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lazydreamer19 · 17 days ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky #buckybarnes #bucky marvel #bucky barnes fanfiction #roommate!bucky #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #mcu bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfic #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes

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lazydreamer19 · 24 days ago

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what you know - ch12: too sweet || 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. 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 ; 19.2k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

With a resounding slam, the hood of a newly-serviced Nissan latches shut. Stepping over a dirty rag and a wrench, Sukuna wipes his forehead with the back of his arm and makes his way across the shop to his boss. With a flick of his thumb to point back to the little silver hatchback, he mutters an “it’s good,” before trudging back across the shop and ducking under a half-open garage door.

His breath billows out in front of him, the chill of the air frigid on his sweat-laden skin. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulls out his lighter, rubbing his thumb over the engraved last name across the metal. It’s only his father’s last name carved into the silver, yet he swears yours is written across it too, in the way that the former scrapes and scratches once littering the surface are now gone.

Blinking out of the trance he’s found himself in, he reaches back into his pocket for a cigarette, flipping the cardstock top open, only to be met with an empty box. With a sigh, he grinds the back of his wrist into his temple, attempting to keep grease and oil away from his face by using his wrist, only to look down at his wrist and see it, too, is covered in oil.

Shutting his eyes, he leans back against the smooth concrete of the building, letting his head fall back on the wall. Letting out a breath, he blinks and watches the warmth swirl into the air, not unlike smoke. He has half a mind to try to placebo himself into believing there’s nicotine running through his system, calming his rampant thoughts.

Letting the empty box hang at his side, he stares at the overcast sky. You had been so uncharacteristically cold this morning that he finds himself going over the barely-ten-minute coffee meeting as though it’s a script reading and he forgot every single one of his own lines. Swallowing hard, he contemplates what he could have said or done differently, but at the end of the day, one thing is painfully clear to him.

You have no trust in him.

He can’t be upset with you for that.

He wasn’t in a good place when you’d gotten into an argument, but a few weeks of hovering over your contact every time his chest tightened gave him a lot of time to consider things.

It took him too long to come to the conclusion that if he’d just shut his damn mouth, maybe you would have come to him first for this job. He wonders how many people you contacted before coming to him for something that’s right up his alley. Something that he might even like.

He watches his breath billow above him again with another long exhale.

He’d tried to blame it on the alcohol, on the weed, on his stress, on the hurt you’d caused that had caught him off-guard and pierced him when you’d accused him of being inebriated in front of the kids. He’d looked to blame anything or anyone but himself. No matter how many times he tried to find blame in something else, at the end of the tunnel, it was always him, a decision he’d consciously made.

If he’s about to let you down, then he’ll dig that grave himself. He won’t let you put him there at the cost of what’s left of his dignity.

He remembers the thought running through his head. He’d been so caught up in his own anger, pain, and hurt, that he’d actively made the decision to double-down. He’d gone too far.

It’s not like Sukuna wasn’t accustomed to looking after his brothers on his own, but he’d grown so used to having you around that he hadn’t realized just how much you did for him. It was never just about the kids, or studying, or classes. It went beyond that. You went beyond that.

You made him feel sane.

“Ryomen, the Ford’s ready.”

Crimson irises slowly slide towards his co-worker, a head of raven hair peeking out from under the half-open garage door. “Be there in a moment,” Sukuna grumbles, pushing off of the wall and tossing the empty cigarette box into the trash at the corner of the building before hunching to fit under the garage door. Setting his gaze on a red F-150, he sighs as he falls into familiar motions of servicing the truck.

The next few hours pass by in what feels like a slog of sweat and unwelcome stray thoughts, but before he knows it, he’s opening the door for Uraume back at his apartment. He’s not sure he remembers the last time he saw them, a scowl drawn across his brows as they slip into his home.

“Rume!” Yuji excitedly calls, running straight into Uraume’s outstretched arms.

“I owe you,” Sukuna sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.

Uraume takes a moment to evaluate Sukuna, a frown pulling at their lips. “You don’t,” they shake their head as they always do, pulling Yuji easily into their arms. “I’m happy to help.”

Sukuna swallows hard, nodding. “Right. Thanks.”

Satisfied with his reply, Uraume nods, taking a step towards Sukuna. Little Yuji clings to their shoulders, playing with the collar of Uraume’s shirt. “So, do you want to tell me what this is all about? All of this?” The motion they make with their chin towards- well, all of him- has Sukuna’s scowl deepening.

His gaze lowers to Yuji, before flickering towards Choso fiddling with his GameBoy on the couch. It doesn’t look like the system is even on from what he can tell. He’s listening in, Sukuna’s almost sure of it.

Choosing to leave out the details surrounding the argument he’d had with you, dropping out of school, and anything else that could concern his little brother, he runs a hand down his face. “Got an interview,” he sighs, explaining that it’s at your publishing house.

Uraume’s brow lifts, as though they’re surprised. He wonders if you mentioned the argument to them, but he doesn’t have the time to ask.

“I gotta shave,” he mutters to excuse himself, his footsteps heavy with the weight of responsibility and exhaustion as he makes his way to the washroom to clean up.

Once he’s satisfied with his gelled hair and shaved face, he tucks the black button-up dress shirt clinging to his biceps into his slacks. He doesn’t exactly have the luxury of buying a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s about to burst at the seams, so it’ll have to do. Maybe it’ll work to his advantage, as egotistical as it is to think. With one last onceover of his appearance, he flicks off the lights and makes his way back out to the kitchen.

Yuji and Choso are watching Uraume intensely as they teach the two boys how to fold paper shurikens. His eye involuntarily twitches as he envisions himself getting hit by a stray flying star when he gets home tonight. Yet another way for the boys to pester him.

“I’m headin’ out,” he grumbles, grabbing his keys and throwing his coat and boots on. Before he can slip out the door, Uraume grabs the back of his jacket, stopping him in his tracks.

Sukuna turns on his heel to face Uraume with frustration flickering in his gaze, but they interrupt before he can snarl whatever meaningless words were about to spill in his irritation. Their voice is low enough to keep out of earshot of his brothers as Uraume sternly tells Sukuna they won’t leave until he’s told them what’s going on, really. “You look like shit,” they add. “And not in the usual way.”

“Ouch,” he mumbles, but there’s truth behind their words that he can’t deny. He simply nods and pulls from their grip with a hostile tug, shutting the door behind him.

He remembers you being grateful that your office is on a bus route, and now he’s grateful for it too, given that it’s not exactly within walking distance and he’d prefer not to take a cab to work every day if he gets the job. As the bus comes into sight, he boards it, popping some change into the box at the front before taking a seat with his portfolio in hand.

He winces as the bus hits a pothole, the sudden realization of an oncoming headache spreading a grimace across his lips. With everything and nothing on his mind all at once, he supposes it only makes sense.

Taking a step off the bus into the brisk air, he follows the route on his phone down a block and a half before finding a small unmarked office building. Standing at three stories tall, the building sports a faded ivy green roof that doesn’t fit this decade, or even the last one, for that matter. The windows are all covered in a layer of mud and snow, while the walls of the building themselves are weathered from the elements quite harshly.

His eyes scan the blank sign at the entrance, before falling to a buzzer. A wavy paper with smeared ink is taped to the edge of the box with the names of eight businesses and the numbers to dial to reach them spread across it.

Dialing the number of the publishing house, Sukuna buries his hands in his pockets. There’s no noise as he waits and he finds himself nearly punching in the number again when a cheery voice picks up, inquiring how they can help.

“Here for an interview,” Sukuna states simply, his eyes sliding to the door as the lock pops. Following the signage, he makes his way up a set of stairs to the second floor, pushing his way through the corresponding door.

Within the office, everyone seems to be in somewhat of a mad dash. He’s sure there’s lots of work to be done, but it has an air to it of being amiss. He supposes that’s likely the impending loss of a client you’d mention hanging over the heads of the employees.

The publishing house isn’t particularly big, focusing primarily on local authors and young readers’ books. Despite the run-down appearance of the outside of the building, there’s a homely feel to the office itself. It’s well-lit with a bright oak floor sprawling beneath his feet into a combination of desks strewn across the floor, printers, stacks of paper and filing cabinets, and a few offices along the walls away from prying eyes. Plants line many of the desks and the far wall is covered in a mural of art from books that Sukuna can only assume the business has published. He’s pretty sure he even recognizes a character or two from books Yuji’s brought home from the school library.

Taking a step towards the reception desk, Sukuna shrugs his coat off in an effort to make a good impression with his outfit.

A woman with curly black hair looks up at him with a grin, using what could only be described as a customer service voice as she tells him to take a seat and she’ll inform Maya of his arrival. He can only assume Maya’s your boss, so he quickly shakes his head, asking for you, instead.

The receptionist eyes him curiously before rolling her chair back a few feet to poke her head into an office.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

The look on your face as you peek out at him in your usual pencil skirt and white blouse nearly kills him. Your eyes don’t light up as they once had, your face neutral for the split-second you actually meet his gaze, only to look away as though you can’t bear to keep eye contact, turning back into your office for a moment.

Swallowing feels like an effort with the way his throat tightens.

He hears a chair rolling and chatter from within the office you’d disappeared back into before the clack of your black heels across the floor makes its way to him. Getting to his feet, he’s forced to wonder what’s going through your mind as your eyes scan him, but apart from the obvious discomfort on your face as you continue to avoid eye contact, he can’t get a read on you. His heart sinks as you greet him in a tone that speaks strictly of business.

“You look nice,” Sukuna attempts to break the ice, but the twitch of your brow as you glance back at him doesn’t instill confidence.

“Thanks…” You whisper, beginning to lead the way towards the back of the office. You thread around a number of desks, greeting a few colleagues on the way before finally turning towards him in front of a door labelled Maya.

“So listen,” you begin with a sharp inhale, turning to face him and steeling yourself. “My boss values experience above everything else, which I know you don’t have in the industry, so put your focus on your portfolio, okay?”

Sukuna nods, opening his mouth to thank you, but you’ve already turned away to lead the way into the office. Fuck, if you’d just give him one goddamn moment. He follows after you, his eyes scanning the office for anything to help him with the interview itself.

Light shines onto the desk in the center of the room through the large window in the back, while books with colorful spines line the shelves pressed against the walls. An old typewriter sits on one of the higher shelves, a few plants dotted here and there for some added flair.

What really catches his attention is the photo of your boss kneeling down in front of a lake with two kids with bright smiles. They look about the same age as Yuji and Choso, and Sukuna has to tear his gaze away, blinking as he’s reminded of the life and experiences his brothers never got.

Running his tongue over his lower lip, he sets his attention on your boss. She’s older, with long, straight black hair and curtain bangs. A pair of glasses sits along the bridge of her nose, while a sleek gray suit-jacket is fitted perfectly to her form. She sits at the desk with an air of perfect control in spite of the underlying issue that Sukuna knows plagues the office.

As he approaches with a dossier filled with his portfolio and resume tucked under one arm and extends his other in greeting, he watches the judgment pass over her features. Sukuna’s come to expect it these days, the way eyes will roam his tattoos, silently coming to conclusions about him.

“This is Sukuna,” you introduce him as Maya takes his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sukuna.” She takes a seat, motioning to the chair opposite her, while you sit at his side. There’s something comforting in knowing you’re there with him, even if the feeling is fleeting as you straighten, a smile that doesn’t meet your eyes plastered to your face.

The interview is fairly standard, though Sukuna clearly doesn’t have the experience that your boss is looking for. Still, he sets the dossier on her desk in hopes that she’ll reconsider. If he’s lucky, between his portfolio and the possible loss of a client, she’ll give him a shot at the job anyway.

Maya pulls the folder towards her, flipping it open and pulling out a mix of anatomy pages, sketches of characters his brothers like, inked cleanly in fineline, and the real standouts, the fully realized characters within worlds. The first page has Alice in Wonderland characters, while the tail of the Cheshire Cat curls neatly around the image as though it belongs on a book cover. The second has the Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar in a more crafty style crawling up a tree. He’d pulled the drawings together late last night in an effort to impress her.

Your boss’ brows raise, clearly more impressed by Sukuna’s actual work than either his standard interview answers, or his underwhelming resume. Her reaction, although minute, makes the extra few hours he’d spent awake working on those spreads worth it.

“These are great,” she compliments, leafing back through the pages until her finger catches on a page, separating two pages that had stuck together. Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly as he realizes the Sonic drawing that Yuji had colored with the half-finished Shadow had somehow made its way into his portfolio.

“That’s, uh, not meant to be in there,” he gruffs, his brow furrowing.

But it’s caught your boss’ attention in a way the rest of the art doesn’t. The scrappy way that Sonic is colored in comparison to the rest of his sketches that use primarily charcoal and graphite, tells of only one thing- a kid. Her whole demeanor shifts as she evaluates the way the cheap marker bleeds through the paper.

“Do you have kids?” She asks genuinely, backtracking quickly as she realizes that’s not exactly the kind of question you ask during an interview. “Sorry, don’t feel obligated to answer that.”

Sukuna sucks in a breath. “No, but I look after my brothers.”

Something softens in her eyes, as though memories of her own children- the ones in the photo Sukuna spotted- are running through her mind.

“May I ask how old they are?”

“Five and twelve.”

Sukuna wonders if you know that none of his employers knew about the kids until he had to get the letters from them for the case. He wonders if you know that by divulging his part of his life to your boss, to someone who doesn’t know him, he’s trying to show you that he’s changed. He’s trying to put in more effort, trying to give more of himself to you.

Maya simply smiles, a warmth held within her features that Sukuna’s not generally regarded with. “Do you have any experience working digitally?”

No. “Yes.”

Maya nods. “Did she fill you in on the deadline for the first seven projects?” She queries, shooting you a quick glance.

“She did.”

“Do you think it’s a possibility to have them done by tomorrow?”

Sukuna’s gaze slides over to you briefly, admiring the way the sun seems to make your skin glow. Swiping his tongue briefly over his lower lip, he nods. He’ll have to work through the night, but it’s not like he hasn’t done that before.

In his periphery, your shoulders sag in relief, grateful that all of your hard work won’t be for nothing. He knows he’s lost your trust, but even so, seeing your relief makes this all worth it.

Maya excuses you to discuss details of the arrangement with Sukuna, so you slip away with a nod. Shutting the door behind you, you let out a breath, making your way back to your office. Well, if it can even be called that.

The room is decorated to the nines with Yuki’s favorite books and photos of her and her partner at pretty much every huge travel destination you can imagine. It’s hard to believe she’s not even that much older than you, yet she’s got so many more life experiences. At least, ones worth hanging photos of.

A table that acts as your desk is pushed up to the front of hers, with an extension cable running up onto the table to plug in your monitor and the laptop the company had provided you. It’s nothing fancy, but you prefer it to being at one of the open desks littering the center of the office space. It gives you a semblance of privacy and some silence to work in, apart from Yuki’s occasional humming.

The blonde’s head raises as she spots you, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “Puh-lease tell me it went well.”

“I think so,” you sigh, plopping down in your chair and letting it roll back a bit as you stare at the ceiling.

“Thank god, I swear Ayana just didn’t work on our books on purpose,” she groans dramatically, following suit as she pushes away from her desk, her chair rolling back until it hits the wall. “So who is he, anyway? Doesn’t seem like you know him well,” she comments, pointing the tip of a pen in your direction.

Momentarily forgetting about your makeup, you shake your head before pausing, staring down at your fingers that now glimmer with the makeup you’ve smudged. Doing your best to salvage it without being able to see your appearance, you wipe your pointer delicately around your eyes with a long sigh. “He used to be a friend,” you explain, deciding to leave it at that. It’s easier than over-analyzing the way he looked at you as you led him to your boss’ office.

For all your time spent keeping a straight face around him, you feel like you need an entire month-long vacation just to recover. And that hardly added up to twenty minutes. You know it’s for the best, but it’s hard not to give in when your heart still aches for him, even if your mind holds onto his misgivings still.

“Oh? Ohhh?” Your colleague pushes herself towards her desk, leaning over it and clasping her hands together eagerly. “Girl, spill.”

In hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have mentioned that you knew him.

“It’s not a big deal, we just had some disagreements and grew apart,” you shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance that clearly disappoints Yuki, but at least she believes you. You’re not sure you can bear the thought of picking at your wounds that had only just begun to scab over and heal. Especially not with Sukuna only a couple of offices away.

It’s not a case of being civil, you’re more than capable of being mature, and you’re sure Sukuna is, as well. That doesn’t mean you forgive him though. After all, you need to protect yourself first and foremost.

Yuki pouts, staring in disappointment at the colorful arrangement of books on one of her many shelves. “I was hoping your story would be at least a ten minute distraction from work,” she grumbles.

Shaking your head with a smile, you chuckle at your colleague. “Come on, your projects aren’t even that bad.”

In a fit to prove you wrong, Yuki is quick to pick up a stack of paper, wiggling it in the air. “Do you want this pile of knock-off Baby Shark books?”

Your eyes scan the name when she quits waving the paper around. Little Whale. Huh. With a shake of your head, you point to your own pile. “I’m good,” you chuckle, about to comment on some of the strange publications sitting in your own to-do list when someone clears their throat at the door to your office.

A painfully familiar ex-friend is leaning against the doorframe to your office, an iPad and laptop in one hand, with a pile of paperwork in the other. You assume that’s a good sign.

Good for your work, anyway.

And, if you’re being honest with yourself, there’s a part of you that hopes he enjoys the job, given that he’ll have the opportunity to do something he may actually enjoy for a living. No matter how much pain the thought of all your arguments brings you, you don’t think there’s a world where you don’t care for him, so you force a tight-lipped smile as you face him.

“Looks like it went well. Congratulations, Sukuna.”

His brow twitches, but he nods. “Appreciate you thinkin’ of me.”

You can only nod. “Um, yeah… Let me know if you need a hand with anything.”

Sukuna opens his mouth to say something before deciding against it and nodding. He pokes his tongue into the side of his mouth, pushing off the doorframe. “Have a good day, prin-” He catches himself, feigning a cough to cover up his slip. If it can even be considered that. He repeats himself, this time finishing his sentence with your name.

“Yeah, you too, Sukuna,” you wave him off quietly, turning back to your desk and burying your face in your hands.

Yuki fiddles with her pen, simply staring as she waits for the sound of the front door closing. “Soooooo… Are you that awkward with every person you just grow apart from?” She pushes, nosy as ever.

“It wasn’t that awkward,” you grumble, rolling your shoulders as you sit up and attempt to ward away the fact that Yuki is painfully right, and it’s probably for the best that things stay that way.

“Girl, everything about that was painful.”

With a sigh, you let your head hang.

You’re in for an interesting ride at work from here on out.

–

Sukuna shoves his front door open with his foot, his hands otherwise full. Shutting the door with his shoulder, he kicks his shoes off and dumps the laptop and iPad onto the table, alongside the printed client instructions for the covers and the paperwork he would need to formally fill out- all before going in tomorrow. His eyes slide across the apartment to Uraume scowling in concentration at the TV as they lose brutally to Sukuna’s brothers in MarioKart.

“Kuna!” Yuji cheers excitedly, shooting him a glance despite the fact that he’s effortlessly destroying Uraume.

“Winning, Yu?” Sukuna asks in a mild tone, though Choso isn’t too far behind Yuji. Even so, Choso doesn’t seem all that interested in playing. But lately, when does anything interest him?

Still, he’s also still beating Uraume, who can’t even spare a single word towards Sukuna, lest they get beaten by more computer players.

Which is saying something, given that they’re in sixth place in the race.

Out of eight.

“Loser,” Sukuna snorts, completely breaking their concentration as Uraume falters going over a jump and lands themself in last place as they fall off the stage.

“You’re a menace, Sukuna,” they huff as the podium comes up on-screen, entirely devoid of Uraume’s character.

“I don’t think that was my fault,” he comments with a sly smirk, though his eyes are clouded with stress. It’s strange how hardly an hour with you has him completely and utterly exhausted, where once he used to find comfort. Now, he’s stepping on eggshells around you, trying to find an opening where you might give him a chance.

Ignoring him, Uraume gets up from the couch to take a look at the iPad and laptop on the table. “You got the position?” They ask, smiling as they face him. “Congratulations, this looks right up your alley.”

“Yeah, they were pretty desperate,” he hums, running a hand through his hair. “Got a long night ahead of me, though. Seven covers due tomorrow morning, then I gotta head to the auto shop.”

Uraume’s brows draw together in concern. “Please tell me you plan on quitting a couple of those jobs.”

“I already sent a text to the supermarket, I got one more shift. Gonna talk to the shop tomorrow about changin’ my hours.”

Uraume frowns, though. “Don’t you think that’s still a bit much?”

“Need the money,” he shrugs simply, casting a glance at his brothers.

Uraume sighs, relenting to Sukuna’s stubbornness as they follow his gaze. “Can I have a word with you?”

Sukuna hums in acknowledgment. “Cho, homework. Yu, brush your teeth and get in your pajamas.”

“But it isn’t even late!” Yuji whines, whipping around from his place on the couch like this is the ultimate betrayal.

“I’m not asking ya to go to sleep, just get ready.”

Yuji groans dramatically, throwing his head back as he trails after Choso.

“What’s up?” Sukuna asks, turning back to his friend.

“You look like shit. What’s going on?” Uraume finally has the opportunity to confront him.

Way to sugarcoat it. Sukuna lets out a long sigh, running his hand through his hair as he plops down on the couch. A few stray pink strands fall down into his eyes, his hair having grown painfully long. The couch dips as Uraume takes a seat beside him, sitting with their hands on their lap. They push their snowy hair behind their ear, patiently awaiting Sukuna’s response.

“It’s nothin’. Just having a tough time with the brats lately,” he brushes them off, eager to bury his racing thoughts in the seven novel covers he had to put together.

“And the fight?”

Sukuna huffs, pressing the ball of his palm to the bridge of his nose. “Did she tell you?”

“No,” Uraume shakes their head. “But it’s pretty obvious.”

Dragging his hand down his face, Sukuna mumbles, “great.” He leans against his fist, his elbow propped up on the arm of the couch as his gaze shifts towards his friend.

“Will I need to keep pushing, or are you planning on telling me what happened?” They ask, their tone hardening.

“It’s not a big deal, I’m fixing it.”

Uraume lets out a prolonged sigh, crossing their arms in exasperation. “I’m not leaving until you stop bottling everything up. The last thing either of us needs is a repeat of when we first met. I can’t be here to peel you out of bed every time you need it.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Shit’s not that bad,” he gruffs, keeping his gaze fixed on the coffee table. He reclines into the couch, continuing to lean on his bent elbow as he kicks his feet up onto the table.

“Maybe not now,” Uraume shrugs, “but that doesn’t mean it never will be again.” Shuffling closer to him, Uraume’s voice softens. “Mental health isn’t a straight line, Sukuna. You can’t expect to always be fine just because you are now.” This garners Sukuna’s attention as his gaze shifts to examine his friend, frustration glimmering in the crimson of his irises. “And for the record,” they add, shrugging. “You still look like shit. So I don’t believe you, anyway.”

He grits his teeth, irritation flashing in his eyes, but he knows better than to push Uraume away, keeping his frustrations contained as best as he can. The last thing he needs is to lose the last person who doesn’t resent him.

“Yeah, fine. Fine.” He drags his hand down his face, sinking further into the cushions and crossing his arms as he explains the fight he had with you. He remembers it all too well. Remember the words that cling to the outer edges of his mind, taking root like the prettiest of flowers that he could never bear to pluck.

Uraume listens with an increasing frown, blinking a few times as Sukuna recounts the events of the last month, still choosing to leave out the details of the lawsuit. He doesn’t need Uraume, Toji, or anyone treating the kids with pity. At least, he convinces himself that’s the reason he won’t tell anyone.

Withholding what may be their tenth sigh in simply the last few minutes, Uraume rubs at their temples. “I understand that you were hurt, Sukuna, but she didn’t deserve that.”

“Don’t tell me shit I already know,” Sukuna hisses, having slumped back so far into the couch that he’s staring at the ceiling.

“If you know that already,” Uraume continues, unphased by his frustration. “Then why didn’t you reach out to her?”

With a drawn out inhale, he rolls his eyes. “Broke her trust. That was my last chance,” he mutters, his words dripping with irritation. Between this conversation, his own actions from a month ago, and his growing frustration with his current day, he’s becoming more and more desperate for a cigarette. He should have stopped to grab a box on his way home.

“You’re dense.”

God, he really needs that cigarette. He lifts his head from the cushion, scowling at his friend. “What?”

They sigh again. “Sukuna, you know I have a great deal of respect for you. I don’t want to downplay just how far you’ve come from when we first met and just how much you do for your brothers. So with that out of the way,” their face drops as they deadpan, “you’re an idiot.”

Sukuna huffs, diverting his gaze from Uraume. He already knows he’s about to be pissed off.

“She said you weren’t being yourself, correct? That she likes the ‘you’ that she got to know?”

“Yeah, and?” Sukuna pushes, irritation now pumping through his veins as he careens towards flat-out anger.

“It isn’t my place to air out someone else’s business, but I want you to think about that, Sukuna,” Uraume speaks with an air of earnestness that Sukuna isn’t accustomed to. They may have a more formal way of speaking than Sukuna, but they tend to keep their tone fairly lighthearted and casual most of the time, especially with him.

“Think about what?” Sukuna’s brow furrows in vexation.

Uraume’s already on their feet, tossing their coat over their arm. They cast a glance at him, briefly shaking their head. “Think about what she meant when she said that.”

He shakes his head, his mind racing to catch up to the meaning behind Uraume’s words as they head for the door. “The fuck do you mean? Uraume-” Sukuna pushes to his feet, catching up and reaching over them to keep the door shut. Their brow raises as they crane their neck to look up at him. “What the fuck do you mean?” The air of desperation in the usually low and disinterested timbre of his voice is unbefitting of him, causing Uraume to raise a brow.

“You know exactly what I mean, Sukuna.” They can only watch as Sukuna straightens, searching their face for any sign of a lie. When he doesn’t find anything, he scowls at the floor in thought. “Go get your work done.” They turn back towards the door, shoving his hand aside and slipping out without another word.

With his jaw hanging slightly ajar, he feels his heart accelerating.

I’ve seen the real Sukuna, and I like him, I- I like you.

That’s what you said. There’s no way he’s misremembering that. It’s replayed in his mind too many times to be wrong.

He blinks, staring at the door. Absently reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, he shuts his eyes at the realization he hasn’t magically come up with a box in the last five minutes.

With a sharp inhale, he walks slowly to the back of the apartment, pushing his hand across the paperwork he’d set down earlier. The papers slide across the smooth wood of the table, everything within his portfolio, alongside instructions and HR paperwork for the position now spread across the table in no particular order.

His heart pounds in his ears as he picks up the page he was searching for, something his gaze had ghosted over only for a moment while he’d gone through the paperwork with Maya after you left. Towards the bottom of the page is a category with a box titled ‘referral’, alongside your signature. His tongue runs over his bottom lip as he’s left unable to do anything but stare.

You like him. He knows that. You’d been close for a while, able to bounce off of one another as though you’d known each other for an eternity. You’d stuck by his side through his worst days, calming him down and picking him up when he needed it.

You were his closest friend. Maybe even closer than he’d ever been to Uraume or even Toji back in the day. Of course you like him. Is he dense for assuming that’s all you meant? He wants to believe the answer is no, but Uraume is rarely wrong, as much as he hates to admit it.

Bringing a hand up to scratch at his chest, he tears his thoughts from their spiral as something moves in his peripherals. Yuji runs over to tug at Sukuna’s dress shirt sleeve, putting the full force of his tiny frame into pulling at Sukuna.

“Kuna, come look at our shu- um-” he pauses, though his attempt to tug Sukuna along doesn’t cease. “Our sh- our shu… our ninja stars!” He finally settles on a word.

“Shurikens,” Sukuna corrects him with his usual mild expression plastered on his face. He humors his brother, finally allowing the little boy to pull him into the kids’ room. Choso is blankly working on math problems at the desk, but before Sukuna’s given the chance to make a comment about the origami stars, Yuji lets go of his sleeve, picks up a shuriken, and whips it at his oldest brother with the full force of a five-year-old.

Sukuna scowls as the paper hits him square in the abdomen, causing little more than a wrinkle in his shirt, but the older brother snarls regardless. “Cut that out, brat.”

Yuji’s eyes light up at the sight that’s so startlingly normal for their house, that you’d almost forget about the lawsuit, or Choso and Sukuna’s plummeting mental health. Hell, for a moment, even Sukuna briefly forgets as he gives chase to his brother, who slips between his legs back into the living room where he can run around the couch.

The little boy doesn’t anticipate Sukuna simply running over the couch to get to him, shrieking with wide eyes and thrilled giggles as his brother scoops him up off the ground, holding him like a limp sack of potatoes.

“Nice try, brat,” Sukuna huffs, his voice surrounded by amusement that thrills Yuji. The boy laughs in delight as he wriggles around in an attempt to free himself, though it’s completely fruitless against Sukuna’s bulk.

Heading back to the boys’ room, Sukuna tosses Yuji onto his mattress, watching as the boy laughs in delight. Choso doesn’t share the same amusement, but something familiar flashes through his eyes as a hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

In an attempt to capitalize on the moment, Yuji tries to hop off of his bed to make way for another ninja star, when Sukuna lifts his foot to block the kid. “Later, Yu. Your brother’s gotta focus. Can you read a book or somethin’?”

Yuji pouts, staring back at the bookshelf that separates the boys’ beds. “But I’ve read them all.”

“I gotta get some important work done, can you read Dragonology again or somethin’? I’ll get you a new book soon if you can do that for me.”

Yuji glances back at the large red spine with gold sparkling text across it at the bottom of the book shelf, weighing his options. A new book must appeal to him, as he seems to decide it’s worth it, much to Sukuna’s relief.

As the boys quiet down, Sukuna lets out a sigh, changing into a hoodie and returning to his own work. Momentarily forgetting his previous train of thought and conversation with Uraume, he packs all the paper together, tapping the stack on the table to straighten it out before he grabs the laptop and iPad, heading for his bedroom. He leaves the door open a crack for his brothers as he begins leafing through the client requests.

The first one is for a children’s horror novel with animatronics, which he can certainly work with. Sliding a paperclip off the first request, he boots up the iPad, getting himself set up for the first design. The first animatronic is a bear with a hat, which Sukuna realizes is strikingly similar to a character he’s seen from Choso watching YouTube.

Scowling, he takes a look at the second request. A group of kids solving mysteries with a cat in a big van. Huh.

Another flip of a page to the third request. A series about a girl who tames dragons. Tames, not trains. Otherwise, that would be copyrighted. Sukuna chuckles at the realization that everything seems to be a knock-off. He wonders if his brothers would like this sort of shit. Maybe someday his brothers would be able to bring home something he illustrated.

Legally Nondescript Monsterology. It’s not catchy, but he thinks he can make it work.

Regardless, Sukuna works hard putting together the covers in a timely manner, while trying to retain quality. They may be knock-offs, but he still wants to give it his all given that he just quit one of his jobs. Not to mention, you recommended him, and he can’t let you down. Not again.

It’s then that his thoughts come racing back to him suddenly. You like him. He scowls down at the screen of the iPad, staring at the first cover with a glower that isn’t meant for the mildly creepy animatronic bear peeking around a corner in a small diner.

As if on autopilot, he digs through his pockets to pull his phone out and snaps a photo of the nearly-finished cover on the iPad he’d barely figured out to send to you. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, before sending the photo with the caption ‘do you think your boss will approve’.

He can’t think of a time, even over email, that he ever waited much longer than a few minutes for you to reply, though he doesn’t get that luxury this time around. Do you reserve that for friends? Or was that a side of you that only he was privy to?

Is he so dense, even now, that he’s unwilling to admit the fact that you might have had feelings for him?

Setting his phone down on the drawing table, his leg bounces relentlessly as he leans back in his chair.

Had he unknowingly led you on when he kissed you? He couldn’t have. You’d gone for chicken strips at a little diner after talking through that, you were both just horny and confused, he was sure of it.

Strip Joint. The diner you visited that night. The background of the art for the first novel is a carbon copy of it, he realizes. A complete accident, but it’s exactly what he pictured when thinking of a diner. He blinks at the drawing, so caught up in wondering how he hadn’t realized what he was doing that he nearly misses the vibration of his phone.

7:49 PM Princess || She’ll like it! Looks good.

His head falls forward against his phone with a sigh. You’re using periods at the end of your texts with him. Great.

Looking through your message history with him, he scrolls until he finds the night you stayed at his place, in his bed. Your texts were so bubbly, so full of life. Did you like him, then?

Did you have feelings for him?

Why does that knowledge make Sukuna’s arm hair stand on end?

Setting down his phone, he runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. He’s in for a long night, but the light at the end of the tunnel is the knowledge of how much he’s getting paid. Not just as a salary, but upfront for the overnight covers. Enough to cover whatever fees he was worried about with the lawyer, and whatever book Yuji decided on, as well as something for Choso. Maybe even a dinner at a restaurant.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, an ounce of your trust back.

–

The text you receive from Yuki the morning following Sukuna’s interview has you reeling in relief, thankful that Sukuna pulled through, and not only that, but your books are being pushed through the rest of the publishing process, and Sukuna is onboard full-time.

Well, that last part may not be something to be relieved over, but at least your hard work wasn’t for nothing.

Besides, there’s no way everything with Sukuna will be completely and utterly weird, right?

Your first Tuesday working with him, he was only able to make it for half of the day, so your paths only crossed a handful of times. Still, every time you came across one another seemed to have you both walking on eggshells. It’s not like you can’t both be civil and professional, sharing a wave or smile here and there and discussing business when necessary, but you can’t help but feel like he shouldn’t be coming to the intern when his iPad won’t connect to the company’s file cloud.

“Can’t you ask Felix?” You ask as Sukuna pokes his head into your office for the second time just since you arrived.

Although he remains stoic at your response, something flashes in his eyes. “He’s not at his desk.”

“He’s out this week,” Yuki comments with a yawn, giving you the bare minimum of her attention as she works on another Baby Shark knock-off book.

“Right,” you mutter under your breath, shooting Sukuna a tight-lipped smile as you get to your feet. “Let me see,” you hold your hand out expectantly, pulling up the cloud service’s settings on the iPad to see if you can find the issue.

After tapping through it a few times, you chew on your lip. “Did you try… turning it off and on again?” You’re met with silence from Sukuna, and when you tilt your head to look up at him, you find him staring at you with raised brows and a look that says that he absolutely already did that. “Sorry,” you murmur, going back to tapping at the screen somewhat aimlessly. You hum in thought as you click through the settings, tapping your manicured nails rhythmically along the back of the iPad as you hold it. “Hold on.”

Leading the way out to the admin computer, you login and search through permissions, before finding that Sukuna’s account simply hasn’t been added to the cloud function yet. He’d likely only submitted through Maya so far.

“That should fix it.” You offer the device back to him with a neutral smile.

He types in his password and nods. “Yeah, I owe-” He pauses, examining your expression with an intensity that has your hair standing on end. “Thanks.”

You nod, turning to head back to your office when Sukuna hesitantly spits out an “I’m sorry”.

Blinking, you pull your lower lip between your teeth once more, only halfway facing him as you wait for him to elaborate.

“For-” He pauses, shutting his eyes, before shaking his head. “For bothering you.”

And with that, he just walks away. You stare after him for a long moment, but the feeling of your heart slowing to a normal rate in your chest is a relief as he gets further away. The feeling that replaces the pounding in your chest is equally unpleasant though, as something akin to yearning wraps its claws around you.

You can try all you want to convince yourself that it’s just because he looks painfully attractive with a black button-up and sleeves rolled up to his elbow in the sluttiest way imaginable, or the way that it hugs his biceps so tightly that you can practically see every vein in his arm, but you’re not ignorant to your own emotions.

No, it’s not the damn shirt, or the slacks that hang low on his hips. It’s not the fact that he cleans up well when he needs to, or the way he’s got his hair pushed back with gel to keep it in place. It’s not even the way he seems to put you on a pedestal, as though no one in this office is capable of anything but you.

It’s the fact that something is clearly different now, and you’re not oblivious to the fact that he’s trying to show you that. He’s still as stoic and mild as ever, but he’s sharing more of himself. Even little things, tiny corrections, little changes in the way he talks not just to you, but to everyone, none of it is going unnoticed.

Does it really make a difference, though? Can you even forgive him after everything?

As he sits down in Ayana’s old office, now his, you shake that thought from your head. That’s not the question you need to be asking yourself. It’s whether you should forgive him.

At the end of the day, you need to make yourself your priority, and you’re not sure if that includes him.

–

The office is fairly quiet as you slip past reception after your morning lecture on Thursday. Yuki isn’t at her desk as you drop your bag alongside the table that’s pushed against her desk for you. Getting yourself set up for work for the day, you pause at the sight of a warm drink at the corner of your desk.

Smiling to yourself, you get to work, pulling the cup towards you.

“Hey, girl,” Yuki greets you, making her way around the room to her chair.

“Hey, thanks for the drink!” You beam at her.

She shakes her head. “Wasn’t me. I just got back from a meeting.”

Turning the cup towards you in search of a name, you come up blank, finally taking a sip of it.

Your exact order.

“Huh, I wonder who it was,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance as though a certain tattooed man isn’t the only thing occupying your mind, causing your heart to somersault in its cage.

“Ooh, do you have a secret admirer?” She leans in with a curious grin, tapping her acrylic nails on her desk. “I bet I could do some digging-”

“I’ll ask around at lunch,” you interrupt, taking another sip of the drink in an effort to dissuade her. The last thing you need is the queen of office gossip herself digging into your business with Sukuna. Yuki’s a sweetheart and you love her for that, but there’s nothing that she loves more than gossip, and as the intern, the last thing you need is to be at the center of it.

She groans dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

Playfully rolling your eyes, you point at her stack of paperwork. “Go back to Adolescent Shark or whatever you’re editing.”

She wrinkles her nose in mock offense. “I’ll have you know it’s Baby Whale.”

The small office is filled with your collective laughter as you fall into the familiar routine of work. You hardly get much of a chance to really begin digging into work before Yuki’s dragging you along to the break room for lunch, though.

The break room is fairly gray compared to the rest of the office, the only real hints of color being the plants that line the top of the wooden cabinets that hang along the far wall. A stainless steel fridge and microwave sit at the far end of the cabinets and counter, housing most of the staff’s meals.

“What’d you bring?” She asks curiously, peering over your shoulder to the tupperware you’re putting in the microwave.

“Just stir fry,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “Nothing fancy.”

She hums as she takes a seat, beginning to recount how her meeting this morning went. You take a seat shortly after with your food warmed, looking up to find Sukuna across the room, a few tables away.

He’s gripping a matching paper cup to the one sitting on your desk barely an hour ago, his gaze trained on it. Faint stubble dots his chin and his hair hasn’t been styled, but otherwise you’re reminded that he still cleans up fairly nicely, a new-looking red collared shirt hanging over his frame that fits him better than the black one from Tuesday. It’s still pleated across the sides, as though he didn’t iron it, though you don’t exactly take him for the kind of guy to do that.

As if sensing you looking at him, his eyes flicker upwards, meeting yours with an expression you don’t recognize. He blinks a couple of times, examining you before tearing his gaze away as he evaluates the room full of your co-workers. Casting you one last glance, he silently returns to staring at his coffee cup.

You shut your eyes for a moment as your heart twists at the sight of a very obviously dejected Sukuna, who, as usual, has no lunch. Staring down at your stir fry that’s beginning to look less and less appealing, you find yourself prodding at a pepper. Why do you so badly want to give him your lunch? How is it that your mind is telling you over and over how bad of an idea it is to let him back in, while your heart hollows itself out for him again, reopening old wounds?

You continue to prod at your lunch while Yuki fills you in on her day, eventually leaving for a meeting, alongside everyone else until the room is silent and near-empty.

Near-empty.

Sukuna fixes you with an intense gaze, that same unreadable expression drawn across his features.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you spit out in an effort to fill the air, rife with tension.

“Anytime.”

The silence hangs heavily between you both, weighing down on the man who can’t even seem to bear to look at you. The weight of the settled quiet, once filled with so much comfort, presses down around you suffocatingly as Sukuna finally meets your gaze with a scowl. It doesn’t carry anger or irritation as it usually does, but something else. Something different.

“I’m sorry,” Sukuna gruffs, his voice raw with emotion.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, fixing him with a look of uncertainty. The distance between your tables feels so painfully real, wedged between you like a chasm, unable to cross it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he continues, his eyes flitting desperately across the table as though he’s searching for words he’d rehearsed, only to watch them scatter across the surface.

If he’s being honest with himself, that’s exactly what’s happening. He’s watching uncertainty and hurt spread across your features and everything he’s spent the weekend putting together for this moment is falling to pieces in front of him. Every rehearsed and well-thought-out phrase falling to pieces. He swallows hard in an effort to stop his throat from tightening, anything to keep his voice steady.

He grips his empty cup harder, the frail paper bending beneath his fingers as he grows frustrated with himself.

“Fuck,” he hisses, mostly to himself as he scowls down at the empty cup. His grip tightens again and the lid pops off, rolling across the table and down onto the floor, drawing your attention to it as it collides with the leg of a chair near yours, tumbling to a halt. “Had all this shit I wanted to say, and it’s all fuckin’ gone,” he grumbles, huffing in exasperation.

Taking in his words, you nod slowly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.” Your voice is mousey as you fiddle with your fork.

The tattooed man scowls deeply at you, shaking his head. “Why?”

You sigh, attempting to gather your thoughts as everything within you races. Your mind, your heart, your nerves. You’re not sure which one’s winning, but you’re damn-near desperate for your mind to slow down, if nothing else. You can live with your heart pounding in your ears and the slight tremor in your hands, but it would be nice to at least think straight.

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I shouldn’t have accused you of… Of being drunk and high around your brothers.”

And damn it, Sukuna’s envious that your words come across so eloquently, even as you chew on your lip and avoid his gaze.

“I don’t care,” he mutters in a barely masked huff of frustration.

Straightening your posture, you tilt your head in confusion. That isn’t exactly the reaction you were assuming you would get to an apology, at least not with the way he’s been seeking you out at every turn.

Finally catching on to your confusion, his eyes widen. “No, fuck, I don’t mean it like that.” He pushes to his feet, leaving his cup behind as he shuffles past the chairs haphazardly tucked under the tables between you, until he can find a spot across from you at your table. “I just meant- I mean- it doesn’t matter.” He scowls at the table. “What you said that night. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore.”

Your eyes narrow as you try to make sense of the man who, for as long as you’ve known him, has never been good with words. “You forgive me?”

“Shit, yeah. That’s what I mean.” The burly man scratches the back of his head. “Look, it hurt n’ all, but I’m over it.”

You set your fork down in your stir fry with a sigh, absently chewing on your nail. The sleeve of your blouse falls down your arm to the elbow with the movement. “Still, I never meant-”

“You kept them.” Sukuna interrupts, stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of two woven bracelets around your wrist. His brow, raised in shock, slowly twitches into a furrow.

Humming, you follow his gaze to the bracelets tied to your wrist. “Oh,” you whisper, fiddling with the frayed end of a red piece of twine on your wrist. “Yeah, I didn’t have the heart to cut them off.”

Sukuna swears it takes the breath straight from his lungs.

Shit.

He always knew you loved his brothers, but it’s been a month now since you’ve seen them. A month of lies telling his brothers you’re busy, a month of expecting never to see you again. A month of thinking any care you once had not only for him, but also for his brothers is gone.

Now, every single one of his thoughts and expectations are muddled all because you didn’t have the heart to take off a couple of bracelets. Maybe to anyone else, it would be an act of clinging to something that isn’t there, but to Sukuna, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can fix what he broke.

If only he wasn’t so shit with his words.

“Why?” He gruffs.

Why?

It’s almost as though he’s outside of his own body, watching some idiot fumble with words.

“Oh, um- I don’t know,” you mumble. “I guess it just felt too final, and your brothers are so sweet.”

Felt too final? Did you not want things to end?

“They miss you.”

Oh, great. And now the same dumbass is using his brothers to guilt-trip you.

Your lips twitch into a frown. You’re not sure what you’re meant to do with that information when he knows you still care for them now, just as well as he clearly knows that you’ve been avoiding him.

“Listen, I’m fucking sorry,” he begins, balling his hand into a fist in his lapp as he repeats himself again. “I was drunk, and high, and hurt, and I took that out on you. It was a mistake. I never meant any of it, I was…” he leans on the table, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms. “I was just tryin’ to hurt you back.”

You take in his words, nodding slowly as you try to understand where he’s coming from. “Why?”

Sukuna shakes his head, not quite sure himself. He raises his hand in a loose shrug, letting it fall onto the table with a thud. “Fuck if I know. Guess I just thought that if I was gonna waste my last chance with you, then…” he trails off, realizing just how stupid he sounds. “I dunno, princess.”

Your heart slams itself at full force into your rib cage, giving you whiplash as his nickname for you hits you like a truck. In truth, there’s a part of you that had expected him to move on like nothing had happened. Sukuna may be a more vulnerable person than he lets on to most, but you were there when he fought with Toji. How many years were they friends? So, why did your four months with him make his reaction so different?

At a loss for words, all you can do is blink at him, your jaw ajar.

Clearing his throat, Sukuna lets out a frustrated huff. “Guess I just thought that if I was going down, I was bringin’ you down with me.”

Rubbing your hands down your face, you narrowly avoid smudging your makeup. “That’s… dumb, Sukuna,” you mumble, your voice muffled behind your palms.

He waves his hand through the air again in some form of a frustrated shrug, letting it fall hard against the table. “Yeah, well.” His leg bounces beneath the table as he examines the wall. “You know I’m a dick.”

You exhale through your nose in something akin to a wry laugh. It’s a start, and Sukuna will count that as something of a win.

Silence settles between you both again, and Sukuna doesn’t know how to get his point across. He doesn’t know how to fix things because that’s not what he does. He leaves a path of destruction wherever he goes and lets down everyone he knows.

“Let me make shit up to you,” he offers, wincing when you visibly hesitate.

Your heart pounds in your ears, practically begging you to give in, and you’re thankful for your mind finally catching up to feed you reasonable doubt. “I don’t know, Sukuna. If that’s how you act the moment something goes wrong, how am I supposed to trust you?”

He nods, his leg bouncing impossibly faster beneath the table as his blunt nails dig into his palm. Scratching harshly at his chest with his other hand as though it might dull the ache, he considers leaving you be, but Uraume’s words hang above his head, pinning him to his seat.

Did you really have feelings for him? Do you still?

“Gimme another chance,” he pleads, tone laced with desperation. He wipes the back of his arm across his forehead, the room feeling a good ten degrees too warm as he considers what he can do, if anything, to get you to forgive him.

Your lips press into a thin line as you stare down at your uneaten lunch. “Sukuna, I…” you trail off, inhaling a long, deep breath. “You can’t ask me for that, you know that was your last chance. It’s not fair to me.”

Sukuna leans his full weight onto the table, sick to his stomach. Bile rises in his throat and he’s forced to swallow hard in an effort to keep himself in check, but it only makes him want to throw up more.

“Shit,” is all he can mutter, harshly rubbing his eyes. Maybe he should have done this after the trial, waited until he could really get his thoughts in order. Would it change anything? He’s not sure, but he supposes there’s no real point in filling his mind with ‘what ifs’ that make him feel worse.

His stomach churns as he watches you hesitantly begin to stand.

“Just… Let me prove myself,” he begs, standing up as well.

“Sukuna…” You sigh as he unknowingly tugs at your heart strings. You care about him a great deal still, but you can’t abandon a month’s worth of rationale just because you’re clearly not over him.

“I’m not askin’ for things to go back to normal, just… stop avoiding me.” He swallows hard, coughing into his elbow as his throat dries at the mere concept of you saying no. “Please, princess. I’m beggin’ you, here.”

Glancing past him at the office that you need to get back to in order to get some work done, you find yourself sighing. “I can do that,” you agree with a forced tight-lipped smile.

Sukuna lets out a breath of relief, shutting his eyes. “You won’t regret it,” he breathes out, running a hand through his locks to push stray strands of pink from his sweat-laden forehead.

You can only shoot him a wary look as you put your fork in the sink along the wall of cabinets. Returning briefly to your seat, you push it in and contemplate something, before sliding your tupperware across to him.

“Please eat something,” you murmur, slipping past him as quickly and quietly as you can manage.

He knows he won’t be able to eat anything, but as he stares down at the stir fry you’d clearly made for yourself, he finds his heart rate accelerating further, only it’s not from stress. No matter how small, some part of you still cares about him.

–

Your first week working with Sukuna had been… a lot. A lot to handle, emotionally, and a lot to process, and your second week only left you further confused. Although there were no emotionally charged discussions about your falling-out, he seemed to be trying anything that might get him an ounce of trust.

A warm drink sat at the corner of your desk once again when you arrived on Tuesday, still warm, still your exact order. You forgot your charger? Take his. It’s not overbearing, by any means, he gives you space and respects your privacy, but he jumps at any opportunity to help. It’s startlingly kind, maybe even sweet, and you’re not quite sure what to make of that.

It’s not as though his personality has changed, he’s still stoic and mild as ever, he’s just… listening. Paying attention.

And maybe it makes you a sucker, or naive, but it warms your heart.

Still, you remind yourself this is just one day. Things could change when he grows tired of putting in effort.

Thursday rolls around to the same series of events, although you remember your charger. The difference this time is that a pastry accompanies your drink.

Blinking once, you realize you’ve been staring at your monitor in thought for longer than you’d care to admit, letting time get away from you. With a small shake of your head in an effort to regain your focus, you manage to get in a solid hour of work and complete the short young adult novel you’re working on.

Hitting print, you push up from your desk, your heels clacking across the wooden floors as you make your way to the printer, standing in line behind one of the senior editors waiting for his work to print. He pulls up a stack of paper, moving aside as he checks the pages over. Picking up the first page in the printer, you eye the number in the corner.

“Oh, um, I think you might have my first couple of pages,” you smile kindly as you turn towards him. Dressed to the nines in a full three piece suit (a bit much, really), he raises a brow at you, flipping to the last couple of pages.

“Looks like I do,” he agrees, though his eyes rove the page rather than handing it back. His brow twitches, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips as he continues reading through your work. “I’m seeing a couple of errors here, intern. Tell you what, you go get me a coffee, and I’ll work through your mistakes.” He tilts his head, a strand of long blonde hair slipping from his loose bun.

“Thank you, Reggie, but that’s Yuki’s job, we can manage just fine,” you dismiss him, outstretching your hand expectantly.

His smirk grows, his eyes trailing the length of your body. “I think it would be valuable to learn from a more senior editor than Yuki, don’t you think?”

Keeping your composure, you shoot him a kind smile. “I’ll let Maya decide that.”

“Don’t you wanna learn from the best?” He takes a step forward to nudge you, your first two pages held firmly within the stack of paper he’s keeping in his hand opposite you in an attempt to purposefully rile you up. “C’mon, I’ll do you a favor, and you can do me one. Just go grab me a coffee,” he insists.

Putting some distance between you, you stand your ground. “That’s not my job, Reggie.”

“You’re an intern, aren’t you? ‘Course it’s your job,” he grins, bringing a hand up to scratch at the unkempt facial hair on his chin.

Heavy footsteps fall in quick succession across the floor in your direction, just as you’re about to give up on dealing with Reggie and simply reprint the first couple of pages of your document.

“Is coffee outside of your skillset?” Sukuna gruffs, his sharpened gaze set on the printer as he waits for something as well.

Reggie grins in agreement. “Ooh, can the intern not figure out the machine?” He chides, chuckling to himself.

Straightening, Sukuna turns to face him, towering over the blonde in both height and stature. “Wasn’t talkin’ to her,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. This shirt may not look like it’s about to burst at the seams as he makes a display of showing off his muscles, but it still does him a lot of favors.

Reggie’s brow twitches into a scowl, his attention flickering between you and Sukuna. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as though he can’t possibly believe that someone like Sukuna would be siding with you. “Whatever, man. I can make my own coffee,” he grumbles, turning away.

“I need those pages, Reggie,” you remind him before he can get far. He pauses, fighting with himself for a moment before shoving them into your awaiting open palm and turning on his heel to walk away.

With an exasperated sigh, you turn back to the printer to grab the remaining stack of paper. “Thanks, Sukuna. He thinks he’s better than everyone just because his job title has ‘senior’ in it.”

Sukuna grunts, shooting a glare at the back of the blonde’s head as he disappears into an office. “Fuckin’ prick,” Sukuna grumbles under his breath, turning back to the printer. “Just needed to print somethin’ anyway. Not a big deal.”

As the printer doesn’t seem to have anything queued, you check the bottom of your stack, pulling out the one page that doesn’t belong and raising your brow in a challenge. “You needed to print the cloud storage login?”

Sukuna’s cheeks dust in a faint red as he jerks his hand forward to pull the paper from your grasp. “That was an accident,” he grumbles quietly, staring at the page like it’s betrayed him. “I meant to print a different tab.”

You can’t help the way your lips quirk upwards into a hint of a smile at his obvious white lie. “Right. Well, thanks anyway.”

“Mhm.”

You shoot him a thankful polite smile, stepping backwards a couple of times before turning back to your office with your paperwork clutched to your chest.

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes in the scene, considering a polite smile another win. At least he had some sort of highlight to his week before his meeting with his lawyer tomorrow.

–

Thankful for Friday’s arrival, you, Shoko, Uraume, and a couple of classmates you’re less familiar with all decide to spend one final night relaxing before you would need to focus on studying for midterms. One last night of relaxing and self-care before the onslaught of exhaustion and cramming began.

Popping a piece of popcorn into their mouth, Uraume sighs. “I took way too many classes this semester,” they groan, seated cross-legged on the floor between you and a close friend of Shoko, Iori Utahime. From what you can tell, she’s friends with Uraume as well, and they share a handful of classes.

“How many did you take?” Iori asks, leaning back against her palm on the floor of Shoko’s place. She uses her spare hand to toss her long brown hair over her shoulder, keeping it out of her face as she takes a long drag of a blunt, passing it to Uraume.

“Six,” Uraume chuckles to themself as they take the blunt while Iori gapes in disbelief.

“I thought four was a lot,” you comment with a shake of your head.

“I just wanted to be done this year,” Uraume sighs. “Toji, Atsuya, and I wanted to graduate at the same time.”

You’re sure Sukuna was included in that group once, but Uraume’s refrained from mentioning him since the argument. Although you never spoke to them about it, you’re fairly sure they’re aware of it. They are Sukuna’s closest confidante, after all.

“How’ve you been managing?” You ask, dunking your hand into the popcorn bowl sat between the three of you. Uraume offers you the blunt, but you shake your head as you toss more popcorn into your mouth, dragging the bowl a bit closer.

Uraume pauses for a moment, in thought. “Let’s just say that if I could go back in time, I would definitely give myself a lecture for thinking this was a reasonable amount of courses,” they chuckle, shaking their head.

“At least we can study for a few of them together,” Iori offers, met with a cheery nod.

As they discuss something to do with a science course, you glance down at your phone as it vibrates, expecting a message from Kento, or maybe Satoru or Suguru.

You tilt your head at a text from Sukuna, simply saying ‘hey’. Deciding to focus on the here and now, you shut off your screen and tune back into the conversation, even if it’s a bit beyond what you ever learned in any science course.

Your phone vibrates again as you nod along to something Uraume is saying, barely a moment passing by before it’s vibrating once more.

Your brows pull together as you glance down at the preview for the texts. ‘could you do me a…’ and ‘please’ are the previews for the following two texts. There’s a strange sense of uncertainty held within the idea that Sukuna’s pleading with you over text that makes your stomach churn. Finally unlocking your phone, all three messages come into view.

9:43 PM Kuna || hey

9:44 PM Kuna || could you do me a favor

9:44 PM Kuna || please

Tilting your head at the message, you glance up at your surroundings. Shoko is sitting cross-legged a couple of feet away chatting with a couple of her classmates as she pours herself a shot of vodka while Uraume and Iori continue to pass a blunt. You’ve been hogging the popcorn for a bit and your mind is lightly buzzed from the shots you’d shared with Shoko. Surely whatever Sukuna needs can wait, given that you aren’t exactly fit for doing anyone any favors.

Not to mention, although you’d agreed not to avoid him, this feels as though it’s crossing the barrier of proving himself into territory you’re not ready for.

But then again, maybe he just needs a hand with something work-related when you have a moment.

Shaking your head to keep yourself from overthinking, you shoot back a message.

9:47 PM You || I’m busy right now, can it wait until tomorrow?

His response is immediate.

9:47 PM Kuna || ya no provlem

9:47 PM Kuna || sorry

Shrugging, you lock your phone and toss a kernel of popcorn at Shoko to get her attention. “Pour me one too?”

She grins, pouring you both shots. You clink the glasses together and tip your heads back, enjoying the familiar sensation of the burn of alcohol running down your throat. It simmers in your veins, your buzz becoming more comfortable as the world around you dulls. Shuffling closer to Uraume and Iori, you join their conversation as it shifts from physics to gossip surrounding one of Toji’s teammates. Toji had been filling Uraume in on every little detail, enthralled in the drama himself.

It can’t even be twenty minutes later when your phone is vibrating in your lap again. Mindlessly unlocking your phone without looking at the message previews or who sent it, you read the new texts.

9:59 PM Kuna || im sorry

9:59 PM Kuna || i lied

9:59 PM Kuna || it cant waut

10:00 PM Kuna || please cab u just text back when u see this

Your brow furrows again as you read through the texts that carry a strange sense of urgency. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you contemplate what to say.

“Everything alright?” Uraume queries, nudging you. Your scowl dissipates as you stare up at them questioningly, having missed their question. They tilt their chin at your phone. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” you glance down at the screen, shaking your head as you shrug. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Is it Satoru?” Iori chimes in. “I swear every time he texts me, he makes it sound like it’s the end of the world,” she groans, throwing her head back.

Chuckling, you shake your head. “He’s like that,” you agree, “but no, it’s not him.”

“It’s Sukuna,” Uraume states matter-of-factly. You wonder for a moment if they saw your screen, but the grimace they sport as they continue tells you otherwise. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah… How’d you know?”

Uraume shrugs. “You get this look when it comes to him.”

Your jaw drops. “What look?”

“Like-” Uraume tries to mirror your worried scowl, covering their lips in laughter when you shoot them an irritated look.

“I do not!”

Uraume puts their hands up in surrender. “Don’t blame me. Toji pointed it out.”

Groaning, you drag your hand down your face. “I’m gonna kill him next time I see him,” you grumble, your attention returning to the lit screen in your hand when Uraume’s laughter dies down. You read back over the messages, sending the most direct response you can, although you get the sensation you know the response already.

10:03 PM You || Is something wrong?

It’s mere seconds before his reply comes across.

10:03 PM Kuna || no

10:03 PM Kuna || yes

Scowling at your phone in confusion again, Uraume spots your expression and shuffles closer to you. “Is everything okay with him?” They ask, keeping their voice down.

“I’m not sure. He’s acting a bit weird,” you whisper back to them.

Uraume frowns, their earlier teasing tone now turned to completely serious concern for their friend. “Truth be told, he hasn’t been doing very well. He seemed off the last few times I saw him.”

“Distant?” You question.

Uraume tilts their head in thought. “Yeah, distant. Not all there.”

Tapping your thumb along the side of your phone, you stare at the date. The court date is quickly approaching, and as much as he likes to think he can handle things on his own, you know better. Even Choso knows better.

And Choso is twelve.

10:04 PM You || What’s wrong?

10:04 PM Kuna || i need help

Staring at your phone in bewilderment, genuine concern settles in. The world must be ending for Sukuna to be asking for help. Not a favor, not something he’ll find a way to pay you back for. Help.

10:05 PM You || What’s going on? What’s wrong?

You attempt to repeat your question, hoping he’ll give you some sort of explanation.

10:05 PM Kuna || call me

Your heart begins picking up its pace as you push to your feet and move to the back of the room in an effort to keep the call private. Hitting the phone icon, you’re connected to Sukuna almost instantly, but you don’t hear anything over the line.

“Hello? Sukuna?” You cover your other ear with your palm, wondering if maybe your connection is weak.

“Hey. Can you talk?” He croaks out. Each word is pushed out as though it’s a hurdle, his breath coming in pants and wheezes.

“Sukuna, are you having a-”

“Yeah,” he interrupts before you can finish your sentence.

Your entire demeanor softens, unable to be upset with him.

“I know you’re pissed at me,” he struggles through his words, inhaling sharply. “But I didn’t know who else to ask.” He exhales shakily.

You cast a glance at Uraume, who’s watching you intently. Though you know they helped Sukuna a few years ago to work through his mental health, they don’t strike you as a particularly gentle person. A good friend, but maybe not the person you’d call while struggling with anxiety.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” you soothe, tucking your phone between your ear and your shoulder in an attempt to make a motion resembling a steering wheel convey a silent message to Uraume. They tilt their head, so you point at the phone and mouth the word ‘Uber’ to them. Their brow raises as the same urgency in your eyes transfers to theirs. They’re on their phone in an instant, ordering an Uber for you. “Breathe in and hold, I’m grabbing my jacket and I’m on my way.”

Slipping over to Uraume, you whisper a ‘thank you’, and walk past them and Iori on the floor, headed in a rush towards the door. “Breathe out.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” Uraume asks urgently, following after you, but you shake your head, making a motion that you’ll text them. They nod solemnly, leaning over to Shoko to fill her in on your sudden departure as well.

“Breathe in and hold again,” you instruct softly but firmly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you wait for the Uber. Pulling your phone away from your ear, you check the text Uraume sent you with the Uber’s license plate, sharing your location with them just in case.

“Breathe out,” you murmur over the phone, “I’m on my way.”

You hear his shaky exhale, and the hoarse croak of his voice as you crawl into the Uber.

“Just need you to talk, I know you’re busy-”

“Just let me help, Sukuna,” you insist, interrupting him. He doesn’t reply, relenting as you continue to walk him through his breathing. “Can you get to the door to unlock it?”

He grunts, and you hear shuffling on his end for a moment, continuing your breathing instructions until the shuffling comes to a stop. “It’s open.”

“Keep breathing for me, okay? We’re just pulling up.”

Thanking the Uber driver, you keep the line open as you dial up to his apartment. You hear the buzzer ring for a split second on his end, before the door clicks. Making your way up to his apartment, you jog through the door quietly and carefully, shutting it behind you and dropping your boots and coat off in a pile at the door.

The apartment hasn’t changed much since you were here, though there’s paper all across the house and it seems the boys have been dabbling in origami based on the paper ninja stars and what you can only imagine is meant to be a crane sitting on the coffee table.

Padding quietly through the living room, you hold the phone up to your ear. “Are you in your room?”

“Washroom,” he grunts before hanging up.

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you carefully open the washroom door, shutting it quietly behind you. The fluorescent overhead lights are on, illuminating Sukuna leaning against the wall near the bathtub at the back of the room. His knees are bent to his chest, his elbows propped up on them, his hands burrowed in his tangled hair. The landline phone used to let you in with the buzzer is discarded on the floor to his right.

The sound of the door quietly clicking behind you catches his attention as he peers past his wrist at you. His skin is gaunt, his appearance unkempt and jaw rife with tension. He looks downright exhausted, and you can only guess how long he’s been sitting in this position alone, debating whether he should reach out at all.

You may not know it, and there’s a high likelihood that Sukuna will never tell you, but he’s been in this position before. On the floor, in a washroom that no longer feels like home with a crushing weight pressing down on him. The difference this time around is that when he calls the one number that may numb his pain, he’s not met with a voicemail.

While that voicemail may be dear to him for reasons he can’t bear to think about, the gentle reply of your voice on the other line brings relief that the voicemail never could.

His dad would be proud of him for reaching out.

No matter how upset with him you still are.

“Hey,” you softly greet him, kneeling down until you’re perched on your knees. Your breathing instructions must have helped a bit, because he’s not as bad as he sounded earlier. His chest rises and falls a bit too quickly still, his skin clammy with sweat, but he’s more present than the day outside his building.

Gingerly, you reach up to move his hands from his hair. He doesn’t protest, his jaw slightly ajar as though the air is physically seeping from his lungs.

“Keep breathing deeply,” you murmur, letting him hold one of your hands as you use the other to move his sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. “You’re burning up, give me a moment, okay?”

Running your thumb gently over the back of his hand a couple of times, you push to your feet and slip into the hall, grabbing a hand towel from the linen closet. Slipping quietly back into the washroom and shutting the door behind you, you turn on the tap, running the towel under cold water and wringing it out.

Sukuna blinks his eyes open, desperation and guilt swirling within the crimson as he watches the way you wipe his forehead. Moving the hood of his black hoodie away, you rest the towel around his shoulders, pressing it against the back of his neck.

His eyes raise to stare at the ceiling as you plop down onto your knees in front of him and shoot him a reassuring smile. “Keep breathing for me,” you encourage him, taking a hold of his hand again and rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles. “In… and out.” You continue to encourage him, keeping as calm as you can despite your own concern and uncertainty.

Your gut twists in pain at the sight of him so vulnerable, so genuinely hurt that he’s willing to ask for help. You care too much to deny him when he’s clearly in pain, even as you struggle with thoughts of the complicated relationship you have with this man. No matter how upset you are with him, you can’t bear the thought of him suffering alone.

Sukuna’s head falls forward, his eyes on his knees as his breathing finally begins evening out, the room no longer feeling claustrophobic.

Giving him a moment to catch his breath, you remain silent as you rub his knuckles. Once he seems more present, his gaze flickering around the room and taking in his surroundings, you finally speak. “What happened?”

“Had a meeting with the lawyer,” he rasps, shaking his head as he flips it back in an effort to keep his hair off his forehead.

“It didn’t go well?”

Sukuna inhales sharply, holding his breath for a moment. “Went fine. Just need to see if I can get a letter from Maya, have her sign off on my salary n’ shit.”

“That’s good,” you nod along. “What happened after that?” You push him for details, hoping he’ll get whatever’s on his mind out into the open.

He slides his hand out of yours, running it through his hair with a sigh. “The kids overheard me askin’ if I would have any more time with them if I lost.”

Your brows tie together in sympathy. “Choso…?”

Sukuna shakes his head, throwing his hand through the air in an exasperated shrug. “He shut down. I dunno how to help him, I-” he pauses, dragging his hand through his hair again. A stray strand of salmon falls down over his forehead and into his vision. He likely hasn’t had a chance to get his hair cut in a while, and it seems it’s bothering him as much as Choso’s is, though you can’t imagine Sukuna will let you put his hair up like his little brother does. “You’re so much better with them than I am.”

You blink, your lips parting at his confession. “You’re good with them, Sukuna.” Before you can continue, he interjects with a snarl.

“Keepin’ a roof over their heads isn’t being good to them!” He growls, teeth gritted in frustration. At the sight of your dejection, he backpedals quickly. “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” He throws his head back in frustration, hitting his head on the wall hard enough to wince. “Shit-” He mutters, rubbing the back of his head.

“Sukuna,” you get his attention with a soft smile, pulling him from his spiraling frustration.

He fixes you with a scowl, his eyes flitting around your face. His shoulders fall as he relaxes, leaning his head against the wall gently this time. “Sorry, princess.”

“It’s okay. Just talk to me,” you encourage him, watching as he reaches out to fiddle with your fingers. Biting your lip, you will your heart to relax, grateful he can’t feel your pulse as it skyrockets from his touch.

You’re not as over him as you thought, but you suppose you knew that already.

“Cho locked himself in the brats’ room and Yuji wouldn’t stop crying. Don’t think he knew what was goin’ on.” Sukuna sighs, rubbing his free hand harshly over his face. “Cried until he fell asleep. Choso’s probably still awake, but I can’t get into his room without pickin’ the lock,” he mutters, scratching at his chest as the familiar weight of guilt and stress begin to press down on him again, his breathing growing somewhat erratic.

“Where’s Yuji asleep?” You whisper softly.

“Moved him to my room.”

God, no wonder he was struggling. “How long has this been going on?”

Sukuna’s thumb runs over your nails, focusing on the glossy finish of your manicure. “The lawyer left at six.”

You blink at him, your lips parting. “And Choso locked himself in his room right away?”

Sukuna nods, the tension in his shoulders rising again. “Couldn’t get Yuji to stop crying, couldn’t get Cho to open the door.” He scratches at his chest, stress settling deep within him once more as the room begins to close in on him. He lets his head hang, his hair falling down over his forehead once again. “I dunno how you got Cho to open up a bit, but I fucked shit up again.”

You press your lips into a thin line, comfortingly squeezing the tips of his fingers before pulling your hand from his. His eyes dart towards you, watching intently as you grab the towel from the back of his neck, heading back to the sink. Wetting the towel with more fresh, cool, water, you wring out the excess and kneel back down in front of him.

He doesn’t protest as you run the towel over his forehead, replacing it over the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulder as water rolls down his spine, but the sensation is somewhat welcome as a distraction from the tightening in his chest.

“You know,” you begin, adjusting the towel in an attempt to keep the water from running down his chest too. “You may not realize it, but you are good with them.” Sitting back on your heels, you evaluate your work before meeting his eyes, which are watching you intently. “You know their favorite foods, what they need when they’re sick, what they like to play and watch.”

“That’s surface-level shit,” he grumbles.

Reaching out softly, you let him fiddle with your fingers again. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“You might think so,” you shrug, “but I bet those things mean a lot to them. You’re encouraging Yuji’s love of sports, and Cho’s passion for cooking. You can’t tell me the gifts you got them for Christmas didn’t mean anything to them, or you.”

Sukuna blinks, glaring at the bathtub to his left like it’s personally offended him.

“Do you know how carefully Yuji colored that Sonic you drew? Or how excited they got when you played Nerf with them?”

He doesn’t reply, his jaw tightening as he recalls the Christmas eve spent with you and Uraume. Slowly, his hand moves to engulf your much smaller one, squeezing. Your heart is in your throat at the feeling of his thumb smoothing over your skin. There’s no world where this is good for your progress in getting over him, but it doesn’t matter, so long as he isn’t struggling on his own.

“I know you’re trying to be their parent, but that’s not what you are, Kuna.” He jerks his head towards you, his stomach fluttering as the nickname he’s grown more fond of than he’d previously realized slips so effortlessly from your lips. “I know you have the responsibility of a parent, and they realize that too, they’re smart, but they also need their brother.”

His tongue slides across his lower lip as he listens intently.

“They need the Sukuna who can turn off ‘parent mode’ and toss a basketball around with them, or beat them in MarioKart because that Sukuna can’t bear to lose to a five-year-old.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes dramatically as though you aren’t right.

“They love you, Sukuna.”

He inhales sharply, clinging to the deep breath like a lifeline. He knows his brothers care, but it’s hard to feel that it should be him taking care of them when he can’t even get his little brother to stop crying.

It stands as a cruel reminder of the question he couldn’t answer all those years ago from the social worker.

How the hell was he supposed to provide emotionally for his little brothers when he can’t even handle his own emotions? He’d had to call someone in a desperate attempt to escape the pain.

Not just anyone, but you, who he’s already feels an immense amount of guilt towards.

Sukuna leans his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Is that enough?” He mumbles, more as a rhetorical question than something he expects you to respond to. Yet in your infinite wisdom and kindness, you have an answer for that, too.

“You don’t have to be the only person they can turn to. It’s okay to need help, Sukuna.”

Tired pupils with dark circles weighing them down fall to his knees. He reaches up to scratch his chest with his spare hand, inhaling deeply. “I can’t just call you every time Choso’s acting off,” he mumbles, pulling his hand back to rest on his knees as he withdraws into himself at the idea of calling on the one person who doesn’t want to hear from him.

Well, one of the two. He can’t imagine Toji is his biggest fan either.

Pulling your hands back into your lap, you stare at your manicured nails, as though they might hold the answer. “Maybe not,” you agree, “but you don’t have to try to figure it out alone every time.”

He glances at you through his peripherals, dragging his fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. His lip curls in disgust at the feeling.

“Why’d you come in the first place?”

“Here?” You query, tilting your head.

Something flutters in Sukuna’s stomach, threatening to eat him from the inside out, leaving a taste on his tongue that’s so sickly sweet he thinks his body is tricking him into thinking he’s about to upheave the contents of his stomach. Yet, there’s no bile at the back of his throat, this is something different entirely. And that thought makes his chest tighten again.

Clutching at his chest, he nods in response, fighting to keep his breathing even.

“Just because I haven’t forgiven you doesn’t mean I want you to go through this alone.”

Somehow, that makes this hurt even more for Sukuna. He can’t help but feel as though he’s manipulating your overwhelming kindness, although that’s not the case. You’re too sweet for him, too sweet for the world he comes from and lives in.

Clutching the edge of the bathtub, he feels his heart accelerating, his breathing following shortly behind.

Catching a glance at the way his chest is rising and falling faster, you step in to stop his panic before it gets unbearable. “Talk to me, walk me through your thoughts,” you speak gently, running your palm back and forth along the length of his forearm.

Staring at the ceiling with a lidded, exhausted gaze, he shakes his head. “Just tryin’ to catch my breath,” he croaks, unwilling to admit that he has half a mind to kick you out if it only means he won’t be fucking up the strange agreement that’s settled between you both like a rickety bridge, as though your hand isn’t already outstretched to him on one end of it.

But Sukuna’s nothing if not dense.

“I think some fresh air would do you good,” you suggest, pushing yourself up off your knees. You extend your hand, but he doesn’t take it, opting to use the leverage from pushing his hand against the edge of the tub to get to his feet. He throws the towel in the sink on the way out.

The tattooed man trudges after you as you lead the way to the balcony, peering outside at the snow covering it. Jogging to the front door, you grab your boots and coat and Sukuna’s, offering them to him as you throw your jacket on. He slips his feet into the shoes in a half-assed fashion, leaving the coat unzipped as he keeps his focus on breathing evenly.

Heading out first, you use your boots to shove some of the snow aside. Sukuna follows after you, leaning over the railing. As he does that, you grab a couple of chairs from the kitchen, placing them facing one another on the balcony, before shutting the door.

The cool air on his skin is refreshing, the bite of the faint breeze seeming to lessen the weight on his chest, just a little bit.

Tugging on his jacket sleeve, you point to the chair behind him. “Take a seat.”

Grunting, he slides down in the chair, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Any better?”

He nods, staring up at the sky as he slumps back in the chair. It’s faint from the city’s light pollution, but a few stars twinkle at him in the distance. You follow suit, sliding down in the chair to rest the back of your head against it, staring up at the few visible stars. Your foot brushes against the tip of his boot, nudging it a few times as you shuffle in your chair to get comfy, zipping your coat up.

“Can you believe those are all stars?”

Sukuna clears his throat, his breathing evening the longer he spends out in the frigid night air. It’s warmed up enough over the past week that it’s bearable, though he does run warm. He hums in agreement, letting out a long, and surprisingly steady breath.

“How far away do you think that one is?” You point at the brightest one in the sky. Sukuna cranes his neck to see what you’re pointing at, serving as a great distraction from his thoughts.

His voice is still hoarse as he replies. “I think that’s Jupiter. Maybe Venus.”

You raise your head to look at him, curious. “It’s a planet?” As you watch his eyes dart around the night sky, you’re grateful to find that he seems more at ease. His features are only illuminated by the dull glow of the light from the entrance of the apartment that you’d flicked on upon arrival and whatever lights decorate the street. The dull yellow glow makes the darkened circles beneath his eyes painfully obvious, though you notice they actually seem a bit better than when you’d met him at the coffee shop last week. Maybe the new job is doing him good.

“I think so. It’s been a few years since I took Astronomy,” he shrugs in his seat, nudging your foot. “The ones that don’t flicker are planets.”

“Huh, I never knew.”

Sukuna hums, pulling his hands out of his pockets to fold them over his chest. As your eyes return to the sky, he lifts his head. You haven’t changed much in the time since he last saw you, though you don’t look as worn thin as you had been when you were helping him. He wonders if maybe your life is better with him sidelined, where you can focus on yourself.

Yet, he knows that it’s that mindset that landed him in this position, staring at a crater that separates you both where once he could reach for you freely. He’s not enough of a fool to let himself think that again. Uraume’s words still ring in the back of his mind, serving as a constant reminder that he might not know you as well as he once thought.

He remembers thinking once that you were a sun, while he was little more than a star about to burn out. Maybe he had run his course already with you, and if that was the case, he supposes that’s fine, but if a planet that produces no light can shine brighter in the night sky than the stars themselves, maybe he does stand a chance at standing alongside you again.

He’s not really sure what he means or wants by that, either. He just knows he longs for your presence. Longs for this, whatever it is. This sense of tranquility with you.

As the silence stretches on with Sukuna quietly observing you while untangling his thoughts, your eyes fall from the sky to meet his, a small smile gracing your lips. You tilt your head questioningly, a familiar feeling of warmth flooding through Sukuna. Cute.

“You didn’t deserve all the shit I said.” It comes out in a flurry, before Sukuna has a chance to mediate his own words.

You avert your eyes, your smile dissipating. You know this conversation is a long time coming, and the one in the break room was only the beginning, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I… Appreciate that,” you tread carefully. Sukuna can see your walls coming up, carefully guarding your heart where once there were none. Walls erected to guard you from him.

“I know you didn’t see me as a project, or whatever the hell else I said,” he adds, staring down at his forearms. He takes in a long breath, watching it billow out in front of him. “I shouldn’t have used your scholarship, or all that Prom Queen shit against you. You work fuckin’ hard, I was just trying to hit where it hurt.”

“Because I hurt you?”

He shrugs. “Guess so. It’s a shit excuse, though.”

You examine his expression, taking a moment to take in his words. There’s a level of maturity held within his tone that you don’t recognize, though it suits him. He’s still the same Sukuna, with serrated edges and bared teeth, ready to leap at the opportunity to jump into a fight, but he’s quick to reel himself back and approach things just a bit more level-headed.

Scratching at the stubble that dots his jaw, giving him a five o’clock shadow, he sighs. “I know I said it the other day or whatever, but I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”

You nod a bit, taking in his apology. “I’m sorry for making you feel like I was trying to fix you. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you about little things, and I shouldn’t have accused you of endangering the kids. I was out of line.”

Sukuna just shrugs. “I know you meant well. Don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body.”

You crack a hint of a smile. “Well, it wasn’t very nice of me.”

Sukuna shrugs again, looking back up at the sky. “You’re fine, princess. Don’t worry about it.”

Your heart betrays you, flipping in your chest as he calls you princess again. Chewing on your lip, you stare at his sharp, stubbled-dotted chin. Disheveled beyond belief after his long and shitty day, he still looks handsome as hell. You can’t deny just how attractive he’s always been.

“What do I need to do?” Sukuna gruffs, clearing his throat as it tightens with the fear that you could shoot him down in only a couple of words. Less, if you wanted.

“What do you mean?”

“To get things to go back to normal.” His gaze shifts to a car pulling into the parking lot below the balcony.

You take pause, considering for a moment what’s good for you. The man sitting before you, though still stoic and rough around the edges, has clearly come a long way. Whether that earns him a second last chance, you’re not sure. You don’t expect things to go back to how they were right away, but forgiving him feels like a step in the right direction. Maybe that’s the final step you need to allow yourself to heal.

Even as you think that, your pounding heart betrays those thoughts.

Maybe it’s just what your longing heart wants you to think.

But if you want it so bad, can it be so wrong? Could you be thinking about things the wrong way? Maybe you don’t need to get over him to heal. Maybe he can be a part of the process.

“I don’t know,” you admit, wrestling with your own thoughts. “I can’t say for sure if things will ever be the same, but it means a lot to hear you apologize.”

He hums, shaking a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“I…” you trail off in thought, chewing uncertainly on your lip.

“Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.

A smile pulls at the edges of your lips. “Now that I’d love to see,” you chuckle wryly, shaking your head as you shuffle in the dining chair.

“Tough luck,” he scoffs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips for what feels like the first time in ages.

Shrugging, you tuck your hands under your thighs, staring down at the parking lot as a white rabbit darts out from snow-covered brush to erratically hop across the lot under the cover of a truck. “A girl can dream,” you mimic his lighthearted tone.

Sukuna observes you for a long moment, crimson gaze darting across each of your features. He caught your impish tone, but something in your eyes, a glaze of underlying sadness, tells him there’s a level of sincerity to your request.

At least, he thinks.

With a huff, Sukuna slides down off his chair onto his knees before you.

“Oh my god, what are you-?”

“You wanted me on my knees, or whatever,” he grumbles like it’s normal, though his tone is earnest.

A giggle bubbles in your throat that you attempt to stifle, sitting up. “I was joking, get up,” you plead.

“Does saying I’m sorry from down here make it more serious?”

“Sukuna please, oh my god, this is embarrassing-” You bite down on your lip, taking in your surroundings as though someone might see you.

“For who? I’m the one on my fuckin’ knees-” he points out with a brow raised, mild irritation crossing his frown and interrupting your rambling.

“Your knees are gonna get all wet, please get up,” you beg, unable to hold in your laughter any longer as you tug at his bicep, getting to your feet to attempt to pull him up.

Sukuna can’t help his smirk, any irritation dissipating at the sight of your laughter. It brings a sense of peace to his life that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Even in the midst of all the issues plaguing his life, you still brighten it so much that he doesn’t mind being on his knees. Even if he’s giving up some dignity to appease you.

“Kuna, cut it out!” You giggle, tugging on both of his forearms with as much strength as you can muster.

His eyes crinkle a bit at the corners at your use of his nickname, but he stays put, insistent on earning your forgiveness in any way he can. When he doesn’t budge, you cover your face, though your muffled laughter still rings out in the open winter air. “Please get up, oh my god,” you giggle, peeking through your fingers.

“Alright, alright,” he relents finally, pushing up to his feet with a grunt.

“Your knees are soaked,” you murmur, brushing his sweatpants off for him, though his knees have two darker gray patches decorating them.

“My knees will live,” he gruffs, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

You raise a hand up to your lips, stifling your giggles as you turn back towards the parking lot. Sukuna joins you, brushing the snow off the railing so that his forearms don’t suffer the same fate as his knees.

Silence settles over you as you follow suit, leaning against the railing beside him. The rabbit you’d caught sight of earlier darts out from under the vehicle it had chosen, leaping up onto the sidewalk, camouflaged in snow. The light breeze rustles your hair, blowing strands of Sukuna’s salmon hair into his eyes. He shakes his head, his locks falling out of his vision.

The city is mostly silent at this time of night in the middle of winter. There’s no one out wandering at this time, even close to the college, with the cold. The distant sounds of cars driving across packed snow and thin layers of ice serve as little more than white noise.

“I forgive you.” You murmur, penetrating the comfortable silence.

Sukuna’s head whips towards you, as though in disbelief. He doesn’t say anything, blinking down at the rabbit sitting directly below the two of you. He’s never exactly been great with words as it stands.

“’Cause I got down on my knees, huh?” He settles on a teasing reply.

“God… no,” you giggle, craning your neck to look up at him. “Please don’t do that again.”

He huffs in amusement, nudging your shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean things are back to normal,” you warn more seriously, but he’ll take what he can get. He already knows he lost your trust and he doesn’t expect to get it back in what was just a desperate plea for help to pull him from the hole of doubt he’d dug himself into. After over an hour of working himself up and struggling to breathe, he’d felt out of options.

“I can live with that,” he mumbles, the breeze cutting through to his knees as it becomes increasingly clear that there’s wet patches where he’d been kneeling. The back of his neck is fairly chilly too from the towel. “Come inside,” he grunts, turning away from the railing to slide the door open.

Slipping your boots off, you attempt to shake some of the snow off onto the balcony before carrying them to the mat at the front door. Pulling your phone out, you glance at the message previews from Uraume checking in, shooting them a quick text to let them know everything is okay.

Sukuna drags both chairs back inside and casts a glance at the two room doors that are shut in the hall before meeting you at the front entrance with his own boots.

“What are you gonna do?”

Letting out a breath, Sukuna shakes his head. “Dunno. Sleep on the couch ‘til Yuji wakes up, try to get him to stop crying.” He shrugs. “I don’t think the kid’s gonna unlock the door.”

“Do you need a hand?”

Sukuna reaches up to scratch his jaw. “Nah, I’ll figure it out.”

Shoving his chest lightly, you fix him with a scowl. His head whips around to meet your gaze with equal disdain.

“The fuck was that for, brat?”

“How many times do I need to tell you to ask for help?” You groan, narrowing your eyes as you point at his chest.

Smacking your pointed finger aside with relative mercy, he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t fuckin’ shove me.”

“Sukuna. Focus.”

With a half-hearted sneer, he grumbles out a “fine,” giving in with little dramatism.

But it is Sukuna, so he does have to make a bit of a show of it.

“I’ll text ya when Yuji wakes up if shit’s bad, alright?”

Nodding, you cast a glance towards the back hall. “Uraume wants to help, too. Just… ask, when you need it.”

He regards you with his usual stoic expression. “Mm,” is his only reply, a silence settling between you that doesn’t quite feel as comfortable as you’d grown accustomed to with Sukuna so long ago. It isn’t even the same comfortable silence that you’ve felt with him tonight. There’s something unspoken, something hanging in the air, settling on the tips of your tongues that remains a talking point, but before Sukuna can voice his question, you glance at your phone.

“I should call an Uber.”

He hums once more, shoving his hands in his pockets as the opportunity passes. “Drink some water.”

You tilt your head questioningly, and fuck, Sukuna has no right to find it so sweet, so… attractive?

Clearing his throat, Sukuna scowls as his surroundings become increasingly more interesting. “I can smell vodka.”

“Oh. Right, I was with Uraume and Shoko,” you explain simply, hitting a couple of buttons on your phone to call for an Uber. Satisfied, you nod to yourself. “They’re a minute away, I’m gonna head downstairs.”

Sukuna hums again, his usual guarded personality having completely returned now that he’s neither having a panic attack, nor physically begging for your forgiveness.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Shooting him a polite smile, you put your boots back on and turn towards the door. Only moments before it shuts does Sukuna find his voice again.

“I owe you.”

“Just say thank you, Sukuna.”

“Thanks, princess. Text me when you’re home.”

With a more genuine smile and a small wave, you head out the door, letting out a breath as you consider the weird limbo you’re in with Sukuna now. Forgiven, able to jest and connect on some level that never quite disappeared, but it’s as though there’s a thin, near-invisible barrier that still separates you. Something unspoken, hanging over your heads like a condition of sorts.

Yet you can’t quite place the uncertainty. It’s as though you’re both holding back, holding onto something that the other can’t place.

Crawling into the back seat of the Uber, you stare out the window at the passing lights, all blurring into one another as you lose yourself in thought.

You want to tell yourself you’re letting him back in as nothing more than a friend, that you’ll keep your walls up and let him in bit by bit as he earns his place within your life again, but that would disregard everything that took place tonight. Try as you might to keep him at arms’ length, he has a way of slipping through your defenses and tugging at your heart strings.

You want to give him the benefit of the doubt that this time will be better, though. Maybe it’s naive to expect that the Sukuna that you’ve seen over these past couple of weeks is here to stay, but you can’t deny that there’s been a shift.

You can only hope things stay this way, and if you’re lucky, maybe the distance between you that you can’t quite place will begin to crumble.

You can’t say for sure if it’s what you need, but your erratic heart has a funny way of telling you that it’s what you want.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

❦ a/n ; in case you missed it, my best friend did some absolutely gorgeous and adorable art for the series here! can you tell i was listening to hozier when i wrote this LMAO anyway hiiii my loves, thank you sm for reading as always <33 i really hope you enjoyed it, that last scene has been on my mind for a couple of chapters and i couldn't possibly end the chapter without it, so uh 19.2k words it was LOL i expect the next chapter to most likely be longer as well, and it may take me a bit more time going forward since i have some research to do on legal proceedings and whatnot (you know what that means 🤭) so bear with me on that, i want to make sure i do everything justice. i also just want to mention that i do really appreciate each and every like, comment, reblog, and ask, it genuinely means the world to me and i read each and every one and love chatting with y'all <33 aaaanyway i'm yapping again so i'll stop LOL but thanks for sticking with me for my fave extremely slow burn couple 🫶

❦ 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

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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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lazydreamer19 · 1 month ago

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can i get $46 for my internet bill? it snuck up on me and i don’t have enough to cover it and my fiance won’t have money for a few more days!

0/46

#boost #please help #coquette #taylor swift

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lazydreamer19 · 1 month ago

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✨A Voice From Gaza Needs Your Attention ✨🙏🍉

✅ Vetted by @savefami -vetted link

✅ Vetted by @happaliff vetted link

Please help in vetting @90-ghost @gazavetters

We don't even know anymore. Khaled, my little one, has started pronouncing the word "bombing," and it terrifies me.

I’m not here to beg or list every detail—because even an entire newspaper wouldn’t be enough. The images on TV screens and the stories you see online already tell you so much about what we endure. But no matter how much you see, you’ll never truly feel what we feel. And I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.

How You Can Help🥺🙏

In this moment of despair, I reach out to you—not just as a stranger, but as a fellow human being. Our humanity connects us, and compassion knows no boundaries. Your kindness, no matter how small, can bring a glimmer of hope to our lives, shattered by war.

Here’s what we’re trying to rebuild:

💔 $5,000 for the father.

💔 $5,000 for the mother.

💔 $2,500 for Khaled.

💔 $2,500 for Intesar.

The rest will go toward essential living expenses—because there’s no safety net here, no hospitals, no medicine, no healthy food.

Our baby has been sick countless times, and every evacuation has only made things worse. We need help to survive, to heal, and to dream of a better tomorrow.

Even a Little Means Everything

We appreciate your help, even if it’s just a small donation or simply sharing our story. Every bit of support matters. Together, we can rebuild what’s been taken from us and find hope amidst the rubble.

My Donation link here👇👇

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lazydreamer19 · 1 month ago

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OMG-

nepo baby gojo who grew up with not only a silver spoon but an entire china cabinet of them.

he��s rich, there’s no questioning it. rich rich. his dad was the ceo of a company, his mother a successful neurosurgeon. it was all in the cards for him to turn out successful, and it was no surprise when he did.

gojo graduated top of his class from japan’s best university. he’s in line to take over his fathers role at the company in a few years and his name is across forbes.

the only problem? the tabloids seem to be loving him for a different reason.

gojo is a shameless flirt. he has a plethora of exes, each having their own story about dating him. he’s an unapologetic playboy and sees no harm in fooling around, doesn’t care if it makes it into a stupid article because who reads those anyways?

everyone, evidently, and his father refuses to have his eccentric son ruining the family name.

the solution? make him date someone that they know he can’t break up with. set him up with a girl who’s so perfect on paper that she might not even be real.

he knows that his actions have had eventual consequences, but he never thought that he’d be forced to pick out a potential girlfriend from a line of pictures his assistants had splayed out for him. each of them coming from virtually no background with no importance to society. no families or families that are cut off, girls that nobody has heard of and would never remember if they saw her next to him. it much easier to create the perfect girl from scratch than finding her in the wild. especially ones as desperate as this? a fat check often shuts them up.

his uninterested gaze roams around the headshots, wondering how they must’ve convinced them in the first place. gojo knows what’s on the line, and as petulant and spoiled he is, he’s fortunately not stupid.

he rolls his eyes after another few minutes had passed, pouting to some random girl because he truly couldn’t care less.

the assistants around him quickly got to work, collecting the rest of the pictures as they began getting ready for what was to come.

little did you know that the strange offer you had from a strange woman a few weeks ago would be calling you back, telling you that you got the job.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo drabble #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk drabble

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lazydreamer19 · 1 month ago

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I recently purchased a Lenormand deck and would love to do some free readings while I learn how to properly read these cards.

RULES:

Reblog this post.

Only ask short and specific questions like “will ___ happen this week” or “what will happen if I ___?”

Yes or no questions are more than welcome.

I would love to predict the outcomes of sports matches or stocks.

It would also be really helpful if you asked questions where things will play out within 3 days to a week. This way we can know really soon if I was right or not.

No FS, soulmate, twinflame, or 18+ questions. Asking if someone wants to sleep with you counts as an 18+ question.

You can ask more than 1 question, but please send each question in a separate ask

Because I will not be channeling your energy with these cards the way I would be in a tarot reading, I do NOT need to know any personal information about you.

I will not be answering any of these privately.

Feedback is required.

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lazydreamer19 · 1 month ago

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Late, but Happy Valentine's Day my loves🤍

#sea's beaches🌊🐚💕

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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Hello 😇👋,

I'm Maher, and my wife, my child and my elderly parents from Gaza 🇵🇸🍉 My wife gave birth to my child during the war in a tent in the middle of the street and I'm currently living with my family in a small tent 🥺.

Our family is facing incredibly difficult times due to the ongoing war in Gaza 💔. Our dreams and future have been shattered, leaving us feeling lost and without purpose. Maher Famliy have launched a GoFundMe campaign to help them escape Gaza, continue their education, and support our family.

Making a small donation or sharing the campaign would mean the world to us.

https://gofund.me/9d48061d

Thank you so much for your kindness and support 💖With gratitude,

Maher Family

https://gofund.me/9d48061d

Boost🍉

#free palestine #help gaza #donation post

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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https://gofund.me/173bb114

Hello! 👋

I hope you're doing well.

Could you please reblog this post on your account to help support my family?

I'm new to Tumblr and GoFundMe, and I truly need your help 🙏❤️.

Thank you so much 🌹

Boost🍉

#free palestine #gazaunderattack #donation post

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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Hi lm hamdi lam from Gaza.lam a father for 4 children . our small goal is to reach 2,000€ there is less than 500 € left to reach our goal.please donate!! . We are still suffering from the effects of war and the loss of everything, This amount is not just a number, but a real opportunity to rebuild our lives and Help me complete my children's education and put a smile back on my children Thanks 🙏🏻

Boost 🍉

#free palestine #donation post #gazaunderattack

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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🌟 A Plea from Gaza: Rola’s Story 🌟

Hello, my name is Rola, and I am a mother of two children living in the Gaza Strip. Our lives were once filled with love, laughter, and dreams for the future. But everything changed on October 7th, when the war shattered not only our home but our entire world.

That morning, my family and I were enjoying coffee together on the balcony. Out of nowhere, an explosion erupted, shaking our home violently. My husband and son ran for cover, falling over each other in panic, while I stood frozen, still holding my cup, unable to process the chaos around me. When I looked out the window, I saw that our neighbor’s house, once filled with life, had been reduced to rubble. Ambulances rushed to the scene as people scrambled to rescue the injured and pull bodies from the debris.

The bombings didn’t stop. At night, the rain poured heavily, and the cold seeped into our bones. I stayed awake, covering my children to keep them warm and praying for their safety. But safety is an illusion here. Another explosion shattered the night, and our neighbors’ home was destroyed. Their children, who had been sleeping peacefully under a blanket, were found lifeless, their cover soaked in blood.

I looked at my children with tears in my eyes and thought, How can I protect you? We had to flee our home with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We left behind my children’s toys, their clothes, and their beautiful bedroom. Everything we had worked so hard to build is gone.

Our Current Reality Now, we are displaced and living in a nightmare. Food is scarce, and prices are unimaginably high—$10 for a kilo of sugar! The fear of death hangs over us constantly. My children deserve a life of joy and hope, not one defined by fear and loss. Why can’t we live like everyone else—go to work, visit family, and watch our children play in safety? Why do our children have to grow up surrounded by death and destruction?

How You Can Help I am pleading for your kindness to help us rebuild our lives. We need your support to: 💔 Rebuild our home, so my children can feel safe again. 🌍 Evacuate from Gaza, seeking a future where my family can live with dignity. 🩺 Provide urgent medical care for my children, who need protection from this nightmare.

Even the smallest donation can make a difference. If you can’t donate, please share my story. Every share brings us closer to hope.

What Your Support Means Your kindness is not just about helping us survive; it’s about giving us a chance to dream again. To rebuild what we’ve lost and to ensure my children have a future filled with possibilities, not fear.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Your support means the world to us. Let’s work together to rebuild hope, one step at a time.

🌸 Please share our story and consider donating today. 🌸

Together, we can create a better tomorrow. 🌍❤️

#free palestine #free gaza #gaza strip #gazaunderattack #save gaza #help gaza #gaza gfm #i stand with palestine #support palestine #gfm #gaza gofundme #gaza #donation post

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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NEW GAME: A CLIP OF YOUR FS!!!

Back again with a game for the month of love! This time I’m offering a clip that represents your fs!

Rules:

Be RESPECTFUL & PATIENT!

Reblog this post!

Reblog a Palestinian Gofundme!

DM Me your pronouns and initials if you are interested!

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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Valentines game 🩷

I am starting this early so I’m sure I have time to answer the asks before valentines

Rules:

1) like and reblog this post

2) put your initials and question number and emoji from the list below 💖

3) I will answer as many as I can for those who choose not to exchange 🌸🌷

For those who choose to exchange please answer question 2 for me.

Question selection:

💌~ FS and romantic options

1) your Fs or SO red and green flags

2) do you know/how well do you know your Fs?

3) first valentines with your FS or SO

4) how will/does your SO/FS show their love to you?

4) come up with your own question but please nothing 18+

💖~ self love and platonic options:

1) what is your higher self proud of you for?

2) what you should love about your self?

3) what makes you magnetic?

4) what do your pets wish to say to you?

5) what does your family or friends want you to know?

6) what is coming for you in platonic connections?

7) what is your higher self like?

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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if you support trump, this blog isn’t for you!

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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What’s a stereotypical food from ur culture that u absolutely love.

#I can literally devour biryani anyday anytime I love it sm

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lazydreamer19 · 2 months ago

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The gasp I just gasped-

This is amazing!

Dear My Beloved (2/2)

~Ｖｉｃｅ＃３~

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝟑: 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥

(𝐎𝐜𝐭. 𝟏𝟑-𝟏𝟗)

----

𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳:

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

"𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯."

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘰 𝘔𝘦" - 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨" - 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥

🤎staring: Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

👗preview: But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with an foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

“Nothing is what it seems… Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

💄summary: It’s your husband Miguel’s birthday, a day that should be filled with love and celebration. Yet, something feels…off.

🎂tw/cw: 1950s Era, Abuse, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Death, Despair, Disturbing Imagery, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Grief, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, No Smut, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Violence,

💙Pet names: Amor (Love), Bebé (Baby), Cariño (Darling), Esposa (Wife), Mi amor (My love)

♥️Rating: 18+ explicit I ANGST I

🎵 Word Count: Total - 14.5k, Part 2 - 8.2k words

Art found on Pinterest, all credit go to original artists/designers/photographers

All credit also goes to musicians as I do not own the two songs heavily used in this oneshot. 😊

Dividers and mood board was created by me.

⚠️⚠️ Trigger Warning: This section contains highly sensitive content, including blood, trauma, verbal abuse, mental health struggles, and death. If any of these topics may be triggering for you, please proceed with caution and at your own discretion. ⚠️⚠️

“MAMA!!”

You froze, eyes wide, breath catching in your throat. Hastily, you pushed Miguel away, panic rising in your chest. “Did you hear that?!” you asked, your voice tight with alarm.

For once, Miguel’s expression mirrored the terror that gripped you. Rising from the couch, he reached out to steady you as both of you looked toward the stairs, your pulse pounding in your ears. The air between you was heavy now—this wasn’t just the innocent sound of a child’s call.

Something was wrong…

Your husband moved first, his long legs quickly striding to the stairway. He climbed them in an instant, with you close behind.

“Princesa!? Gabriella!?” Miguel’s thunderous voice echoed down the hall of your family home.

“Gabi?!” you called out, your heart hammering, never feeling this level of panic before.

Miguel walked briskly down the narrow upstairs hallway, flanked by four doors—two leading to bathrooms, one to your shared bedroom, and the last to Gabriella’s room.

Frantically, you tore through each room, throwing open doors, your eyes scanning for any trace of your daughter. With each second that passed, the dread in your chest grew heavier. “Gabi?!” your voice cracked as it echoed off the walls. But the silence that followed was unbearable.

She wasn’t there.

Meeting in the hallway, your teary eyes locked with Miguel’s. His stern gaze didn’t falter, but the tension in his clenched jaw betrayed his growing desperation.

“One last door, cariño. She’s here,” he said, his voice resolute as his knuckle brushed your cheek in a soothing gesture. But the flicker of anger in his eyes spoke volumes—anger at the unknown, at his own helplessness.

Swallowing hard, your throat dry, you both turned toward Gabriella’s bathroom.

Miguel let out a frustrated grunt, and with the force of a charging bull, he bursted the door open. You pushed past him, your feet hitting the cold tiles when you entered the room.

The bathroom hit you like a slap. The air was heavy, unnaturally still, and it clung to your skin in a way that made every nerve scream with unease. The cold tiles beneath your feet were a stark contrast to the warmth of the hallway carpet, a biting reminder of how wrong everything felt.

⚠️⚠️(Trigger Warning Approaching!!)) ⚠️⚠️

Skip to this if you wish to avoid it >> 🤎💙

Your hand scrambled along the wall, fumbling for the light switch. When the harsh fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life with a sickly hum, the scene before you came into focus.

And you froze.

The color drained from your face, your breath caught in your chest, and your knees felt as if they might give way beneath you. The bathtub, the room, the sight—it all sucked the life out of you in one brutal instant.

‘This has to be a dream. Let this be a fucking dream.’

But it wasn’t.

Gabriella was there, hunched over the edge of the bathtub.

Your sweet little girl—the same one who had just been beaming with joy as she dashed upstairs to fetch her gift—now laid lifelessly. Her small body was draped over the edge, twisted in a way that made her look like a discarded, broken doll. The innocence of her form had been stolen, transformed into something grotesque.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The world had stopped spinning, leaving you trapped in this moment of unimaginable horror.

🤎💙 Safe to continue reading💙🤎

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.”

Your voice broke, a sob ripping through your chest while stepping back on trembling legs. “My daughter. My sweet little girl.” Tears blurred your vision, cascading down your cheeks as you sank to your knees.

“Oh, gosh, w-what happened to you? This can’t be real. No, no, no.” The words spilled from your lips in a torrent of grief and denial.

A guttural cry tore from your chest, raw and unrelenting, shaking your entire body. Your hands gripped the fabric of your blue dress so tightly that your knuckles turned white, the tears soaking the material until it clung to your trembling form.

Your heart raced, your breathing uneven, and your head throbbed with disbelief and terror. The questions, the pleas, the desperate prayers poured out of you in a relentless stream, each one more frantic than the last.

But the pain was too much.

Your vision blurred further, darkening at the edges as the world around you began to fade. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of grief, your body gave out, collapsing into unconsciousness.

As darkness enveloped you, fragments of thoughts slipped through the cracks of your mind.

‘Please don’t be real.’

‘My sweet girl, Gabriella.’

‘I can’t lose you.’

And then, like a flickering light extinguished, your final thoughts faded into the void.

“Mi amor…”

“Shh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

“You are okay.”

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, your body weak and trembling. A pounding headache reverberated through your skull—a pain so excruciating that even thinking was a grueling task.

“W-where am I?” you whispered, struggling to sit up from your crumpled position on the ground. Surrounded you a cold, dark hallway—one that sent a chill down your spine. The memories came rushing back, sharp and unbearable, as a strangled sob escaped your throat.

“G-Gabi. Oh gosh.” You wept into your hands, the ache in your chest only intensifying when the horrific moment played out in your mind once more.

Above, the lights flickered on, one by one, casting an eerie glow over the hallway. The endless stretch of white doors along the walls appeared stark and unnervingly perfect. Each was identical—smooth, sleek, and disturbingly pristine. No wood grain or signs of age, no layers of paint chipped over time. Just a clinical, sterile design that felt foreign. These weren’t the familiar, warm doors of your home.

Your gaze stretched down the corridor. The symmetry of the doors and the sterile glow of the flickering lights heightened the unsettling atmosphere. Your stomach churned, a sense of dread sinking deep into your bones.

Shakily, you rose to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you. You were still barefoot, dressed in the pastel blue dress you had worn earlier, although your jumbo curls were now a mess and in need of another douse in hairspray.

Everything about you was the same, yet you felt completely different—wrecked by despair that gripped you tighter with every thought of your little girl and…

Miguel.

Your eyes darted around frantically, trying to seek him to find no other being in sight.

Where was he? He had been with you when…

“Y/N!?”

His voice boomed through the hallway, shattering the silence.

Your head whipped toward the sound—a desperate yell followed by loud bangs against one of the white doors.

“Amor! Esposa!” Miguel’s frantic voice echoed as he jiggled the doorknob. “Fuck, it’s locked! I’m in here, baby! Open the door!”

“Miguel!?” you cried out, rushing toward the source of his voice.

“Y/N! Oh, bebé, I’m so happy to hear you are okay,” he said, relief breaking through his panicked tone.

“M-me too. But Miguel, Gabi—”

“I know, amor,” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. “First, I need you to open the door. There’s…something in here with me.”

His words sent a chill through your entire body.

“It’s chasing me through these halls. I can’t see it, and—shit—it stabbed me.”

“It stabbed you!?” you exclaimed, horrified, pressing yourself against the door wishing to be there next to him more than anything.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Nothing fatal, though.” But his weakening tone betrayed his words.

“It’ll be okay, Miguel. I-I’ll open the door. I’ll get you out.”

Your hands shook as you gripped the doorknob, turning it desperately. However, It didn’t budge.

It was locked…

Your heart sank. “M-Miguel, it’s locked!” you whimpered, twisting and pulling at the knob repeatedly in a frenzy.

“Try again. Stay calm for me, baby. Just try again.”

“I am!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face, completely helpless as fear tightened its grip on you. “Try it from your side!” you begged.

You stepped back, letting him attempt the lock from his side. The sounds of his struggle filled the hallway, but the door refused to open.

“Mierda!” He cursed in frustration, hands slamming against the door with a loud bang, making you jump.

“M-Miguel, what are we going to do? I-I can’t leave you, I can’t…” You sobbed, not wanting to be alone and leave your husband to die at the hands of that thing.

Instead of an answer, your stomach turned into knots at his response. “It’s here! Fuck!” Miguel stated, harsh bangs and kicks to the door filling the quiet hallway at your husband’s futile attempts to escape. “Get out of here, esposa!”

A new wave of terror crashed over you. “N-no! I’m not leaving you!” you cried, not wishing to leave and lose him too. You tugged at the door in desperation alongside his assaults upon the relentless door, crying all the while.

“Y/N!” Miguel’s stern voice cut through your panic, startling youfor a fleeting moment. “I love you, but you have to leave. Understand me!?”

You choked on your sobs, every fiber of your being screaming to stay, but his command left no room for argument.

“Y-yes. I understand,” you whimpered in a trembling voice. “I love you too.”

However, silence fell on the other side of the door.

Your eyes widened when a loud, sickening thud from behind the door filled your ears. In that moment, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

“Miguel!” you screamed, banging your fists against the wooden surface. Your cries were frantic, pleading for any response, begging for his death not to be real.

A harsh, coppery scent filled your nose, like a punch in the face. Sharp and metallic, it clawed at your every sense as a wet, sticky sensation spreading under your foot made your breath hitch.

Your eyes darted down in alarm.

Blood.

It pooled from beneath the door, crimson rivulets spreading across the pristine floor, soaking into the soles of your bare feet.

You staggered back, trembling, disbelief gripping your entire being.

“N-no, not you too. Not you too.”

The words spilled from your lips in broken, anguished sobs, a mantra of denial as tears blurred your vision. The reality was too much to bear, too cruel to endure.

You turned and sprinted down the hallway, no longer caring where it led, no longer caring if you’d be lost.

The sterile glow of the flickering lights stretched endlessly ahead of you, the hem of your blue dress billowing behind you as you ran. Your breath hitched, your sobs growing louder, hair whipping wildly around your tear-streaked face.

And then, your legs gave out.

You collapsed to your knees, chest heaving, despair consuming you.

You sobbed uncontrollably, your trembling hands clutching at the cold floor. The weight of the loss crushed you, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its wake.

‘First Gabi, my little angel…and now Miguel.’

The thought shattered you. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much emptiness.

Your tears fell harder, your cries echoing down the lifeless corridor.

And then—

A sound.

The soft creak of a door swinging open.

Your head snapped up, your breath hitching and your heart plummeted into your stomach. One of the white doors stood ajar, its perfect surface now marred by a sinister shadow.

A cold, unnatural wind blew from the pitch-black doorway, tousling your hair and sending a shiver down your spine.

You froze, your body rigid with fear and grief, staring into the darkness.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself yearning, besseching for whatever had taken Miguel to take you too. To end this nightmare. To reunite you with your family.

But instead of a monster emerging from the void, you saw something else.

You and Miguel…

But not really…

You were sitting in a fancy restaurant with your husband, Miguel, donned in a glamorous dress and him, a pristine tux. This world was nothing you were familiar with, nothing like your checkerboard floors, poodle skirts, and pin-up curls. It was more futuristic to what you were used to, yet familiar all the same.

The waitress completed taking your order and collected your menus. Innocently, your husband exchanged a glance with her, his eyes lingering a little too long for your liking, his smile too warm and it all riled you up.

As soon as the waitress left, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I saw you.” You spat, glaring at him, the tension between the two of you growing thick. “I saw you look at her. You think I didn’t notice?” You asked with a scoff. "Anyone could see how your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull."

Miguel’s charming features shifted to a mix of confusion and frustration. He leaned in close, trying to keep your conversation down. “What are you talking about? I just glanced at her, it was nothing.”

“No, no, don’t lie to me! You think I’m stupid? T-That I cannot see what is evidently in front of me!?” Your voice rose, attracting the attention of nearby diners. “Well, I assure you, husband, I’m not fucking blind.” You said harshly, spitting his title that was meant for endearment like it was venom in your mouth.

Miguel steadily placed his glass down, his large hand reaching across the table to hold yours in hopes of quelling the raging storm. “Calm down, please, amor. Let’s not ruin our date.” He whispered hopefully, stroking your knuckles with his thumb. “You’re not seeing things clearly. Nothing happened.”

The look on your face was of pure rage from something so harmless as a glance. You were lost in your own chaotic thoughts—a belief that he would leave you for someone younger, someone more beautiful. The waiter, the clerk, the neighbor down the street—anyone could take him from you.

Anyone.

You yanked your hand from his, standing up with a loud squeak of your chair on the floor, gaining the attention of the entire restaurant. “Since you wish to ogle at waitresses, you can eat dinner by yourself. I'll be in the car.” You said, storming out and leaving an embarrassed and pitiful Miguel in your wake…

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, snapping you out of the long-lost memory. “W-who was that? What was that?” you stammered in utter confusion and horror at the person who looked like you but was anything but.

“That… could not have been me,” you thought, but you couldn’t shake the familiarity of the situation.

You could practically feel the red dress you wore upon your body, remember the paranoia and anger, smell the spices wafting through the restaurant, and see the look of pity your husband gave you amidst the storm of your deranged thoughts.

You rose on your shaky legs, the tears you shed now dried upon your cheeks. Your bare feet wandered down the flickering hallway and found yourself wanting answers to the many questions that plagued your mind.

Suddenly, you heard another door to your left fly open, forcing you into that terrible world once more—one that was far from the perfect world you remembered.

Or thought you remembered…

You were in the hallway, walking into the kitchen when you heard Miguel on the phone. His voice was lower than usual, speaking to someone in hushed tones. You couldn’t make out the words, but you could hear the familiarity in his voice. His voice was warmer. Softer. He didn’t speak to you like that.

Not anymore.

You stormed into the room, catching the last part of the conversation. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up later. Miss you too, sweetheart. Bye.”

Your mind instantly spiraled: Who was he talking to? Who is “she”?

Miguel looked back startled at your sudden appearance. “Hey, cariño, you scared me-”

“Who is she?” Your voice shaking in desperation and anger. “Who the hell were you talking to?”

He looked at you in perplexion, a flicker of hurt in his eyes at being accused of such a thing. “I was talking to Gabi. She’s at my mother’s for the weekend, remember?” He stated in betrayal. “Why are you constantly accusing me of cheating. I love you, amor. Only you.”

Miguel tried to convince you, but you didn’t believe him. You couldn’t.

You never could anymore.

“No, no, you’re lying to me. You’re having an affair. I know it. You don’t care about me anymore.” You wholeheartedly believed, could even see the loving looks he'd give her—hear the dirty things he would say to her.

“You are just using our daughter as a coverup!” You shouted at him, stepping up to jab a finger to his chest. “And I would not let you make me look like a fool, Miguel!”

The memory faded away, throwing you back into the endless hallway, the door swinging closed.

Your eyes watered up, tears beginning to fill your cheeks. “No, this can’t be true. What is this?” You whimpered, shaking your head. “This is a lie. Miguel and I were happy. He would dance with me, hold me, sing to me with his guitar. No, this isn’t real!” You shouted aloud, more to yourself in hopes of dismissing such riveting tales this nightmare was trying to plague you with.

“I won’t believe these false tales! I won’t let you lie to me!” You cried out, walking, or more like, stumbling down the hallway. Your body felt weaker, unable to hold yourself up as you walked to the next door that would surely bring you back to that hellish world.

Like you predicted, dread engulfed you when another white door flung open, pulling your consciousness into the world of false once more.

You sat on the sofa in the living room, sipping at a mug of coffee. Watching your daughter, Gabriella drew at her mini table, her small hands carefully drawing stick figures with bright red crayons. “What are you drawing, sweetie?” You asked, noticing her become tensed at your question.

“I’m…I’m drawing us, Mamá.” You hummed, peering over her shoulder with a smile until you noticed one of the three stick figures with their head tilted, a red line crossed through their face.

“What is this?” You demanded, pointing a finger at the crossed out figure. “I-Its-” Gabi’s eyes widened as you snatched the paper out of her hands before she could explain. “I-It’s just a…picture, Mamá.”

“A picture? And what is Mama doing here, huh? Being crossed out of your life?”

“N-No, Mamá…” She began to weep. “You are just sad.” Gabi cried, trying to point out that the red streaks were instead tears, but to you, they were anything but.

You turned to Miguel, who was watching from the kitchen. “This is what she learns from you, huh!?” You shouted in a voice full of accusation. “Filling her head with ideas of hating her mother?!”

Miguel hastily raced into the living room, hiis burly arms reaching out to place Gabi behind him, shielding her crying form from you. “It’s just a child’s drawing. She’s drawing what she is seeing.” Your husband stated. “Please, stop being like this. Please, amor.”

But you can’t let it go. The image haunts you, filling your mind with fears of what Gabi might be learning from her father, and what she could be thinking of you.

You storm out of the room, the paper crumpling in your hand, heart pounding with a sense of betrayal.

“No more.” Was the first thing that escaped your cracked lips and scratchy throat. You shook your head from your crumbled position on the floor, hair and blue dress a mess. “Please, don’t show me anymore.” You begged, knowing if you moved, you’d be brought to that horrid place again—feel the overwhelming anger, fear, delusion that raked your body, practically eating you alive—and your family too.

A faint, yet familiar noise began to echo down the hall. It was quiet and undiscernable, but you were sure it sought to drive you insane.

You didn’t want to make sense of what you were seeing, because if you made sense of it, it'd only mean they were true. “This isn’t real. I loved my Gabriella and she loved me.” You affirmed, remembering the memories you deemed true. “S-She’d draw me pictures all the time, work with me in the kitchen, a-and we'll play with her dolls together.” You cried, tears breaking free. “This isn’t real. I won’t believe it. I-I won’t.”

If to prove you wrong, another door bursted open further down the aisle. You instantly felt the pull, but this time, you wouldn’t let it easily take you.

You clawed at the floor, trying to fight against the force that was tugging you into the dark abyss. However, it only strengthened, seeking to haul you back to that horrid nightmare. The noise only grew louder, yet distant as if becoming angrier at your resistance. “No…please.” You begged, pleading for it not to take you as your fingers soon gave out, drawing you back again…

One afternoon, the thoughts have become too overbearing. ‘Miguel wants to leave, so I’ll help him.’ Your deranged mind thinks, believing you to be in the right as you heaved another load of his clothes, books, and personal items out onto the porch.

Only moments after Miguel comes back from work, Gabriella, at his side from school. He races inside in panic and sorrow. “B-Bebè, what is this?” he asks, his deep voice wavering for the first time.

You glared at him, breathing hard. “If you’re planning on leaving, then go. I already set your things outside, so get out!”

Miguel stares at you, heartbroken, whilst the sobs of Gabi behind his leg fills the hallway of your bedroom. “I-I never planned to leave, mi amor-”

“Then what is this!?” You exclaimed, throwing his personal journal at his chest, hearing it clatter to the floor. He didn’t even flinch. “You wrote in there that I was deranged, crazy, and needed help—help you cannot provide me. Isn't that right?” You asked with a wicked laugh, head falling back against your shoulders.

“I don’t think a handsome man like you would want a deranged wife, now do you?” The taunting words being spat at Miguel as he just stood there with Gabriella behind him, taking the full force of the lashes.

“I tried to stay strong for us—for Gabi—for you, mi amor.” He said once your verbal assault and endless pacing ceased. “But I can’t…not anymore. Not if you don’t seek help yourself, nor face the fact that you need it.” Miguel stated, his voice full of sorrow, but he should have been talking to the wall as nothing he said was reaching you. “If you want me gone so bad, I will-.”

“Are you still here?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him, the wildness of your hair in crazed disarray. Your husband met your gaze of pure rage with pity. “Not anymore.” He muttered sadly. “Come on, Gabriella.” Miguel said, ushering your daughter along who weeped all the way out the front door.

But you knew deep in your core that they would be back. That your sweet husband and daughter would never truly leave you. They would never leave you, no matter how much Miguel said it.

Like a punch to the gut, you sunk to the floor, sobbing. You didn’t want to believe it, but the more you saw, the more you remembered, and the weaker your body became, like the energy was being drained from your being.

The familiar tune of the hall was loud, practically driving you mad. “Stop this. Please.” You begged anyone who would listen. Your hands gripped the wall, dragging yourself up onto your feet, your frail legs trembling under your weight.

A gasp escaped you when suddenly, the lights shut off for a moment, leaving you in blackness before one flickered back on. Your heart skipped a beat at the table that the light shone down upon. “W-What is that?” You whispered so quietly you weren’t sure you said it.

Staggering slowly over, your feet dragging along the floor in an effort to walk on your weakened limbs. You leaned your weight on the table to find only a black, unnamed folder that sat atop it.

You gulped, not wishing to see what was inside, but was drawn to it, despite yourself.

Your fingers reached out for it, instantly feeling like you were holding a sack of bricks although the folder seemed almost empty.

You took a deep breath, trying to bring yourself to open it and when you did, inside, you found two items:

A singular letter and…

Divorce papers.

A tear ran down your cheek at the papers.

Never in your life did you ever believe you’d see them, but here they were, practically burning the skin in your palm just by reading the fine print.

The first thing you saw are names: Miguel O'Hara and Y/N printed side by side in formal, sterile black text. Beneath them, the words "In the Matter of the Dissolution of Marriage of" are bold, undeniable. It feels distant, like this couldn’t possibly be real—but the sensation in your chest makes it all too clear.

This is real.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. You swallow, and your eyes drift down, taking in the official stamp, the cold lettering, the case number marked by a court you don’t recognize. Every word is unmistakable, every letter sharp, a document that seems foreign yet irrevocably final.

You placed the papers onto the table, unable to look at them any longer.

The neatly folded piece of letter draws your attention. You opened it slowly, heart sputtering and stomach churning at the pristine ink of your lover’s perfect lettering—a handwriting he swore was chicken scratch, but one you always adored. Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first words.

"Dear my beloved,"

You hear his voice in your head as you read, soft yet unwavering, as if he’s right beside you, saying every word with sorrow but certainty.

“I hope that by the time you read this, you are in a better place. I wanted to say this face to face, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I would be brought to stay, and I know I can’t. Not anymore.

I am leaving. For Gabriella’s sake. You know as well as I do that things have been falling apart for a long time. And I can’t—we can’t—keep pretending we’re fine.

I’ve tried, Y/N. Goodness, I’ve tried so hard. But the constant fighting, the tension… it’s not good for Gabi. She’s been through too much. It hurts me to hear her cry, hear her fears about you, our marriage. I need to give her the stability she deserves, and right now, I’m not sure I can provide that in this environment. And neither can you.

I’m taking Gabi with me. I know this will hurt you, and I know you’ll never understand why; I only wish that one day you will. But please, for her, for both of us… get the help you need. You need it more than I can give you.

I will always love you, Y/N. You will always be a part of me. I want you to know that. But I can’t keep watching our family fall apart. Please forgive me.

With all my love,Miguel O’Hara”

Your chest constricts as you finish reading, the words sinking in like a weight you can’t lift. The paper crinkles in your shaking hands while you stare at the letter, a deep ache in your body that won’t go away.

The tears come, but they’re different this time. They’re quiet. They don’t scream for help or comfort. They just fall, knowing no one would come to wipe them.

Beside the letter, divorce papers rest, untouched, cold.

And for the first time, you are alone.

You sobbed silently, no sound passing your parted lips as you fell to your knees. Your body shook, feeling cold and empty, the sensation more real than the happy life you believed was true—more real than the blue pastel dress you wore from an era you never lived—and more real than the belief that this was all a dream.

You were so wrapped up in your grief and sorrow that you didn’t notice the lights shut off, the music now clear enough to identify that filled the hall again and the presence that now accompanied you.

The bulbs turned back on again, flickering eerily, the air thicker than before. Your gaze was blurry with tears, head pounding like a drum and you found yourself incapable of moving. You remained kneeled, slumped on your heels to look down at the end of the hallway, the table, folder, and note that was in your hand now gone.

You could feel that you weren’t alone, the familiar prickling on your neck beginning again. You weeped in fear, finally hearing the song that played on repeat, slower and slower, louder and louder.

It was your song.

‘You Belong To Me.’

The same song that you believed to have been the happiness of your relationship was also the catalyst of eternal ruin.

“See the pyramids along the Nile…

Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle…

Just remember, darling, all the while…

You belong to me…”

A loud thud to one of the doors made you yelp and break down into more tears. The song continued slowly, the female voice of Helen becoming horrendously eerie and croaky, almost inhumane. “P-Please stop! I-I understand now! Stop!”

“See the marketplace in old Algiers…”

“Send me photographs and souvenirs…”

“Just remember, when a dream appears…”

“You belong to me…”

Another bang that sent you cowering, shielding your eyes at the figure you knew was steadily approaching. The music continued to play, burning every lyric into your head and making sure you remembered that night.

“I’ll be so alone without you…”

“Maybe you’ll be lonesome, too

And blue…

Another voice—a deep, familiar voice sung along, causing the ache in your chest to intensify—the tears to run. “M-Miguel…” You whimpered his name, knowing the song well on his tongue.

“Fly the ocean in a silver plane…”

“See the jungle when it’s wet with rain…”

“Oh, mi querida, till you’re home again…”

“You…

Belong…

To…

Me…”

Your husband’s deep voice vanished along with the song, leaving you wishing to hear it again upon his lips—to hear his words of adoration—to see him again.

And for once, this nightmare granted your wish…

But with a price…

“Mi amor…”

“Shh, it's okay. Everything will be okay.”

“You are okay.”

Your heart leapt at the whispers of comfort that your husband always gave you. Frantically, your eyes searched the desolate hallway, only finding the doors before finally settling in front of you in the dark end of the hall.

His words were clear, coming from the blackness and calling out to you. “Mi amor, everything will be okay.” He consoled, footsteps slowly echoing closer.

Your chest heaved, rising and falling rapidly at being able to see him again. “M-Miguel!” You cried out for him, wanting to feel his touch, be in his arms again and found yourself craving that more than life itself.

However, your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach at the sight of him.

All you saw was…

Blood.

Shrieking, your hand clasped over your mouth, weeping. The white button-up and black slacks, the outfit he wore the last time you saw him still adorned his being, but it was completely ruined.

His once white shirt was now red, his dark brown slicked hair wet with blood and even worse was the wounds along his body. They were large and horribly fatal, littering his chest.

You sobbed into your palm, crying as he stepped towards your trembling form, unable to move due to being physically stuck in your spot. He shushed you in that soft tone he always used despite walking towards you like the undead.

“Shush, Cariño,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he advanced, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s okay; you’ll be okay.” His words, tender but hollow, slipped into your ears but it sounded so wrong, so unlike him in a way.

“No, no, no!” you wailed, voice cracking under the weight of terror and despair. “What is happening!? W-Who did this to you!?” Each cry came out strangled, desperate, as if voicing your confusion might somehow make sense of this nightmare.

Miguel’s body grew unnaturally still, his gaze sharpening, a twisted smirk spreading across his lips as he tilted his head to one side. “Oh, bebè, isn’t it obvious?” His bloody eyebrow rising in a mock question, daring you to confront the truth he already knew.

And then, before you could respond, his face seemed to explode with anger.

“ISN’T IT!?”

With a sudden roar, he lunged at you, your scream cut short as his hands found your throat, slamming you onto the cold floor. Your breath vanished instantly under his crushing grip. The impact jarred you, leaving your lungs heaving, begging for air.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his forearm, frantically trying to pry him off but his grip was unyielding, his hands like steel. The veins in his arms bulged underneath his button-up, his fingers digging into the skin of your throat and bruising the sensitive flesh. His face loomed over you, eyes blazing, dark and empty all at once.

“Look at me, Cariño. Look at what you’ve tried so hard to ignore!” He bellowed, each word cutting through you, sinking into your bones. “See it. Feel it, damnitt!” Your husband shouted, slamming you against the floor, feeling the air be knocked from you once more.

“You couldn’t hold on, could you? Couldn’t keep us together, not for me, not even for Gabi.” His grip tightened, further choking you. Your vision started to blur, spots of darkness creeping in. Tears began to prickle at the edges of your eyes at the thought of death by the hands of no one other than your beloved husband.

The blood dripping from his hair traced cold lines across your cheek that you could hardly feel against your numb skin. You could only stare up into the shell of your husband and see the inhumane rage, anger and spite that bled off him so tangibly you could practically taste it.

Your spouse’s amber orbs were devoid of warmth or light, his glowing skin now a lifeless gray, cold to the touch. “This is what you brought into our lives. This is what your love has done.” His tone, grueling and heartless, seeking to twist the already burrowed knife deeper into your gut until you were gone. Miguel leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath a harsh reminder of everything slipping away.

“Accept it, mi amor. Embrace it, because this is all that’s left.”

Your sight blurred, eyes fluttering closed as those final, chilling words rung through your mind like chiming bells. Fingers loosened from his forearm, dropping to your side, body stilling to leave you encased in a world of blackness.

‘Accept? How can I accept this?’

A thought was breathed like the fluttering of faint fireflies in the darkness. Your consciousness slipping away.

‘Who could possibly accept consequences such as this…?’

The inquiry repeated alongside your husband’s words until the abyss consumed you, dragging you under and into the oblivion you could no longer escape.

“Serum R9 has left Patient 1105. Patient 1105 is now conscious.”

An electronic voice announced as your eyes fluttered open. Instantly, the blaring lights from the ceiling seared your vision, forcing you to cower away. ‘Where am I?’ you wondered, unable to survey your surroundings with the glaring bulbs overhead.

The hum of machines engulfed your ears, seeming to be everywhere at once. Each beep and whir further disoriented you. Everything felt distant and detached, like something had chewed at your memories, leaving you clueless.

Then, through the haze, you heard the familiar sound of a record scratching, stuttering through a line from You Belong To Me, a song you knew all too well—“See the… see the… see the…”

Weakly, you glanced down, noticing a white gown adorning your figure, but not remembering how you obtained it nor how you ended up in this bed. Your head ached the more you tried to fill the gaping holes in your memory, but one thing rang true.

“Gabi? M-Miguel?” you called out in a scratchy, hoarse voice that you almost didn’t recognize as your own. Your lips felt horribly cracked, and your legs were stiff from inactivity. ‘I have to get out of here. S-Someone has taken me somehow,’ you assumed, fear rising in your chest.

You tried to sit up, but found yourself physically incapable. ‘What the hell?’ Panic bubbled up inside as you tried again and again, but when your arm started to flail, you felt a tug at your wrist. The metal cuffs cut deep into your skin and clanged against the bed rail.

In horror, your eyes snapped down to see your hands were cuffed to the cold metal of your bed. “What is going on?” you hardly whispered, your dull eyes finding other things attached to your body that you hadn’t noticed before.

An IV drip pricked into your inner elbow with withered tape, wires coming from electrode pads under your gown to attach to your chest whilst an oxygen tube was held up to your nostrils, filling your body with more air than you needed at the moment.

An ache in your neck made you reach up to touch your nape. There, you felt a lump and upon touching it, a sharp pain shot through your skull that made you further disoriented and terrified.

Your chest began to heave, hyperventilating. ‘What is going on? I-I need to get out of here. I don’t understand what is happening.’ You could only think, weakly tugging at your cuffs, becoming a sobbing mess.

“Patient 1105’s heart rate elevated to 145 beats per minute. Respiration rate above normal limits. Increased agitation detected. Subject is vocalizing distress; emotional levels are unstable.”

Your body jumped at the inhuman form’s sudden voice, coming from somewhere in the room. Instantly, you became rigid with fear.

“Sending for Dr. Owens. Sending for Dr. Owens.”

“What��s happening? Why am I here? What happened to my family?” you could only ask the electronic voice in a strained whimper, seeking answers amidst your confusion and cluelessness. Your vision was shielded by globs of salty tears running down your cold cheeks as you wept.

Almost instantaneously, a door burst open somewhere in your room, startling you. You whimpered in fear, eyes squinting to see the newcomer.

In a white coat, a woman entered. Her dark brown curly hair was tied up in a professional ponytail with a stern look on her ebony face that made you tremble. “W-Who are you?” you tried to ask between crackles in your voice.

The woman barely acknowledged your words. Her attention, behind her glasses, was focused on a screen beside you, fingers flying over the keys as though your questions were mere background noise. Ignoring your weak, desperate gaze, she muttered something under her breath and continued to work.

“Please…” you croaked, throat tightening with desperation. “Where’s Miguel, m-my husband? Where’s my daughter, Gabi? H-How did I get here?”

You couldn’t explain it, but a sudden rage exploded from your being at her indifference. “Give me back my daughter and husband, dammit!” you shouted, your tight voice strained. Thrashing in your bed, you screamed and yelled, the cuffs crashing against the metal bed railing.

“I know you took them! You took them away from me, you bitch! Give them back to me! Give them back!” you bellowed before breaking down into tears, feeling your cheekbones press against the taut skin of your face. Your emotions felt all over the place.

Without looking up, the woman clicked a final command, heaving a sigh. “Patient 1105, I’m Dr. Jessica Owens, and as stated many times before, you agreed to this.”

Your eyebrows quivered, believing you’d heard her wrong. “W-What?” you rasped, your ghostly features scrunching up in confusion.

“Indeed. It was either receiving your normal sentence here or assisting us in a few tests,” the ebony doctor explained. You could only look at her in bewilderment. “And… w-where am I?”

“Obscura Psychiatric Facility,” she replied, her voice emotionless and straightforward. Your dull eyes studied her for a moment, trying to recall your past memories, but it felt impossible. “Why am I here? Why can’t I remember anything? What… tests did I agree to? And where is my family?” you asked, desperate for answers, or else you feared you would lose it.

Dr. Owens stepped up to your bedside, and your body instinctively recoiled from her. “You’ll be surprised how many times I’ve answered these exact questions from you before, Patient 1105,” she muttered, running a calculating eye over you from behind her frames. “But I’ll bite.” The doctor cleared her throat, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Patient 1105, or Y/N, you’ve been in our care for seven years. Upon arrival, you were miserable and depressed, seeking an end to your troubles that the judge took away from you.”

“T-The judge?!” you exclaimed in confusion, needing her to backtrack and explain. However, it seemed Dr. Owens only wished to tell you what she wanted, questions be damned.

“We presented you with the decision to continue your usual routine here at Obscura or to partake in testing of a new drug being administered. You chose the latter.” Dr. Owens said, walking over to a cabinet in the room and retrieving a pair of latex gloves to snap onto her hands.

“You were cautioned about the addictive effects, memory loss, and life-long dependency on this drug, but there was one thing about this medicine that fascinated you more than anything, causing you to choose it regardless of the consequences.”

“W-What was that?” you asked, watching her return to you and ignore your question like before. The doctor began checking your facial features, under your throat, along your arms, legs, and back, feeling for any abnormalities. “Serum R9 is the drug that is being tested on you, Patient 1105. It is still being researched, but from your results, it’s a paradise, putting you in a dreamscape that you’ve always wanted.”

You listened to Dr. Owens, allowing her to finish her checkup and scribble on a notepad she pulled out from the breast pocket of her lab coat. It felt odd being told about your actions and words despite not remembering them.

Glancing up at her as she wrote, anger bubbled inside of you. “If I’m here, where is my family?” you asked. “Is there a reason I don’t remember agreeing to this? Did you force me to do this?! A-And what is this thing in my neck?! ” You demanded, the lump in your neck tingling once more.

“My husband, Miguel, would never have let me agree to such a thing. He knows I have a daughter—a family to get back to, for fuck’s sake!” you angrily shouted. “And you—lying assholes have made me sell my life to a fucking drug, and now I can’t get back to my family because of you—”

“Patient 1105, your family is dead.”

Your words halted, and you felt like your world had ended. Swallowing thickly, you wetted your cracked lips. Your eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists. “W-What the hell are you talking about?” you bit out, glaring daggers at her. “If you’re lying to me, I promise you when I get out, I-I’ll…”

Dr. Owens chuckled at your stammered threat, utterly unamused. She shook her head, her curly ponytail moving with the motion. “I'll expect that from a killer like you.”

Before you could think, you could yourself leaping up, reaching for the collar of Dr. Owens’ coat, and due to her closeness, you grabbed hold. A sudden burst of energy coursed through your being. Pulling her toward you, the chains of your cuffs jiggled with your movements. “Say that again,” you growled, staring directly into her cold eyes that gazed back at you.

“You killed them,” the doctor spat back with indifference. “You stabbed your husband to death and drowned your daughter when he decided to divorce you because of your insanity. I take it you didn’t like the fact they were leaving you.”

“S-stop lying to me!” you shouted, shaking her, not wanting it to be true. “I tell you nothing but the truth, Patient 1105. You’re here because of your actions, and you begged for Serum R9 to escape the despair you’ve brought into your life,” Dr. Owens stated with a glare, pulling away from your tight hold.

Delusions and unchecked rage were what you were known for, and even now, you sought to silence Dr. Owens’ words. You weren’t ready for the truth, despite having already lived it.

Acceptance was a lesson one could never learn without getting hurt in the process. Although you couldn’t remember it, you didn’t want to feel that pain, hurt, or loss ever again, so you ran from acceptance like hell.

You chuckled manically, your laughter growing louder and more deranged. “You lie. You lie! YOU LIE!” you shouted over and over again, pure rage bellowing from your voice.

In your mind, you saw your husband and daughter at home, calling the police in search of their missing wife and mother. Dr. Owens and the people at this facility were keeping you from your family. It was the only reason—the only truth you saw and was willing to accept.

Suddenly, you snapped, shouting threats at Dr. Owens, trying to break free from your handcuffs, and thrashing about in your bed. Security and more nurses entered the room as Dr. Owens typed away on the screen by your bedside. “You lie, you bitch! You can’t keep me here! I’ll kill you, I promise you, you piece of shit!” you screamed at the top of your lungs. The electronic voice from before filled the room.

“Serum R9 is being administered once more. Sweet dreams, Patient 1105.”

The staff released you as the IV tube was filled with a blue liquid, flowing from a nearby machine into your arm and soon bloodstream. The lump in your neck buzzed to life upon activation and instantly, you became weak and drowsy.

“W-What are you doing to me? I-I have to get out of here. M-My family is…w-waiting for me,” you said once more, trying to fight the drug.

“You are right,” Through your hazy vision, you could see Dr. Owens resetting the needle on the record player as the song You Belong To Me began to play. Your body became rigid, unable to help but focus on the tune.

“Your family is waiting for you,” the ebony woman added, her voice growing fainter as the music grew louder, until it was the only thing you could hear.

“So don’t keep them waiting any longer,” were the last words you heard before the song drowned out everything, and your eyes closed.

Your world of darkness was full of despair and turmoil. Like the speed of light, every memory you couldn’t recall before came rushing back.

Entering second grade.

Going to prom.

Meeting Miguel.

Getting Married. Having Gabriella. Kissing your husband. Drawing with your daughter. Family dinners. Night cuddles. The fights. The screaming. The crying. The blood. The guilt. The hate. The loss.

The Despair.

It came rushing back so intensely that it was grueling, before vanishing as quickly as it came.

You were left a hollow husk of a person. Your memories shed, leaving only two things behind: pure happiness and a need for your family.

~ I say, Oogum, oogum, boogum, boogum ~Boogum now, baby, you're castin' your spell on me. ~

The jolly tune of Brenton Wood resonated from the record player, your hips swaying to the song while you cooked. Sunlight poured in through the drawn gingham drapes, filling your home with a warm glow that energized everyone inside.

But, in particular, you.

Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from your and your husband's shared closet—a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthda-

“Wait,” you uttered, coming to a stop. Your eyebrows furrowed, feeling like you’d done this before.

You glanced down at the breakfast you were cooking, a sensation of unease gripping you. You tried to figure out the source of this déjà vu when your thoughts were instantly interrupted by a pair of burly arms enveloping your waist from behind.

Your heart fluttered as a blinding warmth of happiness, adoration, and peace engulfed you. “Good morning, mi amor,” your husband whispered into your ear, his deep voice of love enough to quell even your most chaotic days.

You leaned back into him, accepting his embrace. All previous worries and concerns vanished from thought, and the only thing you could think about was the feeling of how right everything was.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand caressing your stomach through your dress, his touch setting your body ablaze. Completely in love, you nodded, a huge smile on your rosy lips.

“Of course...

Everything is perfect.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the finale of Dear, My Beloved. Yes, it was very sad, tragic, and completely different from my other writings—aside from A Fate Worse Than Death—but that was intentional. The vice was Despair, so I went above and beyond. If you almost cried like me, then I did my job, lol. 🤧

To tie up loose ends and make everything clearer: Y/N ended her family due to insanity, abandonment, and mental health struggles after being divorced by Miguel. Serum R9 is the drug administered by Obscura Psychiatric Facility, which places Y/N in a 1950s simulation-like world where everything is "just right."

The scary occurrences were caused by the serum leaving her system and attempting to restore her lost memories. The entity that "kills" Miguel is, in fact, Y/N’s true self.

And yes, I was inspired by the psychological thriller Don’t Worry Darling. It has to be one of my favorite movies! 😍

If there are any loose ends or unanswered questions, feel free to DM me or ask in the comments. I know this was a rather complex, psychological, and angsty one-shot that might leave some readers with questions.

Also, let me know if any additional content warnings need to be added! I know the Gabriella section needed a warning, but please DM me if you think any more should be included.

Overall, I hope you enjoyed it! If you’re excited to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya, and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

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#miguel o'hara x reader

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