumbles mindlessly as your thumbs soothe circles into his arms.

“I know,” you whisper in reply to his grumbles, stepping forward to pull him into a hug. Your arms wrap tightly around his middle as you rest your cheek on his broad chest. His heart is pounding so fast against your ear that you fear it might just escape its cage, but what’s more startling is just how shallow his breaths have become. Threatening to pull him under, his anxiety seems to be getting the better of him, even managing to dim the flames of his anger as his body trembles and gasps with each breath.

Sukuna’s arms remain frozen in the air, his gaze flitting wildly around his surroundings before finding purchase on the sight of you, clinging to him.

Tilting your head up to look at him, you run your hand up and down his spine soothingly in an attempt to ground him.

And by some miracle, it works. His arms wrap around you tightly, clinging to you as though you might slip through his fingers at any moment. With his attention now fixated on you, you adjust the speed at which your fingers trail up and down his back to match the speed of your breathing.

“Breathe with me.” With his attention now drawn to you, you begin the familiar routine that draws Sukuna back down to earth. You don’t need to instruct him when to take his breaths, knowing he can feel the rise and fall of your chest that follows the lead of your gentle hand.

Much like every other time that your presence has soothed him from a place he doesn’t know how to come down from, his body gradually stills. Air fills his lungs as his breathing slows to a reasonable pace.

Exhausted, his chin falls to the top of your head, his entire body weary as you take on more of his weight than you anticipated and nearly stumble backwards. You catch yourself just in time as he buries his face into the top of your head. Along with the warmth of his breath, you feel the heat of silent tears streaming down his face, too.

Swallowing hard, you’re grateful his suit has him in multiple layers so that he can’t feel the stains your own tears are leaving on his chest. You may owe him a trip to the dry-cleaner’s, but that’s a worry for later.

The silence bears down on you both, pressing in on every side like walls closing in on you. It seeps into the embrace you find yourself in, leaving doubt and uncertainty in its wake, but for the first time in months, it’s not because of your strained friendship. You can’t be certain that the rift is gone, but the unbearable silence is caused by something new, something you had been sure the trial would alleviate.

Fear. Your own, but even more so, Sukuna’s. It’s probably why he can’t bear the quiet, and speaks up.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say to ‘em?” he mutters into the crown of your head, muffled by your hair. His voice is so quiet, so despairing, that you barely recognize his tone.

With a sniffle, you shake your head within his grip. “I don’t know, Kuna.”

His muscles tense in your hold, though you can’t be sure why.

“I failed again,” he mumbles hollowly, his fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes tightly.

Again? You’re not sure what exactly he’s referencing, but you squeeze him back regardless. “It’s not your fault,” you assure him. He may have gotten emotional multiple times throughout the trial, but any judge with a brain would recognize that he simply cares. As far as you’re concerned, Kaori manipulated every piece of the process in her favor. Surely if Sukuna appeals, he can play his cards right and get a fair trial.

You have to believe that for him, because the kids deserve better than a mother who’s never been present.

“I could’ve…” He hesitates, searching for something more that he could have done, but the fact is that as far as he sees it, his fuck-ups began years ago.

He could have been a better kid. He could have been a better friend. He could have been a better brother.

His chest heaves out a long sigh laced with frustration. “I shoulda done more.”

“Stop blaming yourself,” you scold him gently, pulling back a bit to look up at him. He stands upright enough that his weight is relieved from your shoulders, his gaze avoidant. You know he just doesn’t want you to see his reddened eyes rimmed with downright weariness. No matter how many times you’ve been there for him while he’s vulnerable, he still doesn’t want you, or anyone to perceive him as weak.

“It’s my job to look after them,” he mumbles blankly, devoid of any real emotion as he pulls back out of your grip to lean against the brick railing of the stairs once more. His chest heaves as he continues to catch his breath, but it’s steadier now, grounded in reality.

“You have to stop blaming yourself, Sukuna.”

His shoulders visibly tense. Taking a deep breath, he rolls them back and scowls deeply at the concrete beneath his feet. He wants to listen to you, he really does, but his brain isn’t seeing eye to eye with that desire. Every fault, every argument, and every regret resurfaces all at once. His jaw clamps tightly shut as he shakily inhales in an effort to push away even just one of the memories desperately gnawing at the edges of his psyche for a taste of his fear.

“What happened today isn’t your fault and I know- I know that you know that,” you keep your voice low, attempting to keep it level, but it betrays you, cracking mid-sentence.

The falter in your speech catches Sukuna’s attention and for the first time since he left the courthouse, he gets a good look at you. He’d been so lost in the narrow passageways of his mind that he hadn’t noticed that you’re barely holding it together too, only managing to keep yourself in check through sheer will.

His heart drops at the sight of the mascara that streaks down your cheeks. You’ve obviously wiped a fair bit of it away but the evidence is there.

All at once, it becomes painfully obvious that an answer he’d been seeking for the past month is staring him straight in the face.

He’s always known you love his brothers. You wear your heart on your sleeve and their love wrapped in purple and red twine on your wrist.

But he supposes if he’d ever stopped to really think about that, that maybe there’s more to that. Because you don’t love them in the way that a babysitter would. You don’t love them in the way that you would care for a friend’s siblings.

You love them like they’re your own family.

Because after months of looking after them and months of spending time with Sukuna himself, the two of you became best friends and he isn’t sure he ever really had the time to stop and notice that fact himself before driving a nail through your heart two months ago.

You loved him then, and he thinks you might love him now.

In fact, he knows you love him now.

What a terrible fucking moment for him to realize something that holds so much weight in the unsteady balance between you.

Because whether he knows or not, there’s another question left unanswered.

Why does Sukuna care so much about knowing if you still love him?

He’s not sure.

There’s an answer somewhere deep within him that he needs to bury with every other emotion if he plans on making it out the other end of this miserable week alive. It’s an answer he’s not ready to face, even if he knows, deep down.

How can he face those feelings, after all, when he did this to you? He failed Yuji. He failed Choso.

He failed you.

He attempts to take a step back, stumbling when his heel hits the brick railing. Steadying himself with his hand on the brick, he stares at the overcast sky. The sun hasn’t been visible for even a mere second the past couple of weeks, almost as though the world was warning him of his impending failure. Sukuna thinks it may as well rain, while it’s at it. Really drill it in just how much he lost. Just how miserable he deserves to be.

Failure hangs over him, the bold lettering facing him no matter which way he turns. He shuts his eyes, praying the suffocating feeling will go away, but it seems to press down heavier on him the longer he stands there. Rubbing his eyes harshly, he blinks his eyes open in time to see the front doors of the courthouse swing open to reveal Kaori and her lawyer.

“Oh, you are still here. Ryomen, I just wanted to say-”

To your shock, Sukuna seems to lock in at the sight of his step mother, his eyes darkening as he pushes off of the brick railing and stands upright. In two long strides, he places himself between you and her, much like he did in this same situation last week, only now there’s no security, and even Sukuna’s lawyer isn’t here to stop him.

Your viewing angle of the conversation isn’t ideal, but you don’t move given that you don’t particularly care to be around Kaori anyway. You know Sukuna’s just trying to keep you safe.

And if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t really want to stop him either.

“I don’t give a damn what you have to say,” he growls in a voice so devoid of any warmth it sends a shiver straight down your spine. “I hope you fucking burn in hell, Kaori,” he snarls in a tone so grating that you swear it could shake the very ground you stand on.

“That’s not an appropriate way to speak to your m-”

“FUCK YOU!” He roars, pointing his finger in her direction with a fire that you still have no desire to quench. “Don’t give me any of that bullshit. You’ll be in for a rude fucking awakening when you realize your kids fucking hate you.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Mr. Cahn places himself between Kaori and Sukuna before your friend can sink his teeth into his step-mother’s throat. Unimpressed, Sukuna scoffs, but steps down, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your lawyer needs to speak with you, Mr. Sukuna. She’s inside,” he explains, shaking his head in disapproval as he leads his client away from the courthouse.

Sukuna’s slicing gaze follows Kaori for a moment before he lets out a deep sigh as his anger lowers to a simmer in the pit of his stomach. His eyes are still ablaze when you finally step forward to watch Kaori discuss something with her lawyer before she casts you a glance as she gets into her car.

Turning to face him, you suck in a breath, attempting to wipe at your cheeks again, only smudging your disheveled makeup further. “You, um-” you cut yourself off as your phone starts vibrating in your coat pocket. Peeking at the screen, Kento’s name flashes back at you. “- Sorry, um-” Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to Sukuna. “I feel like you should ask her about an appeal. You deserve a fair trial.”

Sukuna blinks slowly, that familiar distant look beginning to settle in his gaze as his anger and anxiety both level themselves out. As his hands fall to his sides and weariness cradles his eyes, he nods. He may be downright exhausted with low spirits, but Kaori hasn’t put his flame out quite yet.

He’ll fight for what he loves.

Your phone begins to vibrate once more in your pocket just as Sukuna’s turning away.

“I’ll wait here,” you tell him as you hit the green button on your phone. Your friend nods as he trudges back inside. “Hello?”

“Hi. Are you alright?” Kento’s voice is tinged with worry. Even in the midst of a tense and stressful situation, you find a small smile pulling at your lips.

“Yeah, thanks Ken. The- um- the trial just happened. Sorry, I would have mentioned I wouldn’t be there for lunch, but it was pretty last minute,” you explain, chewing on your lower lip.

“I see,” Kento hums on the other line. “You don’t sound pleased,” he adds gravely.

Your raspy voice must be all he needs to deduce what happened. “... No,” you agree, “I’m not.”

Silence permeates both sides of the line. Your eyes trail the parking lot blankly. A crow puffs its chest out at another larger crow as they both fight over morsels of some sort of food despite there being two pieces. In the end, the smaller bird takes off with both pieces of food shoved in its beak as the other bird stomps around the asphalt.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Sighing softly, you shake your head although he can’t see the movement. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Right. Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will, thanks Kento.”

He hums affirmatively before the line cuts out. Your hand falls to your side with your phone firmly clutched in your grasp. You slide it back into your coat pocket as you stare back out at the sea of cars.

Although the day’s been overcast, you’d sworn on your way here that the sun peeking through the clouds was a sign to keep your head up. Now, it just seems like the sun is taunting you.

Taunting a world that could have been.

How many times would Sukuna need to reset his entire life? To start from square one and rebuild to a point that he’s content?

To your knowledge this will be Yuji’s first time experiencing something of this degree. Will he change like Sukuna has in the past couple of months?

Or Choso?

How will Choso cope without Sukuna when he’s barely coping with Sukuna’s support?

Taking a seat on the front step, you find yourself staring down at scattered and bent cigarettes and lean down to pick them up, shoving them all into the cigarette box sitting amongst them. Just as you gather the last one, an exasperated ‘fuck’ rings out behind you.

Sukuna looks frustrated once more as his feet lead the way straight to you.

“Can you appeal?” You query.

“Yeah. She’s gonna gather more evidence to see what we can do. We’re gonna talk to Cho’s teacher too,” he growls, his annoyance really coming through as he recalls the testimony that sealed his fate. “I’m supposed to see the kids every two weeks for visitation, but…”

You tilt your head.

“I fuckin’ guarantee it’s not gonna happen.”

“You can fight it if she doesn’t,” you point out, hopeful that the visitation schedule will give both Sukuna and the boys some sort of piece of mind given that you hadn’t expected the judge to grant visitation.

“Princess…” Sukuna sighs, avoiding your gaze in defeat. “I don’t have the money to fight for custody and visitation.”

Your brows knit together as you nod. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He hums, pushing a hand through his long hair. His nose wrinkles at the feeling of gel coating the strands mixed with the sweat of his panic and anger. Attempting to shake the miserable feeling of perspiration and just plain dejection that coats his skin, he brushes his hand off on his suit jacket.

“Are you gonna be okay telling your brothers?” You query, watching his face contort in misery and discomfort.

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He grumbles.

“Yeah…” you whisper, barely audible. “And Uraume?”

As though he hadn’t even considered that Uraume is still watching the kids, he sighs heavily. The weight bearing down on his shoulders presses harder than ever and for once, Sukuna wants to let it win.

He wants to fall to the ground and give in. To let the pain crush him.

He wants to let go.

Sensing the dread that Sukuna can’t shoulder on his own anymore, you take his hand, clasping your fingers like he had at lunch the other day. “Hey,” you shoot him your best reassuring smile as you step into his view. “It’s okay.”

His chest rises and falls as he stares blankly at you. His eyes are lidded, heavy with exhaustion as he regards you.

“Did you want to drop by my place to take a shower first?”

With a long inhalation, Sukuna nods. “Yeah. I think I need that,” he agrees, squeezing your hand back before pulling away to drag his hands over his face.

He lets you lead the way to your car, getting in the passengers’ seat and staring out the window. He leans so heavily to one side of the chair that you have half a mind to think he might have fallen asleep, but the moment you pull into your parking spot, he’s out and following you up to your apartment as though the distant look in his eyes isn’t ever-present.

He follows you wordlessly into your home, discarding his shoes at the door as he follows you to the washroom. His movements are painfully limp, so dead-tired that he’s running on fumes as the results of the trial catch up with him.

As you leave him to shower, he twists the tap until it won’t go any further, stripping as he waits for the water to warm up before letting the hot water sear his skin. It doesn’t rid him of the guilt that plagues him, nor does the way he scratches harshly at his chest. The reddened stripes across his skin tingle beneath the hot water. He grits his teeth at the feeling, leaning both hands against the shower wall as he lets the stream wet his hair.

It may not relieve the burdens that make his skin crawl, but at least the sweat and hair gel pool at his feet before slipping down the drain.

It’s a start.

Shutting off the tap, he hops out of the shower, drying himself off and wrapping the towel around his waist. With a swipe of his forearm, he rids the mirror of fog, leaning over the sink as he stares at the man before him.

If the man staring back at him from the judge’s glasses this morning was foreign to him, he doesn’t know what to describe the person in the mirror right now.

His skin is gaunt, his eyes lidded and weary as dark circles weigh them down. His overly long hair hangs down over his forehead and into his vision as he hunches over the sink. It’s the eyes, though, his eyes, that have never seemed quite as unfamiliar as they do now. They’re dull, lacking in all of the things he prides himself in.

Something wet hits his knuckle and he watches as the liquid from his hair drips down the side of his hand onto the porcelain beneath. Meeting his own gaze again, he blinks as he’s forced to drag a finger across his cheek to smear the evidence of his tears.

Strengthening his grip on your sink, he pushes upright and pulls his clothes from earlier back on, leaving only the suit jacket aside. He doesn’t bother tucking anything in, it’s not like his brothers or Uraume haven’t seen him in a worse state.

When he leaves the washroom, you’re sitting on the couch with a concentrated scowl as you nosily scan the internet for any signs of a Kaori Itadori. Your search comes up short, leaving you with no explanations for the questions that continue to plague you.

Your gaze rises as Sukuna’s languid movement catches your attention. Your lips part at the sight of his reddened eyes, but you don’t dare point it out. You inhale as you prepare to say something, but he gets to it first.

“Mind driving me?”

“Oh- um- yeah, sure.”

He only grunts in reply.

–

Given Sukuna’s detachment, you almost expected him to say no when you offered to come up to his apartment for support. Some part of his subconscious must be clinging to you like a lifeline whether he realizes it or not, because despite saying he’d be alright, he took your hand.

He didn’t even seem to question you following him up to his apartment even as he unlocked the door.

Dropping your hand, he pushes into his home, dropping his keys on the side table as six pairs of eyes all stare back at him. His blood runs cold at the sight of two puffy-cheeked little boys staring back at him with so much misplaced hope in their eyes.

The room closes in on him, stealing the breath from his lungs again. He coughs abruptly, feebly clearing his throat as he casts a glance at Uraume. Their eyes say it all, the kids have told them. They don’t even seem all that hurt, with understanding gleaming within their eyes.

He’s not sure he deserves it.

Worse still, is the way that they straighten when Sukuna doesn’t immediately speak. They know.

The silence bears down on him as he forces himself to be strong, to be what the kids need him to be.

“Hey,” he hoarsely greets the three of them, kicking his shoes off. He takes a hesitant step forward, “can you kids go to your room for a bit? I gotta talk to-”

“You lost?” Choso interrupts.

Always too smart for his own good.

His pupils shrink to mere pinpricks, his chest rising and falling in frantic breaths as he stares between you and Sukuna. This sends his little brother into a panic as well, the salmon-haired boy jumping to his feet as he lacks the maturity to understand the situation, but recognizes the tonal shift of the room.

Tears well immediately in Yuji’s eyes as he frantically tugs at his brother’s sleeve. “What’s happening?” He murmurs repeatedly, confused as Choso pulls away.

The tension rises in the room as Choso wraps his arms around his middle, shrinking into himself. Yuji erupts into tears at the lack of response from his brother, and for the first time that you’ve ever been witness to, Sukuna’s composure breaks around the kids.

His head falls, a shaky breath parting his lips as he can hardly bear to look at the brothers he feels he’s failed. His hands ball into fists at his sides, the tang of iron flooding his mouth as he bites down harshly on his lower lip. The taste grounds him, reminds him of the weight his presence holds for the two bawling kids in front of him.

The moment of broken composure is fleeting and before either you or Uraume can process the scene in front of you and react, Sukuna steps into the familiar role he’s carved in the kids’ lives pushing his emotions down. He steps forward, steeling his expression. He takes a breath to steady himself as he kneels in front of the children, pulling them each into him with one arm.

Yuji buries his face into Sukuna’s dress shirt, his loud wails muffled by the thin material. Choso’s arms wrap around Sukuna’s shoulders as the boy clings to his older brother with silent tears. Sukuna’s poor shirt has seen enough tears for a lifetime, let alone one day.

Exchanging a look with Uraume, they beckon you over to the kitchen.

Keeping your voices down, Uraume pipes in first. “How are you holding up?”

“Um-” you pause in thought, casting a glance at Sukuna. “I’ve been better,” you admit, your eyelids heavy. “I didn’t think he’d…” You trail off, as though finishing the sentence somehow makes it seem more real.

The overhead light flickers a number of times, capturing your attention as Uraume sighs heavily. “I just wish he’d let more of us know before it came to this,” they state with a grimace. “Is it just you?”

You shake your head. “Kento knows.”

Shock passes across their features. They blink a number of times, before scrutinizing you with a scowl. “Kento Nanami?”

“His friend is in the law program,” you loosely explain, though it’s enough of an explanation to make sense to Uraume. “It also made Kento want to punch him less,” you shrug, forcing a smile.

Uraume returns the smile, though they note it doesn’t meet your eyes. They cast a glance back at Sukuna and the boys before quietly evaluating your disposition. Uraume isn’t entirely unlike Kento in that way, ever observant and painfully on the nose when it comes to those they care about.

Lacking any subtlety, you attempt to wipe at the mascara that you probably should have removed when you visited your house, but Sukuna had asked to be driven home so quickly that you didn’t have time.

The main difference between Kento and Uraume?

Uraume lacks the decorum that Kento has, and can be painfully blunt. It may be what Sukuna needs, but you’ve got enough bluntness in your life from the man himself.

“You don’t look so good.”

At least they have a polite way of telling you that you look like shit.

Sighing, you lower your head into your hands. “Thanks,” you mutter.

“Go wash up,” they tilt their chin in the direction of Sukuna’s washroom. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

Nodding thankfully, you slip away into the washroom. The sterile overhead lighting brings back memories of Sukuna sitting pitifully on the floor, hunched against the tub.

Your eyes linger a moment too long on the floor near the tub, the image of his desperate gasps as he clutched at his chest appearing a bit too vividly in your mind.

But maybe that’s because you only just got him back down from that very same headspace.

It’s cruel, really. To put him through so much. Ever stoic and aloof, you never could have known when you first met him just how much he really struggles. Then again, you recall a time where he wasn’t struggling nearly as much. At that moment, it strikes you that this isn’t normal for Sukuna. He’s the type of man who bottles up his emotions and shoves his problems down, but he figures them out. He has the ingenuity and resourcefulness of a man with twice his experience, while keeping the facade of mysteriousness to anyone on the outside looking in.

But within a few months, that all faded.

Everything faded, in favor of a man attempting to accomplish a herculean task alone.

The upside, you suppose, is that the task isn’t sisyphean.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you turn your attention to the mirror, turning the tap to warm water as you wipe away the remnants of mascara staining your cheeks.

No matter how battered and bruised he is, Sukuna always gets back up.

And so do you.

Satisfied with your appearance, you make your way back out of the washroom, finding Sukuna now on the couch with both boys crying into his shoulders. His eyelids are heavy as his stare hangs distantly onto the coffee table in front of him.

Uraume is in the kitchen making three mugs of tea and two mugs of what you assume is hot chocolate when you emerge into the living room. Tossing the tea bags into the trash, they set the first mug of tea on the coffee table for Sukuna, before handing one over to you, keeping the last for themself.

“Chamomile,” they state, loud enough to be heard over Yuji’s broken wails even as Sukuna attempts to calm him with hesitant shushes.

You mumble a thank you, pleased as the warm liquid soothes your raw throat.

Sukuna stares at the mug blankly as he holds the two kids, reminding himself of your words from earlier when Choso was struggling.

“He just needs you to be there for him. You don’t have to say anything.”

And what would he say, anyway? Sorry he failed again?

It’s not like he can even reassure the kid that he’ll still see them since he was granted visitation, because the reality is that he doesn’t believe Kaori will honor that. It doesn’t mean he won’t try, but he has a suspicion that Kaori will head back overseas as soon as she’s able to get the boys out of the country, leaving behind everything they know and love.

Shutting his eyes, he lets the kids bawl, lets them get it all out. Hell, he thinks he’d be crying too if he had anything left to give.

That leaves you and Uraume to do little more than watch. It’s gut-wrenching to see their family so torn up, and you get the feeling that the rest of Sukuna’s week will be equally as draining as the past twenty four hours already has been.

You frown as neither boy’s sobs die down, but right now you’re not what they need. You can’t step in and calm them down, they’re exactly where they need to be. They’re exactly where they want to be.

Sitting at the table towards the back of Sukuna’s apartment, Uraume keeps up a quiet conversation with you to keep your own mind off of the situation. It’s hardly a matter of moments before your stomach is growling, betraying the fact that you’d forgotten breakfast and at this point the sun’s nearly reaching the end of its journey across the afternoon sky.

“Why don’t we go get food?” Uraume offers, casting a glance at Sukuna and the boys. “I think he’d appreciate it,” they add in a softer tone.

With a nod, you let Uraume lead the way out to the familiar chicken joint you last visited with Sukuna months ago. After placing your orders, you take a seat at one of the booths in the back corner to wait.

“How long have you known?” Uraume queries.

Reading between the lines and assuming they’re referencing the lawsuit, you sigh. “He told me last year at Satoru’s after-finals Christmas party.” Coincidentally, that’s also the first time you were here with Sukuna.

“So he’s known for a while,” they comment, piecing together what they’ve learned throughout the day.

Nodding, you examine their features. They don’t seem hurt by the revelation that Sukuna’s kept something so big from them. Their fingers tap a number of times on the table as they contemplate something.

“Did he pay for the lawyer?”

You nod.

Rolling their eyes, they mutter “dumbass” under their breath.

Your head tilts at their reaction curiously.

“Atsuya is well-off. Very well-off. Had he asked for help, Atsuya would have had no issue paying.”

“Like he’d ask for help,” you scoff lightheartedly.

Uraume cracks a smile, sitting upright. “I suppose you have a point.”

The sounds of the diner fill the air as you continue to wait on your order. A coffee machine whirrs to life as someone takes a seat at the counter. Their foot kicks at the base of the counter, the rhythmic sound serving as a distraction from your thoughts.

“How are you faring, really?”

Your meek smile fades as you consider their words, fiddling with the receipt between your fingers. You’ve spent so long focusing on the well-being of Sukuna and the kids that you haven’t really had the opportunity to stop and consider your own emotions. The momentary pauses in the washroom between stressful events and the short-lived silence of the world at night hardly give you a chance to unwind these days.

How are you?

Chewing on your lip, you feel your resolve shattering. Tears well in your eyes, but you don’t bother hiding them for once. As they slip past your lashes and down your cheeks, you shake your head in reply.

“I don’t know,” you whisper honestly, sucking in a breath as you wipe at your cheeks.

Uraume’s brow pulls together in sympathy. “You still love him, don’t you?”

Did you even tell Uraume about that, or is it that obvious?

Making a line of small rips across the top of the receipt between the tips of your fingers, you chuckle wryly. “I don’t know,” you repeat yourself, deflecting the question. Your deflection is all the answer that Uraume needs. They offer a sympathetic smile, passing a napkin across the table. “I don’t know, I feel sort of dumb if I say yes,” you admit through tears as you take the napkin from them to dab under your eyes.

“You’re not stupid for having feelings,” they shrug. “Sukuna’s a good guy-” they pause, sighing as they add “- he’s also an idiot and he pushes away everyone he cares about,” they shake their head, “but what happened between you both tells me that he cares about you a lot.”

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you continue to tear the receipt, a pile of small pieces of paper gathering beneath your hands.

“Look at what happened with him and Toji,” Uraume points out. “I think you know as well as I do that Sukuna feels bad, he’s just too stubborn to do anything about it.”

You nod slowly. “What about you, then? Has he ever pulled anything like that with you?”

Uraume scoffs. “He used to, all the time. I’ve known a lot of people like Sukuna though, so I think it just doesn’t affect me anymore.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” you sigh, arranging the pile of shredded receipt pieces into a little fish shape. “I think it’s just hard when I’ve seen the other side of him, you know?”

“You get used to it.”

You glance up at Uraume at that, catching a hidden meaning to their words. Their eyes speak of something deeper, but you don’t push. Clearly they’re not referring to Sukuna with that statement, but whoever it is that they used to know that was similar to him.

With an understanding smile that doesn’t meet your eyes, you rest your chin on your knuckles, your elbow leaning against the table.

“For what it’s worth, I do think you’re right about Sukuna.”

Your gaze rises again and you watch as they lean back in the booth in thought.

“I don’t think he ever wanted things to get this far. With you, or Toji. Any of us. He’s a complicated person.” They raise their hand, running it through their hair. “So, no, I don’t think it’s wrong for you to still have feelings for him, even after the fight.” Running their tongue over their lower lip. “And I don’t think it’s wrong for you to miss his brothers,” they add in a softer tone. “They’re family.”

Reminded of the situation waiting for you back at Sukuna’s apartment, you turn your attention back to the fish-shaped pile of receipt shavings. Pushing your finger through it, you inhale shakily.

“I think he’s gonna appeal,” you mumble in an effort to cover up the evidence of your tears.

“That’s good,” Uraume agrees, smoothing their baggy jeans beneath the table. “I don’t know much about their step-mom, but Choso sounded pretty torn up for the past couple of hours,” they state worriedly.

“Yuji doesn’t even know her.”

Uraume grimaces. “She’ll take care of them. They’ll be okay, even while they’re gone. Sukuna will get them back.”

You nod, but salty tears won’t stop now, running down your cheeks at record pace. Between shaky breaths, you use the napkin Uraume handed you earlier to attempt to dab away the evidence of your sadness, but they just keep coming.

“Oh honey, is everything alright?”

You dab more at your tears, sniffling as you raise your head to find the sweet older waitress who served you and Sukuna months ago in the early morning hours.

“Oh, let me get you some tea.”

“No no, it’s alright!” You insist, shaking your head as you offer an unconvincing smile to the kind woman.

“I insist, on the house!”

Before you can protest, she’s running back around the counter to pour some hot water into a mug and toss in a little tea bag. She runs back over to set it back on the table.

And god that’s just too sweet and it makes you want to cry even more.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“You two take care, okay? Your order is just about ready.”

You can’t even manage another thank you as she makes her way back behind the counter and a sob wracks your body.

“I should have tipped her more,” you mumble, waiting for the tea to diffuse before taking a sip.

Uraume chuckles, pulling some cash from the wallet in their pocket. “I’ve got it.”

“Everyone is too sweet,” you laugh in return between the cries, thankful at least that the energy in the air is overall positive. Even Uraume seems confident that Sukuna’s appeal process will go well.

It’s hard to hold the same confidence when you’d been so sure that Sukuna would win in the first place and it wouldn’t get this far, but you cling to their positivity regardless.

“How are you doing so well?” You query, sniffling as you dab at your cheeks. “Aren’t you close to Yu and Cho too?”

“I am,” they confirm, “but if you’re holding Sukuna together, someone needs to hold you together, right?”

Meeting their eyes, you see the underlying sadness that no longer hides behind their kind smiles.

“Who’s gonna hold you together, then?” It comes out as a whisper, but you know they heard.

They blink quickly as tears gather along their lash line, but their control is better than your own. “I’ll be fine,” they affirm.

“You know, it would make me feel better about crying if you also cry,” you point out.

Uraume laughs, but liquid gathers in their eyes once again, spilling over their cheeks as they allow themself to indulge in the moment with you. In truth, it’s nice to have someone like Uraume here when you’re so used to holding yourself together for Sukuna’s sake.

The waitress returns a moment later with a couple of bags of food, setting them on the edge of the table for you.

“You poor sweethearts, let me know if I can get you anything else.”

Uraume thanks the waitress, wiping at their tears and nodding reassuringly at the kind lady. Once the waitress has retreated, you grab another napkin, dabbing at your cheeks again. Uraume follows suit, burying their face in it.

“If what Choso said is true, I’m worried,” Uraume admits, their strong facade faltering in favor of the vulnerability that they so easily hide. “Sukuna never told me why they ended up in his care, but I never got the impression that this would happen,” they mutter, lifting their face from the napkin as their tears dissipate.

You breathe out a sigh, nodding. “Whatever he said is probably true.”

Uraume’s lip curls downwards at the thought. “I see,” they hum, staring at the bags of takeout. They allow a moment for the air to clear of sniffles and the tension to pull back from the table as you both attempt to mentally reset before returning to Sukuna. The last thing he needs right now are his two friends crying into his meal.

As the sounds of the rumbling coffee machine and the sizzling of the grill in the back overtake your collective sniffles and sobs, Uraume pushes to their feet.

“We should all have some food,” they insist, grabbing one of the bags. “Let’s go.”

With one sharp final breath, you steel yourself as you nod and push all the shreds of receipt into your used napkin. You thank the waitress, tossing the paper out on the way to the door as you begin the walk back to the apartment.

It’s made in relative silence as both you and Uraume take the opportunity to breathe in the early spring air. It’s still cool out, the breeze ruffling your hair as you walk in tandem. Birds sing overhead, the sounds of feathers in the wind serving as a distraction as your eyes follow a small brown songbird. Some sort of finch, likely, that lands and pecks at the remains of what looks to have been a fry. Its little head tilts side to side as it contemplates the taste before flying off.

Your gaze sticks to the skyline where the bird disappears as the sun falls behind a cloud. Maybe it was always a pipe dream all along, but in your head you’d pictured a time where you would be able to take Sukuna’s little brothers to the park while Sukuna worked. Maybe you never should have envisioned that from the start. Between the stability that your friendship with Sukuna lacks and the fact that they’re his little brothers and not your own, maybe it was always too much to hope you might be able to see the two of them grin as you hand them ice cream on a warm and sunny day.

Caught up in your own little world, you hardly realize that you’ve come to a halt before Sukuna’s apartment. Uraume dials up to his unit to no reply as you exchange a glance.

“You didn’t happen to grab his keys, did you?”

Shaking your head, you reach forward to dial the number again.

Nothing.

“I’ll call him,” you offer.

The tone repeats as you await his reply, praying something hasn’t gone wrong. When he picks up seconds before his answering machine would have, you breathe out in relief.

“I fuckin’ hear you, I’m trying to get the buzzer,” he replies abruptly to your call. Between the shuffling on his end and Yuji’s muffled whines and cries, you’re barely able to make out what he said. “Just give me a- c’mon Yu, it’s alright- give me a momen-”

The call cuts out before he can even finish his sentence. Pulling the phone back from your ear, you stare at it in confusion. “Um, dial the buzzer again?”

Uraume nods, dialing up again. On the final buzz tone, the door unlatches and you head up in silence. Taking a moment to pause before the door, you both mentally reset to the best of your abilities.

It seemed Sukuna hadn’t bothered to- or been able to- lock the door as you push your way in once you’re both ready.

The scene you’re met with strikes horror through your heart like a bullet. Yuji is wailing, wrapped in a blanket on the couch as Sukuna attempts to peel Choso’s hands from his dress shirt.

“C’mon brat, I’ll be right back. I just wanna change,” Sukuna grumbles tiredly, running on fumes as irritation dances around the edge of his tone. Each time he manages to free one of Choso’s hands, he latches back onto his brother the moment Sukuna reaches for his other hand.

“You can’t leave us,” the little boy panics through tears, “don’t leave us, please don’t leave us.”

Yuji’s sobs increase in volume as you exchange a look at Uraume. Handing them the second takeout bag, they take it to the table as you make your way over to Sukuna and Choso. Uraume is behind you shortly as they attempt to soothe Yuji.

Sukuna locks eyes with you. Concern, frustration, and sadness all linger within the crimson of his irises but most of all, he looks like he just needs a moment to himself. His movements are weary with the weight of exhaustion and whatever fight he has in him to peel Choso from his shirt dwindles by the second in favor of guilt, but he just needs a moment to himself so badly.

“Hey, Choso,” you gently greet him. The little boy eyes you through tears, his grip on Sukuna remaining firm. He doesn’t answer, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he refuses to let go of his older brother. “Why don’t you come get some food?” You encourage with a sympathetic smile.

“‘M not hungry,” he murmurs, his voice small as he tugs on Sukuna’s shirt in an attempt to get the man to sit.

“Cho, c’mon-” Sukuna gruffs, although he doesn’t want to yank himself from his brother lest he make things worse than they already are.

Which is saying a lot, because he’s pretty sure this is about the worst things have ever been.

So to think that this might not be rock bottom is something he doesn’t want to consider.

“Maybe you aren’t, but I bet your brother is,” you offer, casting a glance at Sukuna. “Come hang out with Uraume and I for a bit, okay? Kuna’s not going anywhere.”

“He’s leaving us,” Choso mutters, eyes wide with fear.

Kneeling down to his height, you offer your best smile. “You’ve got time with Kuna still, sweetheart,” you reassure him. “And you know what he told me?”

Glancing between you both, Choso’s fingers loosen their grip a minute amount as he whispers “what?” between shaky breaths.

“He told me he’s gonna fight to get you back.”

Choso whirls back around to Sukuna, searching for a response. He can’t afford to hesitate to reassure his brother, even if he has his doubts that he’ll ever get a free trial. With that in mind, he nods curtly.

With Sukuna’s response, Choso’s grip relents just an inch more. “And you know what else, honey?”

Choso turns back to stare at you.

“He’s got my help, and Uraume’s.” You point a thumb back to Uraume who’s soothed Yuji’s sobs into sniffles and small gasps.

Choso stares past you to Sukuna’s friend, his grip relaxing enough that Sukuna could back away if he chose, but he stays in place. The last thing the poor kid needs is to feel as though it’s Sukuna who’s pulling away, when the tattooed man is the only constant that still remains in Choso’s life.

Jin’s gone, Kaori’s gone, only to return like a fly they can’t get rid of, Toji’s gone, their house has changed, their financials have changed. Even you had been gone for a month, though the kids don’t need to know that.

Sukuna is the one thing that’s always been the same. You don’t doubt the fact that he’s likely all Choso feels like he can cling to for some sort of sense of normalcy.

“Come have some food,” you encourage with a smile. “We got some chicken and fries for you both,” you coax, offering your hand out to him.

With a final glance up at Sukuna, Choso takes your hand and lets you pull him to the kitchen table. Yuji and Uraume are shortly behind you as you unpack the food.

Sukuna lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, slipping into his room for a reprieve.

When he emerges, he feels ages better, as though the suit and slacks had some sort of negative air, something to hold over his head. Shedding himself of them, he feels miles more comfortable in a pair of black sweatpants and a shirt with the sleeves torn off and the Alien logo across the front. It’s clearly well-loved, the print cracked and fading from years of use.

He slumps into his chair at the table, pulling the last unopened takeout container towards himself. He doesn’t think twice as he bites into the chicken sandwich, grateful to finally get some food in his stomach.

The unexpected side-effect of eating a full sandwich in just a few bites is that he damn-near hurls when Yuji speaks up.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he mutters meekly. “I don’t-” he sniffles, dipping a fry in ketchup. “I don’t get it.” He dips the same fry in ketchup again, his brow pulled together in confusion. “Did we do something wrong?”

With the way Sukuna’s face drains of color, you take it upon yourself to answer, even as you feel tears fill your eyes. You don’t let them break the seal though, keeping those emotions as tucked away as possible. “No, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing that’s happening is your fault.”

Yuji, still confused, continues dipping the same fry in ketchup. “Did Kuna do something wrong?”

Sukuna tenses at your side. Chewing hard on your lower lip to prevent your tears from spilling, you shake your head. “No, no one here did anything wrong.”

Sukuna wishes he believed you. He wishes the circumstances of this lunch- dinner- whatever it is, could be celebratory, but the mood is sour, somber.

“You’re just gonna go stay with your mom for a little bit while Sukuna takes care of some things, okay?” Uraume offers in that familiar reassuring smile they’re always able to offer. You wish you had their resolve, but your body betrays you. “It’ll be fun,” they add. “Like a field trip, and Choso will take care of you, right Cho?”

Choso’s hand trembles as he nibbles on a fry. “Yeah,” he whispers, his eyes flickering between the adults in the room as he gathers the meaning behind Uraume’s words and reassures his little brother.

“But… Kuna can’t come with us?” Yuji asks, dipping his fry in ketchup again.

“I’ll try, Yu. Your mom doesn’t like me,” he admits honestly.

“Why?”

Grimacing, Sukuna wearily shakes his head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he mutters, dropping the subject as he leans back in his chair.

The rest of the meal is otherwise silent as each of the boys continue to pick at their food, their appetites lacking. Uraume excuses themself shortly after to attend an evening class, and Sukuna takes the chance to follow them to the door to talk.

“I shoulda told you,” he mumbles, keeping his voice down. The apartment is quiet enough that his voice would carry if he raises his voice in the slightest.

“It’s fine, Sukuna. I don’t expect you to tell me everything, though I wish you would have reached out if you needed a hand,” they admit as they pull on their jacket.

To be fair, he did reach out when he needed a hand. Unfortunately the day he needed a hand was, well, today, which solves no problems. That’s just Sukuna being stubborn.

“You don’t need to tell me everything,” they add tentatively, pausing as they throw their bag over their shoulder. “But Toji deserves to know.”

Sukuna averts his eyes from Uraume, guilt squeezing his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps quietly, offering nothing more.

Toji’s broken words cling to his memory.

“He was more of a father to me than my parents ever were and you know that!”

With a deep sigh, he crosses his arms over his chest, defeat weighing heavily on his lungs as his breathing becomes labored.

Shit, he’s done it again.

If Jin was like a father to Toji, had he never stopped to consider that Choso would be like a little brother to him? How many hours had the little boy tagged along on their adventures and sat at skateparks or basketball courts with them?

With every question, his brain conjures another image of Toji including little Choso in their adventures. His hands were too small to hold a ball and Sukuna and Toji’s skateboards were a bit too big for Choso to learn on. Hell, Jin would have killed them for even letting the kid step foot on a board without a helmet, but they didn’t have one for him.

Still, Toji found ways to include Choso, just as Sukuna did. He was their scorekeeper and hype man for basketball, grinning happily as Toji would hoist him up onto his shoulders and run around the court after each basket. Choso would grin and giggle in glee, always cheering for Toji. He’d even managed to put together a little chalk set for Choso to play with while they skated. Sukuna recalls some of the older kids making requests and including the little boy, encouraging his artistic skills.

Toji was always better with Choso than Sukuna ever was. It came as a shock given both men were rough around the edges and they’d both sworn they would never want kids of their own when they got older.

But Toji was always great with them.

Now, the thought makes Sukuna want to wretch.

With a frown, he finally meets Uraume’s gaze again.

“Think about it,” they urge him.

Oh, if they only knew.

“And Sukuna? Try to give them a good last few days with you. Don’t let this be the way they remember their time with you,” Uraume adds, casting a glance past Sukuna at a very somber table as you clean up and attempt to encourage the kids despite your own glaring sadness.

“Right,” he hums in agreement.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m sorry it came to this,” they sigh, grimacing in earnest. “Don’t give up. They need you.”

Sukuna follows their gaze, watching the way you do your best to feign enthusiasm, ruffling Yuji’s hair. You do what you can to let them know they still have time, but Sukuna can see the underlying sadness behind your eyes and if he can, so can Choso, maybe even Yuji. He appreciates your effort, regardless. He’s not sure how well he could manage what you’re doing.

“Right,” he mutters again. “Thanks.”

Uraume offers a bleak smile as they leave. Sukuna shuts the door behind him as the late afternoon sun sets over the horizon and evening approaches quickly. He’s not sure how you manage it, but you keep yourself together while quietly encouraging the boys to play video games, helping them get past some Sonic level they were stuck on.

Or, at least trying to.

Both boys are sitting on the floor with you, the coffee table pushed aside to make room. Yuji is sitting in your lap, giggling as he mashes the A button for you and sends Sonic off every ledge. You let out a mock gasp each time, playing along with Yuji’s little plan and even find Choso calms down, leaning against your shoulder.

The moment allows Sukuna some sense of relief, giving him time to mentally go over the trial. He evaluates each and every thing that went wrong, but for every detail he finds that he could have done something different, it’s always counteracted with some lie he’s sure Kaori already practiced.

Leaning back in the corner of the couch behind you, he stares up at the ceiling. His chest clenches as a the level you’re playing changes and the apartment grows silent during the loading screen. No sniffles, no gasps for air, the first moment of genuine silence since he’d broken the news to his little brothers.

He usually craves the silence after a long day, but now it strikes dread into his heart. He’ll need to grow accustomed to that silence, and that’s not something he’s prepared to face.

He sits quietly, watching the way you interact with his brothers and offer them reassurance so effortlessly. His heart picks up its pace as you laugh when Yuji sends your character off a ledge again.

You’re so good with them.

You’re so good with him.

His jaw tenses as his eyes travel the length of your face, settling on your eyes, set on the screen. You’re struggling to hold yourself together, but you’re doing it so willingly for him and his brothers. You’re being the beacon of support they all so desperately need, even Sukuna himself, as much as he hates to admit that he needs help.

You don’t even blink twice about skipping class, about the study time you’re missing out on, or bearing the weight of Sukuna’s shattered mental health. You’re just there.

Without realizing it, he’s openly scowling at you. He has the answer he needs as to why you’re doing all of this for him, but he can’t help but feel like it’s still not enough.

It’s not enough to think that you do this purely out of love for him and his brothers. Why do you bother when Sukuna doesn’t reciprocate those feelings?

He grinds his teeth as his stomach flutters so dramatically that it feels like it’s doing a damn flip. Shuffling uncomfortably, he pushes aside his thoughts and focuses on the screen, finally able to zone out as you hold the controller over Yuji’s head. Yuji giggles as he clambers over you, but you’re able to cross the finish line before the little boy can sabotage you.

Sukuna can’t say how long he zones out, but it’s dark when you suggest a movie as Yuji tiredly begins to hunch over in your lap. Twisting to get a look at Sukuna, you’re not shocked to find him staring at you with a lidded expression. The dark circles beneath his eyes feel especially accentuated in the dim blue lighting emanating from the TV.

“Can we watch Ice Age?” Yuji requests through a yawn.

“That’s up to your brother.” You nudge Choso, who shrugs. Though he’s been somewhat responsive today, it’s clear that he’s not all there right now.

“Go sit with Kuna,” you encourage them both, getting to your feet to set up Ice Age. Making your way to the shelf beside the TV, you peer back at the three brothers as Sukuna grunts. A bittersweet smile makes its way to your face at the sight before you.

Yuji crawls into Sukuna’s lap, kneeing him in the stomach in the process, but before Sukuna can mutter out a ‘watch it, brat’, or something similar, Choso settles at the man’s side, resting his head on Sukuna’s shoulder.

The brute’s eyes soften as his words die in his throat. He lifts his arms to encircle the boys, slumping back into the cushions again. Fatigue overtakes his expression as quickly as you can pop the DVD case open with a click! and get the movie started.

With the movie on a lower volume than usual, Sukuna’s asleep before Scrat the squirrel finds his acorn.

Which is impressive, given that it’s maybe twenty seconds into the movie, but between the comforting weight and reassuring warmth of his little brothers still safe with him, it’s all he needs to find peace. Even if it only lasts for the hour and twenty one minute run-time of the movie.

With Sukuna’s gentle snores piercing the air every few seconds, Yuji whispers a sweet “night, Kuna,” but he’s not far behind.

You can barely bring yourself to pay attention to the cartoon antics of the characters of the movie, yawning yourself every time you catch a glimpse of the three brothers. It’s sweet, but their fear isn’t lost on you. The way Choso clung to Sukuna earlier, you can only imagine how painful it’ll be to really be forced to let go.

They don’t deserve this pain.

Swallowing hard, your vision grows blurry as liquid clouds your vision.

Your eyes widen in surprise when Choso whispers your name, barely audible over the TV even at a low volume. You had no idea he was awake, his eyes closed each time you would catch a glance at them. Swiping at your tears before they can fall, you quietly reply.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Do you really think Kuna can get us back?”

Your heart shatters at the sound of Choso’s doubt. You’d convinced the boys that Sukuna would win this time around. You’d spent so long reassuring them that he would, that you’re not sure your words carry any weight anymore. Yet Choso still seeks your guidance.

“I do,” you reply with all the certainty you can muster.

Satisfied with your response, he blinks with a drowsy nod. “I’ll miss you,” he mumbles, his head falling back against Sukuna.

Choking on the sobs you need to hold back, you bring a hand up to your mouth. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Choso’s already asleep (for sure this time, if his ajar jaw is anything to go off of) by the time you say it, and thank god for that as the dam breaks again. They’re not your family, you keep reminding yourself, but it doesn’t matter. You love them like they are.

Your quiet heartbreak penetrates the air as you keep your eyes on the movie. Somehow the little found family of characters hardly manages to soothe your frazzled nerves as you find yourself comparing each of the characters to the people in the room. Does that make you Sid the Sloth? Shit, probably. But somehow that doesn’t stop the tears.

The credits roll, leaving the room pitch black as you take deep breaths to even out your breathing. The DVD player clicks a number of times before sending the movie back to the title screen, playing the same few scenes on repeat. The loop only seems to last a minute or two, but it allows you to get your bearings.

Casting a glance at your phone and the multitude of ‘are you okay?’ texts from Kento, alongside a couple from Uraume, you figure it’s late enough that you should head out. After all, you have classes and work tomorrow and the last thing you need is the stress of being a third day behind on everything.

You have your own life that you can’t afford to slack on. With a deep breath, you get to your feet, careful not to disturb the pile of sleeping brothers. Brushing your clothing off, you gather your belongings and set everything at the door before returning to the couch, contemplating waking Sukuna up.

His head is leaning back on the back of the couch, which will undoubtedly leave him with a kink in his neck.

But god they look so sweet. They look like a happy family, to anyone who doesn’t know.

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you tap your fingers along the glass momentarily before opening the camera to snap a very dark, barely visible photo. Your phone does what it can to brighten and make sense of the image, but there’s something so real about the dark and fuzzy image that brings a small smile to your face.

Shoving your phone back in your pocket, you turn to creep away when a grunt makes you jump.

“Headin’ out, princess?” Sukuna’s voice is gravelly with sleep, low and husky in a way that would set your senses alight in different circumstances. Now that tone carries with it the weight of loss.

“Yeah, um, the movie’s over. I have class and work tomorrow.”

“Right,” he grunts, yawning as he attempts to adjust his sore back. “Shit, these two’re getting heavy,” he grumbles.

You offer a bittersweet smile, watching as he attempts to crack his neck, only to manage to muss his hair out of place until a large tuft covers his vision. Unable to move his arms, he attempts to blow it out of the way, leaving him with a mildly frustrated scowl and a very disheveled appearance.

He huffs, giving up as he’s forced to peek through his overgrown hair up at you. “Thanks for comin’ today.”

“No problem, Kuna,” you whisper in return, taking a ginger step towards the tense man. His piercing gaze doesn’t leave you as you hesitantly reach forward. You pause before you touch his hair, your outstretched fingers giving away your intentions, but when Sukuna doesn’t react, you proceed to card your nails through his hair and brush it out of his vision.

You pull back quickly when his stoic expression remains unchanged, his thoughts painfully hidden behind a mild look.

“Your- um- hair’s gotten long,” you comment to fill the mildly uncomfortable silence.

“Mm. Haven’t really had time to cut it,” he replies evenly as Yuji flips in his sleep.

“I like it, it suits you,” you state, chewing on your lip absently.

Sukuna’s grateful for the darkness as heat creeps up the back of his neck. He keeps his gaze aloof, but he knows his cheeks would betray him if the lighting were the tiniest bit brighter.

He’s not sure when your compliments started heating up his neck and cheeks, but he hates it.

This isn’t Ryomen Sukuna.

But then again, he’s not so sure he knows what makes him him anymore, anyway.

So what’s one more thing to add to the pile?

Quietly clearing your throat when he doesn’t react, you begin to turn, excusing yourself. “I should go. Call me if you need anything, though.”

“Mhm. I owe you one.”

You pause before you can turn towards the door, raising your brow.

He blows air from his nose, as amused as he can manage. “Thanks.”

You offer him a smile before heading towards the door, pulling your shoes on and your coat over your blouse. “Sukuna?”

“Mm?”

“I’m really sorry.”

He blinks once, followed in quick succession by several more as he averts his gaze to the coffee table. His brow pulls together, but he doesn’t know what to say in response. He wants to hate the pity. From both Uraume and from you, but he can’t bring himself to. The Sukuna he’s used to feels out of reach now, a stranger residing in his own body.

“I know you’ll figure it out, though.” It’s the best you can offer in his silence.

He hums.

“See you at work tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” he grunts, pointedly jutting his chin out towards his brothers.

“Right. Um- text me?”

He hums once more.

“Goodnight, Kuna.”

–

As expected, Sukuna doesn’t show up to work the following day. He must have given Maya a heads’ up because every time someone is missing without notice since the disappearance of the original graphic designer, she tends to freak out.

It’s tough to focus with the image of Sukuna and his brothers all passed out on the couch burned into your mind. Even as you edit a young adult novel, an evil step-sister type character makes you want to leap through the page and tear her throat out as though she’s Kaori.

You can’t decide if that’s a dramatic reaction or not.

You don’t hear from Sukuna for most of the day, until late at night when he finally replies to your inquiry of how they’re all doing. You can practically envision him laying in bed, eyes half-lidded as he struggles to stay awake while he texts you.

10:49 PM Kuna || ok. theyre like koalas clinging to me

Under any other circumstances, that would bring a smile to your face, but their fear can be felt through the screen. It resonates deep within you as you reply.

10:51 PM You || And you?

Sukuna doesn’t reply.

Friday is radio silence as well, until the late night hours roll around. You wouldn’t usually be awake at this time, able to focus on your studies more in the morning, but playing catch-up on two days’ worth of studies while struggling to focus has you racing to work through your textbooks.

Your phone buzzes, and it would seem your friend has finally replied to your question from the previous night.

1:03 AM Kuna || tired

You stare at the word, the meaning bleeding through the screen. He’s worn out, running on fumes. You’re honestly surprised he’s managed to hold himself together so well over the past couple of days. Not because he isn’t strong, but because the circumstances he’s fallen into aren’t fair and no one should be expected to be as strong as him or his brothers.

1:06 AM You || I’m so sorry, Kuna

Sukuna doesn’t reply.

Mid-day Saturday, you crack your window open, grateful that the snow has melted and it’s warm enough to let some fresh air into your apartment. Sunlight streams through the window, warming your skin and bringing a sense of life to your work. Studying doesn’t feel quite as dreary when you can enjoy some natural light at the same time.

Stretching your arms over your head, you let out a sigh, deciding to take a break from classwork. Unlocking your phone, you instinctively check your messages with Sukuna, like second nature. He still hasn’t replied.

Frowning, you stare out the window at the sun beaming down on grass outside. It’s still too early in the year for signs of regrowth and greenery, but even the yellowed grass and leafless trees feel full of life with birds flying overhead and children laughing in the distance.

Your shoulders fall at the thought of Choso and Yuji, who might be out among the laughter if their life hadn’t recently taken such a dramatic turn.

Maybe you need a little sunlight yourself to keep your thoughts in order.

Pushing to your feet, you put together a light makeup look, toss on a jacket and make your way out the front door.

The feeling of warm sunlight on your skin is refreshing after such a long winter. You weave your way through the apartment parking lot until you reach a walking path that curls down into a ravine basked in sunlight.

The pavement beneath your feet curls further into the ravine and the further you walk, the more serene it grows. The laughter and the hum of engines becomes distant until it’s all a distant memory. Finches sing overhead while a squirrel peers curiously at you from its perch on a branch that hangs over the path.

For a moment, it allows you to forget. To forget about grades and scholarships, to forget about internships and impending job applications, and to forget about the trials that plague your dear friend. Both metaphorically, and physically.

But peace can only last so long when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Expecting to see Shoko or Kento’s names, you raise your brow when you’re met with the sight of neither.

2:17 PM Kuna || you busy

2:17 PM Kuna || ?

You don’t hesitate to reply.

2:18 PM You || Nope! What’s up, Kuna?

2:19 PM Kuna || fucking exhausted

2:19 PM Kuna || can you watch the kids for a couple of hours

2:20 PM Kuna || i need a nap

Frowning, you turn on your heel to head back up to your building. You don’t bother heading to your floor, hopping straight into your car with an easy ‘On my way!’

Your screen flashes before you pull out of the parking lot with a quick thanks from Sukuna, and it’s not long before you’re at his door, knocking.

“Can you get that, Cho?” you hear Sukuna’s muffled voice on the other side of the door. There’s some shuffling before the little boy quietly opens the door, peering up at you uncertainly until he realizes it’s you. His form relaxes as he lets you swing the door open, following him inside.

His hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up in every which way, but he’s okay. He doesn’t seem entirely distant, maybe just a bit detached, which isn’t entirely unlike how Sukuna looks. The oldest brother sits at the kitchen table with Yuji on his lap, teaching the man how to make a friendship bracelet.

“Then- then-” Yuji pauses, contemplating the next step as Sukuna pulls a few strands of twine together somewhat clumsily. “Um- pull this piece,” he points at Sukuna’s left hand, “over this one.” Sukuna’s hands almost feel too big for this activity, but he’s surprisingly calm as he follows his youngest brother’s instructions. “Oh- wait.” Yuji holds the bracelet out a bit. “Um- I think I messed up.”

You half expect Sukuna to sigh, rolling his eyes with some comment about Yuji being a brat, but he simply undoes the last step without a word.

When the door shuts behind you, he casts a glance at you and you realize why.

There’s no life behind his eyes. His chin is covered in stubble, more than you’ve ever seen on him. His shirt is covered in holes and obvious tear and snot stains that you can only imagine are from Yuji. His hair is just as unkempt as Choso’s, and his chest rises and falls so evenly and slowly it almost seems as though he’s already asleep sitting up.

His head sways slightly as he looks you up and down. The sunlight filtering in through the patio window highlights just how pale his skin is as he blinks a number of times. Tears form in his eyes not from sadness, but from his complete and utter lack of sleep over the last few days, more so than usual. He yawns, nudging Yuji to grab the boy’s attention.

The youngest Itadori peeps around his brother’s broad form to catch a glimpse of you, bounding down off of Sukuna to give you a hug.

“Hey, sweetie,” you greet him, obliging his request to be held when he puts his arms out. “Hey, Cho,” you greet the middle brother as well, who’s fiddling with a piece of string as he blankly stares at Sukuna.

He knows. He knows Sukuna’s at his limit.

Letting out a breath, you make your way to Sukuna’s side, peering over his shoulder as he sets down the bracelet he was working on and harshly rubs his facial features.

“Looks good, Yuji and Choso are teaching you well.”

“Mhm!” Yuji agrees, leaning down to point at the half-tied bracelet. “He’s using my favorite colors, see!” He insists. It matches yours, red and black, though it’s designed with a different style of stripes.

“Good choice, Yu,” you agree, attempting to adjust him in your arms as he leans over a bit too far.

“Your brother stole the piece of string you wanted me to add,” Sukuna states dryly, pointing lazily at Choso who’s in his own little world as he stands still near the door where you left him. “Go bother him,” he instructs, mostly just to get a moment to yourselves.

Yuji practically leaps from your arms, stumbling as he lands on the kitchen tile and surely disturbs their neighbors in the apartment below, but Sukuna doesn’t have the energy to care.

“Are you okay?”

Sukuna drags his hands down his face again. “I feel sick,” he admits quietly.

He looks it, too, but he doesn’t need to hear that from you. Raising the back of your hand to his forehead, you’re actually shocked to find he’s not. At least, he isn’t running a fever.

“Go get some sleep,” you murmur softly, dropping your hand. “I’m gonna take them out for a bit.”

He sighs deeply, his muscles relaxing as he pushes out from the chair. “Thanks, you’re an angel,” he rasps.

Barely audible, yet it hits your heart like a semi-truck. Shit, he needs to stop finding such sweet titles for you that make your heart flutter every time he uses them. It’s not fair, even if he doesn’t know it.

As Sukuna drags himself to his room, leaving you staring after him with a steady hammering in your chest, Yuji barrels into you. “Where’s Kuna going?”

“He’s gonna get some sleep,” you explain, ruffling Yuji’s hair. You glance down at what you think are Yuji’s pajamas, making a motion towards the boys’ rooms. “Why don’t you two go get ready? Let’s go out to the park.”

Yuji gasps excitedly, bounding off without a second thought as Choso stalls behind you.

“Cho?”

He hesitates. “I don’t wanna leave Kuna.”

Shit.

“Hey,” you kneel down to his height. “We’re not leaving him. We’ll come back. He just really needs some sleep, sweetheart.” You know Choso already knows that, but the reassurance sets him a bit more at ease. “It’s really warm out, I think some fresh air will make you feel better.”

Choso’s dark hazel eyes examine your expression for a moment as he nervously runs his hand up and down his opposite arm. “Kuna will still be here,” he breathes out as reassurance for himself more than you.

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” he agrees, slowly making his way back to his room.

Letting out a breath, you make your way to the table, taking a look at the friendship bracelets that the brothers were making. Twine is strung along the table alongside a book with instructions. There’s a purple bracelet that seems complete off to the side, though it’s much too small to fit on any adult wrist, and a half-finished red one with a matching pattern where Sukuna was just sitting.

Taking your lower lip between your teeth, your brow pulls together.

Sukuna’s making friendship bracelets for his little brothers.

Gingerly reaching for the book, you skim the instructions, flipping back a page to look at the first page for the pattern. The pattern in full makes a few diamonds along the length of each bracelet, which the book details as symbolizing an unbreakable bond. Your lips part as the words settle like a stone in the pit of your stomach.

Your fingers minutely tremble as you flip through the book, searching for the stripy pattern that matches your own bracelet.

Inspiration.

Shutting the book abruptly, you shut your eyes and let out a breath to mentally reset before you allow tears to break through the barrier you’ve barely kept up over the past few days.

It’s just a children’s craft book, surely it’s all just made up.

But that doesn’t matter, does it? Not when the boys believe it.

Chewing harder on your lip, you let the book rest gently on the table again, flipping until you reach the page it was open to originally.

Running your fingers through the pile of tangled string beside the book, you smile as you realize the red and purple string has nearly run out. Pulling your fingers from the mess of string, you quirk your head to the side when you find it’s covering something.

Beneath the mess is a pile of mail, three unopened envelopes all addressed to Sukuna. Or, well, Ryomen. Unsure if the boys buried them and if Sukuna’s even seen them, you gather them in your hands to set them aside- just in case.

You drop them on the counter with a small plop! They bounce once, settling slightly askew as the bottom envelope, thicker than the rest, slides out slightly. Red text across the front catches your eyes as you spot ‘URGEN’ in bold red text. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the last letter would be.

Reaching out, you hover over the mail for a moment as your curiosity nearly gets the better of you, but it’s not your place to look. Hell, you shouldn’t be snooping on your friend. He’s got enough going on.

Re-adjusting the pile, you shuffle the envelope back in place despite the concern that chews relentlessly at the lining of your stomach. As Yuji and Choso re-emerge from their room, you will the thoughts away, focusing on trying to make sure both brothers have a good day.

They both look a bit more put-together now with brushed hair and teeth. Yuji is in a T-shirt for a show or game of some sort that you don’t recognize, while Choso wears a black sweatshirt.

“Yu, grab your basketball and let’s go!”

His eyes widen as he finally gets the chance to use his Christmas gift now that the snow has cleared. He races towards you, excitedly letting you wrap his coat around him as you lead the way out the door.

It doesn’t take long by car to reach the spot you have in mind. You can’t say you know the area around the college too well, but you do know of one park in particular.

And maybe it’s a little bit selfish to bring the kids here, but it’s also the only park with basketball courts you can think of.

Two bus stops past your work sits a massive skatepark with graffiti covering every surface and four basketball courts with worn concrete just outside the fence protecting the half-pipe. Just behind the courts is a small playground with a swing set and a fairly elaborate set-up for climbing with a big curly slide painted yellow.

Giving Yuji’s shoulder a nudge, you watch as he runs over to one of the empty courts, bouncing his basketball a few times as he gets the hang of dribbling. Sukuna won’t let him practice in the apartment, so this is a thrill for the little boy, who giggles and runs around when he sends the ball flying across the concrete on accident.

“You know,” you start, peering down at Choso’s lack of enthusiasm, “I’ve heard you used to join Sukuna out here.”

The brunette returns your gaze, his expression aloof. Shit, sometimes he’s too much like the ex-history major. “I guess,” he agrees.

“I think your brother would love that right now.”

Choso wraps his arms around himself as he watches his little brother clumsily dribble the ball. He’s quiet for a long while as the sun beats down on him, warming his skin with its rays. Birds sing and crickets chirp in the fields that extend on either end of the park, interrupted only when Choso’s raspy voice finally cuts through.

“I don’t really want to. I don’t feel good,” he admits.

Nodding slowly, you set a hand on his back as you lead the way to the empty swings, which let you keep an eye on Yuji while you talk to Choso. “Why not, sweetie?”

Swinging his feet out in front of him, Choso swings back and forth a small distance. You follow suit, bringing you back to a simpler time.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I don’t wanna see my mom again,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he shakily gasps for air. Wiping at his tears, he keeps his head down.

Your lips part as you feel Choso’s doubt and pain zipping through the air like lightning. You recall Sukuna yelling at Kaori that Choso asked for multiple Christmases whether she would be home. How long had it taken before it really settled in? How long had it taken for such a young kid to realize that his own mother wasn’t coming home?

Staring up into the sky, you take a deep breath. “You remember what I told Yuji the other day?”

Choso kicks his feet again, continuing to wipe his tears on his sleeves. “It won’t be like a field trip or vacation,” he mutters, staring at his black sneakers. “She doesn’t care.”

His words leave you stcuk between a rock and a hard place and even if you’re just as sure as he is that you’re wrong, you have to try to reassure him. “She must care. We wouldn’t be here if she didn’t,” you point out, trying to see the positivity behind her fighting so hard for her children. In reality, you would argue that the reason you’re here is because she doesn’t care, but you can’t tell Choso that.

He eyes you, a tear slipping down his cheek. “You think?”

“I have to,” you admit, shedding light on your own doubts. Choso’s smart enough to see through lies, you don’t need him believing that adults always lie. Especially not someone he’s placing his trust in. “You know, I think you could have a lot of fun with it.”

He eyes you again, something between curiosity and suspicion pulling his brow together.

“It’s gonna be a lot different, but I bet you could make some new friends and you’ll get to meet lots of fun people and play with a bunch of different toys.”

“I don’t want different toys or new people,” he retorts, wiping another tear.

“Maybe not, but I bet you wouldn’t be sitting here right now if it wasn’t for meeting new people.” You make a point of throwing a thumb back in your direction. “I was a new person once.”

Choso’s nods slightly in agreement as he sniffles.

Before you can continue, a shadow casts long over the both of you. You wrench your gaze up to the figure blocking the sun as they smirk.

“Well if it ain’t my favorite brat and my biggest fan,” Toji grins overhead, a basketball tucked under his arm.

Lifting a hand to block the sun as Toji shifts, you pout up at him. “Since when am I a brat?”

“Since ya started hangin’ out with Ryo,” he snorts.

“I never even knew you before then!”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

No wonder those two were so close.

“Are you playing basketball?” You query.

“Nah- well, kinda,” he replies, spinning around as he searches the park for someone. When he spots who he’s looking for, he beckons them over.

Two girls around Choso’s age come into view, both with stark deep green hair. One wears glasses with her long hair up in a ponytail while the other has a chin-length bob-cut. They both bound up to Toji as the girl with glasses wastes no time swiping the ball from under his elbow.

“Hey-” he huffs, but the girls are already running and giggling as they head towards the courts where Yuji’s still practicing dribbling. Sighing, he shakes his head. “My little cousins,” he explains, pointing a thumb back in their direction. “Fuckin’ handful.”

You smile at the heartwarming interaction. “They’re kids,” you shrug.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his neck to either side, grimacing when it cracks loudly. “How’s my biggest fan doin’?” Toji turns his attention to Choso, who looks up from his shoes.

“Hi, Toji.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he greets the little boy, his brow twitching at the sight of reddened eyes and puffy cheeks.

“It’s a tough day,” you explain in an effort to spare Choso.

Toji hums, his scar pulled taut. “You still play ball, kid?”

“Not really,” Choso mutters. “My brother does.” He points towards little Yuji chasing a kid-sized basketball.

“Oh yeah? You wanna show me?”

Choso glances at you, as if looking for permission. You motion with your chin towards the court. Gingerly, Choso hops off the swing and pads after Toji, jogging to keep up with the man’s long strides.

“Maki! Mai! C’mere!” Toji calls to his cousins, motioning for them to pass him the ball. Choso calls Yuji over, who bolts over excitedly when the middle brother finally joins him. He blinks up in awe at Toji as the man introduces himself and his little cousins. You can’t hear any of the words being exchanged, but Yuji positively beams and holds his basketball out excitedly to the group.

You smile, your heart as warm as the sun on your skin at the sight of even Choso’s little smile. It doesn’t take long before Toji’s coaching them in two teams, cutting in to help teach the ropes to Choso and Yuji where they need it.

Maki manages to get a basket for her and Yuji’s team, high-fiving the little boy with a proud grin. They creep ahead in points of Choso and Mai’s team, each time celebrating with raised arms and cheers.

Mai breaks away from her sister, tossing the basketball over Maki’s head to Choso. The brown-haired boy hesitates for a split-second, glancing to Toji for encouragement, who nods. Taking a breath, Choso holds the ball out to the side to keep it away from Yuji, spinning in place as he dribbles somewhat clumsily to the basket. He pauses near the hoop, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth before jumping and shooting.

The ball hits the rim, rolling around the side before slipping into the net. Choso’s eyes light up and you grin from your place on the swingset as Mai cheers and high fives him, followed shortly by Toji who jogs over with a grin.

“Way to go, kid.” You can just barely make out Toji’s words of encouragement from the opposite end of the park.

As the day continues, they swap between different games, although the girl with her hair up in a ponytail- Maki- seems to consistently pull ahead. You know Yuji loves sports, but it’s surprising to see just how easily the five-year-old is able to keep up with Choso and the two girls. He doesn’t quite have the height to be sinking baskets, but Toji gives him a hand anyway.

As the sun crosses the sky, you migrate to a bench courtside, sharing the children’s glee as Toji hoist’s Yuji onto his shoulders so the boy can, somewhat more fairly, try to sink a basket.

Your attention is drawn to your phone as it vibrates in your pocket.

5:19 PM Kuna || whered you 3 end up

5:20 PM You || Your favorite park :)

5:20 PM Kuna || go figure

5:21 PM Kuna || brat

Two times in one day you’ve been called that now. Rolling your eyes at your phone, you smirk as you reply.

5:22 PM You || Come show me your art!! The kids are having a great time

Along with the message, you snap a photo of Yuji concentrating on the basket in front of him as he tosses the ball with all of his might from atop Toji’s shoulders. It bounces off the backboard, slipping through the net with a satisfying fwip!

It takes Sukuna longer to reply.

5:26 PM Kuna || you called toji?

5:26 PM You || He was here with his cousins by the time we got here

5:27 PM Kuna || ah

You grimace at his lack of enthusiasm, but you suppose it makes sense. He’s running on maybe two hours of sleep and if he does choose to join you, he’ll need to gear up to have a chat with Toji. It’s not exactly anyone’s ideal situation.

Still, he does pull through. A half hour later, he trudges across the skatepark, casting his disinterested glare in the direction of someone who nearly hits him with a scooter. His hood is up, his airpods in his ears, and his hands in his pockets as he approaches the courts.

Pocketing his earbuds, he lets out a sigh as he chooses to ignore the sight before him, hiding his face from his ex-best friend and taking a seat beside you.

“Thanks,” he sighs, “I was fallin’ asleep sitting up.”

“I noticed,” you comment with a raised brow, examining his expression. He still looks downright exhausted, but he’s not swaying, so that’s a plus. “Have you not been sleeping?”

With a shake of his head, he lets out a frustrated breath. “Yu’s been wakin’ up early and Cho’s been havin’ nightmares,” he states, with no need for further explanation. “I can count on one hand how many hours of sleep I’ve gotten since-” he pauses, furrowing his brow. “- Wednesday? Fuck, what day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Christ,” he breathes, dragging a hand down his face. “One day left. Still gotta pack, too.”

Your heart sinks, gazing over at Yuji and Choso as they pass the basketball between one another. Beneath the golden hours of warm rays beaming down on them, the moment seems almost picturesque. They look so happy, it’s so easy to forget that this is the last time you’ll see them.

For a bit.

You inhale sharply as you mentally remind yourself that Sukuna will get them back. You can’t have doubts, there’s no room for them.

Lest you all fall apart.

“It’ll be okay,” you assure him, reaching out gingerly to rest your hand over his as it sits on his thigh. His irises flicker down to your hand as he moves his thumb up to brush the side of your palm. “Do you have a meeting with Ms. Harte soon?”

“Wednesday,” he mutters, his gaze raising to focus on the court in front of him. The four kids are playing some variation of ‘HORSE’ while Toji stands off to the side. If his frown is anything to go off of, he’s noticed Sukuna already. “Well, shit.”

Pushing to his feet with a drawn-out sigh, he pushes his hood down and drops your hand back at your side.

“Be right back,” he mutters, crossing the court and ruffling both of his brothers’ already messy hair as he makes his way to Toji. They both call out some form of ‘hey!’, which transforms into gleeful giggles and smiles at the realization that it’s Sukuna.

Stepping past the court to where Toji is standing with arms crossed over his chest, Sukuna finds himself hesitating. “Hey,” he starts uncertainly, “I was a dick-”

“No fuckin’ shit,” Toji interrupts, earning a glare from Sukuna.

“Don’t push it,” Sukuna hisses, crossing his arms over his own chest.

“Don’t push it? Don’t push what, Ryo? Ya didn’t fuckin’ tell me-” Toji pauses, momentarily glancing at the kids when he finds Mai’s gaze trained on him. Lowering his voice, he continues. “- you didn’t fuckin’ tell me Jin died, you asshole.”

“Fuck, I know,” Sukuna growls, “can you shut up for a second and let me talk? Christ,” he huffs, shaking his head as Toji disdainfully frowns. “Look, I fucking know. I fucked up, okay? I should have said something but when their mom didn’t answer-” he begins explaining, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “- I just had too much goin’ on and I didn’t think it through.”

Toji’s sharp emerald gaze follows the direction that Toji points, flickering between the two kids and back to the exhausted brute standing in front of him.

“I don’t-” Sukuna pauses, dragging his hands down his face and back up through his hair to keep it out of his eyes. “I don’t know what happened,” he admits with a dry shrug. He knows his excuse is shit. He knows he fucked up. He feels like shit.

He’ll feel even worse when he tells Toji this is his second last day with the kids and he also omitted that information until now.

“I just didn’t tell you, alright? I didn’t wanna go out or see anyone, I didn’t wanna tell anyone what was going on.”

“I get that, but come the fuck on, man,” Toji raises his arms in an exasperated shrug. “You know what Jin meant to me.”

Sukuna averts his gaze, trailing along the cracked concrete beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the best he can offer. He doesn’t even really expect Toji to accept his apology.

Toji sighs, scratching at the dark stubble dotting his chin.

“Look,” he starts, unimpressed, “I fuckin’ get not wantin’ to talk to anyone, but you were my fuckin’ brother. Jin was like-”

“I know!” Sukuna barks, attempting to compose himself with a roll of his shoulders. “There were lawyers there constantly, I had to fuckin’ sell the house, I had to learn how to change diapers-” he pauses, throwing his shoulders up in a shrug. “It’s a shit excuse, I just didn’t have time to think about others. I’m a piece of shit, whatever. Not like that’s new.”

“Christ, Ryomen,” Toji continues to frown, looking him up and down as he evaluates just how shitty Sukuna looks, even now. “So what, I’m s’posed to accept your apology n’ act like nothin’ happened?”

Frowning, the salmon-haired man just shrugs. “Do whatever you want,” he grumbles. “I appreciate the phone, though.”

Toji’s eyes narrow a smidge, irises flickering to and fro as he contemplates Sukuna’s words. “Y’re welcome,” he gruffs, shaking his head in an effort to move some hair from his eyes as the wind whips across the court. “Dunno if I’m willing to let that go, but I’ll try,” he sighs.

It’s different. It’s not what Sukuna wants, but he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Omitting Jin’s death is a lot more serious than most of his other transgressions.

“You oughta thank your girl, though,” Toji grunts, nodding his chin in your direction as you cheer the kids on across the court. “‘Cause she must be rubbin’ off on me to be willin’ to give y’r ass a break.”

Sukuna follows the tilt of Toji’s chin to you.

He already knows he owes you a lifetime of favors, what’s one more?

As the breeze dishevels Sukuna’s already mussed hair, he stares out across the court at Toji’s little cousins who he hasn’t seen in years passing a ball around to Yuji and Choso. It’s so painfully normal and it’s what the kids should have. It’s what they deserve.

“I guess before you decide if you’re gonna give me a chance,” Sukuna inhales sharply, shutting his eyes. “I’m losin’ the kids.”

Shifting to face Sukuna again, the man’s brow knits. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, lingering on his scar. “What?”

“Kaori stuck me with a lawsuit. She won.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

Sukuna blinks his eyes open again. Yuji laughs gleefully in the background as Maki tosses the ball to him. It rolls off the tips of his fingers, rolling along the ground as he chases after it.

“Fuck, man,” Toji clasps his hands together, resting them on his head as the revelation settles in. He turns to face the court alongside Sukuna, watching the scene unfold as Yuji tosses the ball back towards Choso. He scowls as his gaze rests on Choso. “Y’know that kid was like a lil brother to me?”

“I know.” There’s nothing more to be said.

“Christ, Ryomen.” Toji’s hands fall down to his sides as he shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this shit?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Didn’t tell anyone.”

“Nah, just Shoko n’ Kento.”

Shit.

“Didn’t have a choice, Toji.”

“Bullshit!” Toji roars, shoving a figure pointedly at Sukuna’s chest. “Bull-fucking-shit. Maybe you didn’t have a choice with them, but you did with me. N’ you made your choice,” he hisses, dropping his hand as he frustratedly turns away from his friend, needing a break from simply seeing him. “Anythin’ else while we’re here?” He asks, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Dad asked about you a lot,” Sukuna begins hesitantly. His father’s words had echoed in his mind so frequently that he’d never quite been able to grapple with the fact that he’d kept them to himself all these years. What better opportunity than now, when he’s six feet under in guilt? “He wanted you to know he was proud.”

Toji stands ram-rod straight, scowling at the asphalt. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his forearm over his face. He sucks in a breath, turning away from the court and Toji.

It’s not enough, Sukuna’s shitty apology. He knows it isn’t. Toji has enough on his plate between school, football, and his strained relationship with his family, and Sukuna isn’t making that any better. He’s a shitty friend.

“‘M sorry.”

Toji just shakes his head, exasperated. “What the fuck even happened, really? All those years, everythin’ we went through, it meant nothin’ to ya?”

Sukuna just shrugs, too drained to argue. “I fucked up.”

Toji huffs, dragging his hand down his chin. He pauses for a moment, running his tongue over his teeth before turning on a dime and ramming his fist into Sukuna’s shoulder. He didn’t put his full strength into the punch, but it had enough power to leave Sukuna irritated as he stumbles a step back, catching himself before he topples over.

He glares at Toji, who just shrugs as he scratches his shoulder. “Made me feel a lil’ better,” he grumbles. “Just- stop bein’ a fuckin’ dumbass, okay? Gettin’ real sick of it.”

It’s not forgiveness, but he can live with that all the same.

“Yeah,” the tattooed brute mutters, rolling his arm out. “Trying not to.”

“Good.” Toji turns to face him, taking a step forward to lower his voice, dangerously so. “‘Cause me, Uraume, Atsuya, and y’r girl don’t deserve that.” He backs up, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ain’t holdin’ back next time.”

“Yeah, yeah. And she’s not my girl.”

Toji’s brow raises. “I just told you not to feed me bullshit.”

“I’m not.”

“You wanna hold hands, then? Since that’s somethin’ you do with people y’re just friends with?” He deadpans, holding his hand out mockingly.

“Shut up,” Sukuna grumbles, smacking his hand away.

Amused, the raven-haired man snorts. “Whatever, man. Keep lyin’ to yourself.”

Toji has every reason to suspect Sukuna will make a big deal out of that, but when he turns to find the ex-history major’s reaction, it’s blank. His eyes are trained on you across the court as Yuji puts his entire weight into dragging you onto the asphalt, much to your dismay.

“I’m not good at basketball like Toji or Kuna,” you insist, giggling in embarrassment.

The two men watch in silence as you try to sink a few baskets, missing the first couple of shots entirely before being able to consistently hit the backboard, but never sink a shot. The kids chase after the ball with each miss to toss it back to you, continuing to encourage you.

“It’s okay that you’re really bad!” Yuji insists brightly. “You’re good at other things.”

Toji snorts at the backhanded compliment.

“Yu, that’s rude,” Sukuna scolds.

“He gets it from you,” Toji mocks, much to Sukuna’s dismay.

But you’re laughing at the hilariously blunt way Yuji phrased his version of a compliment, so Sukuna can’t be too upset.

“Sorry,” the little boy mutters, walking up to you for a hug.

Suppressing your laughter, you rub his back. “It’s fine, sweetie. You wanna know a secret?”

His little fingers curl into your jacket as he clings to you, nodding.

“You’re right. I’m really bad at basketball.”

He grins, content as you encourage him to show you the right way to sink a basket.

The two men are forced to watch as your form somehow gets worse as you mimic Yuji. Your shots get progressively further from the basket until you’re outright missing again, hot with embarrassment given your painfully large audience.

“Use your wrist!” Toji calls, making a motion with his wrist.

You watch the motion, attempting to mimic his advice and getting a bit closer, albeit still missing. Mai tosses the ball back to you as it rebounds off the backboard straight towards her.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you focus on the basket, narrowing your eyes in concentration. Just as you’re about to shoot, you’re caught off-guard by a nudge to your shoe. Squeaking in surprise, you stand upright, turning to find Sukuna directly behind you.

“Right idea, wrong execution,” he says plainly. “Turn back to the net.”

Blinking, you follow his instructions.

He nudges the inside of your shoe with his foot from where he stands a small distance behind you. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees.” He circles to the side to get a look at your form. “Focus on the square on the backboard, then do what Toji showed you with your wrist.”

You nod slowly, mentally going over his words as you recenter yourself and stare in concentration at the backboard. Leaping into the air, you watch as the basketball soars through the air and hits the backboard, circling the rim before tipping away.

“Close,” Sukuna catches the ball as it rebounds, dribbling it once before tossing it to Choso, who immediately tosses it back like they’ve done this before. He dribbles it once more before passing it back to you. “Here,” Sukuna instructs, stepping behind you. The warmth emanating from his body feels more like fire as every nerve and hair on your body stands on end at the strangely intimate position you’re in with him as he nudges your feet slightly apart.

Your face is positively burning, and you can’t bear a glance at Toji, who’s smirking on the sidelines.

“When you shoot,” he instructs, his arms wrapping around to guide yours as he simulates a shot with his hands resting over yours. He guides you through the motion without actually letting go of the ball. “Make sure you shoot from here,” he instructs, holding the ball straight above your elbow. “Not here,” he adds, mimicking where you were holding it.

Nodding, you keep your vision forward, chewing your lip raw with the amount of fluttering and flipping your stomach is doing. Sukuna backs up an inch, giving you space to breathe properly now that the scent of smoke mixing with his cologne isn’t invading your senses and clouding your thoughts.

Running over his instructions in your head, you send the ball flying again, missing once more, though you were close again as it tumbled from the rim with little speed. Throwing your head back in frustration, you groan. “It’s fine, I’m okay being bad,” you shake your head as Sukuna prepares to toss you the ball.

“Give it one more go,” he encourages, bouncing it on the asphalt as he passes it back to you.

You grimace, but get back into position, bending your knees and hopping as you send it flying through the air. The ball bounces off the backboard, falling into the net as though it comes to you effortlessly.

“Atta girl,” Sukuna smirks, catching the ball in one hand as he locks his arm around your middle, much to your dismay as he picks you up and flips you to face the kids. “See, just takes some practice.”

You know he’s just making a point to the kids, but it feels as if he’s trying to show them just how flustered you are as you cling to his forearm for purchase. “Put me down,” you gasp, squeaking in surprise as his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your waist, though by now you know it’s no use. You’ve been the victim of Sukuna’s manhandling enough to know he’s not letting go until he feels like it.

Yuji excitedly cheers for you while Choso and the two girls grin. “Me too, Kuna!” Yuji insists, reaching his arms out to be lifted into the air with you.

“Not me,” you try again, flailing your legs and even kicking his shin on accident, but it still doesn’t seem to affect him. You swear he thinks you’re a sack of potatoes.

Sukuna uses his spare hand to toss the ball back towards Choso, who dribbles it in place upon catching the ball. Sukuna leans down to the best of his ability with you writhing in his arms as he lets his youngest brother wrap his hands around his bicep, standing back up as the little boy dangles from his arm, laughing and cheering as he kicks his feet out.

Even Choso has a little smile on his face at the sight of Yuji laughing so freely.

It’s the way things should be.

Even if that means Sukuna’s manhandling you.

He sets you back on your feet as Yuji hops down onto the ground, running back to Choso. Taking a couple of steps forward, you put some distance between you and Sukuna, practically praying for a breeze that might cool your warm cheeks and neck. You don’t dare look back at the smug expression you’re sure he’s sporting, smoothing your outfit as you turn away.

“Not too bad,” Toji comments, jogging up to you to give you a pat on the back. Your eyes widen briefly at the amount of force he used, though you assume he’s just used to doing such a thing to his team members. People with a bit more muscle mass.

“Thanks.” As you turn to face him, you catch Toji eyeing Sukuna with a frown, unable to read his otherwise neutral expression.

“Kid’s got a point though,” Toji adds with a smug grin as he nods towards Yuji. “Don’t quit your day job.”

“I told you I was bad,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Oh hey, can you watch the kids for a moment? Sukuna owes me a favor.”

Raising a brow behind you, the salmon-haired man takes a step forward at the sound of his name.

“I gotcha,” Toji nods.

When you grab Sukuna’s wrist, he doesn’t argue, following after you compliantly.

“Alright, King,” you tease with a mischievous gleam in your eye as he falls into step beside you. “Or should I say, The King?”

Groaning, he rolls his eyes, making a show out of huffing in irritation. “That why you brought them here?” He grumbles, pulling his wrist out of your grasp.

“Nope, I just didn’t know where else there were basketball courts,” you smile innocently. “I’m not from around here, remember?”

“Right.” He can’t even really be upset with you though when you’re beaming at him with a little tilt of your head. Your thumb subconsciously rubs circles into his tattooed wrist, and for a moment, everything seems to fall away.

The world seems to mute itself, putting his responsibilities and exhaustion on pause as he finds himself staring at your lips. He knows they’re moving. He knows you’re talking, but he can’t hear a word as everything he’s been running from seems to flood his mind at that moment.

His lips part as his heart accelerates rapidly. Can you feel it? Through the pulse point in his wrist? Do you know that you’ve made Sukuna reconsider the lens in which he views the world and try to be better for his brothers, for himself, but also for you?

Is that what his feelings have been this whole time? Is Toji right, that Sukuna is lying to himself? Does he already see you as his girl?

But that leaves him with a bigger, more daunting question.

Does he deserve that luxury?

He swallows hard, averting his gaze as the ringing in his ears melts away, leaving behind your continuing dialogue.

“- it’s convenient, though.” You pause, casting a glance back at Sukuna. “This is the tunnel, right?”

Sukuna’s expression is a mystery in itself as he blinks at you as though he’s seen a ghost. “Hm?” He gazes at you blankly, taking in his surroundings as though he’s just getting his bearings. “Yeah. Uh, this is it.”

Your brow furrows at his strange reaction, but you let it go, dragging him into the tunnel.

Though it’s currently void of skaters, the entire tunnel is made up of a funbox with ramps and pipes all over the ground. Every inch of smooth concrete is covered with art of all different styles and colors, trailing up the walls where it begins to taper off towards the top of the tunnel where it’s harder to reach.

“How did you even get up there?” You ask, craning your neck to search the ceiling for his tag.

“Uh-” he chuckles as he scans the ceiling as well. “Toj’ n’ I tied a rope up there-” he points towards the top of the tunnel where the bridge above has a railing. “I swung down, and Toji had another rope that he dragged me around with.”

With your jaw ajar, you stare at him in wide-eyed horror.

“Relax,” he snorts, “I wouldn’t do it again. We were kids, seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“This is why men die younger than women.”

“Probably,” he agrees with an amused scoff.

There’s only the occasional tag here and there across the ceiling as you slowly make your way through the tunnel, until you come to a piece that is undeniably what you’re looking for. A steady grin spreads across your lips as you come to a halt under the tag, dropping your grip on Sukuna’s wrist.

Scrawled across the ceiling is ‘THE KING’ in sharp and bold red lettering with black outlines. It almost resembles a graffiti logo for one of the metal bands he often has on his shirt with seemingly random branches and lines jutting out from each letter. Off to the left is also a surprisingly charming little ‘+ Toji’ and a small face beside his name.

“It’s really good!”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Whirling around to face him, your eyes shine as you grin. “I mean it, it’s really good.”

“Thanks, princess,” he mutters, a very noticeable amount of pink dusting his cheeks as he scowls at nothing in particular.

“It does scream edgy teen, though,” you giggle.

“There it is,” he gruffs, rolling his eyes. “I was a teen.”

“An edgy teen.”

“Oh whatever, prom queen,” he grumbles, kicking at a pebble by his foot as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

You giggle, and along with that comes a sense of relief that you aren’t still upset over the outcome of your fight and his use of that name. He can’t help but smile.

As your laughter settles, you look back up at the tag. “How didn’t you get paint all over yourself?”

“Oh, I did.” He takes a step towards you, pointing towards the edge of the tag where it seems as though something got in the way of the spray can. “That line is from my sleeve. My dad was pissed, it was all over my hair.”

“Sounds like you were a handful.”

He hums in agreement, turning his attention to you as you pull out your phone. Narrowing his eyes, his lips quirk into a frown. “Don’t,” he warns.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, attempting to hide your smile as you open the camera app.

“Don’t.”

Raising your camera towards the ceiling, you squeal as Sukuna attempts to grab your phone. Jutting your hand out to the side to dodge his grasp, you duck away and quickly snap a photo.

“Give that to me, brat.”

Sukuna takes a long stride towards you, using his height advantage to grab a hold of your wrist. You swap the phone into your other hand, but your friend’s one step ahead of you, grabbing your other wrist in his free hand. His hands are big enough that he can hold both wrists together in only one, much to your dismay, as you watch him snatch your phone and delete the image while holding your hostage.

“Wait, please, I won’t even show anyone!” You insist.

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “What, you’re just gonna stare at it for fun by yourself?”

Shrugging in his grasp, you grin mischievously. “I was thinking more like I’d use it to tease you.”

“Not happening.”

He shoves your phone in the pocket of your jacket, dragging you out from the tunnel by your wrists. Even with both of your arms held in one of his large hands, he’s careful not to cause you any harm.

“Killjoy.”

“Whatever, princess,” he grumbles, but you’re privy to the little smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

The sun’s rays are beginning to fall beneath the horizon, and between the night beginning to envelop the world and Sukuna’s own fatigue, he makes a motion for Choso and Yuji to wrap up their game as he releases your arms when you get back to the courts. Yuji pouts, begging for another few minutes.

Once his time is up, he takes Sukuna’s hand as you say your goodbyes to Toji.

“Will we see them again?” Yuji asks.

Sukuna wants to say yes. He wants to think he’s mended enough that Toji might give him a shot at fixing what he broke, but that’s not even the problem.

“Once you’re back from your mom’s…” he exchanges a glance with Toji, who shrugs. “Maybe.”

Yuji’s smile fades. “Oh yeah,” he mumbles, dragging his foot along the ground.

“Hey,” Sukuna kneels down. “Ya still got a day with me, okay?”

Yuji nods, continuing to pout. “Okay, Kuna.”

As Maki and Mai begin complaining about being hungry, Toji grabs his basketball, tucking it under his arm. “We’re headin’ out. See ya around.”

“Us too,” Sukuna agrees. “See you,” he grunts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Mind driving us home, princess?”

The car ride is fairly silent as your stomach churns. You’re fairly sure Sukuna can hear it grumbling from his place in the passenger seat, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

You continually glance back at the boys, the uneasy feeling of this being the last time you’ll see them for a bit sitting like a lump in your stomach. They don’t need to think that way. You don’t want them to.

Normally you wouldn’t get out of your car when dropping them off, but this isn’t quite the same. Hopping out of your seat into the parking lot, you help Yuji out of the vehicle, letting him hold your hand as you round to the other side where Sukuna and Choso are.

Kneeling down to Yuji’s height, you smile as you hold out your arms. “You have fun at your mom’s, okay?”

Yuji crashes into you, holding onto you tightly. “I don’t wanna go.”

“You’ll have so much fun, okay?”

He sniffles as you feel a tear dampen the thin material of your jacket. “Okay.” Pulling back, he peers up at you behind emotional eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, sweetie.” You force a smile, proud of yourself for keeping your own sadness at bay as Choso slowly approaches you. “Hey honey, come here.”

Stepping forward, Choso gingerly wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your shoulder.

“I don’t wanna go,” he whispers truthfully, leaning his weight more and more into you with each second. His voice carries a tone of resignation that wasn’t there when you last saw him, as though he’s come to terms with the decision in spite of his words. “I really don't wanna go.”

You rub his back gently, hugging him tightly. “I’m gonna help Kuna with that, okay? You look after your brother. We’ll be like a team, even if we’re far away.”

Choso just sighs. “I’m not a kid anymore, you don’t have to pretend like that for me.”

Well that’s heartbreaking.

“I’m not pretending, Cho. I mean it. We’ll all look after one another and Kuna and I will fight for you two, okay?”

“Promise?” He whispers.

“Pinky.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Choso. Stay strong, okay?”

He pulls back, immediately hiding his face in his sleeve as he wipes away what he can of his fear and sadness. “Um- okay.” He sniffles, staring at you for a long moment when he drops his arm from his face, as though he’s trying to commit you to memory.

When you tilt your head at him, trying to get a read on his thoughts, he seems to come back to the world and backs up until he bumps into Sukuna. Craning his neck to find his oldest brother watching with a somber expression.

Chewing on your lip, you inhale sharply as you force a smile. “You two have fun, okay?”

Yuji nods, though Choso doesn’t reply.

You hide your tears as long as you can, but the floodgates finally break when you pull out of the parking lot.

–

Sukuna swears the world mourns for him as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how early it is, but the sun only casts enough light to faintly make out the outline of his ceiling lamp as it casts a barely visible shadow and his alarm hasn’t gone off yet. The birds have taken some sort of oath of silence as far as he can tell, and he hates the way the quiet leaves him with his thoughts.

As it stands, yesterday had already served as an ample challenge. Getting two young boys to pack bags and box up their belongings through tears is a task and a half.

And that’s not even mentioning the fact that he’d had to tell them to leave a lot behind. At the end of the day, he knows Kaori, and he knows that things like their Gameboys would end up mysteriously disappearing. He just needs to remind himself that this won’t be forever, just as he reminds them. He won’t let it be forever.

Sitting up, he throws his legs over the end of the bed, hunching over as he leans his elbows on his thighs and stares down at his feet. Letting out a long breath through his nose, he rests his face in his palms.

Everything seems to move in slow motion around him, or maybe it’s the nausea that comes along with five consecutive sleepless nights filled with a churning in his gut.

Dragging his hands down his face, he holds his breath, willing his stomach and head to work with him. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing to his feet as he makes his way to the washroom.

Flicking on the light, he blinks as his eyes adjust to the sterile lighting, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“I’ll get them back,” he whispers to himself, but the person looking back at him doesn’t seem convinced. He’s done so well at suppressing his emotions since the trial to keep his brothers at ease but he finds it bubbling to the surface now that reality is settling in.

Sucking in a breath, he stares down at the sink, letting it out shakily. His stomach convulses as his alarm goes off in the other room.

Two hours.

Two hours until they’re gone.

His knuckles go white as his grip tightens on the sink. It feels as though he moves in slow motion when he turns the tap on to cold water and splashes it in his face. Blinking quickly, he lets it drip from his chin for a moment before wiping his face. He wets his hands again and drags it through his hair, pushing it back off of his forehead.

Shutting the tap off, he heads back to his room, pulling on a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. As much as he wants the comfort of a hoodie and sweats, he can’t leave any kind of negative impression on Kaori. He can’t give her more ammo if he’s planning on bringing her back to court.

Grabbing his phone, he shuts off the alarm, checking his notifications. A couple of emails, a low battery warning given that he’d forgotten to plug his phone in, and three texts. Two from you, and one from Uraume.

He opens the message from you first.

6:03 AM Princess || Hey Kuna, are you okay?

6:07 AM Princess || I’m here if you need anything

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, reading over the words a number of times. He’s not sure how long he stares at the words. It’s as though each time he tries to read them, they just don’t register.

Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he scowls as he focuses on the words. Glancing up at the time, he figures you must have woken up early just to send him a text, but some part of him feels that this process is better left between him and his step-mother. He doesn’t want you involved and he doesn’t want to make this harder on the kids when they’ve already said their goodbyes. As it stands, he was shocked they handled it somewhat well.

He thinks you just do a better job at reassuring them that you’ll see them again than he does.

6:14 AM Sukuna || im okay. thanks princess

He sets his phone aside again, raking a hand through salmon strands as he stares blankly at the photo of him with his brothers and father on his dresser. The corner is torn, showing the back of the frame where Kaori had been standing. He’s never been able to get the full picture out of his head, no matter how hard he tries. Now, it seems to taunt him.

The wounds she’s caused will always remain on him as scars.

Pushing to his feet, he makes his way to the living room. There are four boxes, two duffel bags, and two backpacks set up and ready at the front door. It had been a hassle to get them to even pack anything beyond the backpack and duffel bag, they’d fought with him the entire time on what to bring and what to leave, but it mostly came down to what Sukuna trusted Kaori with.

That being said, it’s also hard to convince a five-year-old to leave some of his favorite things behind because Sukuna doesn’t trust the boy’s mother.

He makes his way over to the table, where two woven bracelets sit, along with two photo frames. His lips turn down at the sight as he drags his finger along the bottom of one of the frames. Picking it up, he stares intently at the photo he’d printed.

Halloween, two years ago. Yuji is in what might be the scariest Sonic costume he’s ever laid eyes on, while Choso is a vampire, though his sweet smile would indicate otherwise. Sukuna, as unimpressed as ever, has Yuji on his shoulders and Choso in front of him. Uraume had taken the photo right before Sukuna took the boys out trick-or-treating.

His eyes land on his dramatic grimace at the center of the image. Yuji had begged him to dress up, and for all his huffing and puffing, it really didn’t take much for Sukuna to fold. His costume was nothing fancy, he’d bought a cape and crown from the dollar store and called it a day, but Yuji was happy.

His terrifying Sonic grin remains one of Sukuna’s favorite memories with the two boys to this day.

And don’t even get him started on what the makeup looked like by the end of the night, once it had smudged.

Easily among the most horrifying costumes he’d seen that night.

Sighing, he turns towards the boxes at the door, tucking each frame into different boxes. Even if Kaori tries to cut his visitation, and god forbid Sukuna fails again, he prays that someday the boys will be smart enough to check the back of the frames, where he had tucked his contact information away.

And that’s even if she lets them keep the photos.

He frowns, tucking the box wings back in place as he glances at the clock.

An hour and a half left.

He blinks, heading back to the washroom to brush his teeth while he gathers some shoes and other things the boys will need that may have slipped their minds with the emotional day yesterday.

He wants more time with them, but he also can’t bear to wake them up until they need to leave. He’s not sure he can manage to keep his emotions bottled up any longer than necessary.

He busies himself until the clock hits seven thirty in the morning, and finds himself standing in their doorway for what might be the last time. Crimson irises survey the two beds tucked against either wall. Toys no longer litter the floor, mostly all tucked away, while a few books are missing from the shelf and the open closet is mostly empty.

His heart sinks, his senses all fading and leaving behind a familiar numb feeling. His ears ring, his vision blurs, his skin feels fuzzy. Everything is shrouded in a layer of fog as familiarity settles over him.

Three months after his father had passed away, the house had sold.

Sukuna had no part in it, he let the lawyers and realtors do their thing. Not like he knew what the fuck was going on anyway.

Standing at the entry to his father’s untouched room, his eyes are glazed over as he surveys the dusty surfaces. It takes him a moment to work up the courage to step inside.

He keeps to the wall, looking over the belongings scattered across the surfaces of the dressers and desks that line the wall.

Cologne, pens, a few documents, a pill bottle. Several pill bottles. Hospital records. More pill bottles.

He turns, scanning the surfaces closer to the bed.

Prescriptions. It’s all emptied prescription bottles.

Between the prescriptions, he spots the gleam of a silver frame. Reaching out, he blankly watches as a full bottle tips and a pile of white pills spill across the surface. He can’t bring himself to be bothered with the mess as his fingers brush the frame. He lifts it from its place, blowing the dust from the surface.

All these years, all of this time single-handedly taking care of Jin and he never knew he was in this photo. He’d never stopped to look at it. He’d always seen his dad in the top of the photo, but he didn’t realize his dad was holding him. Sukuna can’t be more than a few days old, just a little baby in the blurry image.

He blinks, something warm trailing down his cheek. He lifts his head, looking around blankly at nothing in particular as grief pulls him back underwater.

“Why’d you have to go?” Sukuna mutters, staring at an empty container of blood thinners. His gaze travels an inch to the right, settling on a bottle of perfume. Kaori’s. Covered in an extra layer of dust, untouched for over a year.

His brow twitches, and before he can consider what he’s doing, his lip curls into a snarl and the perfume hits the floor. It shatters, the weight of the impact sending the ringing in his ears wild.

Letting out a shaky breath, the numbness fades as everything seeps into the cracks of his carefully crafted walls, overbearing. Sucking in a breath, he recoils at the pungent smell of the room.

With gritted teeth, he sets the photo down and turns to grab a towel, heading back to toss it on the floor, soaking up the majority of the liquid. Once it’s been mostly wiped away with his foot, he gets down to his knees to finish cleaning up the floor. He scans the hardwood, pausing when something glints at the edge of his vision.

He reaches under the dresser, picking up a smooth, metallic lighter.

‘Itadori’ is carved into the side. He recognizes it from a while ago. He doesn’t know where it came from, but he remembers seeing his dad use it, back before he cut his smoking habit.

That’s probably around the time Sukuna gained the same habit. His father’s health waned, and with it went Sukuna’s mental health.

He flips the lid open, sparking a flame. He tosses the towel aside, the odor of his step-mother’s perfume no longer at the top of his mind.

Continuing to stare at the flame, he feels a lump settle in his throat, unable to swallow to shove it down. Reaching into his pocket, he finds the familiar shape of a box of cigarettes in his pant pocket and nimbly slides one cylinder out. Setting it between his lips, he lights the cigarette and sucks in a harsh breath of nicotine.

It settles in his veins, calming the tremor in his hand. He shuts the lighter as he breathes out straight up in the air. The smoke swirls above him as he slumps down onto the floor, leaning against the dresser. A drawer handle digs into his back, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He props his knee up, leaning his arm against it as he stares at the lighter.

He can practically hear his dad scolding him for smoking, let alone inside. Let alone in a house that’s been sold. The new owners will have a strange experience with scents when they reach this room, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Sukuna’s simply too tired to care.

Yuji’s sobbing starts up again out of nowhere. Shutting his eyes, Sukuna drops his head back onto the dresser with a resounding thump.

“Dunno what I’m doing, Dad. Don’t think you’d be too proud if you saw me now,” he mutters, as though maybe his father can hear him somehow through the lighter. Maybe he’s listening, watching. Disappointed, probably.

The lump grows until the feeling of something building in his chest seems to overflow. Warmth floods his eyes, overflowing and falling down his cheeks. They trail down his chin, leaving behind the evidence on his shirt.

Yuji’s cries continue and Sukuna shuts his eyes harder. “I’m such a shit brother,” he mutters, coughing as smoke fills his lungs. “I can’t do this,” he rasps, but even as he doubts himself, he pushes off of the ground, grunting as he reaches his feet. He picks up the towel, heading with purpose to the balcony to put out his cigarette and toss out the towel on his way.

Wiping his face on his sleeve, he sniffles once before making his way into Yuji’s room. Just over a year old, he’s probably just woken up hungry. Lifting the toddler into his arms, Sukuna rubs his back.

“C’mon Yu, it’s okay.” His best attempt at soothing the child in his current state of mind comes out dry. “Didn’t mean to take so long.”

Another day for Sukuna to push through. He’ll soldier on until he can’t any longer.

His lips part as he comes back to, shaking his head at the realization that he’d spaced out. His heart is beating fast, the memory causing his muscles to tense.

“Shit,” he mumbles, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes.

He steels himself, his brow drawn together as he shakes both brothers awake. He waits off to the side with the clothes they’d set aside for the day as they begin to stir.

Choso’s movements are mechanical, Yuji is simply tired. Sukuna can’t say for sure if Yuji truly understands what’s happening, even now. He appreciates that the boy’s been relatively alright, all things considered, but he’s not actually sure if the boy gets it now.

Choso, on the other hand…

Sukuna watches as the boy takes the clothing laid at the end of his bed, moving out the door without even acknowledging his older brother.

He fluctuates between wanting to talk and being completely devoid of any emotion. It’s like he wants to take your advice, but he’s fighting his own demons, distant.

It’s a hollow feeling to watch his siblings prepare to leave. The house is silent, forlorn. The air hangs stagnant, a musty feeling clinging to Sukuna’s skin.

“Can’t I just stay here?”

Sukuna turns towards Choso. The little boy’s face has streaks of wetness down either side, his gaze pleading.

Sighing, Sukuna kneels down to his brother’s level. “You can’t. I’ll get in trouble.” He grimaces, letting out a breath through his nose as he sets his hands on either of Choso’s shoulders. “Listen, I’m gonna do everything I can to get you both back, okay? I need you to look after your brother just like I looked after you, got that?”

More tears streak down the little boy’s face as he nods.

Sukuna pats his right shoulder, pushing up to his full height again. Choso peers up at his brother, sniffling as he wipes his cheeks. Choso grabs his little brother’s hand as they make their way into the living room.

Before they can begin getting their shoes on, Sukuna makes his way to the table. “Hey,” he mumbles as he swipes his thumb across the material of the two twine black bracelets waiting there. “These, uh-” he pauses, turning to his brothers. “These’re for you.” He holds out the two black bracelets, watching the waterworks begin to flow as Choso’s unable to hold in his sobs.

As Choso rushes forward to hug Sukuna’s leg, Yuji watches uncertainly, looking to Sukuna for guidance. “It’s okay, Yu. You’ll be back before you know it,” he reassures with a weak smile. Yuji nods slowly, mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he hugs Sukuna’s other leg.

As the buzzer goes off, the brutish man’s forced to waddle to the landline connected to the front door with the two boys glued to him.

“We’ll come to you,” he gruffs through the phone, hanging up without allowing them building access. Setting the phone back down, he pats Yuji. “Go get your bags.”

It takes a moment before Choso follows suit, but eventually he helps Yuji get his backpack on before they’re both stationed at the door. Choso’s body silently trembles as they stay put while Sukuna carts the boxes down first, leaving the cardboard outside the front door without a word to Kaori or the two social workers she’s brought to tag along.

With all four boxes waiting outside, Sukuna pulls Yuji into his arms, balancing him on his hip, taking Choso’s hand. His hand is wet with the evidence of his sadness and fear as Sukuna painstakingly drags his family down to the first floor.

When they reach the outside with Kaori in sight, Choso shakes violently, pressing himself against Sukuna as he hides himself from the woman who he no longer feels any familial love for.

Sukuna scowls, fury in his eyes as he regards Kaori, but he holds his tongue. He’s here for his brothers now. This isn’t about him. He needs to make sure the social workers see only dedication.

Kaori gasps, approaching slowly as she takes in the sight of her children. “Yuji, hi sweetheart. Goodness, you have your father’s hair.”

Sukuna sucks in a breath through his teeth as the five-year-old looks between Sukuna and his mother. “Is that Momma?”

It takes Sukuna a second too long to answer, leaving Kaori the time to butt in. “That’s me, darling,” she smiles sweetly, but Yuji’s gaze doesn’t leave Sukuna.

Sighing, he nods.

Confirming Sukuna’s suspicions that he doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, Yuji’s eyes widen as he outstretches his arms. “Hi, momma!”

Kaori takes Yuji from Sukuna’s arms, hoisting him up. “Hi, Yuyu. It’s so good to see you again,” she replies with a grin, tapping his nose with her pointer finger. She turns her attention back to Sukuna, then. Choso is peering out at her from behind Sukuna with a deathly grip on the fabric of his older brother’s button-up. “And little Choso, look at you! All grown up.”

Choso mumbles out a “hi”, tugging hard enough on Sukuna’s shirt that he’s nearly choking the man.

“Come on out, honey. I want to see my baby.”

Choso doesn’t move an inch.

“Go on, Cho,” Sukuna mutters, casting a glance at the social workers watching the interaction carefully.

His heart twists as Choso cranes his neck up at his brother, his eyes flickering wildly around Sukuna’s face as he silently begs for help.

Frowning, Sukuna sighs as he lowers himself to Choso’s height, opening his arms. The little boy buries himself in Sukuna’s arms, shaking hard as he audibly sobs. The tattooed man’s eyes flicker shut as his brows knit together.

“Cho, listen to me.”

The brunette’s sobs simmer down as he pays attention to Sukuna’s quiet words, low enough to keep Kaori from hearing.

“Do you trust me?”

He feels his little brother nod against his shoulder.

“Then trust me to fix this shit.”

Choso nods again, sniffling as he hugs Sukuna harder. “I love you, Kuna.”

Sukuna’s chest tightens as his resolve threatens to break then and there, the threads he’s tightly woven fraying at the ends. “Love you too, Cho.”

The brunette boy takes a step back, shaky hands slowly unraveling from Sukuna’s now-wrinkled dress shirt. Choso’s reddened eyes flicker wildly around Sukuna’s stoic face, nodding slowly when he spots the intent and commitment behind his eyes.

He turns towards his mother, muttering out a barely audible “hi,” again as he takes her outstretched hand.

Kaori smiles as her eldest child takes her hand. “Thank you for being cooperative, Sukuna dear. I really wish things didn’t have to be this way,” her smile turns mocking as she directs her gaze back towards him.

His lip curls into a snarl. “Don’t push it, Kaori.”

“I do hope you have the time to focus on your studies now,” she offers in a fake attempt at sympathy, like every other interaction they’ve ever had.

Pushing past her comment that borders on condescending, Sukuna keeps his voice even in an effort to keep Kaori from seeing through the cracks in his facade. “See you in two weeks.” He knows visitation won’t happen, but he wants to remind her at every turn what she’s taken away from her children and step-child.

“Oh, of course, dear! See you then,” she smiles, tilting her head slightly as her eyes crinkle at the corners with the weight of her faux cheer.

Sukuna’s chest rises and falls heavily as Kaori turns to walk away while the social workers aid with the boxes.

It’s then that it seems to settle in for Yuji what’s going on. Still sitting in Kaori’s arms, he faces Sukuna now when she turns around. As his brother gets further and further from him, his concern grows.

“Kuna?” He calls, only a short distance away. “When will our trip be over?”

Sukuna shuts his eyes tightly, a pending headache settling at the edges of his mind. Of course the trip reassurance would come back to bite him in the ass. He opens his mouth, but he struggles to find the words to assure his brother when this whole situation goes over the little boy’s head.

He can only sit there dumbly with his jaw ajar.

“Dunno, Yu,” he answers, settling on honesty. There’s no reassurance left for him to give that doesn’t border on a lie. Even the idea of calling it a trip bordered on a lie to begin with, but what other option was he left with? The poor boy is simply too young to grasp the gravity of his own situation, by no fault of his own.

The little Itadori devolves into pure panic, contorting his body in an effort to get away from his mother as he screams and panics, reaching desperately past Kaori’s shoulder for his brother.

“KUNA!” He cries with such a rasp to his voice that Sukuna feels the pain it caused. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t-” his voice breaks as he wails and sobs out unintelligible words.

Sukuna brings a hand up to his mouth, dragging it down his prickly chin as he watches the scene unfold. Yuji fights Kaori with every ounce of power he has as she attempts to shush and soothe him, but it’s to no avail.

“I don’t wanna go! Don’t make me!” He bawls, pushing against his mother to reach for Sukuna.

He looks to Choso for guidance, but the brown-haired boy is trembling at Kaori’s side in his own fit of tears, worsened by Yuji’s manic state.

“KUNAAAA! S’KUNA!” He calls out again, writhing to push back against the woman whose arms he’s held in. “PleASE!” His voice breaks, his vocal cords beaten to a pulp with all the crying and screaming he’s done over the last few days.

The closer they get to the awaiting car, the more Sukuna feels everything crumbling around him. The world slows even further if that’s at all possible, a cloud covers the sun. He half-expects it to start raining just to really stick it to him. Even the wildlife holds its breath as they watch.

Rooted to his place, Sukuna keeps his demeanor steady in spite of the overwhelming urge to throw up whatever sits in his stomach. His skin feels heavy, like he doesn’t belong within it. He wants to shower in hopes that it’ll rid him of the feeling.

His guilt, his fears, and his failures twist and turn in the pit of his stomach, heating him up from the inside out as if to burn him alive.

It would be a kinder fate for a hole to open up in the ground beneath him and swallow him whole. Watching his brothers suffer feels as though it’s a cruel divine punishment for every misdemeanor he’s ever committed.

“Kuna plea-ea-EASE!” Yuji cries out with each sob that parts his lips as one of the social workers helps Choso into the waiting car. Kaori has to fight against Yuji’s flailing limbs in her attempt to buckle him into the awaiting car seat.

“No! NO!” Yuji screams, pushing back against her the entire time that she attempts to buckle him in.

Both kids are barely in sight at this point, hidden behind tinted windows and Kaori herself as she struggles to buckle in her child. Sukuna’s head falls, his gaze stuck on the ground before him as all he can do is stand in place and watch, listen.

“Let me go!” He screams out, prying himself from her grip as he attempts to slip past her.

“Yuji, this isn’t appropriate behavior, honey,” she scolds. She manages to catch him before he can slip away, adjusting her grip on him so that she can lift him easier. As she hoists him into the air, his sobs and cries only continue, growing raspier by the moment.

“NO!” He screams out, writhing against her grip. He reaches out for Sukuna, whose gaze lifts to catch a final glance at Yuji when- “DAD!”

Sukuna’s lips part, his eyes widening as every muscle, every nerve, every thought, every goddamn bone in his body screams at him to move, but he can’t. His body runs cold, his blood freezing in place as the world presses in around him. His knees go weak, vision blurring. He can’t say whether it’s the blur of tears or the nausea steadily setting in.

All he knows as the car engine starts up and gradually fades into the distance is that at some point his knees gave out, and the discolored spots dotting the concrete beneath him are the tears he can’t feel himself shedding.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

❦ a/n ; hey everyone, thank you sm for reading as always <33 the support on this continues to be so wonderful and i can't thank you all enough for that 🫶

the angst just keeps on coming 😭 i won't blame anyone for calling me a monster for that last scene either, that devastated me to write

i'm posting this from out of the country so forgive me for the strange update time :)) since i'm away i also won't be able to respond to asks or comments very quickly but know that i absolutely will be reading them as they come in and they never fail to put a smile on my face <33 i'll reply whenever i have a moment, though! you guys are the best and i appreciate each and every one of you 🫶

anyway, thank you so much for the love, and i hope you all have a great day/night <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut

@hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @catobsessedlady @timetoletmyimaginationfly

@clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig

@spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @jeonwiixard

@ieathairs @cinnamxnangel @nessca153 @aerareads @after-laughter-come-tears

@tillaboo @thepassionatereader @erencvlt @v1sque @a-girl-with-thoughts

@lauuriiiz @blueemochii @paradisestarfishh @erenxh @call-me-doll8811

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@privthemis @captainsarcasmandsass @ryomeowie @vitoshi @kunasthiast

@axxk17 @toratsue @bluestbleu @yuji-itadori-fave @totallygyomeiswife

writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

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internetdaddy98 · 3 months ago

Text

The Ties That Bind Us -Masterlist

Completed Series Series Summary: Y/N, Emergency Medicine fellow with a past she doesn’t talk about. When she crosses paths with the enigmatic and seasoned attending Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, sparks fly in the worst (and best) ways.

Series Warnings: age gap (15 years), swearing, ptsd mentions, mentions of suicide, suicide, descriptions of hospitals/patients, mentions of violence against medical workers, eventual sexual content (female anatomy described), angst, mutual pining, medical procedures (i have 0 medical knowledge thanks WebMD) Anything marked with an asterisk ( * ) contains explicit content -MDNI!!!!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25 *

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30 *

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35 *

Chapter 36 - Final Chapter

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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ilovolderman · 22 days ago

Text

Stealth Raccoons

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: During a chaotic mission, Sam’s on high alert and Natasha’s low-key helping you and Bucky keep your secret relationship under wraps.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

The mission was going fine. Until it wasn’t.

“Everyone stay in comms range,” Sam had said. “No hero moves,” Sam had said. “Stick to the plan,” SAM HAD SAID.

But now there were fire alarms blaring, half the base was flooding for reasons that were absolutely not in the briefing, and somehow you and Bucky were trapped in a side corridor while Sam and Nat were three levels up and getting increasingly annoyed.

Sam’s voice crackled over comms. “What do you mean you’re stuck in a broom closet?”

“It’s not a closet,” Bucky said tightly, scanning the door panel. “It’s a supply room. Very tactical. Very... moppy.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “Tactical mop. For stealth cleaning.”

“You’re both impossible,” Sam muttered. “Can you at least not flirt during a breach?”

“We’re not flirting,” you said, far too quickly. “We don’t flirt,” Bucky added.

A pause.

Natasha’s voice cut in, bone dry. “That’s funny. You were making heart eyes while dodging tripwires like it was a romantic tango.”

You smacked your forehead on the wall. Bucky visibly stopped breathing.

Sam cut back in. “Wait—heart what? What do you mean tango? Are you saying there was—?”

Suddenly Bucky kicked the door panel.

It sparked. The lights flickered. A loud clunk sounded.

The door opened.

Bucky turned to you, nodding very seriously. “Tactical success.”

You gave him a look. “You just panicked and kicked the wall.”

He gave you a little grin. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Natasha hummed over comms. “You two gonna keep making goo-goo eyes or are you gonna join the rest of us before Sam has a stroke?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “I’m just saying. They’re suspiciously in sync lately. You saw them backflip in unison last mission.”

You and Bucky exchanged a quick look.

You had, in fact, practiced that move. In private. After several accidental crashes and at least one rug burn incident that required aloe.

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re just good at teamwork.”

Sam scoffed. “You were holding hands.”

“We were anchoring each other.” “That's a combat grip,” you added helpfully.

There was a pause.

“Combat grip?” Sam repeated flatly. “I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Later, everyone regrouped in the main server room. The plan was to download intel and leave quietly.

Naturally, something exploded.

Now the lights were out, alarms were blaring, and everyone was sprinting through dim corridors lit only by emergency red glow.

You and Bucky split off (again) to find the backup drive.

Sam’s voice came through comms, exasperated. “Why do they always get sent off together? Every time. It’s like Mission: Secret Couple or something.”

You nearly ran into a wall.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to sound offended and not like your heart just plummeted into your boots.

Bucky made a face at you, whispering. “Secret Couple is a terrible code name.”

You whispered back “Sounds like a dating app for spies.”

He grinned. You grinned.

You did not kiss.

But only because the walls had cameras. And the last time you kissed near Hydra tech, it triggered an alarm labeled "UNSANCTIONED BONDING ACTIVITY."

Still not over that.

Sam was still talking. “—and it’s always like ‘oh no, we accidentally got locked in this romantic storage closet again,’ or ‘oops, my hand slipped and I caught them emotionally gazing!’”

Natasha: “Wow. Sounds like you’re really keeping detailed logs.”

Sam: “IT’S SUSPICIOUS!”

Three minutes later, you and Bucky were climbing a ladder inside a narrow, dimly lit vent shaft. You were going up first, carefully placing your boots on the creaking metal rungs. Bucky was right behind you, unusually quiet for someone who usually had a sarcastic comment locked and loaded.

You paused briefly to adjust your grip. That was apparently enough time for chaos to erupt over comms.

"Just got eyes on Y/N and Barnes," Sam’s voice rang out, suspicious and way too smug. "They’re in Vent Shaft 7, heading north—wait. Why is Barnes looking up like that? Why’s he—OH COME ON."

You froze, forehead hitting the wall with a quiet thunk. "SAM. Do not read into this."

"There was a pause," Sam insisted, scandalized. "A full, lingering pause. With a view, Barnes."

Bucky, completely unbothered, replied, "Just making sure the ladder’s stable."

"Stable my ass! You were looking up like it was art, man. That was a neck-tilt of appreciation."

Natasha cut in, her voice dry as a martini. "Sam. Be honest. Are you mad because you think something’s going on... or because no one’s ever looked at you like that in a vent shaft?"

"EXCUSE ME?"

"Just saying, maybe if you wore less tactical gear and more emotional availability—"

"I will not be emotionally manipulated by the Human Blade of Sarcasm and her two suspiciously hoodie-sharing raccoons."

"...Did he just call us raccoons?" Bucky asked.

"I think so," you said.

"Honestly? Not mad about it."

"You do share a hoodie!" Sam jumped back in. "I asked you if it was your combat hoodie, and you said ‘Don’t worry about it.’"

"I wasn’t lying. It is combat-rated. For cuddles," Bucky said with a smirk.

"Tacti-cuddly," you added.

"I hate this. I hate all of this."

Natasha, casually: "You know, now that I think about it, I did see them split a breakfast burrito this morning."

"YOU WHAT—"

"And I took a bite too. Maybe it’s a cult. A burrito cult. Ever think of that?"

"I—what—I—OKAY. Polyamorous burrito cult. That makes so much more sense than whatever secret relationship you’re all denying!"

"Honestly? That’s kinda got a ring to it," you said.

"Can we get jackets made?" Bucky asked.

"Only if I get to design the logo," Natasha replied.

"I will unravel this mystery. I will," Sam grumbled.

"Looking forward to it, Detective Wilson," Natasha said sweetly.

"This is worse than that time you all gaslit me about the mission in Madrid."

"That was an actual hallucination," you reminded him. "You took cold meds and fought a vending machine."

"It took my change and lied about it!"

"Let it go, man," Bucky said.

"I need a new team," Sam muttered.

"You need a nap," Natasha said.

"Or a snack," Bucky added.

"Or therapy," you chimed in.

"I AM FINE."

Bucky glanced up again—brief, but noticeable. You looked down at him, trying to hide your grin.

"HEY! I saw that! That was another lingering pause!"

"I was checking to make sure he didn’t fall off the ladder," you said, deadpan.

"She’s just a very responsible coworker," Bucky added innocently.

"You’re all terrible liars."

"Actually," Natasha said, cool as ever, "they’re great liars. That’s what’s so impressive."

"I WILL FIGURE THIS OUT!" Sam practically shouted.

"Of course you will," Natasha replied, too-sweet to be sincere.

You and Bucky shared a quiet look.

"Think he’s gonna try to set a trap?" Bucky asked.

"Absolutely. Wanna beat him to it?"

Bucky grinned. "Always."

After the mission ended, everyone was seated. Exhausted. Quiet. Sam sat across from you and Bucky in the quinjet, arms folded, staring like a detective in the final five minutes of a Law & Order episode. You sat a safe six inches apart from Bucky, the kind of distance that said “not officially” but definitely “definitely.”

Then his hand slid over to rest lightly on your knee. Hidden. Barely touching.

Natasha saw it instantly. She didn’t say a word. She just slid her sunglasses down her nose and gave Sam a look that said, “Don’t even bother.”

Sam sighed, rubbed his temples, and whispered to himself, “There’s something going on. I know it. I can feel it in my spleen.”

Natasha deadpanned, “Maybe it’s indigestion.”

You smirked. “Maybe you’re just emotionally constipated.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Maybe the real secret romance was the friends we gaslit along the way.”

Natasha raised her cup of jet coffee in a mock toast.

Sam looked so tired. And still: clueless.

Minutes later, Sam’s head lolled forward, and his eyes fluttered shut. The tension in the cabin eased as he slipped into sleep, snoring softly—a rare, vulnerable moment.

You glanced at Bucky, who was watching you with that slow, fond smile reserved just for you. His hand tightened just a bit on your knee, and before you knew it, you leaned against him, your shoulder resting gently against his arm. The world outside the quinjet melted away.

Bucky’s breath was warm on your temple as he whispered, “Finally, some peace.”

You smiled, heart full, and whispered back, “Mission accomplished.”

Natasha, ever the perfect mix of sarcastic and warm, glanced over and quipped, “Well, at least someone’s asleep before Sam figures out what’s really going on.”

You and Bucky exchanged a glance, grinning.

The quinjet hummed quietly around you, a gentle lull beneath the stars streaking past the windows. Bucky’s hand never left your knee, and you let yourself relax fully into the warmth of his presence.

“You are falling asleep, aren’t you?” you whispered, leaning your head gently against his shoulder.

He turned his face just enough so you could see the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “That’s just cause I’m comfortable,” he murmured. “You make me feel like I can.”

You smiled softly, heart swelling. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me. No backsies.”

Bucky’s fingers brushed lightly over your skin, thumb tracing lazy circles. “I like the sound of that.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Next time Sam starts spouting nonsense about ‘emotional indigestion’ or ‘gaslighting,’ you’re the one who tells him to shut it. I’m officially outsourcing emotional labor.”

Bucky chuckled. “Deal. I’ll be the designated emotional bouncer.”

You tightened your grip on his hand and sighed happily. “You know, I think this might be the first time Sam’s fallen asleep mid-interrogation. What do you think that means?”

Bucky laughed softly. “He’s finally met his match.”

From behind you, Natasha’s quiet humming floated through the cabin, sounding suspiciously like a victory tune. Sam’s soft snore was rhythmic now, peaceful — a rare break from his usual intense energy.

You nestled closer, your cheek resting against Bucky’s warm arm. “It’s nice. Just… nice. No secrets. No guessing. Just us.”

“Exactly,” he said, voice soft as a whisper. “I like this. I like you.”

You smiled wider, squeezing his hand. “I like you too.”

Natasha’s voice piped up from the back, light and teasing, “And somewhere in the world, Sam’s still clueless and probably crying softly about a burrito.”

You and Bucky exchanged amused glances, eyes shining.

Clueless, but perfectly content.

Later, after the mission, after the jet touched down and everyone went their separate ways, you were finally curled up on the couch, warm, clean, and almost asleep.

Then your phone buzzed.

“SAM ADDED YOU TO A GROUP CHAT.”

You stared at the screen. The chat was called:

“stealth raccoons + sam”

Of course it was.

You opened it.

[Group Chat: stealth raccoons + sam] Members: Sam, You, Bucky, Natasha

Sam: this is now the official mission coordination thread. i need updates. and accountability. and transparency.

You: That’s a lot of feelings for a mission thread.

Bucky: Yeah, usually those just say “Van’s here” and “We’re being shot at.”

Sam: y’all think this is a joke. but i see things.👀

Natasha: Oh boy. The eyeballs are back. Everyone run.

Sam: i’m just saying the hoodie-sharing the synchronized exits THE BURRITO

You: Bold of you to keep bringing up the burrito like it didn’t emotionally wound you.

Sam: IT WAS A BETRAYAL IN THREE BITES

Bucky: Still mad I didn’t get the last bite tbh.

Sam: AHA YOU ADMIT YOU SHARED IT

Bucky: …we all shared it, Sam. Team nutrition.

Natasha: Sounds like love. I mean… loyalty. Definitely loyalty. 👀❤️👀

Sam: I WILL CATCH YOU I HAVE CAMERAS AND INSTINCTS AND VIBES

You: Vibes aren’t admissible in court, Sam.

Bucky: Unless you’re Judge Judy.

Sam: i am the judge and the jury and the petty god of group chat receipts

Natasha: Petty God is a great title for your next mission report.

Sam: don’t act like you’re innocent in this you’re always mysteriously nearby when they “accidentally” disappear into unmonitored zones

Natasha: Oh no. You’ve discovered my side hustle. Secret couple bodyguard slash chaos enabler. (And I look great doing it.)

Sam: Y/N. Barnes. one day. you’ll slip.

You: What if we already did and you missed it?

Bucky: What if we never did and you’re spiraling for nothing?

Sam: what if i block both of you and live in peace

Natasha: You won’t. You live for this. Sam: you’re all MENACES

You: Menaces in love? 🤷‍♀️

Sam: i hate this group chat but i refuse to leave i must monitor

Bucky: Aw. He loves us.

Sam: I SWEAR ON MY WINGS THE TRUTH WILL COME OUT THIS ISN’T OVER

[Sam has changed the group chat name to: “Operation: Truth & Betrayal”]

You: Ok now it sounds like a reality show.

Natasha: Or a band. Dibs on drums.

Bucky: Y/N sings. Obviously.

Sam: YOU’RE DEFLECTING AGAIN I’M WATCHING YOU

You stared at the group chat for a long second, thumb hovering over your screen.

Sam had just renamed it, for the third time in twenty minutes. The man was unraveling in real time.

You locked your phone and exhaled a slow, amused sigh.

From the couch across the room, Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Sam renamed the chat again?”

“Yep,” you said. “I think he’s having a dramatic monologue in the kitchen.”

“He’s gonna start drawing red string across the wall soon.”

You padded over and dropped down next to him, letting your head fall onto his shoulder with a quiet laugh. “We’re menaces.”

Bucky smirked. “Secret menaces in love. Very stealthy.”

You grinned, reaching for his hand. “He’s never gonna catch us.”

And somewhere, several rooms away, Sam sneezed violently—like the universe had just dared him to prove you wrong.

next part

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier@softpia @shakysif @lucyysthings @unadulteratedpastazonkpeach @surebutwhy @tmb510 @kaiari @totallynotabuckybarnessimp @quinquinquincy @tellybearryyyy @roxyym@starstruckfirecat @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @oliviaohanessian1 @arignipanja574 @creat0r-cat @katheriner1999 @kaiari@authoressskr @antisocialfiore @f-1-girlies-blog @ifilwtmfc @darkrock3t @navs-bhat @ravenswritingroom @lunawitchbitchraven@elfypineapple @smellybad @niceskyler @avengemepercy @crowleythesexydemon @bumblebeebutter @cjand10 @avivarougestan @parkers-gal

@coffelover13 @13c13 @samcortlandlivesinmyheart @pandcbarnes @rosieyama @iminyourceiling @lori19 @94namkooksworld @1000shipsnh @hughjackmanadict @ficmeiguess @beigesthatic @barnes70stark @rosylnsworld @rrosiitas @simp4f1 @vieenr0se @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

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ssweetreveries · 1 month ago

Text

Crush Catalog | The 𝒥 Files

introducing to you a 6-part series featuring nct’s ‘J line’

college au, interconnected standalones, afab!reader, will contain mature content (18+ mdni)

taglist (open!) @bluedbliss @rosakjs @lovesuhng @4nesu @skittyneos @yowmaman @luvlyrenwoo @wooyugta @yoonohswife @the-universe-in-you-jjh @wachimingox @ajaaaaayyyyy @jaemsprettygf @fancypeacepersona @hi00000234567 @cinneorolls @nctpjs @stormy1408

Part 1 | Where We Begin Again

☆ fwb!johnny x reader

trope → friends with benefits to lovers

synopsis You and Johnny are longtime friends who started hooking up out of convenience—no strings attached, right? Except now, you're both catching feelings but too scared to ruin the friendship. One night after an especially heated encounter, something shifts—a vulnerable moment slips out. Tension builds when one of you tries to pull away, but fate keeps throwing you back together.

Part 2 | Somewhere Between Us

☆ ex!jaehyun x reader

trope → exes to lovers

synopsis You and Jaehyun dated years ago—the kind of deep, youthful love that felt like forever—until life pulled you apart. Now you're back in the same city. A run-in at a mutual friend’s party reopens the door, and neither of you can ignore the tension. There's still hurt… but also lingering desire.

As you reconnect—cautiously, hesitantly—old sparks reignite. But there's pain buried under the surface. Can you forgive the past? Can he?

Part 3 | Underneath It All

☆ nerd!jeno x reader

trope → academic rivals/enemies to lovers

synopsis You and Jeno are friendly enemies—always neck and neck at school. You challenge each other, argue over ideas, and secretly admire one another, though neither of you admits it.

One night, you’re both stuck working late on the same project. Tension brews—academic snark turns into flirtation, and when you finally snap, it's a kiss… then a lot more.

After that, things shift. The teasing is more charged. You catch him staring. He lingers after meetings. But you’re both scared to cross that line again—is it just tension, or is there something real underneath?

Part 4 | Practice Makes Perfect

☆ fakebf!jaemin x reader

trope → fake dating/friends to lovers

synopsis You’ve been close friends with Jaemin for years— the kind who flirt without realizing, share late-night snacks, and never address the elephant in the room: you're incredibly compatible.

When a situation arises—your ex showing up in town—you ask Jaemin to pretend to be your boyfriend.

He’s way too good at it. Touches linger, pet names slip out naturally, and he looks at you like he means it. You both try to play it cool, but the tension builds until one night you can’t fake it anymore.

What neither of you expected? The fear of messing up the friendship… and how much it’ll hurt if this isn’t real.

Part 5 | Something Like Love

☆ bsf!jungwoo x reader

trope → best friends to lovers

synopsis You and Jungwoo have always had that kind of friendship—warm, easy, comfortable. You’ve been there through finals week breakdowns, bad dates, roommate drama, and everything in between. Everyone assumes you’ve hooked up. You haven’t. Not once.

But in senior year, things shift.

Maybe you're both single at the same time. Maybe one night, after a party, you end up in his bed—just to sleep, like always—but it feels different. The air changes. You start to notice the way he looks at you. How his hands hesitate when they touch your arm. How he doesn’t pull away anymore.

Then it happens. A kiss. A touch. A confession that slips out when you least expect it.

But it’s messy, because what if it ruins the friendship? What if it’s not the same after? What if he’s been in love with you longer than you knew—and what if you’re only realizing you’ve always loved him back?

Final part | Across the Hall

☆ neighbour!jisung x reader

trope → strangers to friends to lovers

synopsis You’ve just moved into a small off-campus apartment, and Jisung lives right across the hall. He’s quiet, polite, always wearing headphones, always buried in his own world. The two of you exchange casual greetings at first—but over time, that awkward “neighbor energy” turns into something deeper.

The first real shift happens one evening when you lock yourself out of your apartment—barefoot, holding laundry, feeling ridiculous. Jisung’s the only one home, and he offers to let you stay in his place while you wait for the locksmith. What begins as an awkward favor becomes a surprisingly easy conversation over ramen and reruns playing low on his small TV.

Slowly, you become friends. Shared study breaks, spontaneous grocery runs, nights spent half-laughing, half-whispering on the hallway floor.

He’s reserved, but you notice the subtle ways he starts opening up: leaving little notes on your door, offering bites of snacks he made too much of, brushing your hand and pretending it didn’t happen. It’s all unspoken… until it’s not.

an : spontaneously decided to start working on a series..! hehe, i’m excited to see how this goes!

probably will be slow updates—no fixed release dates yet!

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kwilquib · 4 months ago

Text

Driving you Mad

Series: Promised 9

Chapter - 3

Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Lee Chaeyeoung (Fromis_9) X Male reader (ft. Seoyeon)

Word Count: 21.8k+

a/n: See tags...

Recap:

What started as an ordinary weekend after a night with Chaeyoung unraveled into dread when you discovered Jiheon had woven false memories into your mind—crafting a counterfeit love story you’d lived as if it were real.

You wake up, gasping, the weight of two lives clawing at your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. The memories Jiheon shoved into your skull haven’t just buried the real ones—they’ve fused with them, a grotesque snarl of half-truths and lies bleeding into each other like ink dumped in water. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and the chaos is eating you alive.

You see it all at once—her fabricated love story etched in vivid, nauseating detail, every fake touch branded into your skin, every whispered promise echoing in your ears. But the truth screeches behind it, clawing at the edges of your mind, a faint, ragged whisper you can’t ignore. The two don’t even fight—they coil together, mocking you, daring you to pick which one’s real. First dates you never lived, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss that never landed, vows you swore to nothing but air. Then the jagged reality: Jiheon’s cold, surgical hands slicing into your past, rewriting you like some lab experiment gone wrong.

Your phone buzzes, a violent jolt against your nerves. Friday, 6 AM.

You stare at it, eyes burning, body locked in place. The last thing you can grab onto—Sunday night—slips through your fingers like sand. A whole week, gone. Vanished. Just a black void where your mind used to be, a gaping hole that laughs at you.

You don’t move. Can’t. The sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin, the cold air biting at your face, and exhaustion sinks its teeth into you, dragging you down. You’re awake, but your head’s trapped, spinning in the wreckage of memory and madness, begging for something—anything—to claw its way out of the mess and make sense.

The morning light slashes across the walls, slow and cruel, but time’s lost its grip on you. In one twisted version of your head, this is her room—yours and hers—the faint stench of her perfume choking the pillow next to you. In the real world, she was here once, just one night, but it’s enough to make you gag on the lie. Your shaking fingers graze your phone, itching to dig through it—messages, photos, something to tether you to the ground. But dread coils in your gut. What if it’s all fake too? Doctored pictures of a life you never lived, texts spelling out a love story you never wrote—proof of her fingerprints all over your soul, even now.

The faucet drips. One drop. Another. Uneven, unhinged, a stuttering pulse drilling into your skull. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s alive, taunting you, unraveling you. Each sound rips another shred loose: her laugh ringing in a café you’ve never seen, her fingers locked in yours on a beach you’ve never touched, her sobs choking the air in a fight that never fucking happened. The emotions hit harder than the images—warmth that burns, tension that strangles, the gut-punch of losing something you never had. She didn’t just plant memories; she stitched them into you, thread by thread, so you’d feel every cut she made.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too fast.

You slam your hands against your eyes, grinding until white-hot sparks explode behind your lids, desperate to shove it all out—her lies, your life, the whole damn mess. But it’s a flood now, a screaming torrent of fake and real smashing together, and you’re drowning in it.

Drip.

Your teeth grind, a low growl building in your throat.

Drip.

Your nails dig into the sheets, clawing at the fabric like it’s her skin.

Drip.

Something molten erupts in your chest—rage, raw and jagged, clawing up your spine.

She did this. She broke you. She tore you apart and stitched you back together wrong, left you like this—this twitching, fractured thing.

The faucet drips again, and you shatter.

Fury floods your veins, a wildfire scorching everything it touches. At Jiheon. At them. At the pathetic, trembling mess staring back at you from the void. You let them in—you let their whispers and their twisted games sink their hooks into you, and now you’re coming apart, thread by thread, a puppet with its strings slashed.

Your mind spins, a frantic loop of blame—them, with their cryptic bullshit and their memory-warping tricks, then you, for being too stupid, too weak to see it coming, then back to them, because they’re the ones who lit the match and watched you burn. Your fists ball up, knuckles white. You suck in a breath, ragged and sharp. Let it go. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

The anger doesn’t fade—it festers, throbbing behind your ribs, thick and suffocating. You need to do something—scream, smash, find her and make her undo it. Anything to stop the buzzing in your head, the war tearing you in half.

Your phone sits beside you, a cold, mocking weight. You don’t think—you can’t think. Your hand lunges for it, fingers trembling like they’re about to snap, unlocking the screen with a swipe that feels too violent. The glare stabs into your eyes, cutting through the dim haze of the room, and everything’s wrong—the air buzzes with static, your memories twist and writhe like snakes, and your skull feels ready to split open. Rage floods your veins, too much, too fast, a feral thing clawing to get out, and you’re not sure if you’re holding it in or if it’s already tearing you apart.

You scroll past Jiheon’s name—her cursed fucking name—and your stomach lurches. Not her. Not now. You’d scream, you’d break something, you’d lose what little grip you’ve got left if you heard her voice. Your thumb jerks, hesitates, then slams down on Gyuri’s name like it’s a trigger.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hey.” Her voice slides through, calm, steady, unfazed. Like nothing’s wrong. Like the world isn’t collapsing.

The sound of it—her casual, unshaken tone—snaps something deep inside you, a brittle thread you didn’t know was still holding you together.

“You knew.” The words rip out of you, jagged and dripping with venom, barely human.

She doesn’t answer right away. You hear something on her end—rustling, faint, deliberate. Papers? Fabric? You see her in your head, pristine and smug, perched in some sterile office, legs crossed, barely paying attention, already three steps ahead while you’re choking on the wreckage she helped make.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” Your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles bleaching, the plastic creaking under your fingers. “That Jiheon was—” You choke on it, the words tangling in your throat, too heavy, too real.

Gyuri sighs—a slow, deliberate hiss, not defensive, not sorry, just tired. “Of course I knew.”

The silence hits like a punch.

Then the rage explodes.

“And you didn’t stop her?!” You’re out of bed now, stumbling, pacing like a caged animal, your voice shaking with something unhinged. “You just fucking—let her do this to me? To my fucking head?!”

“I couldn’t risk it.” Her voice stays level, but there’s a crack beneath it, a wire pulled too tight.

“Risk?” Your laugh is a mangled, vicious thing, scraping out of you like broken glass. “Risk what? What was so fucking precious that you let her shred me apart? Too scared to cross your little psycho queen Jiheon? Or was it just easier—huh?—to sit there and watch while she turned my brain into her fucking playground?”

A pause. You feel it—the way she hesitates, calculating, deciding how much of you is worth her breath.

Then: “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” It’s a scream now, desperate, wild, clawing out of you. You need something—anything—to aim this fire at before it burns you alive.

She hums, slow, deliberate, and then she drops it: “You think you were the only one affected?”

Your breath catches, sharp and painful.

“What?”

“You act like you’re the only one suffering,” she says, voice still smooth but slicing deeper now, an edge creeping in. “Like Jiheon walked away clean. Like we’re all just laughing while you fall apart. Do you really think that?”

You stumble, your pulse hammering unevenly, tripping over itself. Because no—you hadn’t thought about it. You’d been drowning in your own splintered mind, your own violation, your own rage, and it never crossed your fractured skull to wonder—

Jiheon’s face flashes behind your eyes. Hollow. Guilty. A ghost of herself, crumbling under what she’d done.

Your fingers twitch, your jaw locks. No. Fuck that. You won’t let her haunt you with pity. You won’t let this twist back into your fault.

“Don’t you fucking—” Your voice shakes, splintering with fury. “Don’t you dare try to make me feel sorry for her!”

“I’m not.” Gyuri’s tone hardens, the polish cracking at the seams. “I’m saying it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” You’re roaring now, throat raw, words slamming against the walls. “I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t fucking deserve this!”

And then—

“Neither did she.”

The silence is a void, swallowing you whole.

Your breaths come hard and fast, ragged gasps that scrape your lungs. Your nails are carving bloody crescents into your palm, and Gyuri’s not saying a damn thing, and that’s worse—it’s worse—because it leaves you alone with the storm in your head.

You feel it shift now, the ground tilting beneath you.

She’s slipping too.

You hear her exhale, sharp and unsteady, like she’s clawing herself back from a ledge, but she’s already falling.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Her voice drops, low and taut, trembling at the edges. “You should’ve asked me for help.”

Your mouth opens—no sound comes out, just a hollow wheeze.

“Do you think I enjoy watching this implode? You think I wanted you tangled up in our shit? You think I don’t—” She stops herself, her breath hitching, and for the first time, she’s shaking.

And it hits you.

She’s burning too.

Not just at you—at Jiheon, at the Promised 9, at the whole rotting mess. At herself. The heat in her words, the tremor behind them—it’s the same feral, helpless rage that’s been gnawing you alive.

Click.

The line dies.

You stare at the phone, hands quaking, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. The rage is still there, a living thing coiled in your chest, but now it’s got nowhere to go—no target, no release.

Gyuri was supposed to be the wall you’d smash it against. But she’s not a wall—she’s a mirror, cracking under the same fire that’s torching you.

And that only makes it worse. The flames climb higher, hotter, feeding on themselves, and you’re running out of things to burn.

You call her again. Once. Twice. Ten fucking times. Each unanswered ring is a blade twisting in your gut, your pulse slamming so hard it’s rattling your skull.

No answer.

The screen glares back at you, a harsh, mocking light. She’s ignoring me. You knew she’d do this after hanging up—Gyuri, with her calculated little sigh, abandoning you to choke on your own chaos—but the silence gnaws, relentless, a living thing sinking its teeth into you.

You rake a hand through your sweaty, matted hair, about to smash the call button again when something slams into focus—something off.

Your phone’s… stuck.

No new notifications. No new calls. No new texts.

You squint, heart lurching. That’s not right. That’s not fucking right.

You swipe to your messages. The old threads are there—random chats, group texts, stupid memes from weeks ago—but nothing fresh. Not a single new word since… when?

Emails? Same deal. Professor nagging about deadlines, pinned lecture notes—all frozen, timestamped days back. No updates, no reminders, no org newsletters clogging your inbox like they should.

A cold, greasy panic slithers up your spine.

You fumble to the call log, stabbing at a name—some guy from class, a nobody, someone too boring to be tangled in their web.

It rings. And rings. No pickup. No voicemail. Just… dead air.

You try again, fingers trembling, jabbing harder like it’ll force a connection. Nothing.

Your breath comes fast, shallow, scraping your throat raw. No. No way.

You stagger to the window, nearly tripping, and mash your face against the glass. Outside, the world’s still turning—students drifting past, cars nosing into the lot, everything mocking you with its normalcy.

You unlock the latch with stiff fingers and shove the window open. Cold air rushes in, biting against your skin.

Then—you yell.

"Hey!"

Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and desperate. A few people pass directly below, their heads tilted in conversation.

No one looks up.

You grip the windowsill, knuckles white. Your breath shakes.

"Can anyone hear me?!"

Nothing. Not even a glance.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Your stomach flips, sour and tight.

You stumble into the hall, the dorm stretching out too quiet, too long. It’s the same as ever—chipped walls, scuffed floors—except every door’s plastered with flyers, loud and garish. Every single one.

Except yours.

Yours is blank, a void in the noise, like you’re not even here.

Rent was due days ago. Your landlord’s a bloodsucker—should’ve been hammering your door down, blowing up your phone with threats. But nothing. No calls. No texts. No knocks.

You lurch outside, past the entrance, into the open. People brush by—chatting, laughing, breathing—and you’re a phantom, invisible. No eyes catch yours. No heads turn.

It slams into you, a frigid, suffocating wave.

They’ve cut me off.

A laugh tears out of you, sharp and unhinged, bouncing off the emptiness.

Of course. Of fucking course. The Promised 9. Gyuri’s bullshit “I couldn’t risk it”—what a sick, twisted lie. Risk what? Protecting you? No, this was them, flexing their claws, severing every thread tying you to the world. No new messages. No new calls. No rent demands. Like you’ve been paused while everything else keeps spinning.

You stare at the crowd—oblivious, alive, real—and it’s like you’re slamming against a glass cage, unseen, unheard.

It’s impossible. It should be impossible. But they bend reality like it’s their toy, don’t they? Always have.

Your fists clench, nails carving into your palms, blood welling up.

“Fine.” The word growls out, low and shredded.

You storm back inside, kicking the door shut so hard it shakes in the frame. The lock snaps into place—a useless little click against their game. You’re trapped, a rat in their maze, and they’re rewriting the walls while you run.

You gulp air, ragged and desperate, trying to claw your way back to solid ground. But your mind’s splintering—rage and paranoia twisting into a jagged, screaming mess.

Are they watching? Right now? Hiding in the shadows, giggling at your collapse?

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding until they throb. You drop onto the bed, slamming your palms into your thighs, gripping so tight your knuckles bleach, fighting to keep from shattering completely.

But it’s slipping. The anger’s boiling now, a scream clawing up your throat, and if you let it out—if you let go

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what you’ll break. Or who.

Time slips away. You don’t know how much.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

It’s all mush now, a smeared streak of nothing. The silence isn’t just outside anymore—it’s in your head, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your thoughts like damp rot.

It’s just you.

You and the jagged mess clawing inside your skull.

You collapse onto the bed, fingers twisting into your hair, pulling until it stings. Your mind lurches, dragging you down into the undertow—

Jiheon.

A flicker—a memory, or whatever the hell it is.

You’re in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking across her face, sharp and fleeting. She nudges your shoulder with hers, her voice a low murmur, teasing, curling into your ear like smoke. Her hand brushes yours—warm, soft—or did it? Did she ever touch you like that?

Another flash—her laugh, quiet and velvet, a secret carved out just for you, spilling into the dark.

Real? Fake? Does it even matter anymore? You don’t care. You let it roll, let it flood you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you chase it—her phantom warmth, the shape of her beside you, a lifeline to a past that might be a lie. You breathe it in, greedy, desperate, clinging to the edges of something that could’ve been.

Knock.

Your eyes snap open, wide and wild.

The room’s dead still. Your breath snags in your throat. Then—

Knock. Knock.

It’s sharp, real, slicing through the haze like a blade.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too loud.

Who—?

You lurch upright, dizzy, palms slick with sweat. You haven’t heard a human sound in—fuck, how long? Days? Weeks? The world’s been a void, and now this—this knock—it’s a lifeline, a threat, a scream in the silence.

Your mind scrambles, tripping over itself. Only one person knows this place. Only one person could find you here, buried in their mess.

“Jiheon.”

The name tears out of you, raw and instinctive, a growl from somewhere deep. Your body’s moving before your brain catches up—stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall, hands shaking as you lunge for the door.

Everything else burns away—the rage, the dread, the memory of her hollow eyes the last time you saw her, the way she broke you. It’s gone, torched in the frantic need to see her, to know, to rip something real out of this nightmare.

Your fingers claw at the handle, slick and fumbling.

You fling the door open, chest heaving, eyes wild—ready to face her, ready to break her, ready for anything—

Eyes lock onto yours through the open door.

Blue.

Not hers. Not Jiheon’s.

Deeper. Mesmerizing. A pull that sinks into you like hooks.

Chaeyoung.

“Missed me?” Her voice slithers out, thick and syrupy, laced with a taunt that makes your skin crawl. You freeze, brain stuttering, but she doesn’t wait—she glides past you, smooth and brazen, like the room’s already hers.

She surveys the chaos—tangled sheets, scattered bottles, the stale reek of too many days alone—and lets out a slow, mocking “Wow.” Her fingertip trails along your desk, collecting dust like it’s evidence, a smirk flickering as she wipes it off. “You live like this?” Her hum is low, teasing, a blade disguised as velvet. “I thought men only crashed this hard after a divorce. But you—” She pivots, those piercing eyes glinting, “you’re shattering over a little heartbreak, aren’t you?”

Your fists ball up, nails biting into your palms, blood prickling under the skin. “What do you want?” The words grind out, rough and unsteady, barely holding back the storm churning inside.

Chaeyoung tilts her head, sizing you up, that knowing smirk sharpening. “Why so tense? You were practically drooling to see who was at the door.” She steps closer—too close—her perfume curling into your lungs, sweet and suffocating. “Did you think I was her?”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, and her grin widens, delighted.

She moves past you, slow, unhurried, fingers grazing the door as she swings it shut. The lock clicks into place.

When she turns back, her gaze drips with amusement.

“Poor thing,” she purrs, her hand lifting, fingertips brushing your collarbone—light, deliberate, dragging down slow enough to burn. “Still waiting for Jiheon to crawl back? Begging on her knees, maybe?”

She leans in, her breath hot against your neck, voice dipping low. “Or maybe you wanted something else. Someone else.”

Your exhale is a jagged rasp, and her laugh—sharp and lilting—cuts through you like glass.

“Don’t be shy.” Her fingers dance across your chest, teasing, pressing, stoking something raw. “Locked up in here for days—alone, restless, no one to talk to, no one to touch—” She inches closer, her body brushing yours, “it’s gotta be eating you alive.”

Your muscles coil, heat spiking where it shouldn’t, where you don’t want it to. Your mind’s screaming—trap, trap, trap—but your body’s traitorously still, caught in her pull.

“It’s okay,” she coos, voice softening into something dangerous, something that coils around your throat. “I can make it easier. Just let go. Let me.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Something in you fractures, a dam splitting wide open. Before she can blink—before you can think—your hands lunge.

Fingers clamp around her throat, tight and trembling, and you slam her against the wall with a force that rattles the room. Her head snaps back, breath catching—

But she doesn’t flinch.

No fear. No shock.

Her lips twist upward, a slow, wicked smile blooming under your grip.

“Oh,” she breathes, voice rough but dripping with hunger, eyes blazing dark and wild. “There he is.”

Your grip tightens, pulse pounding in your ears, but her stare—unyielding, pleased—digs into you, unraveling what’s left of your fraying sanity. She’s not scared. She’s thrilled. And that—that—makes the chaos in your head scream louder, teetering on the edge of something you can’t claw back from.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into her throat, the tendons in your hands straining as rage boils over, uncontainable. Her hands latch onto your wrists, tugging, but it’s weak—halfhearted—like she’s playing at resistance.

“You did this.” Your voice rips out, a guttural growl trembling with fury. “You and the others—you fucking isolated me. Cut me off. Why?!”

Chaeyoung tilts her head against the wall, barely fazed, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Torment?” she tosses back, her tone light, mocking, like it’s a game.

“Don’t act fucking clueless!” Your nails bite into her skin, carving faint crescents, your breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

She exhales, slow and deliberate, a sigh that’s too calm, too unbothered for the pressure crushing her windpipe. Then—her eyes flicker up, locking onto yours.

A smirk curls her lips, sharp and venomous.

“Did you forget?” she murmurs, voice low, dripping with something dark.

“You chose this.”

Her lashes flutter, her gaze slicing through you—cruel, knowing, peeling back layers you didn’t know were there.

“You wished for this.”

Your mind stutters, a jolt of ice cutting through the heat. “Wished for this? Why the fuck would I—when—?” Then it hits—the memory slams into you like a fist. That night with Chaeyoung, her voice teasing, sultry, whispering ‘Be careful what you wish for’ as the room spun and her laughter faded into the dark. “That night? That stupid fucking wish you threw out there? How was I supposed to know—you didn’t even explain it!”

Her smirk deepens, unfazed by your snarl. “Either way, you’re with us now.” Her voice is velvet over steel. “You locked yourself in when you spent that night with me—and oh, so much more with Jiheon.”

One of her hands, still gripping your wrist, shifts—sliding up, slow and deliberate, caressing your cheek. Then it drops, her fingers brushing lower, rubbing against your crotch through your pants, a bold, taunting stroke.

“Why don’t you calm down for now?” she purrs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or if you prefer this, I wouldn’t mind.”

Your breath hitches, a mix of fury and disbelief choking you.

“You’re fucked in the head,” you spit, voice shaking, incredulous.

Your grip clamps tighter, fingers sinking into Chaeyoung’s throat, your breath heaving, wild and uneven, like something’s clawing out of your chest. Her gasping, broken laugh spills out anyway, her chest shuddering under the strain, defiant even as you crush her windpipe.

“Ironic,” she wheezes, eyes half-lidded, glinting with something mocking, dangerous, her lips twitching despite the chokehold. “Coming from someone who’s losing his mind.”

“Insane?” Your voice cracks like a whip, jagged and unhinged, your grip tightening until your knuckles bleach. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

She forces a ragged breath, her smile unwavering, predatory. “Haven’t you seen it? Felt it?” she rasps, voice low and cutting. “You’re coming apart. That memory’s eating you alive.”

Then—

A bang at the door—sharp, thunderous, rattling the frame.

“Hey! It’s me—Gyuri!” Her voice slices through, fierce and commanding. “Chaeyoung, open the damn door! I know you’re in there—enough with your fucking games, he doesn’t need this!”

Another bang, harder, the wood groaning under her fist.

“What was that crash earlier?!” Gyuri’s tone spikes, worry twisting into anger. “Open it—NOW!”

Your head jerks toward the sound, but your eyes snap back to Chaeyoung. She meets your stare, her smirk stretching wider, feral and gleeful, like she’s feeding off the chaos.

“What are you gonna do now?” she whispers, voice trembling with delight, strained and taunting under your grip. Her fingers twitch, still clutching your pants, pressing harder against you, shameless. “Unless… you wanna keep going?” Her lips part, a shaky inhale breaking through, her smile teetering on the edge of collapse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Then—

The world shatters.

The door doesn’t just explode inward—it detonates. A violent eruption of force tears through the room, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The walls groan under the impact, picture frames shattering, glass spraying across the floor. Furniture is upended—your bed slams against the opposite wall with a deafening crack, a dresser topples, scattering papers and broken wood across the floor.

A crimson-red streak of light flares from the splintered remains of the doorway, burning hot, searing bright. The entire building shakes, the foundation trembling under the sheer weight of the force. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling, the floorboards quivering beneath your feet.

A shard of wood slices past Chaeyoung’s cheek—a thin red line blooms, blood welling up instantly. She barely reacts, eyes locked onto the wreckage, onto her.

Gyuri stands amidst the destruction, breathless, eyes blazing like molten fire. Her silhouette is framed by the carnage—splintered wood, dust still swirling, the faint glow of embers flickering at her fingertips. She takes it all in—one sharp, furious sweep—the trashed dorm, the suffocating tension, the overturned chair, the damp stench of neglect.

And you.

Looming over Chaeyoung. Hand still locked around her throat.

Then—her eyes land on you.

And something shifts.

The raw, furious blaze in her gaze wavers, flickers—just for a moment. The fire dims, softens, but it doesn’t disappear. It settles into something steady, something alive.

She steps forward—slow, deliberate, like you’re a bomb she’s afraid to set off.

“Hey.” Gyuri’s voice cuts through, soft yet insistent, piercing the static screaming in your skull.

Your chest heaves, breaths ripping out in sharp, uneven bursts. You don’t move. Can’t. The world’s a haze of red and shadow, your hands locked, trembling, unrelenting.

Her fingers graze your arm—light, cautious, not forcing, just there, a fragile thread in the storm.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her hand sliding to your wrist, warm and steady, curling around it like a lifeline. “Look at me.”

Your grip stays iron-tight, nails digging into Chaeyoung’s throat. Her smirk’s vanished—wiped clean. Her lips part, gasping, straining for air that won’t come, her chest jerking faintly. Her eyes meet yours—stripped of taunts, hollowed out, reflecting something shattered.

“Why should I listen to you?” Your voice claws its way out, raw and trembling, thick with rage. “You fucked with my head. You’re fucking with my life. You’re making me disappear.”

Chaeyoung’s gaze holds, unblinking, her wheeze barely audible under your chokehold. No defiance. Just that flat, eerie stillness.

Gyuri exhales—slow, controlled, a thin line of calm threading through your chaos.

“We did that,” she says, her voice deliberate, careful. “And I’m sorry. We could’ve done better—I could’ve done better.” Her fingers tighten around your wrist, not pulling, just grounding. “I should’ve cared for you more. Kept you closer instead of… this.”

Her words hang there, heavy with regret, but they don’t soothe—they sting, like salt in a wound you didn’t know was bleeding.

“We didn’t know how to handle you,” she continues, softer now. “Your mind—it’s fragile. We thought controlling everything, cutting you off, would keep you safe. But I see it now—we fucked up.”

Your vision blurs, red seeping into the edges, the room swaying as your mind teeters on a brittle edge—fury crashing against her confession, tearing you apart.

“Let go. Let’s talk.”

Her hand slides up, cupping your face, her palm pressing firm against your jaw—solid, unyielding, anchoring you. She pulls you in, closer, until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm, steady, mingling with your ragged gasps.

A faint red glow flickers at the corners of your sight, pulsing faintly, warm and alive.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice cracking just enough to feel real. Her warmth seeps into you, threading through the tangled mess shredding your head, dulling the sharpest edges.

“Breathe.”

Your fingers twitch, the grip on Chaeyoung’s throat faltering—slowly, haltingly—until your hands drop, heavy and shaking, useless at your sides. She collapses with a choked gasp, air rushing into her lungs, but you don’t look. Can’t.

Gyuri’s hands stay, firm on your face, her forehead pressed to yours, her touch the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the void gnashing at your heels.

Your grip on Chaeyoung slackens, trembling fingers peeling away.

She drops, hitting the floor with a thud, gasping, coughing, hands flying to her throat. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t taunt. Just watches.

Gyuri doesn’t spare her a glance.

Gyuri holds you there, her fingers digging into your skin, a desperate tether dragging you back from the abyss gnashing at your heels. Your pulse thunders, a deafening roar in your ears, your mind spinning—fractured, teetering—but her eyes, steady and unyielding, lock you in place, keeping you from shattering completely.

“You need help. You know it yourself,” she says, her voice firm but laced with a softness that stings deeper than you want. “Let us help you. Me. No more of… this.” Her hand sweeps faintly toward the wreckage—the trashed dorm, the splintered door, the chaos seeping into every corner. “I promise this time.”

Her words dangle there, a lifeline tangled with guilt. You hesitate, chest tight, breath hitching. She’s right—you need help. They broke you, shredded your mind and left you clawing through the debris, but they’re the only ones who can piece you back together. It’s a cruel, twisted punchline, and the bitterness burns your throat.

You nod—just a twitch of your head—too drained, too furious, too lost to fight. Gyuri’s grip eases, her thumb brushing your jaw, a fleeting warmth you hate needing but can’t reject.

Behind you, a faint rustle. Then—Chaeyoung pulls herself up from the floor, slow and stiff, her movements deliberate, like she’s testing if her body still works. Her fingers flex and curl, trembling faintly before she clenches them into fists. “Great. Can we go now?”

Her voice is flat—no teasing lilt, no playful bite. She’s facing Gyuri, her back to you, her tone hollow, drained of its usual spark. You can’t see her face, but the air shifts—something unspoken crackling between them.

Gyuri’s jaw tightens, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung, then back to you. “I can’t,” she says, quieter, a strain threading her words. “I need to stay. Clean this up.” She nods toward the shattered door, the mess of your dorm, her hands slipping from your face but hovering close, like she’s scared you’ll bolt. “The Mist can only do so much. We shouldn’t strain it more.”

Mist? Your brows knit, confusion spiking through the haze. “I thought we were done with that. Can you just explain—”

She flinches—barely—but doesn’t answer. Her gaze meets yours, heavy with something murky—regret, maybe shame. “Go with Chaeyoung,” she says instead, voice firming up. “She’ll take you to Saerom. She’s waiting. She can… give you answers.”

You scowl, frustration boiling over. “Then why her? Why can’t you do it?” You glance at Chaeyoung, expecting her usual smirk, but she’s still—too still. Her face is blank, no fire, no taunt, just a weary, distant stare. The cut on her cheek gleams, blood still wet, but she doesn’t flinch at it.

Chaeyoung turns to you then, and—like a mask snapping back into place—her smirk flickers on, jagged at the edges. “What’s wrong? Scared to be alone with me after our little dance?” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, leaning in just close enough to let her breath graze your ear. “Don’t you trust me, baby? I thought we were getting so… intimate.” Her tone wavers for a split second, a faint crack betraying her, but she covers it with a low, taunting chuckle.

The air thickens, heavy and suffocating, as Gyuri glares at her. A faint red glow pulses at the edges of the room, seeping from Gyuri’s clenched fists, the light flickering like a heartbeat—angry, unsteady. She squeezes her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling too fast, and you feel it—a hum in the air, a crackle of something raw and red bleeding into the space. She’s meditating, or trying to, holding back whatever’s clawing to get out. When her eyes snap open, they’re sharp, glinting with a crimson sheen she can’t fully hide, and she deliberately avoids Chaeyoung’s grin.

“Just go with her for now,” she mutters, her voice tight, strained, like it’s taking everything to keep the red from spilling over. She pulls you aside, her fingers trembling faintly against your arm, and whispers, tense and low, “Chaeyoung acts like teasing’s her only trick, but she’s the one you can trust most. At least you know what she’s after.” The red light flares briefly around her, casting harsh shadows across her face, then dims as she forces it down.

You chew on that, the words sinking in slow and bitter. Gyuri, who seems to care but keeps proving otherwise with every move. Jiheon, who cracked your mind open and left it bleeding. The others, shadows you can’t read. Chaeyoung—at least she’s predictable, her edges sharp but familiar.

“Let’s gooo,” Chaeyoung sing-songs, her lazy grin stretching wide, but her hands fidget at her sides, fingers twitching—a crack in her act she can’t quite hide.

You hesitate. Gyuri’s hand presses lightly to your back, a gentle nudge. “Go,” she says softly, urging you forward.

You step toward the door, but Gyuri’s voice cuts through just as you reach it. “Chaeyoung.”

You both pause. You glance back; Chaeyoung doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” Gyuri says, her voice taut, eyes dark and piercing. “Don’t hurt him.” It’s not a request—it’s a warning, laced with steel.

For a split second, Chaeyoung’s mask slips. Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catches—just a flicker of something raw—before she forces a sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her neck like she’s shrugging it off. When she turns, the teasing glint is back, polished and bright, but her eyes are too tight, her smirk too forced. “I’d do eight other things with him before we get to that kink,” she chirps, voice airy, then leans toward you, dropping it to a mock whisper. “Unless you wanna skip ahead?”

You don’t answer. Don’t look at her. Just step past, out the door, your mind a snarl of rage and exhaustion.

Chaeyoung follows, her footsteps light but uneven, like she’s still steadying herself. For a moment, she’s quiet—too quiet—her breathing shallow, a faint tremor in it she tries to cover with a soft hum. She’s shaken, more than she’ll let on, hiding it behind that brittle grin and barbed words.

You don’t care. You keep walking, and she trails you, the two of you slipping into the unknown, toward Saerom, while Gyuri stays behind in the wreckage—alone with her promises and the mess she can’t undo.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums beneath you, a low, steady purr cutting through Seoul’s streets with effortless precision. It’s not Chaeyoung’s usual blue Porsche, all flash and noise. This is subtler—a Lexus, four-seater, sleek and understated, the kind of luxury that doesn’t scream but commands. Familiar. You’ve seen it before, that night you first stumbled into their world, half-blind and reeling.

Chaeyoung doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. Her hands grip the wheel, steady, her eyes fixed ahead—no music, no distractions, just the engine’s rhythmic drone and a heavy, unspoken weight between you. You don’t ask where you’re going. You don’t need to. She’d dropped it once, casual and dismissive—Saerom will explain when it’s time. That time’s now, and it hangs over you like a blade.

The car slows, but not in front of the gleaming glass tower you’d braced for. Chaeyoung veers sharp down a ramp, plunging into an underground lot. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the hum of ventilation fans swallowing the Lexus’s glide. The world above fades, muffled and far.

She parks with crisp efficiency. Her fingers tap the steering wheel—once, twice—a quick, restless tic before she exhales and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Let’s go.” She’s out before you can blink, not waiting.

The elevator ride is silent, the numbers climbing higher and higher until they stop at the top. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that feels like the crown of the building. Not just an office—Saerom’s office.

The door is heavier than the others, a polished plaque with her name the only marker. Chaeyoung raps her knuckles against it once, sharp, then shoves it open without pause.

Inside, the air thickens—leather, fresh flowers, a ghost of perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, tinted to hold the city at arm’s length. The space is pristine, curated, every detail deliberate.

At the center, behind a broad desk, sits Saerom. She doesn’t look up right away, her pen scratching across paper with a final, precise flourish before she sets it down. Only then do her eyes lift, locking onto yours. No surprise. No flicker of doubt. She’s been waiting.

“What took you so long?” Her gaze slides past you, pinning Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung answers with a smile—thin, tight, not quite reaching her eyes.

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the churn in your gut. “An actress with her own office, signing papers? Bit much, isn’t it? Almost like you run the place.”

Saerom doesn’t bite, doesn’t even blink. Chaeyoung lets out a low chuckle behind you, soft but sharp, like you’ve stumbled over something painfully obvious.

Saerom rises, smooth and unhurried, crossing the room toward you. When she’s close—close enough to feel the weight of her presence—she stops. “What happened to you?” she asks, her voice calm but edged, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung.

You follow her gaze. The cut on Chaeyoung’s cheek gleams, still wet, but it’s her neck that draws you now—red marks blooming where your fingers dug in, faint bruises tracing the shape of your grip.

Chaeyoung flinches, just a fraction, caught off guard. “Nothing,” she says, too quick, a tiny hitch in her breath. “Just got a little excited.” Her hands land on your shoulders, rubbing them with forced ease, her smile flashing for Saerom—bright, brittle, a shield snapping back into place.

Saerom studies her for a beat, then turns, satisfied or uninterested—you can’t tell. She moves to the center of the room, settling onto a low couch by the coffee table, her eyes locking onto yours again. Waiting.

Chaeyoung’s hands give your shoulders a final tap. “Well, good luck,” she chirps, already retreating. “I’ll be outside.” Before you can say a word, the door clicks shut behind her, the sound sharp in the stillness.

You sit across from Saerom, alone now, her presence a quiet storm filling the room. Her gaze is unrelenting—steady, piercing, drawing you in whether you want it or not. No assistants buzzing around, no flashing cameras, no polished persona. Just her, seated in this private meeting room atop the city, waiting.

She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, and she cuts straight to it. “Do you know the myth of the Promised 9?”

You exhale, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Conveniently, I do.”

Silence. She’s waiting.

You hesitate, then give in. “Nine women, tied to humanity’s extreme emotions.” Your voice feels heavy, like you’re dragging it out of somewhere dark. “The King begged a deity for help, and they sent nine embodiments to carry that burden. But they needed an anchor—someone to keep them from losing it.”

The words hit differently now, tugging at a thread in your mind. Jiheon’s face flashes—tear-streaked, broken—“I wasn’t myself. Please, forgive me.” It clicks, heavy and sickening.

Saerom, as if reading your unraveling thoughts, breaks the quiet. “You’re that anchor. You keep us from spiraling.”

Your jaw locks. “Why me? Why now? Don’t you have someone else?”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, unruffled. “We weren’t always like this. Normal, once. Then one night, we woke up… changed. Something shifted, and we had no choice but to carry it.”

Your fingers twitch against your knee. “How long?”

“A few years. Less than ten.” She tilts her head, studying you. “We managed—until we couldn’t. We knew we’d lose control eventually.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “And I’m supposed to just step in? I don’t even know if I can—or how.”

Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “You already have. Twice.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t need to ask. Jiheon. Chaeyoung.

She watches the realization sink in, then adds, “And there’s more.”

You meet her gaze, wary.

“You resist us,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Our influence—our magic—it doesn’t take you fully. That’s why you’re different. Why you’re necessary.”

The words press into you, a weight you can’t shake. “You’re the perfect anchor,” she continues, voice low, steady. “Especially when we lose ourselves. Others would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”

“And what? I just accept it?” Your voice rises, edged with frustration. “Chaeyoung said I chose this, but no one explained shit. You misled me—dragged me into this without a fucking word.”

Her eyes flicker away for a moment, staring past you, lips moving silently—like she’s cursing someone under her breath. Then she refocuses, unyielding. “I see. But what’s done is done. Doesn’t change that you’re what we need.”

“Why should I help you?” You shove up from your seat, voice cracking with anger. “After everything you’ve done? Jiheon fucked my head, and you—you made the world forget me!”

“Jiheon’s effect was… unfortunate,” she concedes, calm as ever. “But the rest? That was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “By cutting me off? Making me a ghost? You’re sociopaths—”

“It’s not just us who needs help,” she cuts in, stopping your spiral cold. “You need us too. That mind of yours—those memories—they’ll drive you insane. We can make it bearable, at least. Normal, even.”

“Convenient as hell for you,” you mutter, sinking back into your seat, defeated. “Might as well say you planned it all.”

“You think this is one-sided,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “That we’re just using you. It’s not that simple.”

Your fingers dig into your knee, but you don’t interrupt.

“We’re tied to you as much as you are to us,” she says, her gaze unflinching. “You anchor us, yes. But we take care of you in return. That’s the deal.”

“Sounds like a fancy cage,” you bite back.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. “If that’s how you see it, fine. But it’s not cold. Not transactional.” She tilts her head, assessing you. “You’re already changing us—more than you realize.”

She leans back, ticking off names like she’s reading a ledger. “Gyuri—never begs me for anything. She did for you, just to get me here faster.”

“Chaeyoung—doesn’t give a damn about anyone outside us. Now she does.”

“Jiheon—reckless, shameless Jiheon—crippled with guilt over you.”

“Seoyeon—avoids responsibility like it’s a disease. Mentioned your name once, and she stepped up.”

Each name lands like a brick, stacking up in your chest. You don’t know what to say.

Saerom lets the silence settle, then drops it, casual but firm: “You should move in with us.”

Not a question. A statement.

It hits like a slap. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat it. Just watches you wrestle with it.

“That’s insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I barely know you. Why would I—”

“Why not?” she cuts in, smooth and sharp. “What’s stopping you?”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“Your dorm was wrecked. No family waiting,” she says, voice low, relentless. “No career you’re tied to. No friends anchoring you. What’s keeping you out there?”

Your throat tightens, her words slicing too close. “I have a life,” you rasp, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Do you?” She leans forward, piercing. “A shitty dorm. Classes you sleep through. A routine you don’t care about.”

The ache settles into your bones. You can’t argue.

“You’d lose nothing by staying,” she says, softer now. “But you’d gain something.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Your voice is rough, brittle.

Her lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“A purpose.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator chime cuts through the haze, a soft ding reverberating in the empty space. The doors slide open, revealing the underground parking lot—dimly lit, shadows pooling under flickering fluorescents.

You don’t move right away. Your hand clenches into a fist at your side, and you draw a slow, deliberate breath. This time, it steadies you.

For the first time in days your mind isn’t a storm of unanswered questions. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted, but it’s shifted—less a choking fog, more a solid pressure you can finally wrap your hands around. Something real. Something you can face.

Anchor. Necessary. One of us now.

The words echo, but they don’t claw at you anymore. They’ve settled, heavy and certain, like stones in your pocket. It should scare you—shouldn’t it?—but instead, there’s a strange relief in the clarity. A thread to cling to, something to pull you forward when everything else has frayed.

You drag a hand over your face, rough against stubble, and step out.

Then you see her.

Chaeyoung’s leaning against the black Lexus, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the concrete pillar. The faint light overhead glints in her eyes, sharpening the smirk tugging at her lips—a knowing, waiting curve.

Your gaze locks with hers, and you can tell in an instant.

She thought you’d run.

She thought you’d crack.

Instead, you exhale, a faint shake of your head as you step toward her. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel adrift. The ground’s still shaky beneath you, but it’s there—and that’s enough.

“Waiting for me?”

Her smirk widens. “Obviously.” She shifts, stepping toward you, closing the distance with a predator’s grace. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

You scoff under your breath, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I wasn’t planning on running.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice dipping, less tease and more weight—something off, something personal. “You won’t… you can’t… not with me.”

It’s not about Saerom or anchors or any of that. It’s her. Just her. Your shoulders stiffen as the words settle, heavy, like a snare you’ve walked into before.

You shake your head, exhaling hard. “She said you care about me.”

Chaeyoung snorts, amused. “Did she now?”

You shouldn’t ask, but it slips out. “Is it true?”

She steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “Does it matter?”

It does. You want it to. Your fingers twitch at your side. “What about Jiheon?”

Her expression flickers—brief, almost imperceptible—lips parting before she glances away, jaw tight. “You’re worried?” she says, sharper now, edged with something raw. “After what she did to you? Worry about her later.”

Your stomach twists. What if Jiheon didn’t mean it? What if she wasn’t herself when she broke you? The thought gnaws, but you don’t have an answer. So you don’t give one.

Instead, you nod toward the car, grasping for anything else. “This ‘anchor’ thing—what does it even mean?”

Chaeyoung exhales, shaking her head with a faint, bitter laugh. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’d like a straight answer for once,” you snap, teeth gritted.

She leans in, voice low, teasing but barbed. “You keep asking like you don’t already know.”

You don’t. Or maybe you’re terrified you do.

Her smirk sharpens, a finger tapping her lips before she drawls, “Fine. You’re ours, we’re yours… yet.” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Happy now?”

Your chest tightens. “And sex—is that really how I help you?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why?” She steps closer, her breath brushing your skin. “Wanna test it again—see if I’m still worth it?”

Your lips part, but before you can bite back, she moves—quick, fluid, like she’s been waiting. Her hands slam against your chest, shoving you back through the open car door. You hit the backseat with a thud, leather and her perfume flooding your senses.

Then she’s on you, straddling your lap with slow, deliberate grace. Her fingers trail up your jaw, curling into your hair, tilting your head back to lock eyes. “Still undecided?” she murmurs, lips hovering just above yours, teasing the space between. She leans closer, her smile grazing your cheek. “Need me to remind you how good this gets?”

Your pulse spikes. You swallow hard. “Chaeyoung,” you rasp, “this isn’t the time—or place.”

Her lips curl sharper. “Then stop me.”

You hesitate—too long. She sees it, and the glint in her eyes flares, reveling in the edge she’s claimed.

“Chae—”

Your protest barely escapes before she’s on you, her fingers twisting into your shirt, yanking herself closer. Her mouth crashes against yours, fierce and possessive, a hungry edge to it that leaves no room for doubt—she knows what she wants, and it’s you.

Her lips move with bold, teasing confidence, pressing hard, demanding, like she’s playing a game she’s already won. The heat surges when her tongue brushes the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open—an invitation you shouldn’t take but can’t refuse. You part your lips, letting her in, and she dives deep, tasting like danger, sweet and addictive, pulling you under.

Her weight shifts, hips pressing into yours, her body molding against you with a deliberate grind that screams intent. You should stop this—draw a line before it’s too late. You know it’s a distraction for her, a power play, nothing more. But your hands betray you, sliding to her waist, tugging her closer, feeding the fire. You want her, even if it’s just this fleeting burn.

Then it shifts.

The kiss slows—her lips soften, less demanding, more lingering. The hunger doesn’t fade, but it melts into something warmer, something unguarded. Her breath catches, a faint tremor against your mouth, and the tease gives way to a quiet depth you didn’t expect. Her tongue brushes yours again, but it’s tender now, searching rather than claiming.

Your hand twitches, lifting toward her neck. You hesitate—flashes of earlier, your grip too tight, her gasping under your anger flickering in your mind. Guilt stalls you, but the kiss keeps pulling you in, softer still, and you can’t hold back. Your fingers find her neck, resting there—not choking, not controlling, just cradling, gentle and steady, a stark contrast to before.

She doesn’t pull away. Her lips stay on yours, warm and slow, a scrape of her teeth against your lower lip—not playful anymore, but raw, almost aching. When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s too sudden, a soft gasp slipping out as she stares at you. Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, mask slipping—surprise, vulnerability, like she didn’t mean to let it feel this real.

“Chaeyoung,” you murmur, voice rough, your thumb brushing the graze on her cheek—still raw from earlier, a mark you left behind.

She snaps back fast, that smirk curling her lips like armor, her gaze sweeping over you as if she didn’t just bare something unguarded. “What?” she teases, voice steadying too quick, too smooth. “Don’t tell me you’re hooked already.”

But your hand stays on her neck, light and warm, and for a moment, she doesn’t shake it off—the softness lingers between you, unspoken.

“You’ve been acting pathetic long enough,” Chaeyoung murmurs, shifting atop you. She pulls back slowly, settling her weight onto your hips, pinning you in place. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hands, warm and sure, glide from your thighs to your belt, fingers deftly working the buckle loose.

You catch her wrist, halting her. “Chaeyoung, we’re in public—”

“No one’s coming,” she interrupts, voice soft but firm, cutting through your protest. She leans in, her breath teasing your lips. “You need this.”

Her free hand fumbles blindly behind her, pulling the car door shut with a quiet click. She doesn’t say she needs it too, but the way her fingers tighten on you, the way her pupils flare, betrays her.

Your grip slackens.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips. She shifts lower, unfastening your belt with a tug, sliding your waistband and boxers down in one fluid motion. Your cock springs free, and her eyes widen—just for a heartbeat—before that grin takes over, sharp and hungry.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing a deliberate, languid stripe up your length. A shudder rips through you as she swirls around the tip, savoring you, then takes you into her mouth. She sinks down, lips wrapping tight, the heat of her throat swallowing you inch by inch. A groan claws its way out of your chest, your hips twitching up instinctively.

She hums, the vibration pulsing through you, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside as she bobs deeper, faster. Her fingers curl around the base, stroking what she can’t take, while her other hand teases your balls with a gentle roll. It’s too much—too good—pleasure coiling tight and fast. You’re close, teetering on the edge, when she pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of spit bridging her lips to your throbbing tip.

She rises slightly, hands moving to her jeans. With maddening slowness, she unbuttons them, lifting her hips just enough to peel the denim down her thighs. Her dark panties cling to her, barely a barrier, and she kicks the jeans aside, settling back onto your lap.

Before you can catch your breath, she straddles you, grinding her hips down. The thin fabric between you does nothing to hide her heat, her slickness seeping through as she rolls against your aching length. Your hands grip her waist, fingers digging in, body taut with want.

“Mmm, you taste better than I remember,” she purrs, lips brushing your ear, nails raking your shoulders with a sharp thrill. “I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t stand.”

Her words ignite you, heat roaring through your veins. The slow drag of her hips has your breath stuttering, your hands itching to pull her closer, to lose yourself in her—

But then she stops.

Not hesitation. Not doubt.

She’s waiting, her focus shifting past you.

A beat hangs.

Then—click.

The car door creaks open, and your blood turns to ice.

“Chaeyoung…?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the haze, freezing you mid-breath. You don’t recognize it—not instantly—but the weight of that stare burns into you, heavy and unyielding.

“Oh… fuck—” A woman’s voice falters, stammering.

Panic hits like a flood. You jolt upright, scrambling to yank your pants up, fumbling in a clumsy rush. Chaeyoung, unbothered, slides off you with effortless grace, reaching for her jeans like it’s a casual pause in her day.

“Unnie, you’re here,” she says, voice light, almost bored, as she shimmies denim back over her hips.

You look up, heart slamming, and see her—Seoyeon—standing there, wide-eyed, caught in the doorway.

Your breath lodges in your throat, guilt and shock colliding as her gaze flickers between you and Chaeyoung.

Seoyeon freezes, her wide eyes flickering between you and Chaeyoung before dropping to the ground, like she’s trying to unsee what she just walked into. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap, and a faint flush creeps up her neck, barely visible in the parking lot’s dim glow.

That reaction—soft, unguarded—hits you harder than it should. Seoyeon, the quiet beauty you’d watched from a distance, always so composed, so untouchable. She’d had this effortless allure—serene, distant, captivating. And now, she’s flustered, unraveling before you.

Guilt twists in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You hardly know her—just fleeting glances, occasional nods—but her seeing you like this, tangled in Chaeyoung’s mess, stings in a way you can’t explain. Her expression, unreadable yet raw, makes it worse.

She shifts, hesitating, like she’s torn between bolting and pretending this never happened.

Then Chaeyoung moves.

Unfazed, she slides out of the car, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off a minor annoyance. Her lips curl, eyes glinting as she turns from you to Seoyeon. “Seoyeon-ah,” she purrs, stretching the name with relish. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

Seoyeon stiffens. “I—I wasn’t—” she stammers, voice soft, faltering.

Chaeyoung’s laugh cuts through, stepping closer. “What? Didn’t enjoy the show? Or are you mad you missed your chance to play?”

Seoyeon’s breath catches, her grip on her bag whitening her knuckles. She doesn’t retreat, though—rooted there, trapped under Chaeyoung’s gaze.

You watch, a dark thread coiling in your mind. Chaeyoung’s teasing has shifted—no longer aimed at you, it’s sharper now, laced with an edge that feels almost territorial.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, closing the distance, her tone hovering between irritation and something colder.

Seoyeon hesitates. “You… said you’d drive me home.”

“Ah…” Chaeyoung tilts her head, smirk returning, but it’s tighter, meaner. “Right. I did, didn’t I?” She crosses her arms. “So, your little meeting’s done?”

Seoyeon nods, barely.

Chaeyoung spins back to you, her grin wicked. “Hear that? Our shy little puppy just signed a deal—her book’s getting adapted.” Her fingers trail up Seoyeon’s arm as she speaks, possessive, taunting. “Isn’t she incredible?” Her eyes lock on yours, gleaming. “Go on, praise her. She’d love to hear it from you.”

Your throat tightens, brain scrambling. A writer? You’d seen her in the café—alone, lost in thought, typing by her laptop. You’d guessed student, freelancer, anything but this.

“I—” You clear your throat, forcing it out. “Congrats. That’s… really impressive. I always wondered what you were up to.”

Seoyeon fidgets with her strap, eyes down. “I—I could just go home alone. I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Too late,” Chaeyoung cuts in, smooth and biting. Her fingers slide down Seoyeon’s wrist, tugging at her sleeve, and Seoyeon tenses—but doesn’t pull away.

“Join us,” Chaeyoung hums, tilting her head, lips curving sharper. “Unless…” She flicks her gaze to you, then lowers her voice, “you wanted a different kind of invitation?”

Your breath snags. Her hand drifts lower, fingertips brushing Seoyeon’s waist, pressing just enough to draw a faint shudder. It’s blatant, deliberate—performed for you, like she’s daring you to react.

Your jaw clenches.

Seoyeon bites her lip, face flaming, eyes darting away. She’s unrecognizable from the café girl—cozy sweaters swapped for something sleek, her softness sharpened by the moment, helpless under Chaeyoung’s grip.

And you—you’re still hard, the ache a cruel reminder of where this was headed. Chaeyoung catches it, her smirk flashing like she’s won something.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs, leaning closer to Seoyeon, fingers tracing her blouse’s hem. “Especially after crashing our fun.”

Chaeyoung glances at your still bulging pants.

She whispers something in Seoyeon’s ear—too low to catch—and Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her flush deepening.

Then Chaeyoung grins, turning to you. “Besides… don’t you want me to introduce you?” Her voice drops, eyes flicking between you both. “Show you who she really is?”

She tosses you the keys with a flick of her wrist. “Drive us, sweetie. Follow the GPS,” she says, mischief glinting in her stare. She glances at the backseat. “I want Seoyeon’s company back there.”

You slide into the driver’s seat, fingers clamping around the wheel, knuckles whitening. A quick check in the rearview shows Chaeyoung sprawled comfortably, dark hair fanning over the leather, one leg crossed casually. Seoyeon sits beside her, rigid, hands knotted in her lap, staring out the window like it might save her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums softly, the GPS’s faint beeps punctuating the quiet. The silence stretches—not heavy, but taut—until Chaeyoung slices through it.

“So… how much do you actually know about Seoyeon?”

Your fingers flex on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. Chaeyoung’s smirking, amused, while Seoyeon jolts slightly, her gaze snapping from the window to dart between you and Chaeyoung.

You clear your throat. “Uh… I see her at Golden Brew a lot. She’s always there.”

Seoyeon blinks, startled—like she didn’t think you’d noticed her.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and teasing. “That’s it? Just some café girl?” She slings an arm over Seoyeon’s shoulders, tugging her closer with casual possessiveness. “Come on, you’ve got more than that. Give us an impression.”

You hesitate, Seoyeon’s eyes on you now, soft but searching. What do you say? That she always looked so calm there, tucked in her corner, lost in a book—like the world couldn’t touch her? That she’s nothing like the flustered girl beside Chaeyoung now?

“I don’t know,” you mutter, eyes back on the road. “She just… seemed at peace there. Like nothing else mattered when she was reading.”

Seoyeon shifts, a mix of flattered and uneasy, while Chaeyoung hums, twirling a strand of Seoyeon’s hair. “See? He notices you.” Her voice dances with playful mockery, but it lands—Seoyeon’s cheeks flush pink.

The air shifts, no longer awkward but charged, teetering on something new. Chaeyoung’s either diffusing it or stirring it—you can’t tell.

Then—“So,” she drawls, stretching her legs like she owns the car, “when are you moving in?”

Your grip tightens, knuckles whitening. You knew it was coming—Saerom’s words made it inevitable—but resistance flares anyway, a reflex you can’t kill.

“Gyuri called earlier,” she adds, casual but pointed. “Asked if you’ve got anything sentimental in that dorm.”

The question jars you. Gyuri called her—not you? And moving your stuff herself? Your mind scrambles for something sentimental, but it’s blank—Saerom was right. A week with them, and they’ve already peeled back how empty your life was.

Your silence lingers too long.

Chaeyoung clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Still acting like you’ve got a choice, huh?” She leans forward, propping her chin on Seoyeon’s shoulder, eyes glinting in the mirror. “It’s not just about you crashing with us. It’s that head of yours—we’re keeping it from cracking open.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Your mind’s a mess,” she says, smooth and unrelenting. “It’s not a quick fix, sweetie.”

“We—or someone—” she loops an arm around Seoyeon’s waist, pulling her tighter, “has to stop you from losing it completely.”

Seoyeon stiffens, like she’s just now catching the drift. Chaeyoung doesn’t let her squirm away.

“Meet your minder,” she purrs, nudging Seoyeon forward like a prize on display. “Our best little memory-sorter.”

You catch Seoyeon’s reaction in the mirror—her fingers knot into her dress, lips parting in a half-formed protest she doesn’t voice.

“You,” Chaeyoung continues, dragging a finger up Seoyeon’s arm, making her twitch, “never step up unless you’re forced. But when Saerom asked for someone to help our poor, scrambled boy here, you volunteered fast.”

Seoyeon glances at you—quick, fleeting—then down. “I didn’t—” She swallows, voice thin. “It just made sense.”

Chaeyoung snickers. “Oh, sure. Made sense.” She mocks it, tilting her head. “Not because you’re perfect for untangling his head, but because you wanted to, right?”

“Because I’ve got the most experience,” Seoyeon snaps, face reddening.

“Mhm. Purely professional,” Chaeyoung grins, dripping sarcasm.

You keep your eyes on the road, but it’s sinking in—Seoyeon chose this? You’d figured it was thrust on her, like everything else with you. If she wanted it… why?

Chaeyoung leans closer to Seoyeon, voice dropping, teasing but firm. “Then why’re you blushing, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, no answer forming. Seoyeon’s a stranger beyond café glimpses, but now—flustered, off-balance—she’s the last one you’d expect to sift through your fractured mind.

The wheel bites into your palms, city lights streaking past. You don’t want to unpack Chaeyoung’s words—or why Seoyeon’s quiet gaze in the mirror unsettles you so much.

Then— A sound. Soft, barely there. But in the thick silence, it cuts through like a blade. A… moan? Your grip tightens. Did you imagine that?

"You interrupted us earlier," Chaeyoung murmurs, voice slow, teasing. "He’s still probably hard from before. Don’t you think you owe him a show?”

You keep your eyes forward. You should keep them forward.

Another noise—fainter, but unmistakable—followed by the rustle of fabric, a shift of weight on leather. Your stomach twists, unease coiling tight. What the hell’s going on back there?

Chaeyoung’s voice breaks through, playful but laced with command. “See, Seoyeon’s brilliant with her spells, but there’s something she’s terrible at.”

You could look. One glance in the mirror would settle it. But with Chaeyoung, looking’s a trap—you know better. Still, your mind spins, torn between shutting it out and the nagging pull to understand. Is this her game again? Or is Seoyeon—? No. You kill the thought fast.

A soft, pleading whimper escapes Seoyeon. “Chaeyoung, please—” she mumbles, voice fragile, but Chaeyoung barrels over it.

“She can’t say no,” she teases, mischief dripping from every word. “Or rather, she’ll do anything but say it.” Another moan—clearer now—punctuates her taunt, leaving no room for doubt. “Such a sweet unnie, always so eager to please… or maybe you just love being used like this?”

Curiosity and dread tug your gaze to the rearview. The dim light barely outlines them, but it’s enough: Seoyeon pressed against Chaeyoung, her body yielding to soft, relentless touches. Chaeyoung’s fingers weave through her hair while another hand traces slow, teasing lines under her skirt. Seoyeon’s trembling grip clings to Chaeyoung’s arm, her gasps spilling out—small, desperate sounds of surrender.

“Mr. Driver, eyes on the road,” Chaeyoung chides, her tone sharp with glee. You snap your focus forward, heat prickling your neck, but the image sticks—burned into your mind.

“Sounds like someone’s enjoying herself,” she murmurs, voice curling with delight. “Seoyeon, why don’t you tell him? Describe every little thing I’m doing to you.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into Chaeyoung’s arm. “Chaeyoung, I—” she stammers, voice a whisper, fraying at the edges.

Chaeyoung hums, feigning consideration, but her hands don’t stop. “What? Want me to stop?” A deliberate pause. “When you’re already this wet?”

Silence—thick, heavy. Then, soft and broken: “No… please don’t… I’ll do it.”

“Good girl,” Chaeyoung purrs, satisfaction dripping from the words.

The air turns stifling, filled with Seoyeon’s shaky breaths and Chaeyoung’s low murmurs. You grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to look, to let their game pull you in. The city lights streak by, blurred and distant, drowned out by the pounding in your chest.

Seoyeon’s voice trembles, halting. “I… I feel Chaeyoung’s fingers… sliding under my skirt… touching me…” Each word wavers, forced out between gasps. “She’s tracing circles… slow, then faster… it’s—ah—it’s tingling everywhere…”

Chaeyoung’s eyes flick to you in the mirror, a brief, wicked glint, before she leans closer to Seoyeon. “That’s it,” she coaxes, voice a velvet tease. “Let him hear every sound. Show him how irresistible you are.”

Seoyeon swallows, her breaths short and ragged. “Her fingers… they’re higher now… brushing—oh god—brushing my panties… they’re soaked… it’s too much…” Her voice climbs, desperate, unraveling.

You can’t see it, but you don’t need to—the picture paints itself: Seoyeon squirming, flushed and needy, Chaeyoung’s fingers working her into a frenzy. You force your focus on the road, but it’s useless—the sounds, the heat, the tension—they claw at you.

“Getting excited, Seoyeon?” Chaeyoung whispers, lips grazing her ear. “Does my touch make you all fluttery inside?”

A strangled moan is her only answer, nails biting into Chaeyoung’s arm.

“I think he needs to know,” Chaeyoung murmurs, fingers teasing the damp fabric. “How much you’re loving this. Tell him how wet I’m making you.”

Seoyeon whimpers, her body squirming against the seat. “I… I’m soaking,” she confesses, voice trembling, barely holding together. “Chaeyoung’s fingers… they’re making me drip… my panties are drenched… I want—ah—I want her inside…” Her words break into a fractured moan as Chaeyoung’s fingers slip beneath the damp fabric, stroking her slick, eager folds.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and dark, her touch unrelenting. “You hear that?” she murmurs, voice a taunting caress. “She’s begging for it.” Her fingers plunge deeper, a slick, rhythmic sound filling the car as she works Seoyeon open, drawing out sharper gasps.

Your grip on the wheel tightens, sweat beading on your brow. You shouldn’t look—you can’t look—but the pull is too strong. Your eyes flick to the rearview, catching them in fragments: Chaeyoung’s hand buried between Seoyeon’s thighs, her fingers curling inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. Seoyeon’s head tips back, lips parted, her chest heaving as soft, needy cries spill out.

“Chaeyoung… please…” Seoyeon’s voice is a broken plea, her hips rocking into the touch, chasing it. Chaeyoung leans closer, her lips brushing Seoyeon’s ear, whispering something too low to catch—but it makes Seoyeon shudder, her nails scraping the leather.

The car feels smaller, the air thick and stifling. Chaeyoung’s fingers move faster, a wet, obscene rhythm that syncs with Seoyeon’s escalating moans. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” Chaeyoung purrs, her free hand sliding up to grip Seoyeon’s waist, holding her steady. “Let him hear how good it feels.”

Seoyeon’s response is a high, desperate whine, her body arching off the seat. You can’t tear your eyes away—her flushed cheeks, the way her thighs tremble, the glistening sheen on Chaeyoung’s fingers as they pump in and out. Your breath catches, pulse hammering, the road blurring at the edges of your vision.

She’s unraveling—fast. Chaeyoung adds another finger, stretching her, and Seoyeon’s cry spikes, raw and unrestrained. “Yes—oh god—Chaeyoung—” Her voice cracks, teetering on the edge, and you’re staring now, fully caught, the wheel forgotten as her climax builds.

“Come on, baby,” Chaeyoung coaxes, voice thick with satisfaction, her thumb flicking over Seoyeon’s clit. “Let go for me—for him.”

Seoyeon’s body tenses, a taut bowstring ready to snap. Her gasps turn sharp, frantic, her hands clawing at Chaeyoung’s arm. You’re locked on her—her glazed eyes, her shuddering frame—watching the wave crest, so close you can almost feel it.

Then—a horn blares, loud and jarring.

Your heart lurches as the car swerves, tires skidding over the line. You jerk the wheel hard, yanking it back into your lane, adrenaline spiking as the world snaps back into focus. Shit—too close. Your eyes snap forward, chest heaving, the climax slipping past you in the chaos.

You miss it—the peak.

But you hear it: Seoyeon’s sharp, broken cry, a sound of pure release that cuts through the roar in your ears. It’s followed by a trembling gasp, then a soft, shuddering exhale as she collapses against the seat. Chaeyoung’s low hum of approval weaves through the aftermath, her fingers slowing, guiding Seoyeon down from the high.

You don’t dare look again. The road demands your focus, but the echoes linger—Seoyeon’s ragged breathing, the faint slick sound as Chaeyoung withdraws her hand. Your knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, your shirt clinging to your back with sweat.

“Look at this mess,” Chaeyoung murmurs, her voice smug, lazy, dripping with triumph. “You really enjoy him hearing how perverted you are, don’t you?” She shifts, and in your peripheral, you catch her wiping her fingers on Seoyeon’s skirt—casual, possessive, like marking her territory.

“You do realize this is Saerom’s car, right?” Chaeyoung adds, a teasing lilt in her tone.

Seoyeon’s too spent to reply, her breath still unsteady, a faint whimper slipping out as she slumps against the seat, boneless and dazed.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and indulgent, leaning closer to Seoyeon. “Oh, don’t even try to play shy now. You loved every second of him listening—didn’t you, unnie?”

Seoyeon’s lips part, a weak protest forming, but it dies in her throat, replaced by a shaky exhale. Her hands twitch in her lap, like she’s grasping for control she doesn’t have.

“You don’t have to say it,” Chaeyoung continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for you to hear. “It’s obvious. You get off on this—being use freely. Anyone can have you, anytime, anywhere, and you just melt for it.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel, the words sinking in. Free use? Your mind stumbles over it, but Chaeyoung doesn’t pause, her tone turning instructional, like she’s savoring the explanation.

“See, that’s her thing,” she says, glancing at you through the rearview with a smirk. “Seoyeon’s too sweet to admit it, but she thrives on being taken—however, whenever. No boundaries, no fuss. Just… available.” She runs a finger along Seoyeon’s thigh, drawing a faint shiver. “Why do you think she didn’t say no back there? She can’t. It’s wired into her.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her head dipping lower, but she doesn’t contradict it. Her silence is louder than words—agreement by default, too overwhelmed to argue.

“Chaeyoung…” Seoyeon mumbles, voice barely audible, a plea or a surrender—you can’t tell.

“What?” Chaeyoung cuts in, grinning. “You’re not denying it, are you? Look at you—still trembling, skirt a mess, all because I decided to play with you in front of him. You didn’t stop me. You wanted it.”

Seoyeon’s fingers curl into the leather, her face flushed, but no rebuttal comes. She’s trapped—caught between exhaustion and the truth Chaeyoung’s laying bare.

The GPS chimes, a soft ping slicing through the charged air, signaling the final turn. The road stretches toward a towering mansion, its dark silhouette carving into the night sky, stark and commanding.

“Great, we’re here,” Chaeyoung says, stretching with a lazy roll of her shoulders, as if this were just another casual drive. “Park by the gate.”

You guide the car to a stop, tires crunching faintly against gravel, your hands still clamped around the wheel. Your mind’s a snarl—reeling from the sounds, the heat, the scene that burned itself into your skull from the rearview.

Chaeyoung slips out first, the door shutting with a crisp thud, her movements fluid, unbothered. You don’t follow. Not yet. Your fingers flex, uncertain, rooted to the seat.

Your gaze flicks to the mirror.

Seoyeon’s still there, slumped against the leather, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady breaths. Her skirt’s rucked up, thighs parted just enough to betray the aftermath—tremors still rippling through her, faint and fading. Her eyes are half-lidded, lost in a dazed fog.

You should say something. Move. Anything.

But before you can unstuck yourself, a light tap-tap raps against your window. Chaeyoung leans down, her smirk glinting in the dim light, sharp and knowing.

“Just leave her for now,” she says, voice thick with amusement, like she’s commenting on a spilled drink instead of a trembling wreck. “She’ll be fine.”

The way she says it—casual, dismissive—makes your fingers twitch against the wheel, a spark of something hot and unnamable flaring in your chest.

You exhale, sharp through your nose, and glance back at the mirror.

Seoyeon hasn’t moved. Her breaths are shallow, her body limp, a quiet shadow of the poised girl you’d glimpsed before.

You don’t respond. The silence settles, thick and unresolved, as Chaeyoung straightens and saunters toward the gate, leaving you with the echo of her words and Seoyeon’s heavy stillness in the backseat.

You shove the car door open, stepping out fast, gravel crunching under your boots as you close the distance. Before she reaches the gate, you grab her arm, pulling her to a stop. “What was that about?”

Chaeyoung turns, smirking like she expected this. “What, the show?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Just giving you a front-row seat to Seoyeon’s little quirk. She’s fine—better than fine. She loves it.”

Your grip tightens slightly, jaw clenching. “Loves it? She could barely speak back there.”

“Exactly,” Chaeyoung says, unfazed, twisting her arm free with a casual shrug. “That’s the point. She doesn’t fight it—never will. Free use isn’t just her kink; it’s her nature. You could take her right now, and she’d let you. Hell, she’d probably thank you.”

You stare, the words sinking in, a mix of unease and heat stirring in your chest. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

She laughs, sharp and low. “Okay? Sweetie, I’m telling you to use it. She’s your anchor duty too, you know—keeping us steady means keeping her satisfied. Plus…” Her smirk widens, eyes flicking over you. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy hearing her fall apart. Take advantage of it. For her. For you.”

You don’t answer, the weight of her suggestion pressing down, tempting and unsettling all at once. Chaeyoung steps back, grinning, then turns toward the gate, leaving you standing there—caught between her words and the quiet, trembling figure still in the car.

The gates slide open with a low hum, machinery purring softly into the still night. Beyond them, the mansion rises—a sleek, modern sculpture carved against the dark. Sharp angles and clean lines meld glass and concrete into something precise, deliberate. Warm light pours from vast windows, pooling onto the manicured garden and the smooth stone walkway that stretches toward the entrance.

It’s grand but restrained—wealth distilled into control, not extravagance. Every detail feels intentional, a quiet flex of power.

Your shoes crunch faintly on the path as you step forward, the sound crisp in the silence. Chaeyoung strides ahead, unbothered, stretching her arms overhead with a fluid, careless grace.

You glance back—just once—at the car, where Seoyeon lingers. Chaeyoung catches it, peering over her shoulder, her smirk deepening as she reads your pause.

“Relax,” she says, voice smooth, gliding over the tension like silk. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

The front doors part before you reach them—automated, or maybe someone’s watching. A rush of cool air greets you, crisp and faintly floral, laced with the scent of something expensive and understated.

You step inside, crossing the threshold into their world. “Might as well show you around,” Chaeyoung says, glancing back with a faint smirk. “Wouldn’t want you lost on your first night.”

The interior gleams—sharp, modern, all polished surfaces and muted tones. Chaeyoung takes the lead, her steps echoing faintly in the cavernous foyer as she gestures with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“We’re barely here,” she says, her tone laced with casual confidence. “Busy as hell—shoots, meetings, all that chaos. The place stays empty most of the time.” She shoots you a sidelong glance, smirk tugging at her lips. “Just us. No staff, no stragglers, no visitors. Keeps it clean—literally and figuratively.”

You follow, shoes tapping against hardwood, the silence amplifying each sound. She veers left toward a small hallway—her lobby. “This is me, Hayoung, and Jiwon,” she says, pointing to three doors clustered together, a sleek bathroom tucked at the end. “Our little corner. Hayoung’s … very territorial—don’t touch her stuff unless you want a lecture. Jiwon’s chill, but she’s hardly around.”

She doesn’t linger, heading up a cold, modern staircase—glass steps, steel railing. You climb behind her, the house’s quiet pressing in. At the top, a long hallway stretches out, doors like sentinels.

“Second floor,” she announces. “This is where you’ll be.” She nods toward a lobby with five rooms—Saerom, Jisun, Seoyeon, Nagyung, and yours—flanked by three bathrooms. “Seoyeon’s is closest to you—she likes her quiet.” She nudges a door open with her hip. “Here’s yours.”

You peer in—dark wood floors, a wide bed with crisp sheets, a desk angled toward a towering window framing the garden. Sparse, sharp-edged, waiting to be claimed.

“Not bad, huh?” Chaeyoung leans against the frame, watching you take it in. “Beats that cramped dorm by a mile.”

You nod faintly, the reality of moving in sinking deeper. She pushes off, strolling down the hall. “Saerom’s got the big office up here—barely uses it unless she’s playing boss. Jisun is a neat freak, don’t let her see any of your mess, Nagyung’s… Nagyung.”

She leads you back downstairs, drifting toward the kitchen—a pristine space with gleaming appliances and an untouched island. “Jisun rules this when she’s here,” she says lazily. “Hates us touching her stuff—knife-throwing threats included.” She pauses by a wall of windows overlooking the garden, night pressing dark against the glass.

The tour stretches—past a living area with a plush sectional and stark art, a sleek bar counter, a lounge with low couches and a massive TV, a small gym with mirrored walls, a tucked-away balcony catching the city’s distant glow. “We don’t use half this stuff,” she admits, shrugging. “Too busy. Keeps it nice for crashing, though.”

She veers toward another small hallway on the first floor, two rooms facing a glass wall to the garden. “Gyuri and Jiheon’s lobby,” she says, pointing. “Gyuri’s closer, Jiheon’s farther.”

You stop, staring at Jiheon’s door. A storm churns in your chest—anger, disappointment, longing, hate, forgiveness, disgust, a twisted ache you can’t name. It’s heavy, bitter, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Chaeyoung leans close, her whisper brushing your ear, breaking the spiral. “Wanna knock?”

“No.”

She smirks faintly but doesn’t push, guiding you back toward the second floor. “Let’s check on our little star—give her time to pull herself together.” Her voice dips with that familiar tease.

When you first saw Seoyeon’s room—just down from yours—it felt normal. Quiet, orderly, a haven of books and lavender. But now, as you return, your steps drag, each one heavier than the last, like the air’s thickened, resisting you. Chaeyoung doesn’t knock—just eases the door open and steps inside, claiming the space.

Seoyeon’s there, perched on her bed, changed into an oversized long-sleeved shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, faintly tousled, a soft flush still on her cheeks. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening briefly before dropping to her lap, fingers twisting into her cuffs.

You pause, the shift in the room undeniable—something sluggish, unseen, pressing down. But Chaeyoung just smirks, oblivious or unconcerned, and you let it pass, chalking it up to the day’s weight.

Seoyeon’s there, sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s changed—swapped the creased skirt for an oversized long-sleeved shirt that drowns her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, still slightly tousled, and the flush on her cheeks has faded to a soft glow. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening for a split second before dropping to her lap, fingers fidgeting with the shirt’s cuffs.

Chaeyoung crosses her arms, smirking. “Look at you, all cozy now. Took you long enough.”

Seoyeon mumbles something under her breath, too quiet to catch, her posture stiff but not defiant. The room fits her—bookshelves packed tight, a cluttered desk with notebooks and pens, a faint lavender scent softening the air. It’s a refuge, even if she doesn’t look entirely at ease in it now.

Chaeyoung tilts her head toward you. “Told you she’d be fine. Didn’t even need a nudge to freshen up.”

You don’t reply, the air between you three thick with unspoken currents—Chaeyoung’s easy control, Seoyeon’s fragile calm, and your own unsettled place in this strange, polished world.

Chaeyoung glances at the sleek clock on Seoyeon’s wall, then back at you, a glint sparking in her eyes. “Still got a couple hours ‘til dinner. Plenty of time for you two to get started.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Started on what?”

“Healing that mess in your head,” she says, smirking as she nods toward Seoyeon. “She’s your little mind-fixer, remember? Might as well dive in now.”

Something nags at the back of your mind. A small, quiet wrongness.

Your gaze flickers to the clock.

The sleek, minimalist hands tick forward, smooth and unhurried. But something feels off. It takes a second to register—the movement isn’t quite… right. The rhythm is steady, but it doesn’t match the weight of the moment, doesn’t line up with the pulse in your veins, the breaths in your lungs.

Seoyeon shifts on the bed, smoothing the oversized long-sleeved shirt over her thighs, her composure steadier now—a stark contrast to the trembling wreck in the car. She doesn’t protest, just nods faintly.

You glance at the time again.

Something feels… off.

The second hand moves, but sluggishly, dragging itself forward in a way that doesn’t match the quiet tension in the room. The tick, usually sharp and precise, stretches—each second stretching just a little longer than it should.

The time is wrong. Not in numbers, but in weight.

Or maybe not. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe your mind is more broken than you thought.

“Fine,” you mutter, the weight of it settling in. You’re here, in their world—might as well see what this ‘healing’ actually means.

Chaeyoung steps back, leaning against the doorframe, her smirk widening as she eyes you both. “Perfect. A cozy little session. Just don’t get too distracted, hmm?” She tilts her head toward Seoyeon, voice dipping low and teasing. “Our sweet unnie’s still got that free-use itch, you know. Might be hard to focus when she’s so… available.”

Seoyeon’s cheeks flush faintly, but she doesn’t flinch this time. Her gaze lifts, meeting Chaeyoung’s with a quiet steadiness. “If he needs my help,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, “I’m here.” It’s passive, almost detached—yet the way her eyes flicker to you for a split second carries an anticipating leer, unspoken but undeniable.

Chaeyoung’s grin sharpens, delighted. “See? Always so willing.” She lets out a bright, cutting laugh, pushing off the frame. “You two have fun—I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, her laughter echoing faintly down the hall.

You’re left alone with Seoyeon, the air in her room thickening—lavender and paper mingling with the weight of her words. She sits there, composed but not entirely closed off, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse tick faster.

“So,” you say, voice rougher than intended, breaking the quiet. “How does this… healing thing work?”

Seoyeon pats the space beside her, a silent invitation. You don’t move right away, and she shifts, the oversized sleeve slipping past her wrist as she gestures again—patient, expectant, a quiet pull in her motion.

“Come here,” she says, soft but certain. “Lay down.”

You hesitate.

She doesn’t repeat herself, just waits, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s no push, no command—just a calm assurance, like she knows you’ll come to her.

And somehow, you do.

You ease onto the bed, head settling into the pillow she nudges against her lap. The fabric of her shirt drapes over you, soft and warm, brushing your skin like a whispered promise. Her heat radiates through, steadying you in a way that catches you off guard.

Then she moves.

Her fingertips graze your temple, light as a feather, tracing slow, wandering patterns. Each touch is deliberate, tender—like she’s unraveling you, thread by thread, feeling the knots of tension still coiled beneath your surface.

Your eyes lift to hers.

Her gaze catches you, and something shifts. At first, her eyes are shadowed pools—deep, unreadable—but then they bloom. Color seeps away, melting into a grey that’s alive, liquid silver threaded with dusk, like the tender hush of twilight spilling over a still lake. It’s not stark or cold; it’s a soft veil, a mist kissed by starlight, drawing you into its quiet embrace. Her eyes shimmer with a gentle depth, as if they hold the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams, tender and infinite.

The air thickens—light, hazy, blurring the edges of the world until it’s just you and her in this fragile, suspended moment.

A grey fog unfurls at the corners of your vision, curling like tendrils of smoke. You don’t flinch.

Seoyeon doesn’t blink. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her fingers still dancing, still grounding. “Just breathe.”

You do.

The pressure against your ribs softens—just a fraction.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Her voice weaves through the haze, a guiding thread—gentle, not pressing, simply offering a space for you to fill.

You swallow. “Too much.”

She hums, a low, knowing sound that resonates in your chest. “Then start small.”

Her fingers press faintly, a quiet nudge, her warmth sinking deeper—sliding into fractures you didn’t know you’d left open.

Your lips part before you mean them to.

And slowly, as the grey haze wraps tighter, pulling you into its tender depths, the words begin to spill out.

You wake to silence.

The room’s dimmer now—not dark, but the warm gold of before has dulled into something softer, hazier, less defined. Your head rests in Seoyeon’s lap, her hand lying still against your hair, a faint warmth lingering in her touch.

You blink, sluggish, piecing together the gap. How long were you out? Something’s… off. Not wrong—just unmoored. Like waking from a dream where the edges don’t align, the fragments slipping through your fingers.

Your eyes drift to the clock on the wall, its sleek hands stark against the muted backdrop. You frown.

The seconds tick—or don’t. The motion’s too slow, a crawl that drags against the rhythm of time, you know. Did it move at all? Or is your mind lagging, stretching moments into something they’re not?

You must’ve been under longer than it felt. That’s it—right?

Your body’s heavy, limbs thick and reluctant, as if they’re wading through molasses. A fog clings to you—not exhaustion, not the ache of sleeplessness, but something stranger, weightless yet suffocating. A spell’s aftereffect, you tell yourself. Just the residue of whatever she did to pull you under, clouding your edges.

Seoyeon shifts beneath you, a faint rustle breaking the stillness. “You’re awake,” she whispers, voice so soft it barely stirs the air.

You swallow, throat dry. “Yeah.”

She studies you, her gaze searching—probing—for something you can’t name. Her fingers lift, returning to your temple, pressing lightly, delicately, like she’s testing a pulse beneath your skin.

You should ask. Should question the sluggish air, the way time feels like it’s pooling instead of flowing. But the words stick, caught in the haze.

Her head tilts, and those eyes—still a quiet, misted grey, like twilight caught in glass—hold you. They shimmer faintly, a silvered depth that seems to stretch too far, too still. “How do you feel?” she asks, voice threading through the fog, gentle but heavy with something unspoken.

You hesitate.

The question lingers, and you realize the room feels softer—too soft. The light bends at odd angles, the shadows too lazy to sharpen. Your thoughts drift, sluggish, curling inward like smoke you can’t grasp. It’s the spell, you think—it has to be. The aftermath of her magic left you dazed and untethered.

But beneath that reasoning, something prickles—a flicker of doubt, a whisper that this isn’t just residue. That the world itself is slowing, sinking, and she’s at the center of it.

You don’t voice it. Can’t.

You shift, pushing yourself upright. The weight lingers, but the room snaps into focus—too quick, too vivid, like a reel jerked back into alignment. For a moment, the air still hums thick, heavy with the promise of something unravelling—but then it steadies, settling into a fragile normalcy.

Seoyeon’s hand hovers near you, hesitating before pulling back. The grey in her eyes lightens, the quiet storm fading into something softer, more contained.

“Ri—right, it’s the first treatment,” she says, voice gentler, a little unsteady. “That was the first time… I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you fully.”

You shake your head, the spell’s residue still fogging your edges. “No, it’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t be instant. But I feel better now.”

And for a fleeting second, you believe it.

Until it strikes.

A flash—too fast, too brutal. Jiheon’s face, warped and sharp, tears streaking her cheeks. Not a memory—a violation, shoved into your skull with searing force. Pain blooms, white-hot, and you clutch your head, breath catching as it digs deeper.

Seoyeon’s eyes widen, concern flashing as she leans in. “Are you okay?” Her fingers graze your wrist, steady and warm. “Tell me—ask if you need anything.”

You force a sharp exhale, the image of Jiheon flickering, unstable, like a signal breaking up. “Actually, there’s something I need your help with.”

She freezes. Then—“Oh—oh…” Her voice lifts, a spark igniting in her tone. Her hand slides from your wrist to your thigh, fingers curling tight, gripping with sudden, eager intent. Her other hand follows, rubbing slow, firm circles higher up your leg, her touch bold and warm through the fabric. Her lips part, breath quickening, eyes glinting with something hungry as they dart to your mouth. “Then… tell me what you need.”

The air charges, her excitement pulsing through her grip, her body shifting closer—too close—her oversized shirt brushing your arm.

You blink, the misunderstanding hitting you late, electric and awkward. “I keep hearing ‘The Mist.’ What is it?”

Her hands stop dead.

“What…?” The word hangs, her eyes widening as the spark snuffs out. Color floods her cheeks, a flush of mortification chasing away the eagerness. She pulls back fast, hands retreating to her lap, pressing her lips tight like she could swallow the moment whole.

“The—The Mist…” she echoes, voice leveling as she forces herself steady.

A breath—shaky, then firm. She exhales, recalibrating, the blush still lingering as she meets your gaze again.

“Think of it as a literal mist or fog,” she begins, voice smoothing into something measured, deliberate. She glances toward the window, eyes tracing the faint glow of the outside lamps before flicking back to you. “Let’s say this morning, Gyuri blew up your door. Shook the entire building. A full-force explosion—undeniably real.”

Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her oversized sleeve. “But what if that wasn’t what really happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You saw it with your own eyes, right? But to outsiders? To anyone not meant to understand?” She tilts her head. “The Mist works on their perception. To them, it wouldn’t have been a single woman causing destruction. It would’ve looked like a gas leak. A structural fault. Something explainable—because that’s easier. That’s normal.”

The weight of her words sinks in, slow and unsettling.

“Or…” she hesitates, then leans in slightly. “Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you were there? Sworn something was different, but you couldn’t place what?”

She taps a finger against her temple. “That’s The Mist, too. It doesn’t erase things, not exactly—it redirects your thoughts. A missing object, a changed detail, a person who was never supposed to exist…”

Your mind flashes back. “That night at the café—when we first met. It felt wrong going back. Like something had shifted.” Your voice is careful. “Did you use The Mist then?”

She nods. “The Mist doesn’t just hide things. It bends perception, guides thoughts. It makes the impossible seem ordinary, the unnatural seem mundane.”

Her gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable. “It doesn’t just mask the truth.” A pause, the air thick between you. “It replaces it.”

"So you created The Mist?"

Seoyeon shakes her head. "No. It’s always been there—thin, spread out, almost insignificant. What we do is draw from it, shape it, use it as a tool. It helps us hide, keeps us at a distance… while letting us live normally."

Before you can respond, the door swings open.

Chaeyoung steps inside, scanning the room—first you, then Seoyeon. Her wound by her cheek, marks on her neck now gone, as if it never happened. Something flickers across her face, a mix of surprise and… disappointment?

"I leave you two alone, and you did nothing?" she asks, voice lilting with amusement, but her gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Seoyeon.

A beat of silence.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," she murmurs, unreadable.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel. "Come on. Let’s eat."

The dining room hums with a lived-in warmth—familiarity etched into the clink of plates and the quiet rhythm of routine. Gyuri and Hayoung move with seamless precision, setting bowls and dishes across the table, a dance they’ve done countless times. You follow Seoyeon and Chaeyoung to your seats, easing into the house’s unspoken flow.

Gyuri keeps her focus on the task, her movements precise, not sparing you a glance. Hayoung’s eyes snag yours—sharp, fleeting—and without thinking, you start, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she snaps, voice cutting like a blade, venom simmering beneath. Her hand hovers over a glass, fingers tightening for a split second before she turns away, dismissing you.

You pause, then press on, undeterred. “—a big fan of yours.”

The words land softer, earnest, and Hayoung freezes mid-motion. Her head snaps back to you, eyes widening just enough to betray her surprise. The sharpness in her stance falters—her grip on the glass loosens, and a faint flush creeps up her neck. She blinks, caught off guard, the bite in her fading as something shy flickers across her face.

She doesn’t respond right away, her lips parting then pressing shut, like she’s unsure what to do with the compliment. The hostility doesn’t vanish entirely, but it’s tempered now, her gaze darting away as she fumbles with the glass, suddenly less certain.

You settle in, the air prickling faintly as the first dish remains untouched. “What about the others?” you ask, glancing around.

Chaeyoung, already pouring herself a drink, answers with a lazy drawl. “Saerom and Jiwon are tied up with work—won’t be back tonight. Jisun’s with Jiheon, eating in her room.”

Jiheon. The name drops like a stone in your chest, dragging up jagged, counterfeit memories—her tears, her touch, a love that never was. Your head throbs, the falseness of it clawing at you, and you force a nod, swallowing the ache.

Something’s missing, though. A gap in the tally nags at you—until the chair at the table’s far end scrapes lightly against the floor.

Nagyung sits.

No one reacts.

It’s not deliberate—no one looks her way, no one adjusts to include her. It’s as if she’d been there all along, or never there at all. Gyuri keeps arranging dishes, Hayoung pours water with a taut grip, Chaeyoung sips her drink. Seoyeon doesn’t flinch.

But you see her.

“Hey.”

The word lands like a glass shattering on tile.

Gyuri freezes mid-reach, her arm suspended. Hayoung’s glass clinks hard against the table, her jaw tightening as her eyes flick to you, narrow and edged with something bitter. Chaeyoung leans forward, smirk blooming with intrigue. Seoyeon’s gaze widens, a quiet shock rippling through her composure.

Nagyung tilts her head—just a fraction—brown eyes locking onto yours, flat and unreadable, like a still pond undisturbed by wind.

“What?” You glance around, unease prickling. “Did I say something weird?”

Chaeyoung’s chuckle cuts the silence, her fingers tapping a slow, amused beat on the table. “Not weird. Just… unexpected.”

Hayoung exhales sharply through her nose, a sound laced with irritation. “We’re not used to someone noticing her first,” she says, her tone cold, barbed. Her gaze lingers on you, heavy with something unspoken, festering under the surface.

Your brows knit. “Noticing—?”

Then it clicks.

The vague itch when you’d asked about the others, the way her entrance slipped past everyone like a shadow dissolving into dusk. She’s not just quiet—she’s apathy, a presence that erases itself, deliberately unseen.

And you broke that.

A faint spark—curiosity, perhaps—flickers in Nagyung’s eyes before she speaks, her voice smooth, detached, like it’s drifting from somewhere far off. “You see me.”

Not a question. A quiet acknowledgment, testing the air.

You hold her stare. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, too long, too still. Then, without a ripple of reaction, Nagyung picks up her chopsticks and starts eating, as if the exchange never happened.

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain punctuates the quiet after Chaeyoung’s offhand comment.

“Oh right, we haven’t told Jiheon you’ll be living here from now on.”

Your chopsticks freeze above your plate, mid-reach.

“I—”

You don’t get further—if you even meant to argue—because Hayoung chokes across the table. A harsh, ragged cough erupts, her hand fumbling for water. The sound jars the room, but no one flinches. No one moves to help. It’s as if they’re used to her unraveling like this.

You exhale, leaning back, letting your chopsticks settle. “I don’t care.”

You do. Too much.

Hayoung wipes her mouth with a napkin, her gaze snapping to you—razor-sharp, venom simmering. “Of course you don’t.”

The hostility isn’t veiled anymore—it’s a blade, honed and pointed.

You don’t bite back. There’s no point.

But you notice.

Each time your chopsticks hover toward a dish—steamed greens, grilled fish, even the plain rice—Hayoung’s move first. Her motions are swift, precise, cutting you off before you can touch anything. Once might be chance. Twice, impatience. By the third, fourth, it’s a game—a quiet, spiteful claim over every bite, every inch of space you try to take.

You let her have it.

The tension coils tighter, a bowstring pulled taut, thrumming between you. It’s suffocating, unspoken—until Gyuri’s voice slices through.

“I’m leaving first.”

You turn, really seeing her for the first time tonight.

Her eyes catch yours, and for a brief, electric moment, she holds the stare. There’s something there—raw, flickering beneath the polished mask she wears so effortlessly. A storm brews behind her calm, a heat she’s wrestling to bury. Wrath, barely leashed, glints in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against the table’s edge.

Then she forces a smile.

It’s thin, brittle—never touching her eyes.

And just like that, she’s gone, chair scraping faintly as she slips away, leaving the air heavier than before.

Dinner winds down, the clatter of dishes fading into a quiet hum. The table’s a battlefield of half-empty bowls and scattered chopsticks, the tension from earlier simmering beneath the surface. You push your chair back, the scrape soft against the hardwood, as the others begin to drift away.

Seoyeon rises without a word, her oversized shirt swaying as she heads straight for her room, steps muted and purposeful. Nagyung’s chair sits empty—you didn’t catch when she left, her absence slipping past like a shadow dissolving into the dark. Chaeyoung lingers, smirking faintly as she watches you, already poised to follow.

Hayoung stays behind, stacking plates with sharp, deliberate movements. Her jaw’s tight, her earlier hostility still clinging to her like a second skin. You hesitate, then step toward her, voice low. “Need a hand?”

She freezes, a bowl half-lifted, her eyes snapping to you—wide, caught off guard. The sharpness in her gaze falters, softening just a fraction, as if your offer punched a hole through her armor. “What?” Her tone’s still edged, but there’s a crack in it—surprise, maybe doubt.

“I can help clean up,” you say, reaching for a stack of dishes. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, just stares, her grip on the bowl tightening then loosening. The hostility doesn’t vanish, but it dulls—her shoulders easing, her lips pressing into a thin line instead of a scowl. “Fine,” she mutters, turning back to the table, but there’s less bite in it now. A flicker of something—grudging respect, maybe—hints at her guard slipping, your thoughtfulness cutting through her resentment.

You work in silence, clearing plates, brushing past her as she rinses. She doesn’t snap again, doesn’t block you out. It’s not peace, but it’s a truce, fragile and unspoken.

When the last dish is stacked, you turn to leave—and Chaeyoung’s right there, leaning by the stairs , arms crossed, grinning like she’s been waiting. “Aw, look at you, playing nice,” she teases, voice lilting as she falls into step beside you.

You don’t reply, heading for your room, but she follows, undeterred, her presence a persistent hum at your side. Nagyung’s gone—slipped away sometime between bites, unnoticed again—and Seoyeon’s door is already shut when you pass it.

Chaeyoung trails you into your room, flopping onto the bed without invitation, stretching out with a lazy smirk. “So, hero of the night—how’s it feel to crack Hayoung’s shell a little?”

You shrug, the day’s weight sinking into your bones, but her eyes gleam—teasing, daring you to snap back. She’s not going anywhere soon.

You sink onto the unfamiliar bed beside her, the mattress yielding softly beneath you. Turning to Chaeyoung, you let the question drop.

“Hey. What was up with Gyuri earlier?”

She exhales, shifting to lean on one elbow, fingers slipping into your hair, twirling idly. “It’s expected.” Her tone’s light, but there’s a knowing edge lurking underneath.

“Expected?”

“No one told you, huh?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting as her fingers keep playing. “Using our powers nudges us closer to the edge. The more control slips, the less we fight it—a spiral. Gyuri trashing your dorm? That cost her. She’s wrestling it down now.”

You catch her wrist, pulling her hand away. “Then why keep using them?”

She slides her fingers right back, undeterred, smirking faintly. “If you had our gifts, could you really hold back?”

“If it risks my mind, yeah.”

“It’s not madness, exactly.” She tilts her head, considering. “Think of it like drinking. One glass—you’re fine. Two—you feel it, but you’re still sharp. Keep going, and suddenly you’re slurring, drunk on power. Literal power.” She pauses, voice dipping lower. "But we have to. Our powers help us cope with responsibility, make life manageable. So we focus as much as we can on controlling our emotions… ideally.”

“Like The Mist?”

She nods, a flicker of approval in her gaze. “Yeah. Seoyeon told you?” Then, after a beat, “It’s not usually that taxing, though.”

You wait. She’s not done.

“The bigger the cover-up, the more we lean on it, the worse the strain gets. And if someone breaks through?” Her exhale’s sharp, almost a scoff. “Keeping it steady turns into a fight.” She shifts, sitting up straighter, her fingers stilling briefly. “That night at the café, when you cut through The Mist? Seoyeon was holding it. She called it practice—said she’d make sure it never happened again. Since then, she’s been the one volunteering to manage it.”

Her voice drops, tinged with something rare—concern, maybe. “Your seclusion. The dorm explosion. She was probably weaving it together right up until this afternoon. And now?”

Her hand pauses, resting against your scalp, her eyes locking onto yours.

“Now she’s the one piecing your head back together.”

You’re lost in the thought, the weight of it pulling you under—so much so that you don’t notice how close Chaeyoung’s gotten. Her leg’s tangled with yours, her breath warm against your ear, her palm pressing firm on your chest, anchoring you there.

“You’ve yet to explain why you followed me here,” you say, voice low, catching up to her proximity.

“I think you already know why,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, a smirk curling through her words.

“Really, now?” You shift slightly, exhaustion dragging at you. “Chaeyoung, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Is that a no?” Her finger traces a slow, deliberate dance across your chest, then dips lower, her hand sliding to your pants, rubbing your crotch with a teasing pressure that sends a jolt through you.

Her touch lingers, bold and unyielding, her breath steady against your skin as she waits—daring you to push back or give in.

“You really need to stop pretending you don’t love this,” she murmurs, leaning close, her whisper a warm tease in your ear. “I’ll be gentle. Just lie back for me—I’ll make it quick.”

You shift, dragging yourself to the bed’s center, head sinking into the pillow. Chaeyoung stays glued to your side, her leg still brushing yours, her presence inescapable.

“Were you disappointed we got interrupted earlier?”

Before you can answer, she closes the gap, her lips catching yours in a soft, deliberate kiss. She pulls back just enough to flash a smile—teasing, knowing.

“Nothing wild,” she promises, voice low and sultry. “Just one slow fuck…” Her hand moves deftly, unbuckling your belt with a flick, your cock springing free as she grips it, stroking gently, her touch firm but unhurried.

She chuckles, a soft, wicked sound, watching you squirm under her. Leaning in, she pecks your lips—a tease—then lingers, her eyes flicking over your face, drinking in every twitch of pleasure. Her next kiss dives deeper, her tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, hungry dance.

She tries to pull away, but you’re caught, chasing her lips, entranced, until air runs thin and you both break, breathless.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Stay,” she commands, voice firm, playful.

She eases back, turning it into a show. Her top peels off slow, revealing smooth skin, then her bra drops, baring her chest. Her pants follow, sliding down her thighs, and when her panties come into view, the damp fabric clings, a dark spot betraying her arousal. She tugs them off, and a glistening thread stretches, refusing to snap, connecting her to the discarded cloth.

“Fuck, Chaeyoung, you’re already wet?”

“Just for you,” she purrs, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and hunger. “Always.”

Chaeyoung shifts, climbing atop you with a fluid grace, her hips hovering just above yours. She straddles you, knees pressing into the mattress on either side, caging your body between her legs. Her heat radiates, close but not yet touching, a tantalizing promise hanging in the air. “I can’t wait,” she breathes, voice low, edged with need.

She lowers herself slowly, deliberately, her slick folds brushing against your length. The first contact is electric—warm, wet, a soft glide that coats you in her arousal. She starts to grind, hips rolling with a lazy rhythm, her wetness spreading over you, slick and hot, marking you with every subtle shift. Her breath hitches faintly, a sound that betrays her own want despite the control she wields.

Each motion teases you further, her folds sliding along your cock, dragging from base to tip in a slow, torturous dance. She moves too far sometimes—deliberately or not—and your tip presses against her entrance, nudging just at the edge of her hole. It’s fleeting, a tease of pressure, her warmth pulsing there, inviting but never quite yielding. She pulls back each time, smirking as your hips twitch instinctively, chasing her.

“Fuck,” you mutter, voice rough, the sensation overwhelming—her slickness, the friction, the nearness of sinking into her.

She chuckles, soft and wicked, leaning forward to brace her hands on your chest, her hair spilling over her shoulders to frame her face. “Patience,” she whispers, though her own breath trembles, betraying the effort it takes to hold back. Her hips tilt, adjusting the angle, and the pressure intensifies—your tip catches again, slipping just past her entrance, enough to feel her clench, tight and eager, before she retreats once more.

Her wetness pools, a glossy sheen coating you both now, strands of it stretching between you with each grind, glistening in the dim light. She rocks harder, just a fraction, letting your length slide through her folds, her clit brushing against you with every pass. A low moan slips from her lips, unbidden, and her eyes flutter, but that smirk stays—teasing, daring you to take more.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice husky, grinding slower now, savoring it. “That’s all for you.” Her hips circle, dragging you through her heat, your tip nudging her hole again—closer this time, lingering longer, her body trembling as she fights the urge to give in fully.

Your hands grip her thighs, fingers digging into her skin, torn between pulling her down and letting her play this out. The tension’s a live wire, snapping between you, her control fraying at the edges as her own need seeps through.

Her hips circle, dragging you through her slick heat, your tip brushing her entrance again—closer, lingering, her body quivering as she teases the edge of giving in. Your hands tighten on her thighs, fingers sinking into her flesh, caught between restraint and the urge to pull her down.

Chaeyoung catches it—the tension in your grip, the way your breath hitches—and her smirk widens, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” she taunts, voice a low purr as she slows her grind even more, torturing you with the barest contact. She shifts, letting your tip press harder against her hole—just enough to feel her tighten around it, a fleeting promise—before lifting away again.

“Chaeyoung—” Your voice cracks, rough with need, the word half a plea, half a growl.

She laughs, soft and cruel, leaning forward until her lips hover near yours, her hair tickling your face. “What? Too much for you?” Her hips tilt, and your cock slides through her folds again, coated anew in her dripping arousal. She rocks once, twice, letting your tip dip just inside—warm, tight, a maddening taste of what’s coming—then pulls back with a sly hum. “Thought you were tired,” she mocks, echoing your earlier protest, her fingers trailing up your chest to pin you with her gaze.

You groan, head sinking deeper into the pillow, hips twitching up instinctively. “Fuck, Chaeyoung, just—”

“Just what?” she cuts in, grinning as she straightens, hovering above you again. Her wetness glistens, strands of it clinging to your length, and she drags her nails lightly down your stomach, watching you squirm. “Say it. Tell me how bad you want it.”

You grit your teeth, the frustration boiling over, but her eyes dare you—playful, unrelenting. “I want you,” you mutter, voice strained, giving her the win.

Her smile turns triumphant, and she finally relents. “Good boy,” she purrs, shifting her hips with agonizing slowness. She aligns you, your tip pressing fully against her entrance now, and pauses—drawing it out one last time, letting you feel her heat, her pulse—before sinking down.

The first inch is torture—tight, wet, her walls gripping you as she takes you in, slow and deliberate. She gasps softly, a rare crack in her control, but keeps going, lowering herself until you’re buried deep, her hips flush against yours. Her warmth envelopes you, pulsing, overwhelming, and she stills there, savoring it, letting you feel every shudder of her body adjusting to you.

“Fuck,” she breathes, a quiet, unguarded sound, her head tilting back as she settles. Her hands brace on your chest, nails digging in just enough to sting, and that smirk creeps back.

Chaeyoung’s hips settle against yours, her warmth gripping you tight, a pulse of heat that steals your breath. She lingers there, savoring the fullness, her nails biting into your chest as she flashes that triumphant smirk. “Told you I’d be gentle,” she murmurs, voice husky with a teasing edge.

Then she moves.

Her first roll is slow, deliberate—a long, languid grind that drags her walls along your length, coating you further in her slick heat. You groan, hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips, but she swats them away with a playful tsk. “Nuh-uh,” she chides, pinning your wrists above your head. “Let me play.”

She picks up the pace, hips snapping faster, the rhythm sharp and relentless. Her breaths turn shallow, punctuated by soft moans as she rides you, her wetness soaking you with every thrust. The bed creaks faintly beneath her, her control absolute—until she shifts.

She slows abruptly, leaning down, her lips brushing yours in a warm, tender kiss. It’s soft at first, a contrast to the fire she’d stoked, her tongue slipping in to dance with yours, lazy and deep. “You feel so good,” she whispers against your mouth, her tone shedding its tease for something sweeter, her hands loosening on your wrists to cradle your face.

Before you can sink into it, she pulls back, sitting upright again. Her pace ramps up—harder, faster, her hips slamming down with a wet smack that fills the room. She tosses her head back, a low groan spilling out as she chases the edge, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she pants, the affection threading through her voice now, raw and unguarded.

Your hands find her waist again—this time she lets them stay, her own fingers digging into your shoulders for leverage. The heat builds, her movements growing erratic, her walls clenching tighter around you. She leans down once more, kissing you fiercely, all warmth and want, her lips trembling against yours. “Stay with me,” she breathes, a soft plea wrapped in adoration, her teasing gone, replaced by something deeper.

Her rhythm stutters, hips grinding slower now, deeper, as she presses herself flush against you. Each roll is deliberate, drawing out the friction, her moans softening into whimpers. She kisses you again—gentle, lingering—her tongue tracing yours as her body tenses. “I’m yours,” she murmurs, voice breaking with affection, her breath hitching.

Then it hits.

Her hips falter, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her climax crashes through her. Her walls pulse hard around you, tight and hot, her body shuddering as she rides it out, grinding slow and deep to milk every wave. She leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, her kisses turning sloppy, warm, her arms wrapping around your neck as she trembles. “Fuck, I—” she starts, but the words dissolve into a soft, breathless moan, her affection spilling out in the afterglow.

Chaeyoung collapses against you, her body still trembling, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You’re still hard inside her, the heat of her pulsing walls a lingering ache, and she notices—her hips shifting slightly, a soft hum escaping her lips as she feels you.

“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with a knowing warmth. She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding off you with a slow, deliberate drag, her slickness trailing as she pulls away. The sudden emptiness makes you groan, but before you can protest, she’s moving—slipping down between your legs, settling there with a glint in her eye.

Her hand wraps around your base, slick with her arousal and yours, stroking once, twice, before she leans in. Her lips brush your tip, teasing, then part to take you in—slowly, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting herself on you. “Can’t leave you like this,” she whispers, breath ghosting over you, sending a shiver up your spine.

She sinks deeper, her mouth warm and tight, sucking with a steady, gentle rhythm. Her cheeks hollow as she works, tongue flicking along the underside, drawing low, guttural sounds from your chest. Your hands fist the sheets, hips twitching up instinctively, but she presses a palm to your thigh—firm, grounding—keeping you still as she takes control.

Her pace quickens slightly, lips sliding down further, taking you to the back of her throat with a soft, muffled moan that vibrates through you. She’s relentless but tender, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, watching your every reaction—your strained breaths, the way your jaw tightens as the pleasure builds too fast.

It doesn’t take long. The heat coils tight, a molten knot deep in your core, her steady suction dragging you relentlessly toward the brink. Her mouth’s a furnace—hot, wet, unyielding—each pull sending jolts up your spine, each swirl of her tongue a spark that ignites the fuse. Your breath turns ragged, chest heaving as the pressure builds, teetering on unbearable.

Then she hits it—her tongue curls just right, a deft, wicked flick against the sensitive head, and you shatter. “Chaeyoung—” Her name rips from your throat, a broken, guttural cry as the climax slams into you, white-hot and blinding. Your hips buck hard, thrusting deeper into her mouth, and she takes it all—lips locked tight, throat flexing as you spill into her in thick, pulsing waves. The pleasure’s savage, shredding through you, every nerve alight as she keeps sucking, drawing out every last shudder, swallowing every drop with a soft, triumphant hum that vibrates through your core.

Your vision blurs, head slamming back against the pillow, a raw groan tearing free as she milks you dry, her tongue still teasing, prolonging the aftershocks until you’re trembling, spent, and gasping for air.

She doesn’t stop there—her lips stay on you, softer now, cleaning you off with slow, deliberate licks, her tongue tracing every inch until you’re spent and twitching from the sensitivity. You both feel it—the pull for more, the raw want still simmering—but she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Keeping my promise,” she says, voice low, a little hoarse. “You’re tired—I said I’d be quick.”

She slides off the bed, legs still shaky, and pads to the bedside drawer. Pulling out a cloth, she cleans herself with quick, practiced motions—wiping her mouth, cleaning away the mess between her thighs, the glistening trails of her own release. You watch, too drained to move, as she tosses the cloth aside and returns, climbing back into bed.

She slips into your arms without hesitation, curling against you, her head nestling into your chest. Her warmth presses close, soft and steady, her breath evening out as she settles into your embrace—a quiet end to the fire she’d stoked.

Chaeyoung breaks the silence, her voice cutting through the soft hum of the room. “I’ll be gone tomorrow morning and for a bit. Overseas work.”

You shift, turning to face her, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s why you were so eager tonight?” There’s a bite in your tone—disappointment laced with the nagging thought that you’re just a tool for them, a convenient fix. “Needed a refill before you jet off?”

Her eyes lift to meet yours, hesitant, softer than you expect. The look isn’t smug or teasing—it’s unguarded, almost reluctant, like leaving isn’t her choice. It makes you pause, reconsider the venom in your assumption.

“What, did you forget that hotel night?” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her voice stays low. “You fucked me so hard I’d have to shatter the moon to lose my mind now.”

You narrow your eyes, not fully buying it. “So it’s just horniness then? You’re always this desperate?” The words slip out sharper than intended, brushing against an insult you don’t fully mean.

Her face shifts—something flickers, hurt flashing behind her eyes, a quiet disappointment dimming her usual spark. “You think I’d just screw anyone, anytime?” Her directness hits you square, catching you off guard, and then that smile creeps back, softer now, teasing but warm. “What’s this—jealousy? I’ve already told you, I’m yours. Always will be. The others too, actually, they just haven’t caught up to that yet.”

She holds your gaze, the reassurance steady, her hand brushing your chest as if to seal it, leaving the sting of your words—and her response—hanging between you.

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, warm and fleeting, then pulls back with a small, knowing smile. “Didn’t you say you’re tired?” she murmurs, her voice a gentle tease. “Sleep now—unless you want me to pounce on you again.” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing your face, tracing your jaw with a caress so tender it feels like a whisper against your skin.

No magic flares, no glowing eyes or woven spells—just her, her touch, her words wrapping around you like a quiet lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the day melting under her steady gaze, and as her fingers linger, you drift—slipping into sleep as if she’d willed it so.

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unabashegirl · 1 month ago

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Love Island (ML)

SHORT SERIES: Harry’s arrival on Love Island stirs Y/N’s feelings, sparking tension with her partner, Tom, and the rest of the ladies, as she’s drawn to Harry’s charm and intrigue.

The full series is already completed and available to read over on my Patreon. 🖤

⭐️ Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

⭐️ Please consider submitting your one shot request -> Forms

pt. 1

pt. 2

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pt. 4

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pt. 9

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thoughtfulfiction · 3 months ago

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Operation: Cover Me in Sonshine

Author’s Note: Making the Operations fics into a series!

Content warning: Pregnancy and natural delivery.

It’s still early. The quiet of the house feels almost surreal as you wake up. The air feels heavier somehow, like the morning itself is holding its breath. Sunlight creeps through the blinds in soft slants, barely brushing the edges of your room. You shift slightly, wincing as the weight of your belly tugs against your body. Your hand instinctively finds the curve of it, still firm, round, and impossibly stretched. You sigh softly, not really wanting to be awake because you can already feel how early in the day it still must be. The clock on your nightstand blinks, 5:55 AM.

Another morning.

You’ll be lucky if you ever sleep in past seven for the next few years. Right now, though, sleep seems like a distant luxury, one you haven’t had much of lately. Between the ache in your hips and the dull throb in your lower back, rest comes in fits and starts. Despite how exhausted you are, your mind refuses to quiet.

All you can think about—all anyone can think about, is that you’re still waiting. Three days have passed since your due date and yet, no contractions, no signs, no…nothing. Just this endless limbo, your body stuck in a frustrating stalled state that makes you feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something big, yet unable to tip over.

You grab at the nightstand for your phone, squinting as the bright screen flares to life. A message from Joe waits at the top.

Hey babe, just headed out for a quick workout. I’ll be back by 10:30. If you need anything or feel like today’s the day, just let me know and I’ll come home sooner. Love you.

Your lips curve slightly, warmth blooming in your chest, but there’s something else there too, something closer to frustration. Not at him, but at…all of it. This waiting game. The feeling of being stuck while everyone around you carries on.

You knew he’d get up early. Even in the offseason, Joe clings to a routine, his quiet hours in the morning when the world feels calm and focused. And he’s earned that space. He’s been incredible these past few weeks, doting without hovering, most of the time. He’s always steady and patient no matter how restless you’ve been. Every evening, he asks if you’re okay, if you need anything, sometimes twice, oftentimes more. His time off has revolved around you, learning everything there is to know about newborns: the most effective swaddle methods, how long to keep him awake so he learns the difference between night and day as well as an effective nighttime feeding schedule.

He can take a few hours to himself, you think. He deserves that.

Your fingers hover over the screen before you type out a reply.

Thanks, babe. I’ll be fine. Just make sure you don’t overdo it.

You can practically hear him chuckling through the phone, that quiet, knowing laugh, because he never seems to believe he’s overdoing anything. His stubborn confidence is part of what makes him Joe, part of why you love him.

You exhale and try to shift again, but a deep ache flares in your back, deeper this time, like a dull knife twisting low in your spine, pulling things apart that are definitely meant to stay firmly attached. You groan softly and press your fingers into the sore spot, massaging circles to ease the tension. It’s not new at all. This ache has been creeping in more and more lately, but each time it sparks, a tiny flicker of hope stirs in your chest.

Maybe this is it…

But no. The pain fades, leaving you frustrated and no closer to labor than you were yesterday, or the day before that.

The clock now reads 6:37 AM.

You close your eyes, but the knot of restlessness remains. There’s a quiet pressure building, not painful exactly, but heavy and constant, like your body is gathering itself for something important. You know it’s coming, but when?

You shift again, one hand on your belly, feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your skin. The tiny human you've spent all this time carefully creating is still tucked inside, still waiting.

“Take your time,” you murmur softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. “Just, maybe not too much longer? Please?”

You set the phone down and settle back into the blankets, trying to relax your shoulders. It’s been hard, lately. Waiting. It’s been a whole year of preparation, appointments, baby names, and finally, the moment feels so close, but not quite here yet.

The minutes tick by, slow and steady, but for now, you’re here, in this quiet space, waiting for the little one to arrive. Just a little longer.

You put the phone down, letting Joe’s text sink in as you try to shake off the dull ache in your bones. The unfortunate familiar pangs of discomfort from indigestion and constipation seem to be intensifying. Lately, it feels like the world’s most inconvenient ailment has decided to settle in just as you’re waiting for the baby to make its grand entrance. Of course, it’s also the one thing you didn’t expect to be this uncomfortable—being overdue should’ve been enough of a challenge without the constant bloating and awkward, painful pressure in your stomach.

You inhale deeply, trying to remind yourself it’s just the digestive struggles. The weight of the baby pressing against your insides, your body’s final stretch before it does its job. It’s annoying. Embarrassing, even.

It feels like every part of your body is letting you down. Your stomach bloats up at the smallest meal, your back aches with every step, and now, it’s like your own body is holding the baby hostage in there. And let’s not even get started on the hormone-driven emotional rollercoaster.

But, you have to admit, some of it feels comical, even in its discomfort. You’ve read enough pregnancy blogs to know that half the battle is dealing with things no one tells you about—like the indignity of trying to figure out which position on the couch will ease your gas without making you explode in a fit of awkwardness.

With a sigh, you slowly swing your legs off the bed, careful not to rush the movement. The pressure in your midsection seems to ease up slightly as you stand, though it’s still there, a little tight and definitely at max capacity. You gingerly make your way downstairs, holding onto the railing for balance, feeling the full weight of your baby drastically shifting your equilibrium. As you move, the cramping feels more like an intense knot in your gut, and you know it’s time to make your way to the exercise ball.

You head straight for the water bottle, taking a long sip, feeling the cool liquid trickle down your throat and easing the dryness that’s taken over. You don’t think it’ll help regulate whatever is going on, but hydration seems like a decent place to start.

After a few seconds, you make your way over to the corner of the living room where the exercise ball sits, your faithful companion during these last few weeks. You lower yourself slowly onto it, wincing a little as the baby shifts, and take a deep breath as you roll your hips in slow circles. The gentle movement is supposed to relieve the pressure, and although you’re skeptical, you focus on the slight relief it brings.

It’s just one of those things, isn’t it? One of the million little things people never tell you about pregnancy. How one day you’ll have to tell your husband you haven’t gone to the bathroom in days and you’re on the verge of praying about it. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, even if the situation is mildly uncomfortable. But that’s pregnancy—endlessly humbling, unpredictable, and sometimes…a little bit ridiculous.

You rest your hands on your belly, feeling the baby moving around, and for a moment, the cramping fades into something more tolerable. Maybe this won’t last much longer. Maybe the baby’s just waiting for you to stop worrying about the pain, stop stressing, before finally making his move.

Until then, you’ll continue rolling on this exercise ball, a little horrified at what your body is or isn’t doing, a little tired, but still hopeful that you’ll stop having to ask for help tying your shoes and getting off the couch soon and very soon.

By the time Morgan shows up at 8 AM, you’re curled up on the couch, tucked into a corner with a throw blanket draped over your legs. The dull ache in your lower belly hasn’t really let up, and the pressure feels like someone’s wedged a brick just above your hips. You’re trying to focus on Abbott Elementary, but even your favorite sitcom isn’t helping much. The laughter from the TV feels distant, like background noise to the uncomfortable churning inside you.

Morgan’s familiar voice calls from the kitchen.

“Morning! How’re you feeling?”

You force a smile and crane your neck toward him. He’s already setting his bags on the counter, moving with the kind of ease that comes from routine. He’s been Joe’s private chef long enough to know exactly where everything is—knives, spices, meal prep containers, all without a second thought.

“I’m good,” you answer, even though you’re very much not.

He pauses, wiping his hands on a towel. “You want me to whip something up for you? Eggs? Oatmeal?” He gestures toward the fridge. “I can make that quinoa bowl you liked last week?”

You grimace at the thought. The idea of food, anything warm, rich, or even remotely flavorful, almost make you gag. You press a hand to your belly, your palm tracing flat circles to the front tryin to sooth that backed up sensation, still feeling painfully full despite barely eating since last night.

“No thanks,” you mutter. “I feel like if I eat anything, I’ll actually combust.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push. He’s seen you in various stages of pregnancy discomfort, the bloody noses, random crying fits over commercials, even that one time you cursed Joe’s sneakers for “squeaking too loud.” He knows better than to argue with you, especially this late in the game.

“Alright,” he says easily. “But if you change your mind, let me know and I can you something small and easy on the stomach.”

You mumble your thanks and sink deeper into the couch, moving around more easily now that the back pain has dissipated just enough to focus on what's really causing issues. Another cramp bubbles low in your belly, a little dull and you instinctively close your eyes, breathing through it. It’s really nothing. Just more of this stubborn indigestion that won’t quit.

Morgan, meanwhile, quietly moves around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and portioning out Joe’s post-workout meals. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way. He’s trying to be subtle but it’s very noticeable. He can tell you’re uncomfortable and even though you said you were good, he still feels like he should do something to help.

There's something about your silence, the way you’ve barely talked or how you keep pressing your hand to your stomach just nags at him.

He steps away from the counter and pulls out his phone. After a moment of hesitation, he types out a text to Joe:

Hey man, just FYI, Y/N isn’t feeling great. Says it’s indigestion, but she looks a little off. Doesn’t want to eat. Not trying to overstep, but figured you’d want to know.

He stares at the message for a second longer before hitting send. Then he goes back to his chopping, keeping one ear tuned toward the living room…just in case.

Joe’s phone buzzes on the bench beside him just as he’s about to start his next set. He’s been pushing himself this morning, faster reps, heavier weight, trying to clear his mind. And maybe to get a few intense sessions going before the baby comes and he's too sleep deprived to put 300lbs on the bar for leg day. The further away they get to the due date, the harder it’s been for him to focus. Every morning feels like a guessing game. Will today be the day? And it’s been weighing on him more than he'd ever care to admit.

He grabs his phone, swiping away a layer of sweat on his forehead with his other hand. Seeing Morgan’s name on the screen makes his stomach tighten.

Joe doesn’t even think twice after reading the text, he’s already tapping the call button.

You pick up on the second ring, sounding tired but still calm.

“Hey,” you greet softly.

“Hey,” Joe says, his voice low with concern. “Morgan said you’re not feeling too hot?”

You let out a small sigh. “Yeah…just uncomfortable. Same stuff I’ve been dealing with, stomach feels a little dodgy, like I’m too full even though I barely ate. It’s nothing worse than what I’ve felt the last few weeks, though. I promise.”

Joe leans forward on the bench, still breathing a little hard from his workout. “You sure? I can be home in fifteen. Maybe even less than that if you need me.”

“No, no,” you insist. “Seriously, I’m fine. Take your time.”

But then you hesitate and Joe hears it.

“…Actually,” you add awkwardly, “Can you um…can you ask your assistant to grab me some prune juice? And those Olly constipation gummies?”

There’s a brief silence.

“Prune juice?” Joe echoes, biting back a grin.

“Don’t,” you warn immediately, your voice sharp with embarrassment. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

Joe can’t help himself, a quiet chuckle slips out, and you groan.

“I hate this,” you mutter. “I’m literally begging you to send someone to buy me prune juice. I might die of humiliation before this baby even comes out.”

“Hey,” Joe soothes, his voice warm now, teasing forgotten. “Don’t even worry about it. You’re carrying our baby. If you need prune juice, gummies, or whatever else, I’ll make it happen.”

“You better,” you grumble, but there’s a small smile in your voice. “You did this to me.”

“I know and I’m sorry. I’ll text her now,” Joe promises. “And I’ll finish up fast, just in case.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Love you.”

You sigh, wanting to actually be swallowed by the couch, “love you too.”

As Joe hangs up, he’s already pulling up his assistant’s number, typing out the most ridiculous grocery request he’s ever had to send.

Hey, can you grab some prune juice and Olly constipation gummies and drop them off at the house? Don’t ask. Just trust me.

He pauses, smirks, and adds:

Maybe get some peonies too. The biggest bouquet they have. Just in case.

He sends the message, then grabs his towel and heads for the his last few sets. He’s not taking his time after all.

Joe steps through the front door less than 30 minutes after his call, tossing his keys onto the counter. The first thing he sees is the half-empty cup of prune juice and the opened bottle of laxative gummies sitting beside it. He frowns, setting his gym bag down.

“Where is she?” he asks Morgan, who’s finishing up in the kitchen.

Morgan just jerks his thumb toward the stairs. “Up there. Been a while.”

Joe mutters a quick thanks and heads for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. His heart’s racing, not from panic, exactly, but from that anxious feeling that’s been simmering under his skin all morning. He stops at the bathroom door and knocks gently.

“Babe?” His voice is soft but concerned.

“I need a minute,” you groan from the other side of the door.

Joe’s hand rests flat against the wood. “You okay?”

“No,” you huff miserably. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Joe’s chest tightens. “Aw, c’mon,” he says gently, trying to keep things light. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

“I’m not,” you snap. “I am trapped in here, sweating like I just ran a marathon, and I’m pretty sure if I push any harder I’m gonna launch this baby straight into the toilet.”

Joe winces. “That doesn’t sound great.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses, unsure how to fix this. “Do you want me to call the doctor?” he asks carefully.

“No! God no.” you say quickly. “This is already horrible enough. I don’t need the entire city knowing my body is massively betraying me right now.”

Joe stifles a laugh but instantly regrets it. This isn’t funny, you’re uncomfortable, exhausted, and miserable, and here he is, helpless on the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I just…I hate that you’re feeling like this.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then you sigh, voice softer now.

“I really need this baby out of my body,” you murmur, frustration and exhaustion bleeding through your words.

Joe leans his head against the door. “I know, babe.” His voice is low and steady now. “But you’re doing amazing, okay? Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says firmly. “Look, you’ve made it this far. You’re tough as hell. This whole prune juice situation? Just a bump in the road.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Doesn't exactly feel like it. I cannot believe this is my life right now.”

“Well…” Joe grins. “Look on the bright side, if this baby does show up today, we’ll have one heck of a story to tell at their wedding.”

Your groan echoes through the door, but this time there’s a hint of a smile behind it.

“I’m serious!” Joe teases. “We’ll be like, ‘Oh yeah, your mom went into labor right after she chugged prune juice and I gave her a pep talk while she sat in the bathroom for 45 minutes.’”

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, but you’re laughing now, really laughing, and Joe feels like that’s a win.

“And yet you chose me,” he says softly.

“And I've been contemplating all of my life decisions ever since,” you answer, still stuck in the bathroom, still uncomfortable, but maybe feeling just a little bit better.

The bathroom door creaks open, and you step out looking thoroughly defeated. Your face a little damp from sweating, and your features riddled with exhaustion.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks carefully.

You shake your head with a tired sigh. “Nothing.”

Joe frowns. “Nothing?”

“Not a thing.” You throw your hands up in frustration. “I drank prune juice, ate those stupid gummies, and sat in there forever just hoping something would happen. Now I'm just worn out.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile, but he knows better than to push his luck.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

You don’t argue. Your body feels heavy, your stomach taut, not from cramps, just…pressure. Like your baby’s taking up every possible inch inside you and still isn’t satisfied. You crawl into bed with a quiet groan, tugging the blankets up over you.

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before grabbing a fresh shirt and some shorts.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.”

You mumble something in response, something sleepy and unintelligible. Your eyes are already closing as he heads to the bathroom.

When he comes back a few minutes later, his hair still damp, Joe’s wearing one of his old workout shirts and a pair of loose shorts. He tosses his towel in the laundry basket and moves quietly to your side of the bed.

You’re half-asleep, curled on your side, breathing slow and steady. He sits beside you, shifting carefully so the mattress barely dips. His hand finds your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your spine, tracing soft circles in the exact spots he knows help you relax.

After a moment, his hand drifts lower, resting on the hard, round curve of your belly. His palm molds to it, and his brow furrows slightly.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Does this hurt?”

Your eyes barely crack open. “Not really,” you murmur. “Just feels…overstuffed. Like he’s running out of room.”

Joe hums thoughtfully, his thumb absently stroking over the stretched fabric of your shirt. He can feel the tension beneath his hand. Your stomach’s so compact, like a drum. His fingers press a little firmer, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel for movement.

And then, right beneath his palm, the baby moves, slow and heavy, like he’s just as uncomfortable as you are.

“Wow,” Joe breathes with a soft chuckle. “Yeah, he’s definitely running out of space.”

You smile sleepily, your hand sliding over his, locking your fingers together on your belly. “Feels like he’s trying to punch his way out at this point.”

“Well,” Joe grins, “I’d prefer that over prune juice doing the job.”

You snort, barely opening one eye to shoot him a look. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m too tired.”

“Alright, alright,” he whispers, pressing one more kiss to your cheek. “Get some rest.”

You’re out cold in minutes, your breathing soft and even. Joe shifts carefully, reaching for his iPad on the nightstand. He pulls up a documentary, something about space exploration. It’s the kind of background noise that won’t steal too much of his attention and settles in beside you.

He doesn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now. Something about the way you’ve been moving, tired, off and just not quite yourself keeps him rooted to the spot. So he stays, one arm still resting protectively across your belly, just in case.

Just in case today’s the day.

Joe barely stirs when you shift out of bed a little over an hour later. He feels the dip in the mattress, hears the quiet shuffle of your feet as you head to the bathroom, but he doesn’t think much of it. Finally, he figures, letting his eyes drift back to his iPad. The prune juice and gummies must’ve kicked in.

But then he hears it, the familiar, awful sound of you gagging, followed by the unmistakable heave of you being sick.

He’s out of bed in an instant, the iPad forgotten on the sheets.

“Hey, hey,” Joe calls as he reaches the bathroom, his voice rising with concern. The door’s cracked open, and he pushes it the rest of the way.

You’re kneeling in front of the toilet, one hand gripping the side of it for balance. Your whole body shudders as another wave hits, and Joe feels his stomach twist.

“Aw, babe…” He kneels beside you immediately, one hand steadying your back. His other hand reaches for a hair tie from the counter, carefully pulling your hair away from your face.

You’re gasping for air, eyes watery and face pale. “I’m…I’m fine,” you choke out between breaths, but Joe’s not convinced.

“Yeah, no offense, but you don’t look fine,” he says softly, his hand still rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You rest your forehead against your arm on the toilet seat, completely drained. “I think I just overdid it with the prune juice.”

“Or the gummies,” Joe adds with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“Or both,” you mutter. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Hey,” Joe says firmly, squeezing your shoulder. “None of that. You’re growing a whole human. If anyone’s allowed to have a rough day, it’s you.”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Yeah, well… my ‘rough day’ feels like a disaster movie at this point.”

Joe reaches over, grabbing a washcloth and running it under cool water. He kneels again, gently pressing it to the back of your neck.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mmhmm.” You sigh, closing your eyes as the cool cloth eases some of the heat in your face.

Joe’s quiet for a moment, but his hand never stops moving slow circles on your back, steady and calming. Then, carefully, he asks, “You sure this is just the prune juice?”

You hesitate. “I think so?” you say, but there’s doubt in your voice now. “I mean…I’ve felt weird all day. Maybe this is just my body trying to reset or something. I actually feel a little better.”

Joe’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he leans down and kisses your temple, his hand still resting warm and steady against your back.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you back to bed. But if this gets worse…I’m calling the doctor and it's not really up for discussion after that.”

For once, you don’t fight him.

“Deal,” you mumble, too tired to argue.

Joe keeps a steady arm wrapped around you as he helps you back to bed, moving slow and careful like you might break. You’re shaky and exhausted, and each step feels heavier than the last.

“Almost there,” he murmurs as you reach the edge of the mattress.

But just as you’re about to sit down, that sick, awful feeling rolls through you again and twisting your stomach into knots.

“Wait,” you choke out, one hand flying to your mouth. “I’m gonna—”

You barely make it back to the bathroom before you’re on your knees again, heaving into the toilet. Joe’s right behind you, one hand supporting your waist, the other protecting your hair.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, his voice calm even though his heart’s racing. “I’ve got you.”

But then just as you’re catching your breath, something shifts inside you. A low, unsettling pressure that feels nothing like the cramping and indigestion you’ve battled all day. For a split second, you think you’ve just lost control of your bladder—but then warmth rushes down your legs, soaking your pajama pants and pooling rapidly on the tile floor beneath you.

Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Joe…”

He’s already looking down, eyes wide as they flick from your stunned face to the growing puddle on the floor.

“Is that…?” he starts, but you nod before he can finish.

“My water just broke.” Your voice is a shaky mix of shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little relief.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joe exhales a stunned breath and lets out a soft laugh. The kind that sounds part amazed, part terrified.

“Well…that explains a lot.”

You laugh too, breathless, disbelieving and suddenly the day’s chaos makes sense. The weird pressure, the nausea, the miserable discomfort…your body wasn’t betraying you. It was getting ready.

“Okay,” Joe says, snapping back into focus. “I’m gonna grab your hospital bag, and call Dr. Chen.” He presses a quick kiss to your damp forehead. “We’re having a baby today.”

“Today,” you echo, still trying to wrap your head around it.

The worst day of your life? Maybe not. Maybe it’s just the start of the best one yet.

“Babe, I really think you should just wait until we get there,” Joe says, his voice tight with worry as you pull a towel from the rack.

“Joe,” you groan, stepping carefully out of your soaked pajama pants. “I just threw up, my water broke, and I’m—I don’t even know what else is happening down there. But it’s gross. And I need a shower. Desperately, I'm literally not going anywhere like this.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to argue. “I get that, but the hospital’s—”

“I just need twenty minutes,” you interrupt, your voice softer now. You press a hand to your belly, feeling a lot lighter now, mentally trying to wrap your mind around the fact that this will only get worse from here. And then you'll be a parent for the rest of your life, there's no going back now. “The next time I walk into this bathroom, there’s gonna be a baby in my arms. That’s…that’s insane. I just need a minute to...breathe.”

Joe’s face softens instantly. His shoulders relax, and he steps forward, cupping your face in his hands.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I guess you can take a few.”

You nod, suddenly feeling a lump rise in your throat. This is happening. It’s really happening.

Joe presses a kiss to your forehead and steps back. “I'm gonna grab you some clothes but I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he promises.

You step into the shower, letting the warm water wash over you. For the first time all day, your muscles seem to unclench. The spray rinses away the sweat, the nausea, and thankfully, the sticky amniotic fluid that had left you feeling miserable.

Your mind drifts as you stand beneath the stream, one hand resting protectively on your stomach. The idea that this is the last time you’ll shower before becoming a mom is overwhelming. Exciting, terrifying, surreal. All of it is swirling together until you can’t tell where one feeling ends and the next begins.

You take a deep breath, letting the steam calm you.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you whisper, your fingers tracing slow circles over your belly. “We’re doing this.”

When you finally turn off the water and step out, Joe’s still waiting. Your hospital bag is by the door, a fresh pair of clothes is folded neatly on the bed. He looks up, smiling softly when he sees you.

“Feel better?” he asks.

You nod, drying your face with the towel. “Yeah…a lot better.”

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam curling behind you as Joe looks up from his spot by the bed.

“Perfect timing,” he says, standing and grabbing the clothes he set out. “I brought your comfy leggings and that big sweatshirt you like.”

“You’re the best,” you murmur, taking the pile of clothes from him.

You get dressed slowly, feeling calmer now that you’re clean and in fresh clothes. Joe’s already crouched down by the door, untying your sneakers so they’re easy to slip on.

“Alright,” he says, patting one of them. “Let’s get these on and—”

Suddenly, a deep, pulling feeling grabs at your abdomen like someone’s cinching a belt around your waist.

You freeze, one hand flying to your belly as your breath hitches.

“Whoa—hey,” Joe says, instantly alert. “You okay?”

You press your eyes shut, breathing through the wave that comes and goes thankfully much faster than you thought it would. “I think…I think that was a contraction.”

Joe’s eyes go wide. “Do you? Alright, like you're good now? 1-10?”

“I think so. That was like a four. Wasn't bad,” you mumble out, slowly moving to sit.

Joe’s already moving, one hand on your arm to steady you as you lower yourself carefully onto the edge of the bed.

“Alright, just breathe,” he says, his voice calm but focused. “You’re good. We’re good.”

He grabs one of your sneakers and kneels in front of you.

“Okay,” he mutters, sliding the shoe onto your foot and tying it quickly. “Nice and easy.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs the second shoe, his fingers working fast but gentle.

“You good?” he asks again, glancing up.

You nod, still feeling shaky but relieved the pain has passed. “Yeah…this is just. Crazy.”

Joe gives your knee a reassuring squeeze. “Hey,” he says, grinning as he grabs the hospital bag. “I know you’re feeling a lot right now…but this is kind of exciting, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Terrifying, but yeah…exciting.”

“We’ve got this,” Joe promises, his hand sliding into yours.

And somehow, as you walk together toward the stairs your body still aching, your nerves buzzing, you can't help but smile at the fact that you get to do this with your best friend.

Joe steps closer, his hand sliding to your waist. “Good,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Because I’m pretty sure our kid’s on a mission to meet us ASAP.”

You smile, a genuine one that takes over your entire being and for the first time all day, you feel ready.

You and Joe make your way downstairs, his arm still firmly around your waist as he helps you down each step. Your heart’s racing now, the nerves mixing with a strange kind of excitement. The contraction has passed, but the tension in your body still lingers, reminding you that things are really happening.

As you reach the bottom, you’re greeted by the smell of something delicious—a mix of fresh herbs and sizzling veggies. Morgan’s in the kitchen, expertly preparing lunch as always, his back to you both.

He turns when he hears you walking down the final step, his eyes landing on your focused face and Joe’s tense, wide-eyed expression. His brow furrows instantly, and without missing a beat, he sets down the knife he’s holding.

“You guys heading to the hospital?” Morgan asks, his voice even but his gaze quickly scanning you for any signs of distress.

Joe doesn’t even try to hide the mix of anxiety and excitement in his voice. “Yeah…we’re on our way. Her water broke.”

Morgan doesn’t flinch, but his lips press into a thin line, his eyes flicking between you and Joe. “Alright,” he says, nodding. “Do you need me to do anything, or are you guys good?”

You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Just, uh, just wanted to let you know.”

Joe’s still holding your hand, but now his grip tightens just slightly as if grounding you both in the chaos of the moment. “You know, Morgan, I really wish you could come with us for moral support,” Joe says with a tired grin.

Morgan gives a wry smile, though there’s no humor in his eyes. “I think you guys have that covered. I’ll hold down the fort here.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it catches in your throat. “Thanks, Morgan…you really don’t know how much we appreciate everything.”

Morgan smiles, giving you a quick, understanding nod. “Don’t mention it. Just get to that hospital and have that baby, alright? And hurry up and bring home so I can finally know his name.”

Joe gives him a thumbs up as he helps you toward the door, your heart pounding as you walk toward the car. But the truth is, it’s finally happening. The baby’s on the way, and it's full speed ahead.

Joe’s hands are steady as he helps you into the passenger seat of the car, making sure you’re comfortable despite the cramping pressure is increasing in intensity by the minute, it seems. He leans in one last time to check the car seat, his fingers lightly brushing over the straps as he double-checks everything. His heart races, it’s almost too much to wrap his mind around.

The next time he sits in this car, his son will be in that seat.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and calm as he looks over at you, already buckling himself into the driver’s seat.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath but feeling a little more grounded now. “Yeah, let's do this.”

Joe gives you a small, reassuring smile before pulling out his phone. He presses a few buttons, his thumb hovering over the call button as he looks over at you.

“You texted your mom earlier, right?" You nod. "I’m gonna call my parents,” he says softly, his eyes focused on the screen but his attention still split between you and the road. "I know my mom probably already has a bag packed to stay with us for a few days."

You give him a small nod, squeezing his hand once before he presses the call button.

It rings twice before his mom picks up.

“Joe? Is everything okay?” her voice is full of excitement and anticipation like she already knows what he’s about to say.

“Hey, Mom,” he says quickly, trying to keep his voice light but failing to hide the excitement underneath. “Yeah, everything’s good. Just wanted to let you know, we’re on our way to the hospital. Y/N’s water broke.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before she responds, her voice almost breathless. “Oh my God! Oh, Joe, that’s amazing! You’re going to be a dad! A real dad!”

Joe laughs, his nerves finally starting to settle at the sound of her voice. “I know, Mom. It’s happening, right now.”

“Okay, okay, we’re on our way. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She’s clearly already getting ready to leave, but she pauses. “Tell that sweet girl we love her and we’re so excited.”

“I will, Mom. Love you.”

As he hangs up, he slips the phone into the cupholder and lets out a slow breath.

“Everyone should now be on their way,” Joe says, his hand gently squeezing yours. “It’s happening, babe. Our little guy is on the move.”

You smile softly, your fingers curling around his as you look out the window, knowing that the next chapter of your lives is about to begin and you’re ready.

You rest your head back against the seat, feeling the dull ache in your lower belly starting to build again. With one hand on your stomach, you fumble for your phone with the other.

“Who are you calling?” Joe asks, his eyes flicking between you and the road.

“Nikki,” you mutter, already scrolling for her name. “She’ll kill me if I don’t tell her.”

The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Hey! What’s up?” Nikki’s voice is bright and casual, like she’s got no idea you’re in the middle of the most intense moment of your life.

“Hi,” you breathe, wincing as the ache sharpens. “Sooo…we’re heading to the hospital. Baby time.”

“OH MY GOD!” Nikki practically shrieks. “I’m grabbing my stuff right now. What do you need? Snacks? Chargers? Comfort items? A playlist? Should I bring my—”

Your hand clenches tightly around the phone as the contraction surges, fiery and all-consuming. Without thinking, your other hand shoots out and grips Joe’s thigh. Hard.

“Ahhh—oh, hang on, hang on—” you groan into the phone, squeezing Joe’s leg your own personal stress ball.

Joe’s eyes widen for a second before his hand finds yours. He presses his palm over your knuckles, grounding you as he speaks softly.

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe…I’ve got you. We’re almost there. About ten minutes out.”

The pain peaks, sharp and relentless, before finally fading enough for you to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you gasp into the phone, blinking back tears as you rub his thigh, apologizing again. “That was a bad one.”

“Don’t apologize!” Nikki cries. “I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there, I swear.”

“Okay…just hurry,” you say weakly before hanging up.

But before you can even set the phone down, another contraction slams into you. This one much stronger and faster.

“Oh no, no, no, no—” you gasp, both hands now cupping your belly.

“Babe?” Joe’s voice sharpens, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other reaching for you again.

“Joe, just—” you gasp, your voice thin and desperate. “Just run the light.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. His foot taps the gas, and the car surges forward through the red light. Horns blare from both directions, but Joe doesn’t care. His knuckles are white on the wheel, his gaze laser-focused on the road ahead.

Joe’s arm is weighed down by the hospital bag, your overnight duffel, and a smaller tote crammed with last-minute items but still, he keeps his left hand free, reaching out for you as the elevator doors slide closed.

“Here,” he says softly, offering his hand.

You shake your head quickly, barely able to speak as another contraction tears through you. Instead, you grip the elevator railing with both hands, your fingers curling tightly around the cold metal like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Wow,” you grit out, your forehead dropping forward to rest against your arm. Your breathing stutters, short and sharp as you try to focus on anything but the pressure building inside you. Now that you were out of the car you could feel the shift, he was making his way down and you felt like you had could close your legs even if you wanted to.

Joe’s face tightens with concern, but he doesn’t force anything. He steps closer instead, hovering beside you, helplessly watching you fight through it.

“It’s happening so fast,” you choke out, your voice strained and shaky. “I didn’t think it would…feel like this yet.”

Joe shifts the bags higher on his shoulder and presses his palm against the small of your back, rubbing slow, firm circles.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “But you’re doing so good. Just keep breathing. I’m right here.”

Another contraction swells, more forceful than the last, and your breath falters. You grip the railing even harder, your knuckles turning white as a sharp, stretching pressure radiates low in your belly and deep into your back.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, your knees threatening to buckle as you circled your hips. "I feel like I need to squat or something."

Joe’s hand freezes for a second before he quickly presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Okay, okay…we’re almost there,” he reassures you, glancing anxiously at the glowing floor numbers above the door. “Just hang on a little longer.”

The elevator feels like it’s crawling. Each second drags, and by the time the doors finally slide open, you’re trembling, overwhelmed, breathless, and bracing for whatever’s coming next.

Joe doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bags, then steps right back to your side, curling his arm around you as you take one shaky step forward.

“You’re almost there,” he says again, his voice softer now. “We’re so close, babe…you’re almost there.”

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Just hang on, baby.”

You clench your teeth, breathing through the pain as best you can, your fingers still locked tightly with his.

“We’re almost there,” Joe repeats, glancing at you again. “I swear we’re almost there.”

The moment you step into the hospital room, you barely register Nikki and your mom standing by the bed. They’re both mid-laugh, probably swapping nervous jokes to ease the tension. But their smiles vanish when they see you.

“Oh honey,” your mom gasps, stepping forward.

“You okay?” Nikki chimes in, wide-eyed.

You barely manage a quick, shaky hug with each of them before muttering, “I need to pee. And I need my pants off right now.”

Without waiting for a response, you shuffle straight to the bathroom, tugging your leggings down as you go. The pressure is unbearable, like your body is trying to turn itself inside out.

Joe follows you to the door but stops just outside, lingering anxiously.

“You got it?” he calls softly.

“Yeah just give me a second,” you manage through gritted teeth, gripping the bathroom counter as another contraction swells.

A knock at the main door draws Joe’s attention. The midwife steps inside—calm and confident, like she’s seen this a thousand times before.

“I hear we’ve got a baby in a hurry,” she says with a warm smile.

Joe steps aside as she sets her bag down. “She’s in the bathroom,” he says, running a hand down his face. “Contractions went from nothing to…everything in no time.”

The midwife grabs a pair of gloves. “I’ll check her as soon as she’s ready,” she says, her tone soothing yet no-nonsense.

The next contraction slams into you right there in the bathroom, stealing your breath. You brace both hands on the counter, bowing your head as you ride it out.

“Fuck me, oh my God—” you whimper, feeling the pressure deepen.

Joe’s voice comes from just outside the door. “Babe? Want me to come in?”

“N-no,” you stammer. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The moment the contraction eases, you stumble out of the bathroom, your shirt a little damp with sweat. Your mom and Nikki both look startled, but the midwife steps in like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Let’s get you on the bed,” she says gently. “I’d like to check you. Sounds like things are moving fast.”

You don’t argue. You’re too exhausted, too overwhelmed to care about modesty anymore. Joe helps you to the bed, his strong hands guiding you as you climb up and awkwardly lie back.

The midwife works quickly, gloved fingers checking your progress. You barely notice her calm smile until she looks up at you.

“Well,” she says brightly, “you’re at about eight centimeters. So you're either already in transition or it's coming soon.”

Joe’s eyes widen. “Eight? Already?”

“Oh my God,” Nikki whispers, grabbing your mom’s arm.

“That’s amazing,” your mom says, her voice shaky with emotion.

You don’t feel amazing. You feel like your body’s on fire, like you’re splitting in two or you’re going to explode.

“I don't think I can do this,” you murmur, your voice thin and ragged.

Joe steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yes, you can,” he says firmly, his hand curling around yours. “You’re doing it right now.”

“And you’re so close,” the nurse adds, her voice warm and steady. “Your body’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to.”

The room feels like organized chaos. Voices murmuring, hands adjusting, your body shifting from one position to the next as you desperately try to find some relief.

Your mom is behind you now, her legs stretched out as you lean back against her, the cool fabric of her shirt pressed against your sweaty back. The exercise ball in your lap is your only comfort, something to cling to as you rock back and forth, focusing on the rhythm instead of the relentless waves of pressure.

Nikki kneels at your side, her fingers digging into your hips, deep, firm pressure that somehow cuts through the worst of the pain.

“Right there,” you gasp between breaths. “Don’t stop. Stay right there.”

“I got you,” Nikki promises, her fingers tightening like a vise.

Joe hovers nearby, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes flick anxiously between you, your mom, and Nikki, like he’s looking for some way to help, some role to play that doesn’t involve just watching you hurt.

Finally, you glance up at him, chest heaving.

“Go grab some food,” you rasp.

Joe’s brow furrows. “What? No. I’m not leaving you.”

“Babe, seriously,” you plead. “You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re about to be up all night. Just go. I promise I’ll be okay for 20 minutes.”

Joe opens his mouth to argue when the door swings open and his mom, Robin, steps inside with a bag of food in her hands

“Perfect timing,” you breathe. You hadn’t bothered to check your phone since asking her to grab whatever Morgan was cooking for Joe to have with him.

Robin gives you a soft smile and crosses the room to her son.

“I stopped by the house,” she says, handing Joe the bag. “Morgan had it all packed up, ready to go.”

Joe stares down at the food, still hesitant. “I don’t know…”

You shift uncomfortably against the ball, another contraction creeping up your spine. “Joe… please,” you whisper, voice tight. “Just eat. I need you at 100%.”

His eyes soften, and finally, he steps back toward the chair in the corner, setting the bag down and opening the container.

“Thank you,” you say softly, reaching for his hand before he sits down. Your fingers squeeze his, a silent reminder that, even in the middle of all this, you’re still thinking about him.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love you so much,” he murmurs.

“Love you too,” you whisper back, just as another contraction swells, strong enough to steal your breath.

Nikki’s hands tighten on your hips again, grounding you.

“Deep breaths,” your mom murmurs, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, holding you close as you ride it out.

And across the room, Joe watches you, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, amazed at how he had no idea when he woke up this morning that this would be how the day would go.

You squeeze Nikki’s hand hard as another contraction hits, letting the exercise ball go, "I need to move, this isn't working."

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, helping you lay on your side in the bed.

The room is quieter now, the energy calmer. After hours of constant movement, noise, and coaching, it’s just you and Joe. The dim lighting makes everything feel softer, less overwhelming, but the pressure inside you is still unrelenting.

You’re perched on a birth stool, legs spread wide, elbows resting on your knees, letting out soft sounds of pain. It’s not glamorous, but it’s oddly the most comfortable you’ve felt in hours, something about the position giving your body a break from gravity’s pull.

Dignity is beyond out the window. Your sports bra is damp with sweat. The waistband of your shorts is folded low beneath your belly, your body radiating heat like a furnace.

Joe’s crouched in front of you, arms resting on his knees, watching you closely.

“You okay?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid to break the calm.

You nod, rolling your shoulders back as you take a deep breath. “Weirdly…yeah. This is…kind of nice.”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Can’t say I pictured it going like this, but hey, whatever works.”

You huff a weak laugh, but it quickly turns into a low groan as another contraction tightens across your belly. You shift your hips instinctively, while closing your eyes, trying to ease the pressure. Joe reaches out, rubbing slow circles on your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice steady. “Do you wanna try the shower? Might help you cool off a little.”

You drag a hand over your face, skin warm and sticky. The thought of cool water washing over you sounds like heaven.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “That actually sounds really good.”

“Okay,” Joe says immediately, standing walking over to turn the shower on, adjusting the temperature just the way you like it.

By the time he turns back, you’re already trying to peel off your shorts with shaky hands. Joe steps in to help, easing them down your legs, his touch gentle and patient.

“Couple more steps,” he murmurs softly, holding onto to you like his life depends on it. Right now, it definitely does. He has to get you through this. And he’s going to, no matter what.

When the shower’s ready, he guides you inside, one arm curled protectively around your waist. The warm spray hits your skin, and you exhale a long, shaky breath, the first moment of relief you’ve felt in what feels like hours.

Joe steps just inside the shower, still in his t-shirt and shorts, bracing one hand against the wall to keep steady as he rubs slow circles across your back.

“That better?” he asks quietly.

You nod, your forehead pressing into his chest.

“So much better,” you murmur, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your skin.

For a few precious moments, it’s just you, Joe, and the sound of the water. Everything is quiet, calm, and still.

Joe grabs the showerhead with his left hand, adjusting the spray to a steady stream. With his right hand, he reaches out for you.

“Here,” he says gently. “Squeeze if you need to.”

You eye his hand warily, knowing full well what your grip’s capable of right now.

“I’m not crushing your throwing hand,” you say through a shaky breath. “I’m not about to have Bengals fans making wanted posters of me.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, then switches the showerhead to his right hand and holds out his left instead.

“Alright, fine,” he says with a small laugh. “This one’s expendable.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, gripping his left hand as the next contraction rolls in. You groan low in your throat, bending forward slightly as the pressure tightens across your belly and back.

“Okaaay, okay…breathe,” Joe soothes, running the cool stream of water down your spine. The relief isn’t perfect, but it’s enough to keep you from feeling like you’re drowning in the pain.

The next sound that leaves your mouth is somewhere between a moan and a wail, guttural, raw, and absolutely unflattering.

“Oh my God,” you pant afterward. “I sound like a dying cow.”

Joe leans in, pressing a kiss to the damp side of your head. “That’s great,” he murmurs, “I love cows.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too exhausted to manage anything more.

“I’m serious,” he continues, his thumb tracing slow circles across the back of your hand. “Strong, beautiful…and a little stubborn when they’re in a mood.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, even though you’re smiling.

“No, you don’t,” Joe says softly, running the cool water down your back again. “You’re doing amazing…and I’m so proud of you.”

Your fingers squeeze his hand, hard, as another contraction tears through you. Joe doesn’t flinch. He just holds on tighter, staying steady and solid beside you.

“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

The pressure in your lower back and pelvis suddenly shifts—deeper, sharper —and a new kind of discomfort blooms, making it impossible to stay seated.

“I can’t sit anymore,” you gasp, wincing as you shift your weight. “It’s too much. My butt hurts.”

Joe’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate. He slides an arm around your waist, steadying you as you rise shakily to your feet.

The second you’re upright, it’s like gravity grabs hold. A powerful downward pressure that takes your breath away. Before you can even think to stop it, your body bears down on its own, your muscles clenching and pushing without permission.

“Hahh! Okay…okay. Oh my god.” you cry, one hand shooting between your legs on instinct.

“What? What is it?” Joe’s voice is sharp now, his eyes scanning you in panic.

You wanted to answer but you couldn't talk. You couldn't do anything but focus inward and do exactly what your body was demanding, curling in on yourself, bending your knees slightly. The sounds you were making were different, less breathing and more deep sounds, guttural...primal. Joe freezes for half a second before snapping into action.

“Babe? Oh you’re…you’re pushing." He notes, like saying it out loud would make it less daunting. "Alright, okay just…hang on.” He carefully turns off the shower, wrapping one arm securely around you. “We need to make sure you’re at 10, babe. Can you try to hold on for a second? It's hard, I know, we just gotta make sure you're ready so you don't hurt yourself."

“I can’t stop,” you pant, rocking your hips desperately, trying to breathe through the overwhelming urge to bear down. One hand grips your stomach, the other braced between your legs like you can physically hold your son inside.

Joe’s grip tightens. “I know—I know,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Just…just try. I’m gonna get your mom or Nikki.”

You barely register him yelling as he helps you stagger out of the bathroom.

“Hey, I need someone to hit the call button. Right now.”

Your mom bursts into the bathroom just as you half-squat in the shower, your body pushing again with a force that steals your breath.

“I'm either shitting myself or he’s coming,” you choke out, tears springing to your eyes.

Your mom runs back to the bed and slams her hand on the call button, calling for immediate medical assistance. Joe is only focused on you, one hand bracing your back, the other gripping your hand as your fingers dig into his palm.

The reality of what’s happening hits Joe like a freight train, Kai isn’t just coming, he’s right there. His breathing stutters, but he forces himself to focus. You’re leaning heavily against him, your face twisted in pain, but you’re still fighting, still pushing.

“Just breathe,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You’re okay. You’re good. I’m right here.”

“I need…I need to move,” you gasp, your body desperate for a new position.

“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll take it slow,” he says, helping you shift onto your hands and knees. His arm stays braced beneath you, holding you steady as you adjust.

The moment your weight settles into place, another powerful contraction grips you, and you bear down hard, arching your back as you push. Your whole body shakes with the effort.

The nurse rushes in then with a few people trailing behind, her voice is calm but urgent. “Joe?” she says firmly, locking eyes with him as she kneels beside you. “I need you to stay right where you are, you’re doing great.”

Joe swallows hard and nods, his grip tightening on you as the she guides him.

“Okay, his head’s almost out,” the nurse says, motioning to one of the medical aids. She presses a cold compress into Joe’s hand. “Hold this here, help her stretch.”

Joe places the cool cloth against your skin, and you let out a shuddering sigh at the relief it brings.

“When she pushes again, I want you to support him. Don’t pull, just let him come.”

Joe’s fingers tremble slightly, but he nods again. “I’ve got him,” he says, more certain this time.

Another contraction rips through you, and you cry out, pressing your forehead into Joe’s shoulder as your body bears down.

“There you go, baby,” Joe whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re doing so good…so good.”

Suddenly, the baby’s head slips free into Joe’s waiting hands—warm, damp, and shockingly real.

“Holy shit,” Joe gasps, his voice barely a whisper. “…his head’s out.”

“Check for a cord.” The nurse cuts in.

Joe swallows hard and gently runs his fingers around the baby’s head, careful and precise. “No cord,” he says, relief flooding his voice.

You’re shaking, exhausted and overwhelmed, but Joe’s voice cuts through the noise.

“You can do this,” he whispers against your temple, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this. I know you do.”

With the next contraction, you push hard, crying out as Kai’s shoulders slip free, followed by the rest of his tiny body. The midwife hands him a clean towel just in time to catch the warm, slippery weight of his baby boy, who enters the world with a rush of fluid and an angry, piercing cry.

“Oh my God,” Joe breathes, his voice breaking as he carefully lifts his son onto his back, cradling him in the fresh towel.

“He’s here,” Joe chokes out, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder. “He’s here…and he’s so—oh my god. He’s actually here.”

Tears spill down your face as you reach back weakly, your fingertips brushing your son’s tiny hand.

“You did it,” Joe whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible.”

And as their son’s cries echo through the room, Joe can’t stop staring. His heart full, hand still steady on your back unbelievably overwhelmed by the sight of the strongest two people he’s ever known.

The sound of your baby’s first cry fills the room —loud, raw, and impossibly perfect. You let out a shaky breath, your body sagging with exhaustion and overwhelming relief.

“He’s here,” Joe whispers again, his voice breaking as he cradles your son’s tiny body in the towel. “Little man’s got some lungs on him.”

You chuckle softly, your fingertips brushing Kai’s damp hair. He’s warm and wriggling beneath Joe’s steady hands, his cries fierce and strong.

“Kai,” you rasp, barely able to get the word out through your tears. “Took you long enough sweet boy.”

Joe’s face crumples as he leans in closer, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. His free hand finds yours, fingers lacing together tightly. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “Both of you. So much.

Outside the bathroom door, Nikki and your mom, who had been frozen in terrified silence through those final moments, each let out a shaky sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” Nikki whispers, pressing a hand to her heart.

Your mom wipes her eyes, her breath catching. “He’s here,” she says softly, her voice full of awe.

Neither of you can believe there’s a baby in your arms. His cries soften the moment your skin meets his, his tiny fingers curling against you.

Joe leans in, his arm around both of you, his lips brushing your temple. “He’s perfect,” he whispers.

The nurses gently lift Kai from your chest, cradling him in a soft towel as they prepare to take him to be cleaned up. The rest of her team surrounds you immediately after, checking you over.

Joe’s eyes flicker between you and Kai, a mix of joy and worry crossing his face. “Do you need me here?” he asks, his voice full of concern. “I don’t want to leave you alone…”

You reach out, your hand still shaky from the delivery, but you manage to catch his. You smile softly, trying to ease his mind.

“I’m okay, Joe,” you whisper, your voice quiet but steady. “Go with him. He needs you, too.”

Joe’s eyes soften, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. He looks at Kai one last time before meeting your gaze, his heart torn. “But—”

“Joe,” you interrupt gently, “I’ll be fine. You go with him. He’s our son. You don’t want to miss a minute of that.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, but there’s still hesitation in his eyes. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he turns to the nurses, his eyes a little glossy.

“I’ll be right over there with my adult diaper on.”

One of the nurses smiles and nods in reassurance, carefully carrying Kai toward the warmer. Joe hesitates for a moment longer, then leans down to kiss your forehead.

“I love you,” he says, his voice full of emotion.

“I love you too,” you reply, your eyes locking with his. “Now go.”

Joe gives you one last lingering look before following the nurses toward the table, his steps slow as he watches his son being gently cleaned. His heart, still racing, finds some calm in the knowledge that his family is safe and sound.

Back by your side, the midwife helps you settle into bed, cleaning you up gently but efficiently. You take a deep breath, your body aching but content, watching as Joe gazes down at Kai from the other side of the room, his hands trembling with a kind of wonder as he meets their son for the first time.

And you know, no matter what, your world has just changed forever.

Kai is carefully swaddled in a soft, baby blue blanket, his tiny body snug and warm. The nurses hand him off to Joe, and the second he holds his son in his arms, Joe’s breath catches. His gaze softens, and a smile spreads across his face as he looks down at the tiny face peeking out from the blanket.

He takes a long, stunned moment, unable to tear his eyes away from Kai. The baby’s icy blue eyes are still a little puffy, his features soft and delicate, but the resemblance is undeniable.

“Damn,” Joe breathes, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “He looks like me. He looks exactly like me.”

He turns toward you, still holding Kai carefully in his arms, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight.

“Well,” you tease, your voice still a little raspy from the delivery, “I guess my genes didn’t even try, huh?”

Joe chuckles, his eyes still glued to his son, as he gently walks over to you. “At least the hair is all yours,” he says with a smile, his tone full of pure love. “He’s perfect.”

He settles beside you on the bed, carefully placing Kai in your arms. As soon as you cradle him, Kai’s tiny hand instinctively grabs onto your finger, and your heart melts all over again.

Joe leans in, his lips brushing your temple as he whispers, “He’s ours.”

And in that moment, you know with every fiber of your being, everything you’ve ever dreamed of has just come true.

Nikki and your mom both take turns holding Kai, their faces glowing with pure joy as they marvel at him. Nikki, teary-eyed, gently rocks him in her arms, whispering softly to him as if already promising a lifetime of friendship and love. Your mom smiles warmly, brushing a finger along his cheek as she coos, “He’s perfect. Just like his parents.”

Joe watches them with a soft smile on his face, still in awe of how everything has fallen into place. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, glancing at the screen. It’s his mom.

He steps into the corner of the room, his voice already trembling with emotion as he answers.

“Hey, Mom,” Joe says, a grin spreading across his face. “Kai’s here.”

Robin’s voice comes through loud and clear, excited and full of joy. “Oh my god, Joe! He’s here!”

“Yeah,” Joe laughs, his heart soaring. “He’s perfect, Mom. He looks just like me.”

Robin lets out a soft chuckle, clearly overjoyed. “I can’t wait to meet him! We’re on our way. We’ll be there in about 10 minutes.”

Joe looks over at you, his heart full, and you give him a small nod, a smile lighting up your face despite the exhaustion still lingering in your body. You reach out for Kai again, holding him close as you breathe in the scent of his soft skin, overwhelmed by the love that fills the room.

“We’ll be waiting,” Joe says into the phone, his voice thick with emotion. “Can’t wait for you to meet him.”

He hangs up and turns back to the room, his eyes softening as he takes in the sight of his son being held by your mom and Nikki.

“They’ll be here soon,” Joe says quietly, walking back to your side. “But for now, it’s just us.”

You smile, your eyes locking with his. “Just us.”

And as you both sit there, wrapped in the warmth of your new family, you can’t help but feel that, no matter how much time passes, you’ll never forget this moment, when everything finally felt complete.

A few minutes later, the door to the room opens and Robin and Jimmy walk in, their eyes immediately locking on Kai, still peacefully nestled in your arms.

Joe’s parents stop in their tracks, both of them overcome with emotion. Robin’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she takes a step closer, her voice trembling.

“Oh my God honey…he’s beautiful,” Robin whispers, her voice full of awe.

Jimmy, usually reserved, can’t help but smile widely as he steps forward, his eyes twinkling with pride. “Look at him,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “He’s got your eyes, Joe.”

Joe, standing next to you, watches as his parents approach. His heart swells seeing the look on their faces, pure, unfiltered love. He gently takes Kai from your arms and cradles him against his chest, carefully walking over to his parents.

Robin reaches out first, her hands trembling as she gently holds Kai for the first time. She gazes down at him, tears spilling over as she whispers, “My baby boy now has his own baby boy.”

Joe watches, his own emotions thick in his throat as he stands beside his mom, who can barely hold herself together. Robin leans in, kissing Kai’s tiny forehead, her voice breaking as she says, “I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.”

She looks up at Joe, her eyes full of love. “You’ve made me the happiest mom in the world.”

Joe smiles, his throat tight with emotion, but he manages to speak. “I just can’t believe he’s here. And he’s real.”

Jimmy, his voice soft, adds, “You’re a dad now, kid. It’s…it’s something else.”

Robin holds Kai a little longer, her tears falling freely now as she cradles him gently, overwhelmed by the fact that her son—her only child—has started a family of his own.

Joe watches, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, his heart swelling at the sight. “We’ve got a family now,” he says quietly, looking at you. “A real one.”

On a bright sunny day in May, Kai Joseph Burrow entered the world, all 10lbs 3oz of him.

And as the room fills with quiet, overwhelming emotion, you realize just how much love surrounds you, how deeply your family has grown, and how everything, no matter how difficult or challenging it’s been? It’s all led to this perfect moment.

Life would never be the same. And after today? You can’t wait to get this next chapter started.

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x you #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic #nfl imagine

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