#its less overwhelming when the series is over | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whytheylosttheirminds · 5 months ago

Text

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 6 (part one)

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 5.3k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

additional chapter cw! this chapter contains brief mentions of blood and minor injuries

It was like no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop hurting you.

You were only under for a second, maybe less, your lifejacket doing its job, and yet somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let you drown.

There wasn’t much logic to it. It wasn’t as though he had emptied the jet ski of all its gas, or that he somehow had control over the weather.

Technically, none of this was his fault, yet he felt the guilt burn in his chest like he’d swallowed hot coals.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

The second your head emerged, you let out a scream, the salt water in your fresh cut sending hot sparks of pain up your leg.

“Fuck, ow!” You cried, reaching for the jet ski with shaky hands, in so much pain you couldn’t even find it.

“Ohhh baby, are you okay?” Rafe grabbed your hand, squeezing tight as he pulled you towards him in the water, his other arm tethering you both to the jet ski.

“I think I’m bleeding,” you clung to his shoulder, your fingers digging in probably too tight, but the pain was so overwhelming you needed to put it somewhere. He didn’t mind, desperate to take it away however he could.

“Here climb up,” he said, grabbing your waist and boosting you. “The water can’t be helping.”

“Shit,” you both said in unison when you finally got onto the jet ski and revealed the cut on your calf, wider than you thought and bleeding angrily.

“Just hold on, I got you,” he assured, beginning to kick rapidly to start moving the jet ski toward the shore.

You were scared the whole time, never once taking your eyes off of him. Asking him over and over again if he was okay until you were sure he was sick of it. But not once was there even a hint of agitation in his voice as he promised you he was fine, that you were almost there, that everything was gonna be okay.

His words didn’t do much to convince you, your face flooding with worry when you noticed his breaths getting more strained.

“I’m okay,” he swore to you, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. “We’re almost there.”

It was starting to rain and the thunder was growing louder, there was no argument to be made that you could keep floating safely in the ocean. You resigned to let him keep going, but your eyes never left him, as if it was your appreciation keeping him afloat instead of his lifejacket.

“Thank you,” you said for the fifteenth time.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling with the motion, the expression entirely too joyful for the grim situation you found yourselves in.

“What?” You scoffed, poking his hand with your toe playfully.

“You’re cute when you’re worried,” he explained.

The drizzling rain was chilly, but your body was on fire. You opened your mouth to reply, despite the utter lack of words in your mind, but the sight of your sister appearing in the distance pulled your attention away.

The group that gathered at the dock’s edge was not the happy-go-lucky bunch of friends you’d arrived with a few hours ago.

The dock was only a few yards away now, you were close enough to see Carter slumped on the ground, Topper’s arms around her, pulling her into a comforting hug. As Rafe swam you closer, it became more apparent that she was crying.

“There she is!” Tom shouted, motioning to you.

Carter stood quickly, nearly knocking Topper over, waving her arms in the air frantically like she was trying to land a plane. You waved back, heart aching at the sight of her red, puffy eyes.

“We’re okay!” You yelled through the rain, trying to ease her worry as the jet ski approached.

You looked down at Rafe who could hear the commotion but not see it.

“We’re almost there, they’re all waiting for us,” you filled him in.

As the front of the jet ski neared the group, Topper leaned over the side of the dock to pull you the rest of the way in.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, where have you been, are you crazy?!” Carter paced the dock, a wild look in her eyes as she scolded you.

“I’m fine!” You assured her. “We just ran out of gas.”

“We?” She questioned, hands on her hips.

Once Topper had secured the jet ski to the dock, Rafe swam around to the side, revealing himself to the group.

“What the hell? Where’s Kelce?” Carter questioned.

You knew she must really be upset. When she went into worried-mom-mode, her already limited inclination for politeness went completely out the window.

“Can someone help him up please?” You corrected her. “And get him a blanket or something?”

“I’ve got a couple in my trunk!” Topper said, before running to the marina parking lot.

“I’m fine,” Rafe calmed you with a soft smile as he lifted himself onto the back of the jet ski.

Before he could climb onto the dock, fully planning to help you up next, Tom reached out his hand to you.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked. You could feel Rafe’s posture stiffen next to you.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You accepted his hand, only due to the fact that you actually did need help with the big step off the jet ski.

The moment your feet were steady on the dock, you pulled your hand from his and turned back to make sure Rafe made it onto solid ground. When he did, you made your way to Carter’s side, pulling her into a hug.

“I thought something happened…” she mumbled into your shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you soothed her. “Rafe saved me.”

She pulled back from you, sniffling as she eyed him over your shoulder.

“Thank you,” she told him quietly.

“I didn’t do a great job,” he said shakily, looking down at your leg. “You’re still bleeding.”

“You’re bleeding?!” Carter turned you around, inspecting you for injury.

You laughed as she spun you frantically, “it’s just a little cut on my leg.”

She leaned down to inspect it further, eyebrows knit with concern. “I told Topper we should’ve called 911.”

You placed both hands on her shoulders, “Car, I’m fine. It’s just a scrape, it’ll be gone by tomorrow. I’m sorry we scared you, though.”

“You did,” she pouted.

Topper came running back, huffing from his hurry.

“I could only find one,” he extended the blanket in his hands to Rafe, who obviously needed it more.

Rafe took the blanket from him and opened it up quickly, but instead of dragging it over his own shoulders, he wrapped it around you.

“You should take it,” you tried to stop him.

“Nah,” he waved you off, running his hands up and down your arms to warm you up. “We need to get you dry before Carter calls the Coast Guard.”

For a full ten seconds, your group stood in the rain, everyone’s eyes on someone else, the tension in the air telling an entire story to some invisible audience.

Carter looked at you, concern wrinkling her forehead as she wondered what really happened after she went to bed last night.

Topper looked at Carter, wondering if her investment in your love life meant she’d forgotten all about the intimate hug they’d shared on the dock waiting for you to return.

Tom looked at Rafe, wondering if it was this joker’s fault you’d rejected him the night before and feeling the hot flame of competition ignite in his chest.

Sabrina looked at Tom, wondering when boys had started looking at you like that and how to get him to look at her instead.

Rafe looked down at you, and you looked up at him, both wondering if the other was thinking the same thing: there’s so much more to say.

“Ahem,” the jet ski owner cleared his throat, pulling you all from your thoughts. “Need the keys back if you don’t mind.”

Carter handed him the first two keys, and Rafe fumbled in his pocket for yours.

“You should really be checking the gas tank before you just send people out there,” Rafe snapped at him, tossing him the key. “You sent her out with an empty tank, she could’ve been seriously screwed, man. No way to run a business.”

“Maybe you should teach your girl how to drive so she doesn’t drain the tank,” the guy snapped back. “Not my fault she’s a ditz.”

Rafe stepped toward him in one long stride, chest puffed out and tension brewing in his flexed jaw that ran all the way down his neck.

“The fuck did you just say?” Rafe grabbed him by his collar, pulling the guy up towards him as he glared at him.

You looked helplessly to Topper, who hurried to pull Rafe’s hand off the guy’s shirt. Topper was an expert at intervening before Rafe did things he couldn’t undo, and you were grateful he was here. Still, there was a small part of you that selfishly wanted to know what he’d do next, how far he’d go to defend your honor.

“Okay, okay,” Topper said. “Let’s just go, bro. It’s over.”

Rafe fought against Topper’s pull for a moment, staring daggers at the jet ski guy, who was chuckling smugly. When the guy’s eyes darted to you, he pulled his arm from Topper’s grip and made to move towards him again.

“Rafe,” you said softly.

His head turned to you, and the tension in his shoulders loosened. You shook your head ever so slightly, eyes urging him to back down. He nodded once and his hands, which had been balled into fists, flexed open as he let his anger go.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

As soon as you made it back to the house, you peeled your wet bathing suit off and climbed in the shower, eager to get your weary body into the warm water and let the sea wash down the drain. Carter had announced plans on the car ride back from the marina to go out to some clubs this evening, and you were far from dance floor ready.

For just a moment, the hot water felt incredible, until it made its way to your cut. You yelped and stepped out of the hot stream quickly.

Typically, you would’ve thought responsibly enough to cover the cut before getting in the shower, but your mind was too foggy with thoughts of Rafe. You pulled on some clothes and padded down the hall to Carter’s room.

The knock on the door sparked a flurry of commotion behind it. Hushed voices echoed from under the door frame.

“Just a second!” Carter shouted to you, voice muffled.

“Oof!” A deeper voice said, the sound of a heavy body hitting the floor.

Your lips twisted in a knowing smile. You didn’t need the door to swing open to know who you were hearing in the room. Carter and Topper were clearly tangled up in something before you interrupted.

Confirming your suspicion, the door swung open and Topper stood in front of you, his shirt on backwards from being pulled on in a hurry.

“Do I have the wrong room?” You smirked.

“I was just, uh, helping Carter with something,” he fumbled to explain.

“Oh? What were you helping her with?”

“Her bed is, uh, broken.”

You laughed, standing on your tiptoes to call over his shoulder and into the room, “just wanted to see if you have any Band-Aids?”

“No,” she responded from somewhere under the mess of blankets on her bed. “But I can come help you find some.”

“Oh no,” you said. “You stay here and work on that…broken bed.”

Topper gave you a thankful smile and you winked at him.

“Make good choices!” You called, turning from the door.

“Too late!” Carter sang back.

You checked a few of the other bathrooms before wandering to the kitchen. One hand on the counter, and the other reaching as high as it could, you tried to boost yourself up. The flex of your calf as you jumped stretched the skin around your cut, making you wince.

“Fuck,” you grumbled to yourself. “Let’s get jet skis they said, it’ll be fun they said…”

You tried to jump again, reaching for the high cabinet, the only one in the kitchen you hadn’t checked yet. You could’ve sworn you’d seen a first aid kit around here somewhere. You jumped again, the effort still fruitless.

“Need some help?”

You turned fast, startled by the revelation that you weren’t actually alone.

Rafe was standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the banister with his arms crossed. His hair was damp, clearly just out of the shower himself. You weren’t looking at his hair, though.

He was covered only by a pair of checkered boxers and the towel flung carelessly over his shoulder. His torso was long and rigid, more defined than you had first noticed on the beach the other day. The hard ridges of his abs cast shadows on the plane of his stomach, your eyes danced over them, down to the deep V that disappeared below his waistband.

“What are you looking for?” His words were casual, as if he didn’t notice you staring, but the crooked grin etched on his face told a different story.

“Band-Aids,” you told him, your voice so feeble it did nothing but further reveal your captivation with the sight of him.

The smirk and all its playfulness fell from his face as his eyes filled with concern.

“Are you still bleeding?”

“No, I just need to cover it so I can shower. I’m thinking I should probably get the seaweed out of my hair if we’re going out.”

“Y’know if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to. I’d stay back with you,” he offered.

Your eyes fell from his, shuffling your feet uncomfortably, he stumbled over his words to reassure you, “we don’t have to, like, hang out. Just if you’re tired and you’d rather stay in and read or something that’s cool. I would stay down here.”

“You don’t want to hang out with me?” You raised your eyebrows in mock offense.

You were messing with him now, you probably shouldn’t be, but watching him run circles around himself to say the right thing was too fun.

“That’s not what I- I just,” he stuttered. “Here, can you just let me help you?”

He was across the room quick, your bodies close enough to touch for the first time since the dock. He smelled like soap, and something else undefinable and sweetly nostalgic. He reached up, his long frame barely needing to stretch to reach the cabinet above you.

“Doesn’t look like there’s any in here,” he informed you, tall enough to see what you couldn’t.

“You sure?” You didn’t know why you were questioning him, your flustered state made you defensive.

“You’re welcome to keep jumping to try and see for yourself,” he stepped back to give you space to try again. “You were so close.”

“Don’t be mean,” you smiled.

“I’m serious! It was very cute,” he dropped casually.

Your eyes narrowed as you looked back at him. Despite all his genuine actions today, you couldn’t help but feel suspicious of his intentions.

”What?” He questioned, sensing your hesitancy.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that today,” you pointed out, “It’s just kinda weird hearing you say it.”

“I mean it’s not like I’ve never called you cute before,” he reasoned.

“You haven’t,” you said definitively.

“I’m sure-“

“You haven’t. I would remember, believe me.”

You crossed your arms, hands cradling your elbows, feeling like a raw nerve. Rafe took a cautious step toward you, ducking his head slightly to draw your eyes to his, making sure you were listening when he said,

“Just because I didn’t say it doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”

You instinctually stepped back, his words a little too close to a confession for your comfort. When you pulled away, the back of your leg hit the kitchen counter, making you flinch at the pain of your cut rubbing against the wood.

“I have some waterproof band aids in my room,” he mumbled, his low voice making you wonder for just a second if he really did have them or if this was just a sly way to get you to his room. Sensing your doubt, he doubled down with, “no, honest, I brought a whole first aid kit.”

Convinced, you followed him down the stairs to his basement bedroom. His bed was still pulled away from the wall, but it had seemingly dried. His belongings were strewn about, his book bag unzipped and overflowing with books and papers. You clocked the curious sight, but stayed silent, preoccupied by your sudden aloneness and his half-naked body.

Rafe dug through his suitcase for a moment until, sure enough, he pulled out a bright orange case with a little red cross on the front. You couldn’t help your smile.

“In your boy scout era?” You teased him.

“I’ve been on enough trips with Topper and Kelce to know you should always be prepared for the worst,” he chuckled.

“Ah, little did you know, I was gonna be the worst you needed to prepare for.”

“You? No, you’re the best part of this trip.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh, really? It’s not your dungeon bedroom?” You pivoted.

“Yeah, I should probably get used to that mildew smell,” Rafe scoffed. “Gonna be living in my parents basement if I don’t pass this summer class.”

He motioned to his backpack, the mystery finally solved. He’d been doing school work down here. Summer classes, surely the answer to his not-graduating problem.

“What are you taking?” You inquired.

“Statistics. I need one more math credit and I just can’t…” he shook his head with self-loathing. “I mean, you know better than anyone. I’ve never been good at math.”

“I don’t think your problem was so much that you weren’t good,” you reasoned. “I think it was more about not applying yourself.”

“Well I’m applying myself now and I still feel like the textbook’s written in another language, so what does that mean?”

“Maybe that you just need some help,” you shrugged.

You could tell he was struggling with himself, and you were overcome with the desire to ease his worry. There are worse things a man can be than bad at math. But with Rafe, things were always all-or-nothing. One flaw meant the whole batch must be bad.

You felt the urge to jump into tutor-mode and do the hard work for him, but you knew once you crossed that bridge into such familiar territory, there’d be no going back.

Rafe didn’t seem to share your concerns about repeating the past.

“Help from you?”

The way he leaned in when he said it would be almost imperceptible to anyone else, but you’d studied him long enough to notice even the slightest movement. You could feel the air between you tighten, like a rubber band stretching as far as it could go. You broke eye contact before it had the chance to snap.

“Or, like a tutor?” You suggested, reaching for the first aid kit in his hands. “Do they have those at Chapel Hill?”

“They do,” he stepped closer anyway, hand brushing yours as he handed it to you. “But I’d rather have you.”

You cleared your throat, ignoring his attempt to flirt. You decided not to go down this road with him, afraid it would lead to another dead end.

He watched you dig through the kit for an appropriately sized Band-Aid, fighting the urge to ask if he’d said something wrong. Before he could, you leaned down and attempted to line up the adhesive with your cut, struggling to twist and reach the back of your leg.

“Here, let me.”

Fingers brushing yours, he took the Band-Aid and kneeled down in front of you, one leg under him, one propped up. His hand found your ankle and he guided your leg up so your foot rested on his knee.

Clouds of foggy attraction swirled in your eyes as you looked down at him. He poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on unwrapping the Band-Aid. You zeroed in on his fingers, long and slender, leading to vein rippled hands that worked diligently to ease your pain. It was enough to knock someone over, but you weren’t going anywhere with his strong thigh holding you up.

“Since when are you such a gentleman?” You quipped, your decision not to flirt with him thrown out the window at the sight of him on his knees in front of you.

He smiled that satisfied, crooked grin as he gently placed the Band-Aid over your healing cut, “I’m trying.”

He brushed over the edge of the Band-Aid, smoothing it into place with a firm swipe of his thumb. You dreaded the moment he would stand again. As if he could read your mind, he delayed it, his hand lingering on your calf.

Completely breathless, you watched him consider his next move. For a moment, you thought he was going to let his hand continue to run up your leg, but he stopped himself, bringing it back to your ankle and returning your foot to the ground.

When he stood and looked down at you, he was surprised by the pout of your lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shrugged. “You just looked so cute down there.”

Rafe rolled his eyes playfully.

“Thought you didn’t like that word.”

“I don’t remember saying that,” you countered.

“You just don’t like it when I call you cute, then?”

There it was again, evidence of his genuine desire to understand you. The rubber band tightened again, but this time, it was in your stomach, his sincerity drawing you to him helplessly.

“There’s just so many better things you could call me,” you flirted.

“Yeah?” Excitement coursed through you at his breathy tone. “Like what?”

“My name would be a good start.”

Voice still low, so deep you could feel it more than hear it, he uttered your name. It rolled off his tongue, smooth like honey dripping from his parted lips. The syllables came out with the faintest breath, brushing over your face as the sound swept over you.

Lip tucked between your teeth, you looked at his mouth, as though you could will more soothing sounds to fall from it. As you stared, his lips got closer to you, close enough to touch yours-

“Yo Rafe!”

The sound of Topper’s voice from the top of the stairs startled you so much, you knocked into his bedside table.

“What?” Rafe barked in the direction of Topper’s voice, his harsh, irritated tone in such stark contrast with the sweet way he’d just spoken to you.

“Just letting you know we’re leaving in like an hour,” Topper said.

“Okay?” Rafe snipped.

Topper grumbled something along the lines of “so fucking testy today” as he closed the door, none the wiser to your presence in the basement.

Rafe turned to you, eyes searching your face for a sign he could recover the moment that was so abruptly interrupted. You didn’t meet his eyes. A nervous, pink blush kissed the tips of your cheeks and washed down your chest. The thought of Topper seeing what you were almost doing brought you crashing back to reality. Twice today you had almost let him kiss you, the steel backbone you’d come into this trip with feeling more like glass with every second you spent with him.

“I should probably go start getting ready then,” you said, making your way toward the stairs.

“Right, yeah,” he agreed, defeated.

“Thanks for the Band-Aid.”

“Anytime,” he said. ��Anything.”

He stood at the bottom of the stairs as you climbed them. When you reached the door, you opened it just a crack, peeking out of it with paranoid eyes, making sure no one saw you sneak out of his room.

Regret hit him like a tidal wave. He couldn’t even be mad that you were so desperate not to be seen in close quarters with him, because it was exactly the look he’d have on his face when he used to climb out of your car in the school parking lot.

This must be how you felt. He wished for a time machine so he could knock out his teenage self the way he almost knocked out the guy on the dock today. Anyone who made you feel as shitty as he did right now deserved it.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

Finally able to take a painless shower, you took your time under the hot stream of water. Carter sat on the bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest as you recapped the crazy day.

“I literally thought you might be dead,” she explained.

“How long were we even gone? Half an hour?” You laughed lovingly at her dramatics.

“Are you serious?”

“What, was it more?” You thought over the time you’d spent with Rafe on the water, in your mind it had flown by fast. Too fast.

“We got back to the dock a full two hours before you showed up on your Rafe-drawn carriage,” she informed you.

You laughed heartily at the image, your cheeks tinting pink, though you told yourself the flush was just from the hot water.

“What did you guys do out there for two hours anyway?” She asked, not a fan of how silent you’d gone at the mention of Rafe’s name.

“We just talked,” you said.

It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like an incomplete truth.

“About?” She pried.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “just, like, life and stuff.”

She snorted skeptically.

“What?”

“I just can’t picture Rafe Cameron having any kind of deep thoughts about life is all,” she explained.

“Well, he’s different now, I guess,” you said feebly.

“Is he though?”

That silenced you. She had a fair point, you had only been talking to Rafe again for a few days, and most of that time was spent with him asking questions about you. You didn’t know him at all really, at least not as well as you used to, not enough to make judgment calls on his character.

Yet there was this instinct that had never really gone away. An invisible tether that connected you to him in a way you’d never experienced with anyone else. He was your sixth sense, you just knew him. You always had.

“I’m gonna go grab my makeup bag,” Carter exited the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

A few moments later, she reentered the room. You felt the words deep in your chest, and even though you knew she may not like them, you needed to let them out.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

Rafe meandered upstairs, looking for Topper’s room so he could borrow a shirt. He hadn’t really packed any going out outfits, picturing himself planted on the beach the whole week. The day he packed felt like a lifetime ago, he had no idea the rollercoaster this trip would turn into.

Down the hall, the bathroom door was open a crack, steam pouring from it as someone showered. Surely, whoever was in there didn’t intend to leave it open. He made his way towards the door to close it, but stopped short when he heard your familiar voice coming from the shower. He knew he should close the door and walk away, but your words glued him in place.

“I have to be honest with you,” you said. “I know I should hate him, but I don’t. I don’t think I’ll ever hate him.”

Rafe’s heart raced, an optimistic smile spreading across his face. He prayed that he was the ‘him’ you were referring to.

“The sad thing is, if he asked me to, I’d still give him anything he wanted,” you chuckled, surprised by your own words. “If he wanted me, I think I’d be with him.”

He’d never do it, but he seriously considered barging right into your shower and telling you “I want you, you have no idea how badly I want you.”

But the fantasy was cut short.

“I think I’d hate myself the whole time, though,” you confessed quietly.

At that, he actually did close the door, heart sinking, wishing he could dissolve into the floor.

His whole life, people found it hard to love him. They may not say it to his face, but he picked up on more than people thought. He exhausted his family, his irresponsibility and impulsivity were a pain to them since he was a kid. He disappointed his father, he knew he wasn’t the heir to the Cameron throne Ward had hoped for. And he’d fumbled you completely, the best friend he ever had.

Since then, everything he did was out of self-protection. He ghosted girls at school before they got the chance to reject him, he didn’t reply to texts from friends for fear of being ignored first. He picked fights and pushed people away, running from rejection like a monster in the dark.

But this week, for just a moment, he thought maybe he could finally stop running. He thought maybe he’d finally found something that was worth the risk. He had never felt so safe, so seen, as he did today when you were talking to him.

Then your words shook him from his delusions. He could handle his family’s disappointment and his friends’ exasperation. But your resentment? Knowing that being with him made you hate yourself? He just could not afford it. He wouldn’t survive it.

Closing the bathroom door had a finality to it, the click of the handle a sign of a decision made. He would stop pursuing you. He’d get through this trip, graduate school, and finally move on. If not for his sake, for yours. He was bad for you. You knew it, Carter knew it, he knew it. For your sake and his, he decided to let you go.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

The Ubers arrived around nine. The boys were showered, dressed, and ready by 8:30, chilling on the couch watching baseball and drinking their pregame beers. Topper kept an eye on his phone, watching the little cars get closer to the house.

“Ride’s almost here and they’re really not ready,” Topper sighed.

“Did you really expect anything else?” Kelce threw back another beer.

“Wanna take it easy tonight, man?” Rafe recommended, no one needed a reminder of the damage Hurricane Kelce had caused the last time he was shitfaced.

“No, actually, I don’t,” Kelce laughed.

Rafe reached across the couch, Topper ducking out of the way of his swift arm as he snatched the beer from Kelce’s hand.

“I’m getting you some water,” Rafe said. “I’m not babysitting your drunk ass all night.”

Rafe stood over the kitchen sink, filling a glass for Kelce. The water rose over the cup’s edge and overflowed onto his hands, but he didn’t even notice. He was lost in thought, thinking about your cry after falling off the jet ski, your lip pulled between your teeth when he almost kissed you, your words in the shower…

“Thirsty?” He heard you say behind him.

He turned to look at you, nearly dropping the glass.

Rafe was resolved. He couldn’t risk the sting of your rejection, and he couldn’t afford the price of your resentment. There would be no more chasing you, no moves made, no plays attempted. It was settled, he was done.

Then he saw you in that fucking dress.

(Chapter 6: part two)

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

a/n: oops another two part chapter cause the word count got away from me againnnn :) will try my best to post pt 2 this weekend!

and if I wrote a bonus blurb about what happened in Carter’s bedroom what then? A smutty little Carrot Top side quest? How would we feel about that?

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

2K notes · View notes

ateliersss · 6 months ago

Text

Downtime and a Bath

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: Your mate returns from a hunt, in desperate need of a bath. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 1.823 Before the Blooming Family series

⇨ I'm not exactly happy with it, nor am I sure if it's even worth publishing, but anyways, here it is. I had an idea three hours ago and wrote the thing in two, therefore the poor quality. But hey, at least it's out of my head.

⇨ Also. thank you to each and everyone of you for letting me reach a 1.000 followers a few weeks ago!

It was nighttime.

Lounging on your nest, you tilted your head back and looked out of the window behind you. Upside down, the twin moons, twinkling stars, and other celestial bodies you couldn’t name were occupying the bottom of your view while the wildlife with its mountains and forests extended across the top of your eyesight.

You sighed at the inky-black sky. Mi’ytiar had told you hours ago his hunting trip would end today and you had hoped it would be at a time you were awake. But according to the moons, the night was already half over and you knew you would soon pass out from exhaustion.

Maybe you could rest your eyes for a little bit. There was no problem with that, right? You were already lying in such a comfortable position — the cushions underneath you supporting your body just right, the blanket keeping it neither too warm nor too cold, the pillows behind your head cradling it perfectly. You could just close your eyes and listen to the crackling of the fire around your nest. No shame in that.

You were just dozing off, losing the inner battle against the overwhelming fatigue, when you heard a dull thud that was muffled by the closed door that led to the main area of your home.

“Wha…” You mumbled and pushed yourself up with your eyes still half-closed.

Seconds later, the door slid open and revealed the imposing sight of your mate.

So he was finally home. It made you breathe out a happy sigh and a drowsy smile etched itself onto your lips. You felt instantly at ease at having your mate back home and by your side. Not that you ever felt in danger being without him on the grounds of his clan, but you could never know who or what could force its way into your home when Mi’ytiar was gone. However, you doubted that they could make it far to you. Not only did your mate have his loyal warriors who had their eyes on you when he wasn’t able to himself, but the three Hell Hounds outside would rip anyone with bad intentions apart.

You rubbed your eyes until Mi’ytiar became less blurry and you let them wander over his figure, noting the state he was in. He was covered in dirt, grime, and what you hoped wasn’t his blood. As much as off-putting his appearance was, you were pleased to see that he complied with your wish to keep whatever corpse he had kept as a trophy away from your bedroom and instead leave it on the table in the main room.

You were just about to open your mouth when you flinched back at the intensity with which he was stalking towards you, embodying every aspect of his predatory nature, eyeing you like his next prey.

“No, Mi’ytiar. Don’t you dare!” You protested when it became obvious he was about to climb on your nest, dirtying it with whatever disgusting fluids his body was covered in.

But he didn’t listen, his mind hazy with hunger and overcome by the lasting high of his latest kills. Bad Bloods were a nice challenge and he was thrilled when he discovered that three of them were hunting on a neighboring planet. Their heads were now lying on the sleek black surface of the table outside.

You yelped when his bone-crushing weight settled on top of you, successfully covering your whole body with his, and his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. You could hear and feel the greedy intake of your scent through his nose. His tongue licked over every inch of your skin nearby as his hands roamed your body, his claws already ripping on the fabric of your nightwear.

You would have spread your legs for him, would have helped him take off your clothing, offering every part of your body for him to take, to devour, if the fact that he was just ruining the materials you had used for your nest wasn’t the only thing on your mind right down. As well as the disgusting stench that overwhelmed your nostrils and made you gag.

You weren’t the most flexible, definitely not now, but you still managed to pull up your knee and push him away from you by placing your foot in the middle of his chest. You knew you wouldn’t have succeeded if not for a subconscious part of his mind was still able to obey you even though his logical thinking was clouded with primal need.

Mi’ytiar, though very reluctantly, backed down and sat back on his haunches. His claws dug into his thighs and his chest was heaving with heavy breaths, showing how much strength it required for him to hold himself back.

“I’m sorry, my love, but you reek.” You grumbled and eyed him in disdain.

He only growled back.

“Why don’t we take a bath, hm?” You suggested with a head tilt to the door to your right which led to what you would call a bathroom by human standards.

Sliding sideways off the nest, you walked backward, a smirk on your face and your eyes fixed on him as your fingers fiddled with the knot of your robe, a souvenir you had acquired from one of your trips to Earth.

“Are you coming, tanhì?” You asked him, placing one foot behind the other.

The swishing of the door and the different feeling of the floor covering signaled you had entered the bathroom. The first time you had been inside it when Mi’ytiar had shown you your new home, it reminded you of a cave. Despite the usual futuristic and modern Yautja aesthetic, this room had a natural feeling. It wasn’t unlike the bathroom of the apartment you had lived in with your family decades ago. The necessities had been there. Except for a bathtub. Yautja didn’t necessarily bathe. They swam, yes, but bathe?

You didn’t exactly need a bathtub as you hadn’t used the one you had back then, but after a tiring day, it had been nice to relax in the hot water. Someday, you had voiced your displeasure to Mi’ytiar who had scooped you up and taken you to the hot springs not far from the clan grounds but still inside his territory. And although the sight of it was breathtaking — steam rising from the ponds of water arranged like stair steps so the water could run down from one spring to the next like a waterfall — and the surrounding nature was quite romantic, you weren’t exactly comfortable stripping naked where whatever lurking creature could creep up on you.

You didn’t want to complain, of course, and you would eventually adapt to the fact that you had to forego certain human comforts. That didn’t mean you didn’t share how humans lived compared to Yautja with him whenever a difference in their everyday life occurred, be it the bed, clothes, or the bathtub.

Just as you were getting used to bathing in the hot springs, hidden in the rock crevice, you stumbled over the beginnings of what would soon look like a pool when you walked into the bathroom to relieve yourself. It was nestled into the large niche — square, three meters by three meters — of the room opposite the door where the shower-like setup used to be. When you had asked him what this was about, he had only said “Home.” and left it by that.

Standing in front of said pool, you turned your head to look over your shoulder and watched as the door closed behind Mi’ytiar who had just entered the bathroom. You let the robe slide down your shoulders and to the crook of your arms before letting it pool at your feet. When you turned to face him, you revealed the side profile of your body to his eyes, the swell of your breasts, and the small bump your belly was sporting.

When you thought back to your profession on Earth, you looked like any expectant mother in the late stage of her first trimester. Your baby bump wasn’t that big yet, but you still had to give up on certain items of clothing because they already wouldn’t fit you anymore.

When your belly started to grow, you suddenly remembered that your period should have started roughly two weeks ago. The second your brain had fully comprehended that your mate could have possibly impregnated you, that with the highest probability you carried the product of your mutual love under your heart and that you would soon become a mother, you didn’t waste a second to track him down and tell him the big news.

He hadn’t exactly reacted the way you had hoped. Instead of a positive or negative reaction, instead of pressing his forehead to yours while purring or growling at you to get rid of it, he had just stared. He stood frozen in front of you and fixed your hands which cupped the barely noticeable swell of your stomach.

You had just gained a little bit of weight, he told himself. She couldn’t be pregnant, she couldn’t carry my pup.

How could you, a human, be able to achieve something where others had failed?

He needed answers, so he hastily but carefully picked you up and took you to Cahrein who only confirmed your suspicion. You were indeed pregnant.

Only after a quick talk with the tribal healer, something about “not possible” and “how”, he finally showed you how he really felt — overjoyed. And how could he not? Now that you were carrying his pup, you were connected to your mate in every possible way.

“Are you coming?” You asked him again, one foot dipped into the warm water.

Mi’ytiar didn’t waste any more time getting rid of his armor, not caring about any damage he may cause, as he ripped every piece of it off his body, letting it fall to the ground as he walked to the pool. When he stepped into it, your body was already fully immersed and you swam to where you kept the nourishing oils, sweet-smelling soap, and the washcloth. With everything you needed in hand, you returned to where Mi’ytiar had settled on the bench of the pool. You freed your hands by placing everything on the edge so you could lift yourself up on his lap. Mi’ytiar immediately pulled you closer, one hand wrapped around your thigh, the other embracing your bump.

You didn’t talk while you cleaned him up. You stayed quiet, not feeling the necessity to talk, while he relished in your pampering, only voicing how much he enjoyed it with purrs. And when you were done, you snuggled up to him, cheek pressed against his chest and arms loosely wrapped around him. Mi’ytiar later had to carry you out of the pool, dry you off, and bring you to bed, your sleeping form pressed against his body.

Masterlist: here

Tag List

@rorrika, @lialiwasneverseen, @lil-lilacwitch, @purplekitten30, @eternalmoonshineofahopelessfan,

@ladygrimmx, @blurpleuni-squid, @zaky-ller, @chrishy973, @devilslittlehelper,

@freyablack90

⇨ Want to join the tag list?

#predator x reader #predator x you #yautja x reader #yautja x you #predator #fanfic

677 notes · View notes

rafesapologist · 3 months ago

Text

the 1 — rafe cameron (mini series)

summary: one summer with rafe cameron was enough to make you fall madly in love with him, but at the end of the day you were just a pogue, and rafe would be leaving for college soon.

warnings: angst, age change (y/n is 17, rafe is 18), swearing, underage drinking, unedited

author's note: a fair warning to all of you who know of it, but this mini series will be inspired by 'the notebook'. i rewatched it before i started this and i was inspired + i wanted to do a mini series for holiday break, so without further ado, enjoy!!

You stand there, your apprehension dripping off of you like the summer humidity clinging to the air. The Boneyard sprawls before you, a kaleidoscope of bonfires, shadows, and laughter carried on the salty breeze. This is your first party ever, even though you’re seventeen. Your friends had begged you to come, their promises of escapade outweighing your usual reluctance.

Now, standing in the open among a mix of Kooks, Pogues, and Tourons, you feel impossibly small. Even with your group of friends around you, the scene feels overwhelming. It’s the beginning of summer break, the time to shed inhibitions and let loose. But you don’t know how, your comfort zone is a quiet corner, not the chaos of a gathering like this.

Your mind races, a storm of doubt and self-consciousness that won’t quiet. You wonder again why you even came. Around you, everyone else seems to be living their best lives—laughing, shouting, throwing themselves into the night like it’s their birthright. It’s as if the start of summer ignited something in them that you don’t have, something wild and carefree.

But not you. You can’t seem to shake the tension knotting your shoulders, the unease simmering just beneath your skin. You take a cautious sip of your drink, wincing as the sharp burn of vodka mixed with cranberry juice scratches at your throat. It’s not pleasant, but you hope it might work some magic soon.

You linger on the edges of your friend group, pretending to listen as they exchange jokes and stories you can’t bring yourself to care about. Their voices blend into the background noise of waves and music. Your mind drifts, untethered, far from this moment.

You take another sip, silently pleading for the alcohol to loosen its grip on your nerves, to numb the anxiety you’ve carried here like a weight. But it doesn’t come. The tension in your chest refuses to yield, a stubborn reminder that this kind of freedom might not be yours to claim.

Reality snaps back the moment your friends erupt in sudden cheers, rallying you to join them at the makeshift bar just a few feet away. The noise jolts you like a splash of cold water. You glance down at your half-empty cup, the remnants of cranberry-red liquid sloshing faintly under the firelight. For a moment, you hesitate, but then you shrug, forcing yourself to down the rest in one go. It burns on the way down, and you fight the urge to grimace as you follow them.

At the bar, you retreat into your usual timid form, arms crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight. The crowd buzzes around you like a hive, each person louder, more confident, more at ease than you feel. You stand silently, watching your friends engage in their effortless chatter with the person mixing drinks, their laughter spilling into the night. You’re grateful for their boldness, it saves you from the awkwardness of having to ask for anything yourself.

When one of them hands you your new drink, a familiar vodka cranberry, you give them a small smile. It’s the best you can muster, but it feels genuine in that moment. “Thanks,” you murmur, raising your cup slightly in their direction before taking another swig. The drink goes down a little easier this time, though the warmth spreading through your chest still feels foreign. You hope it’s the beginning of something, anything, that will make this night a little less daunting.

The next half-hour drifts by in a blur of drinks and laughter, each sip peeling back a level of your apprehension. The alcohol works its slow magic, loosening the tight grip anxiety has on you. You’re not the life of the party, not yet, but you’re finding your voice in the safe confines of your friends. It’s a small victory, but it’s something.

Your group gravitates toward the bonfire, standing in a loose circle that feels warm both from the alcohol pooling in your veins and the fire crackling behind you. The world feels softer and easier now, its edges smudged just enough to make everything seem less sharp, less overwhelming.

It’s in this softened haze that you feel it: the weight of someone’s gaze, heavy and deliberate. It prickles at the back of your neck, enough to jolt you from the conversation. You glance up, scanning the crowd beyond the flames. The faces blur slightly, but then you see him.

He’s tall, towering even, easily over six feet. His hair catches the firelight, dirty blond despite the buzzcut that does little to dull his striking features. His broad shoulders and strong stance exude an intimidating confidence that sets him apart from the crowd. But it’s his face that holds you, the sharp angles, the perfection of it all, like something carved from stone.

You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or something else entirely, but your chest tightens as his piercing gaze meets yours. It’s unrelenting, a tether that keeps you locked in place, even as the world spins around you.

Your breath catches, a sharp intake that barely fills your lungs. His gaze remains steady, unyielding, like he’s daring you to look away first. The boldness of it unsettles you but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift uncomfortably under the weight of being caught. If anything, he seems to relish it, a quiet confidence radiating from him.

You take in more of his surroundings, noting the group of guys he’s standing with. Their clothes polished, expensive, unmistakably Kook signal their place on this island’s invisible social ladder. His presence among them only cements your assumption: he’s a Kook too, one who belongs to the world that always feels just out of reach, a world that seems to thrive on your unease.

His appearance, so composed and self-assured, intimidates you further. It’s not just his stature or his looks, it’s the certainty in the way he holds himself, as if the world bends to his will.

Your friends are oblivious to what’s unfolding, their laughter a faint echo in the background. For a moment, it feels like time has slowed, the firelight casting shadows that flicker between you and this stranger. Nervous energy wells up in your chest, an overwhelming tide that you can’t push back.

It consumes you, forcing you to break first. You glance away, the weight of his gaze still lingering even as you turn back to your friends. Their conversation sweeps you back into its folds, and you force yourself to smile, to nod along as if you’re present. But in the back of your mind, the image of him and his piercing eyes, his commanding presence; burns like an afterimage you can’t quite shake.

A few more minutes slip by, and you glance down to see your cup empty, save for the faint red tint of cranberry at the bottom. “Be right back,” you tell your friends, raising your voice just enough to cut through their chatter. “Just getting another drink.”

They barely register your words, caught up in their conversation, and you head to the bar alone this time. Without your friends flanking you, the walk feels more exposed, but the alcohol dulls that vulnerability. It’s easier now to shift through the sea of bodies, the music and laughter blurring into white noise.

You order your usual, vodka cranberry, and step aside to let the next person take their turn. Leaning against the counter, you let your gaze wander, caught somewhere between the firelight and the rhythm of the night.

Then it happens. A deep voice cuts through the haze, pulling you sharply back to reality.

“Are you new around here?”

The words are casual, but they send a jolt through your chest. You turn, almost cautiously, to face whoever spoke them.

And there he is. The stranger from across the bonfire. Up close, he’s even more striking, tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that seems to command the space around him. His piercing eyes meet yours, and though his expression is relaxed, there’s an intensity in the way he looks at you that’s impossible to ignore.

"Uh," you stammer, your voice catching as you clear your throat. "No. No, I’m not. I just… don’t go out very often." You laugh, hesitant and unsure, trying to chip away at the palpable tension settling between you and this stranger.

He tilts his head slightly, his expression shifting from curiosity to faint surprise at your answer. After a moment, he simply nods, taking a slow swig of his beer. The motion is unhurried, his confidence unsettlingly effortless.

“You shouldn’t be hiding a face like yours,” he says, the words slipping from his mouth with a sly edge.

The comment catches you off guard, and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Heat creeps into your cheeks, unbidden, and you’re certain the faint flush is visible even in the dim light.

“Oh. Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer now, barely audible over the surrounding noise. You chuckle nervously, the sound light but forced, and avert your eyes to the ground. The weight of his intense gaze is too much to bear, and you focus instead on the empty cup in your hands, fiddling with it as if it might offer some kind of escape.

There’s a silence that stretches between you, fragile and uneasy, like the moments just before a storm breaks. The fire crackles somewhere behind you, but its warmth can’t touch the chill that prickles at your skin. His eyes stay locked on you, unrelenting, like he’s studying the cracks in your armor. And you can tell he enjoys this.

He revels in the way you fidget under his stare, the way your breath catches and your fingers curl tighter around the plastic cup. But there’s something else, too, something darker in the way he looks at you. It’s not just confidence; it’s control, a hunger for whatever power this moment gives him. And yet, even knowing this, you don’t move.

His words shatter the silence. “Let me take you out sometime.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement, sharp and certain, like he’s already decided the answer.

Your eyes snap up to his, wide and startled. You almost laugh, because surely this is a joke, a cruel one meant to entertain him and his perfectly dressed friends who are probably watching from somewhere nearby, waiting for you to embarrass yourself.

“What?” The word tumbles out before you can stop it, your voice barely steady.

His lips curve slightly, but it isn’t quite a smile. “I said, I’d like to take you out sometime.” He repeats it slower this time, as if you didn’t hear him the first time, as if he’s daring you to challenge him.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The world tilts slightly, whether from the alcohol or the weight of his words, you can’t tell. All you know is that he’s still staring, waiting for you to say something, to give him a reason to step closer or walk away.

And you can’t decide which one you want more.

You shake your head firmly, the movement small but resolute. "I don’t think that’s a good idea," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

But he doesn’t flinch. That smirk, half amusement, half something you can’t quite name, lingers on his lips, and it sets your nerves alight. It’s infuriating, how unaffected he seems, like he’s already won this game you didn’t agree to play.

You brace yourself, expecting him to scoff or roll his eyes, to walk away and let this moment crumble into nothing. But he doesn’t move.

"And why’s that?" His words are low and deliberate, tipped with sarcasm, and they hit you square in the chest.

You falter, staring at him like he’s some kind of puzzle you can’t figure out. Why hasn’t he given up yet? Most people would’ve shrugged off your rejection and moved on, but he stands there, solid and unwavering, as if you haven’t just pushed him away.

You swallow hard and force yourself to speak. "Because…" You gesture vaguely at him, your words fumbling as you try to make sense of this. "Look at you. You’re clearly a Kook, and I’m not. I’m not going to say yes just to end up being laughed at, for what? Being some dare your friends put on you?"

His head tips back slightly, and he laughs. It’s not cruel, but it’s sharp and warm, like he’s genuinely amused by how wrong you are. The sound coils through you, confusing and unsettling all at once.

"You think I came over to talk to you because my friends dared me to?" he repeats, the question coated in disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration.

You don’t answer, just stare at him, your pulse quickening under the weight of his words.

Because he’s still standing there, still looking at you like he sees something worth waiting for. And it terrifies you.

"Well, yeah," you reply, matter-of-fact and sharp, but the edge in your voice doesn’t hide the unease curling in your stomach. "Why else would you be here with a Pogue?"

The words hang there, heavy and bitter. You force a half-hearted laugh, hoping it might soften the blow or drown out the doubt clawing its way to the surface. But it doesn’t. The uncertainty lingers, sticking to you like salt air and sweat.

He doesn’t waver. Instead, he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, before tipping his beer back for another sip. It’s infuriating, the way he moves with such ease, as if he’s never doubted himself a day in his life.

Then he says it.

"I came over here because as soon as I saw you, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you."

His voice is steady, low enough that you feel it more than hear it, but there’s no mistaking the confidence in his tone. It’s not a line, it doesn’t feel rehearsed or hollow. It’s simply the truth, spoken as plainly as if he were commenting on the weather.

And that’s what makes it so dangerous.

You can’t stop the sharp breath that slips past your lips or the way your fingers tighten around your empty cup. He’s too much; too bold, too certain, too beautiful for someone like you.

You drop your gaze, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it doesn’t help. His words linger, heavy and unshakable, seeping into your skin. You look back up at him, and he’s still there, still looking at you like you’re something worth staring at. And it terrifies you more than anything ever has.

Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, as if the weight of his words has pressed the air right out of your lungs. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and fear.

Your eyes flicker away from him, desperate for an escape. You scan the crowd, the fire, the shadows cast by bodies moving and swaying in the night; but no matter where you look, you can feel it. Him. His stare clings to you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to let you slip away unnoticed.

If he’s lying, he’s a hell of a liar, you think. Too practiced. Too composed. And yet, there’s something unsettlingly genuine about the way he’s looking at you.

You hate how much you want to believe him.

Still, you don’t move, don’t let yourself lean into the moment. You’ve been here before, dangling on the edge of something that felt real, only to fall flat when the truth unraveled. And you refuse to be played again.

“How do I know you’re not just messing with me?”

The words fall out before you can second-guess them, softer than you intended but laced with an edge of defiance. Your gaze finally snaps back to his, searching for cracks, for some sign that this is just another game, another pretty lie dressed up in confidence and charm.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he steps closer, just enough to make your pulse quicken. The firelight catches in his eyes, and for a moment, you swear they burn just as fiercely.

“You don’t,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into the faintest smirk. “But maybe that’s what makes it worth finding out.”

#rafe cameron #drew starkey #obx #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe angst #rafe #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron x you

288 notes · View notes

cuntyji · 4 days ago

Text

TOMORROW IS GONE ౨ৎ Part One ⊹ ࣪SukuGo x Female Reader

Synopsis: When the past claws its way into the present, Sukuna is left standing in the wreckage of a fate he swore he’d never repeat. A part of him died screaming the name of one he loved, and now, in a cruel mirror of history, you and Gojo are slipping through his fingers the same way—another lesson that love, no matter how fierce, is never enough. As blood stains his hands and regret poisons his soul, one question lingers: was he always meant to lose, or was his name the curse that doomed him from the start? ( AO3 )

Content Warnings: Med student SukuGo x female reader, bicurious/bisexual sukuna and gojo, polyamory, college setting, heavy angst minimal comfort.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. Descriptions of illness and hospitals, toxic family/friendship dynamics, alcohol and drug use, body dysmorphia, sexual harassment.

series masterlist next chapter

The administrative office was one of those places you had subconsciously ignored for months, half out of laziness and half out of sheer disinterest. It took you nearly a year to find it—nearly a year of wandering through halls, asking for directions, and giving up halfway before you finally ended up here. And now, standing at the entrance, you weren’t sure why you ever thought you needed to. The air smelled faintly of old paper and stale coffee, the walls were a shade of beige that could only be described as “government-issued,” and the woman at the front desk looked like she had seen far too many students come and go to care about one more. But you weren’t the only one here.

Sukuna stood at the counter, a furrow between his brows as he gripped his schedule like it was an offense to his entire existence. He had an air of frustration about him, the kind that made the receptionist’s fingers slow down on her keyboard, her voice dipping into something almost resigned. “You’re enrolled in eight courses,” she said, barely looking up from the monitor. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” Sukuna deadpanned.

“I signed up for five.”

You blinked. That was odd. If you had to guess, you’d think Sukuna would be the type to take extra classes, not less. In lectures, he was always the first to answer, his tone flat and uninterested but efficient—like he had better things to do. Then he’d be the first to leave, slinging his bag over his shoulder before the professor even finished dismissing everyone. You watched as he adjusted his rimless glasses, the movement so quick and practiced you almost missed it. They didn’t suit him—not because they looked bad, but because they sat at odds with the dark tattoos that stretched over his skin. They framed his face, carved sharp and intimidating, but no one ever said a word about them. They wouldn’t dare.

Sukuna wasn’t the kind of ‘nerd’ people bullied. No, he was the kind who could shut someone up with a look, the kind who carried himself with an ease that made his intelligence seem more like a weapon than a quirk. He was built like a tank, broad shoulders filling out his sweater, a hint of softness at his waist hidden under layers of fabric. He never seemed to care about how he looked, never spared a glance in the mirror, but people still watched him. Followed him. The other ‘outcasts’ gravitated toward him like he was some kind of messiah, and you could see why. He didn’t go out of his way to include anyone, but he never pushed them away, either. He was the kind of person people just wanted to be near—like being in his presence alone was enough to make things feel less… bleak.

And maybe that was why it startled you when his eyes flickered to you.

For a second, he hesitated. The papers in his hand crinkled under his grip, his jaw tensing. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth discussing in front of an audience, he brushed past you, his shoulder nearly knocking into yours. He smelled clean—something deep and woody, but not overwhelming. The administrator barely looked up. “Come back if there’s an issue,” she called, but he was already gone.

You exhaled. The receptionist raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Next?”

The next time you saw Sukuna, it was somewhere you never expected—inside the small, fluorescent-lit pharmaceutical store tucked between the campus clinic and a convenience store. The place smelled sterile, a mix of rubbing alcohol and something vaguely minty. Shelves lined with neatly arranged medicines and hygiene products stood like silent sentinels, and the low hum of a refrigerator filled the quiet space. You had been standing near the register, shifting from foot to foot, hesitating.

It wasn’t that buying pads and painkillers was embarrassing—it was just awkward. And seeing Sukuna standing at the counter, tapping his fingers against the glass display case, only made it worse. You thought about waiting for him to leave, you really did. But your cramps had other plans, gnawing at you in slow, insistent waves. So, with a resigned sigh, you stepped forward and muttered your request to the pharmacist.

Sukuna didn’t react.

Not when the cashier rang up the items, not when he pulled out his wallet, not even when he casually slid the bag across the counter toward you. It was smooth, efficient—like this was something he did all the time. “Total?” he asked, as if buying pads and painkillers for you was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him, fingers hesitating over the bag’s plastic handles.

“You—”

“It’s fine.” he barely glanced up as he handed the money over, his face set in its usual unreadable expression. You thought he might say something about the administrative office. Maybe a passing remark about the scheduling mess, some acknowledgment that he had seen you before. But he didn't. He didn’t even look at you properly—not in a way that felt like recognition.

Just a face in the crowd.

You weren’t sure why that thought stung. It wasn’t like you two had ever spoken. You shared a class, sat in the same room, but that was all. Still, you had assumed—no, hoped—he would remember. But he didn’t. And you couldn’t decide what hurt more: the fact that he had helped you so easily, or the fact that, to him, it was just another errand.

Sukuna, as a matter of fact, does know who you are.

How could he not? You were the only one who made him feel like there was a tight coil wound up in his stomach, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It annoyed him at first. He wasn’t the type to dwell on people, to let fleeting interactions fester in the back of his mind. But with you, it was different.

It had always been different.

He saw you first, months before you ever noticed him, on a day much like any other. The school was noisy, filled with the shrill laughter of children and the exhausted murmurs of staff trying to keep up. Sukuna had been waiting by the gate, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, when he saw Choso dart toward you. “High-five!” Choso had grinned, holding up a tiny hand, and you—without hesitation—had smacked your palm against his.

“Oowww,” you exaggerated, shaking your hand like his hit had been anything but soft. “You’ve been working out, huh?” Choso beamed, giggling, before running toward Sukuna. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He doubted you even realized he was there. But he saw you.

You, the student volunteer who had crouched down to tie a kid’s shoelace without being asked. You, who always lingered a little longer after activities, chatting animatedly with the staff. You, who smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. Sukuna should have forgotten you. But he didn’t.

He didn't have time to entertain things like this. His days were rigid, structured around class, assignments, and taking care of Choso. It wasn’t like he minded—but Choso wasn’t just a responsibility. He was his little brother, left in his care because the Kamos were too busy moving around to take him along. They sent money every month, an automated transaction with no warmth, no questions, just numbers on a screen. It was a clean, methodical process, and sometimes, when his phone pinged with a deposit, it felt almost mocking. Choso, too young to understand, would ask meekly, “Did Papa call?” and Sukuna—because he was good at fixing things, at making sure Choso never had to feel unwanted—did what he could do best.

He wrote.

Letter after letter, careful and practiced, as if Noritoshi himself had penned them. He bought envelopes, stamps, made sure they were sealed just right. Every Sunday, he’d hand Choso a fresh letter, watching as his eyes lit up, tiny fingers fumbling with the paper, reading words that were never really written for him. He spent extra money on those stamps, even though they’d never reach a destination. But it was worth it. Just like seeing you again had been worth it, even if you didn’t think he remembered you.

Sometimes, you’d ask Gojo about Sukuna—not because you were desperate for information, but because it was easy. Casual. Gojo took the same courses as Sukuna, purely by coincidence, which meant he saw him more than you did. and Gojo being Gojo, never just summarized. No, a passing comment about something Sukuna said in class would turn into a full-fledged, word-for-word recollection, complete with exaggerated impressions and hand gestures.

"He said," Gojo would begin, voice dropping into something low and mocking, "'If you can’t even grasp the fundamentals, then why are you in this class?'" he'd scoff, pushing up his glasses. "Can you believe him? Such a condescending bastard. Almost as condescending as me. Almost."

Sometimes you’d think Gojo was the only one who could match Sukuna in brains. Brawn, though? Not so much.

Gojo liked to claim he had a “lean, sleeper build,” a phrase he used with utmost confidence whenever the topic of strength came up. But you knew better. You had known him long before he became the loud-mouthed, effortlessly brilliant guy everyone saw now. You knew him from sleepovers as kids, nights when he'd collapse on the floor, unable to move, his body betraying him in the cruelest way possible.

Rhabdomyolysis. Rhabdo, for short.

It wasn’t fair. It never was. Just when you thought he was getting better, he’d push himself too far, ending up in unbearable muscle pain that left him unable to do anything but grit his teeth and wait for it to pass. But that was what you admired about him—no matter how many times it knocked him down, he got back up, thrice as strong, twice as stubborn. He studied and studied, pouring himself into his work, determined to get into med school. His mother had asked you to look out for him before you both left home. It was a simple request, spoken softly but weighted with unspoken worry.

"Make sure he doesn’t overwork himself," she had said. But how were you supposed to do that when Gojo lived to push his limits? Rhabdo came from overworking muscles, and Gojo did exactly that—gymming to prove a point, lifting heavy boxes just to impress whoever was watching. He tried too hard, stretched himself too thin, all because he didn’t want to be seen as just a ‘nerd.’

It made you wonder. Why was he so ashamed of his intelligence? Why would someone like him, who had knowledge in abundance, ever think it was something to hide? You just hoped that, in his pursuit of finding friends, he didn’t lose himself.

Sometimes, you’d try to talk to him about it. About the late nights at the gym when he should’ve been resting, about the way he pushed his body past its limits like he had something to prove. "Satoru," you'd start carefully, voice threading the needle between concern and hesitation. "You know you don’t have to do this, right?"

He'd barely look up, stretching out his arms like he hadn’t been deadlifting a weight that could snap him in half. “Do what?”

“This.” you motioned vaguely—at the gym bag at his feet, at the faint tremor in his fingers, at the exhaustion lurking beneath his grin. “You already have enough on your plate, why are you pushing yourself so hard?”

Gojo scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off your words. "Why wouldn’t I?"

"Because it’s hurting you," you said, and for a split second, something in his expression wavered. Then, just as quickly, it hardened.

"Look," he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "I don't want to be strong in just one way. You think I like how people look at me? Like I'm just some brain on legs? I want to be the strongest. Not just in brains. In brawn too." His voice was sharp, edged with frustration, but beneath it, there was something raw. Something that made your chest ache. But how could you tell him that it was impossible? If you took this from him—this goal, this driving force—what would he have left to fight for? That very thought scared you.

So you hesitated. You let it go.

But a voice inside nudged you.

Just try.

So you did.

"Satoru," you murmured, softer now, "You don’t have to prove anything to anyone."

His head snapped toward you so fast you almost flinched. His porcelain skin flared up with anger, jaw tightening as his hands curled around his glasses, gripping them so tightly you thought they’d snap between his fingers. "You don’t get it," he hissed. "We’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to run behind me like some duty-free nanny."

The words landed like a slap, sharp and unexpected. And then—just as suddenly as it appeared—that fire in his eyes died out. "Shit," he whispered, like the air had been knocked out of him. His hands trembled as they loosened around his glasses, and he reached for you, fingers barely brushing your wrist before stopping short. His voice cracked when he spoke again.

"I—I didn't mean that."

Of course he didn’t.

Because Gojo, for all his bravado, had never been good at watching his words when he was scared. And right now, he was terrified.

Terrified that he had pushed you too far, that you’d finally had enough, that this—the only thing he was sure of—would slip away.

But you wouldn’t go. You could never go.

Because he was your best friend.

Because you only had each other.

So you exhaled, slow and measured, before placing your hand over his.

"I know," you said simply. "But you have to stop doing this to yourself, Satoru."

He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away.

Maybe he wouldn’t listen now. Maybe he never would. But at least he knew you weren’t leaving.

Sukuna knew of Gojo. Not just because they shared multiple classes, but because Gojo was impossible to miss.

White hair, piercing blue eyes, skin so pale it almost looked translucent under harsh fluorescent lights—he somehow fit the conventional beauty standard for men while simultaneously sticking out like a sore thumb. Sukuna had seen him in class, answering questions with an ease that was almost infuriating. Where sukuna would take a split second to process, Gojo would already be speaking, words spilling out like they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

But Gojo never noticed the brief glances Sukuna threw his way. Never noticed the way Sukuna, seated at the back of the room, would lean back just enough to watch him.

Gojo surrounded himself with people who seemed eager to bask in his brilliance but unwilling to match it. Sukuna saw them for what they were—leeches. People who, if they tried hard enough, would wring Gojo dry for notes, explanations, anything to make their lives easier. But Gojo didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he even liked it.

But Sukuna knew a different Gojo, too.

He saw him once at the gym, attempting a deadlift well beyond his capacity. Sukuna had expected him to fail. Not because he doubted Gojo's strength, but because he had seen too many people try and fail at the same thing—pushing past their limits just to prove a point.

But Gojo did it.

Somehow, through sheer force of will, he lifted the weight. Held it. His hands trembled violently by the end of it, but he still slammed the bar down with enough force to rattle the plates. Then, without a word, he stormed into the locker room.

Sukuna followed shortly after, towel slung over his shoulder, fully expecting to see Gojo hunched over in exhaustion. But instead, as soon as their eyes met, Gojo straightened, flexing as if that was the reason he had come here in the first place. "Not bad, huh?" Gojo grinned, still slightly breathless. His voice carried its usual arrogance, but there was something else beneath it. Something less sure.

Sukuna had seen this before.

People pushing themselves to extremes for validation, for praise, for their masculine ego. But this wasn’t just about validation. This was about approval. About being seen.

Gojo wanted acknowledgement.

So Sukuna gave it to him.

"Not bad," he said simply, drying off his face with his towel.

It was barely anything. Just two words.

But Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly, barely noticeable, before he turned away to grab his bag.

Sukuna didn’t miss the tremor in his hands as he walked out.

Sukuna sat in front of his home altar that night, after putting Choso to sleep. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, the fabric of his ratty t-shirt stretching slightly before settling back into place. It barely fit him now—too tight across his chest, too loose at the waist. A weird, unbalanced fit that he should probably care about, but didn’t.

He used to, once. Back when he was a teenager, obsessing over online gym influencers, starving himself to get the perfect cut. But life had softened him, just a little. The kind of softness that clung to a body despite the strength underneath. Now, he didn’t care if there was a bit of pudge, didn’t punish himself over it. He was past that, or at least he told himself he was.

He cleaned the altar with slow, deliberate movements. Wiped down the framed photo. Lit the incense. Set down a bowl of noodles, still steaming faintly, the scent curling around him like something almost familiar, almost comforting. And then, finally, he looked up.

Yuuji.

His younger brother. His bright, beaming, sunshine of a little brother, frozen forever in the photo before him. The four-year-old with a grin wide enough to split his face in half. The kid who used to grab the nearest marker and scrawl on his own cheeks, lines crooked and smudged, just so he could match Sukuna.

"Look, ‘Kuna! S’like you!"

The words echoed in his head, so clear it was like Yuuji had just spoken them. His chest tightened.

"Yeah, yeah, dumbass," Sukuna had grumbled back then, rubbing at the mess Yuuji had made with a sigh. "You got it all wrong. Here, lemme do it properly."

He'd taken the marker from Yuuji’s tiny, eager hands, the tip cool against his baby-soft skin as Sukuna traced the lines carefully. Yuuji had giggled, scrunching his nose when the ink tickled, eyes crinkling in that way that made everything feel weightless.

Sukuna could still feel the shape of his little brother’s face under his palm. Could still see the way Yuuji had reached out to return the marker with those trembling hands—hands that shouldn’t have been shaking at all. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen the signs.

But he hadn’t.

The viral infection that led to Rhabdo. The fever that burned too hot, too fast. The weakness that shouldn’t have been there in a boy so full of life.

"‘Kuna... one more? Please?"

His voice had been so small. So unlike him.

"You dumbass," Sukuna had muttered, uncapping the marker, ignoring the sickly pallor on his brother’s face. "Fine."

He never finished the last line.

Because Yuuji’s body had slumped forward, eyes fluttering shut before Sukuna could even realize what was happening. Before he could scream his name.

Before everything fell apart.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Gojo's trembling hands flashed before his eyes. The way they shook after the deadlift. The way he flexed to cover it up. The way he reached for Sukuna’s acknowledgment like it was something vital. It was too similar. Too close.

Sukuna’s throat felt tight.

The incense burned low, curling in on itself, the faint scent of sandalwood thick in the air. But Sukuna didn’t say goodnight. He stood up, turned away from the altar, and left the room without looking back.

The next day, you saw Sukuna again.

His rimless glasses were fogged up from the weather, condensation clinging to the lenses as he stepped out of your shared English class. He didn’t seem to care, though. Didn’t bother wiping them off, just adjusted them with a casual push up the bridge of his nose before shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants. You should’ve just walked away. Should’ve focused on anything else. But your mind, traitorous thing that it was, dragged you back to that night at the pharmacy.

A simple transaction. Nothing more.

So why did it replay in your head every time you sat behind him in class, watching the slow rise and fall of his broad shoulders as he shifted in his seat? Why did your gaze always drift to the way his fingers tapped absently on the desk before he spoke, answering questions with that same calm, clipped confidence? It was driving you mad.

But you didn’t talk to him this time either.

Just like every other time, you let him leave, let him walk past without a glance in your direction, and you told yourself it didn’t matter.

But then your gaze flickered past him, to where Gojo sat at the back of the class, surrounded by those same people—the ones who laughed too loud at his jokes, who clung to him like his presence alone could elevate them. And then there was Sukuna, head tilting ever so slightly in Gojo’s direction.

Watching. Not speaking. Not interacting. Just observing, like he always did. Gojo probably didn’t even notice.

But you did. And that realization made something settle uneasily in your stomach.

Because as much as you hated even formulating the thought, you were jealous of Gojo.

Gojo, who got Sukuna’s attention, even if it was just a fleeting glance. Gojo, who didn’t have to wonder if Sukuna saw him, because Sukuna always did.

You hated it.

So you stood outside class after it was over, lingering near the hallway, watching from a distance as Gojo continued to talk, his voice carrying over the chatter of students filtering out.

You watched him laugh with people who didn’t care for him the way you did. Who didn’t know the late nights spent studying, the way his body ached after pushing too hard at the gym, the exhaustion he tried so hard to mask. They didn’t know him. Not really.

But Sukuna was still watching him.

And you didn’t know which hurt more.

Gojo always found you after class.

For all his cocky bravado, for all the laughter he surrounded himself with, he always ended up here—beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pressing his weight into you like you were the only solid thing in his world.

"Man, did you hear that guy today?" he huffed, his voice light, teasing. "He really thought he had that answer, huh? God, Sukuna looked like he was about to hurl his textbook at the wall."

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You always notice Sukuna."

"‘Cause he’s always looking at me," Gojo shot back, grinning, "like I personally ruined his day just by existing."

You didn’t reply. You didn’t tell him that Sukuna wasn’t just looking at him—he was watching him. You didn’t know why you kept that to yourself, but you did.

Gojo's arm was heavy around you, and you should’ve been used to it by now—the sheer presence of him, all six feet and something of him, always larger than life. But something felt off today. His shoulder, where it pressed against you, was sharper than you remembered. The bone jutted out just a little too much.

He was getting thinner.

You swallowed, keeping your expression even as he kept talking, hands gesturing wildly, voice brimming with excitement over something you weren’t even fully hearing.

"And then I said—"

But you could feel it, even if he didn’t say it. The exhaustion. The weight he wasn’t carrying properly.

"—and then he just stared at me like I had six eyes! Can you believe that?"

"Totally," you murmured, forcing a small smile. You wondered—would he ever tell you? Would he say something if you asked? Or would he just laugh it off, throw another joke at you, distract you with that brightness of his, the same way he always did?

So you did what you did best.

You listened.

You allowed yourself to smile, just a little, as he cracked another joke, his laugh ringing through the chilly afternoon air. And as his arm draped over you, you leaned into him just enough to keep him steady. You hoped—no, prayed—that he’d keep leaning on you, that he’d never think he had to bear it all alone. Because people looked up at the starry sky and saw the universe. But you? You saw it in Gojo's eyes. And you’d be damned if you let anyone take that universe away from you.

"You’re making that face again."

Gojo's voice jolted you from your thoughts, and when you turned to look at him, he was grinning, sharp and teasing, like he had you all figured out.

"What face?" you asked, playing dumb.

"That face," he said, gesturing vaguely at you. "The one where you overthink so hard I can hear the gears turning. What's up? You didn’t even react when I said I'm going to a house party tonight."

"That's because I don't think you should go," you admitted, crossing your arms.

"Awwww, come on," he groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. "Don’t be a grandma about this. I need to socialize! Be young! Make questionable decisions!"

"Satoru," you deadpanned. "You’re literally three chapters ahead in every class, you barely sleep, and you push yourself to the limit every single day. Do you really think a house party is what you need?"

"Yes!" he said, beaming. "And for your information, I sleep plenty. I had a whole two hours last night. Very refreshing."

"Oh my god." You wanted to strangle him. Or shake him. Or both.

"Look," he said, throwing an arm around you again, "I get why you’re worried, but I'm a big boy, yeah? I can handle myself."

"Can you?" you countered, raising an eyebrow.

"I can," he said, then smirked. "But I love that you’re worried about me. Makes me feel special."

You rolled your eyes, pushing his arm off you. "I'm serious, Satoru. You know what these parties are like—drugs, alcohol, fights. You—"

"I won't drink," he cut in.

"You say that now," you muttered.

"I won't," he insisted, poking your cheek. "C’mon, don’t you trust me?"

You exhaled, shaking your head. "Of course I do. But I also know you."

"So you know I'm very responsible."

"That is literally the last thing I'd call you."

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

You bit your lip. There was a part of you that wanted to just say it—to tell him to stay, to stay with you instead. But what right did you have? Didn’t he deserve the full college experience too?

But then a traitorous voice whispered in your mind—at what cost?

"Satoru," you said softly. "Just… promise me you’ll be careful?"

His expression shifted, just for a second—so quick you almost missed it. Something softened in his eyes before he gave you a lopsided grin.

"I promise."

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

The music was deafening, the bass thrumming through your bones like an impending sense of doom. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and something suspiciously smoky, but none of it mattered. None of it registered, not when your eyes were locked onto the scene before you.

Gojo Satoru, your best friend, was wasted beyond belief.

His usual porcelain skin was flushed a deep, terrifying red, his glasses skewed on his face as he wobbled dangerously on his feet. The crowd around him whooped and hollered as he laughed—too loud, too bright, too fake—before stumbling forward to lift yet another girl into his arms. She squealed, giggling, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he staggered, his grip unsteady.

"Gojo, Gojo, Gojo!" the jocks chanted, banging their fists against the counters, urging him on. You felt something hot and ugly curl in your stomach.

This wasn’t him. Not the Gojo you knew.

The Gojo you knew didn't need lipstick-stained validation. He didn’t need to prove himself to a bunch of people who wouldn’t even remember his name tomorrow. But here he was, drunk out of his mind, chasing approval like a dying star chasing its last bit of light.

And then he swayed—his knees buckling slightly, his grip on the girl faltering. The crowd jeered, booing, throwing crumpled napkins and shot glasses onto the table. "Aw, c’mon, Gojo! Don’t quit now!" someone shouted.

That was the final straw. You pushed forward, shoving past the sweaty bodies in your way until you reached him, grabbing his wrist in a bruising grip. "That’s enough," you snapped. Gojo blinked down at you, his pupils dilated, sluggish, unfocused.

"Wha—"

"I said that’s enough," you repeated, tightening your grip.

He yanked his arm away. "Get off me," he slurred, his voice sharp, venomous. "I'm having fun."

"Yeah?" you challenged, your jaw clenching. "Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it."

He laughed, the sound bitter and mean. "Oh, what—now you’re my mom?"

"No," you said. "I'm your best friend. And right now, you're acting like an idiot."

His expression twisted, and for a second, you swore you saw something crack—something real. But then it was gone, replaced by drunken bravado as he threw his arms out dramatically.

"Well, excuse me for trying to live a little," he spat. "Not all of us can be perfect little worrywarts like you."

The words stung, but you didn’t let them show. Not now. Not here.

"We’re leaving," you said instead, grabbing his arm again.

"Like hell we are!" he barked, wrenching himself free so violently he almost fell. "Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?"

Your stomach twisted. In all your years of friendship, he had never spoken to you like that. But you pushed past it. "I'm the only person here who actually gives a shit about you," you said, voice steel.

His breath hitched, but before he could say anything else—before he could throw another drunken insult your way—you pulled him forward, ignoring the protests, the boos, the groans of disappointment from the crowd.

"Party’s over, Satoru."

He cursed at you the whole way out. You just hoped it’d be the last time he ever did.

The sound of glass shattering against concrete snapped you out of your daze. You whipped around just in time to see Gojo toss an empty bottle of vodka into someone’s backyard, his fingers still twitching from the force of it. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" your voice wavered, barely above the sound of the crickets chirping in the distance. Gojo just laughed—sharp, bitter, nothing like the laughter you knew. "What? You gonna scold me now?"

"You promised me, Satoru," you said, stepping closer, your hands shaking at your sides. "You fucking promised me."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I lied."

The words hit like a slap to the face.

"Why are you doing this?" your voice cracked, but you didn’t care.

"Doing what?" he threw his arms up, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Having fun? Being normal? Sorry, babe, not everyone wants to be a fucking saint like you."

"You think this is normal?" you gestured wildly to him—to his red-rimmed eyes, his trembling fingers, the way he swayed even while standing still. "You think blacking out at some shitty house party, letting those assholes use you, is normal?"

"You don’t get it," he muttered, voice slurred as he ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "You never get it."

"Then help me understand!" you grabbed his wrists, forcing him to look at you. "Talk to me!"

But instead of answering, his lips curled into something ugly. Something cruel.

"You wanna know why I drink? Why I do this shit?" he leaned in close, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol.

"Because it’s the only time I don’t have to be fucking alone."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You’re not alone—"

"Bullshit," he snapped. "You—you think you know everything, don’t you? Think you know me so fucking well?"

"I do know you," you pleaded. "Satoru, please—"

"No, you don’t," he shouted, yanking his hands away. "You don’t know what it’s like! To be—" his voice cracked, his face contorted with something too raw to name. "To be the smartest guy in the room and still feel like a fucking idiot! To have everyone watching, waiting for me to be perfect—"

"No one is asking you to be perfect, Satoru!"

"Oh, yeah? Then what the fuck do you want from me?!"

"I just want you!"

Silence.

The only sound was the ragged breathing between you two, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant hum of the party still raging behind you. Gojo's lips trembled, his hands balled into fists at his sides. And then, before you could stop him—

"Fuck you," he spat.

Your stomach dropped.

"Fuck you for always thinking you know what’s best for me. Fuck you for always trying to fix me. Fuck you for—" his voice broke, but he kept going, as if he couldn’t stop. As if the words were being ripped out of him unwillingly. "For making me feel like I matter when I fucking don’t—"

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled, hot and relentless, and the worst part? Gojo was crying too. Cursing at you, hurling insult after insult, but his hands were shaking, his entire body trembling like he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably.

"You do matter, Satoru," you whispered, voice barely audible over the wind.

"Don’t lie to me," he choked out.

"I'm not lying," you said, gripping his arm again, tighter this time. "And you know I'm not."

He let out a shaky, bitter laugh, wiping at his face harshly, as if trying to erase the evidence of his tears. But you didn’t let him hide. Not this time.

"We’re going home," you said firmly, dragging him away, away from the party, away from the people who didn’t give a shit about him.

He didn’t fight you this time.

But as you walked, your hands still gripping his, you realized something. You and Gojo both lost a piece of yourselves in that house tonight.

The neon glow of the pharmacy sign flickered against the inky darkness of the night, the hum of a faraway streetlamp buzzing in your ears as you half-dragged, half-supported Gojo toward the entrance. You didn't even know why you had come here—maybe it was the light, maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was the simple fact that you had nowhere else to go. "Just—just sit here for a second, okay?" you muttered, trying to ease him onto the curb.

"Nah, fuck that," Gojo slurred, shoving you away with an alarming lack of coordination. He stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the concrete before catching himself. "I can stand. See? Perfectly fucking fine."

And then he banged on the glass door. Loudly.

"Satoru, stop—" you hissed, grabbing his wrist, but he just laughed.

"What, scared the big bad pharmacy guy’s gonna come out and bite me?"

The door creaked open before you could respond.

Sukuna stood in the doorway, his rimless glasses perched low on his nose, eyes flicking between you and the disheveled mess of a man you barely managed to keep upright. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but then his gaze fell on Gojo's slumped figure, the uncoiling tension in his shoulders almost immediate.

"Shit," he muttered.

"I'm so sorry," you started, your words spilling out in a rush. "I know it’s late and we shouldn’t be here, I just—he’s—"

"Hey," Sukuna cut you off, voice even. "Stop apologizing."

You swallowed hard.

Gojo, meanwhile, groaned, leaning his full weight against you. "Why're you talkin' to him?" he grumbled, his breath hot against your neck. "He’s—he’s a fucking narc, y’know that?"

"Satoru, shut up," you whispered harshly.

"Nah, seriously," Gojo slurred, tilting his head up toward Sukuna with a lopsided grin. "You—you think you’re better than me, huh?"

Sukuna stared at him, expression unreadable.

"I don't think anything," he said simply.

"Bullshit," Gojo scoffed, shoving at your shoulder weakly. "See? See how he’s looking at me? Like—like I'm pathetic or some shit."

"Satoru—"

"You do think that, don’t you?" Gojo laughed, voice cracking. "Fuckin’—fuckin’ ‘oh, look at Gojo, the big dumb idiot who can’t even hold his liquor.’” His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenching, unclenching. "God, I hate this. I hate you. I hate—"

His voice wavered. His legs buckled.

And before you could catch him, Sukuna was already there, arms braced beneath Gojo's shoulders, hoisting him up with practiced ease. "C'mon," Sukuna said, nodding toward the parking lot. "Let's get him out of here."

You blinked at him. "Wait—"

"You’re not dragging him all the way home," Sukuna deadpanned. "I have a car. Use it."

You hesitated, glancing at Gojo—his head lolled against Sukuna’s shoulder, breath uneven, the fight in him slowly fading.

"Okay," you exhaled shakily.

Sukuna silently led you toward a slightly beat-up Toyota Corolla, the headlights flickering as he unlocked it. Together, the two of you maneuvered Gojo into the backseat, his long limbs sprawled across the worn fabric. As you shut the door and stepped back, Sukuna leaned against the roof of the car, watching you. "He always like this?" he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. "Not always," you murmured. "But…lately? Yeah."

Sukuna didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The understanding in his gaze was enough. "Let's get him home," he said finally. You nodded, and as you slid into the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but wonder—why did Sukuna care? And why did it feel like, for the first time tonight, you weren’t the only one?

Gojo's breath hitched in the backseat, his chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. His head lolled back against the seat, unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling as if struggling to stay present. His body twitched weakly.

"Satoru?" your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.

Your fingers curled tightly around Gojo’s glasses, the sharp edges digging into your palm as if they could anchor you, keep you from spiraling. The lenses were smudged, still warm from his skin, and yet the weight of them felt wrong—felt heavy, like something final.

"Fuck," Sukuna muttered under his breath, the first real sign of frustration you’d heard from him tonight.

You barely processed the car speeding up, the streetlights blurring into streaks of white and yellow, the world outside moving too fast while your mind remained stuck, frozen on the image of Gojo’s unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling back, his body twitching weakly against the backseat.

"’Toru," your voice cracked as you turned in your seat, reaching for him, but he wasn’t coherent enough to respond. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale rattling in his chest like a loose screw threatening to give out.

"Shit, shit—" you whimpered, a tremble running up your spine.

"He's gonna be fine," Sukuna said, but his voice was too tight, too forced to be reassuring. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so hard you swore you could hear his teeth grind. Gojo groaned again, his whole body shuddering like it was rejecting itself, and your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your skin.

"He promised," you whispered, blinking rapidly, your vision going blurry. "He fucking promised me he wouldn't drink."

Sukuna didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer any empty platitudes, any reassurances that would have only made you cry harder. Instead, he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The hospital entrance came too soon and not soon enough.

You barely registered the screech of tires as Sukuna parked, barely processed the way he was already out of the car, yanking open the back door. It all felt unreal, like you were watching from outside your own body as Sukuna hoisted Gojo up without hesitation, barely even wincing when Gojo suddenly convulsed, his body going rigid before he retched all over Sukuna’s sweater.

"Fuck—just hold on, alright?" Sukuna hissed, more to himself than to Gojo, adjusting his grip as he strode toward the ER doors.

You wanted to move. Wanted to run after them. Wanted to do something. But your legs refused to cooperate, refused to carry you forward as you stood there in the parking lot, clutching Gojo’s glasses to your chest like they were the only thing tethering you to reality.

You were useless.

You barely noticed when Sukuna disappeared into the hospital, when the doors swung shut behind him. All you could hear was the phantom echo of Gojo’s laughter from earlier tonight, distorted and slurred, bleeding into the sound of his broken cries as they rushed him to the ICU.

You stood there for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only minutes. Minutes that stretched on like an eternity, the weight of your failure pressing down on you until you could barely breathe.

You don’t remember how you got here, only that one moment you were outside, clutching Gojo’s glasses so tightly your knuckles went white, and the next, you were sitting beside Sukuna in the dimly lit hallway, the sterile scent of disinfectant and the faint beeping of heart monitors pressing against your senses.

Sukuna sat opposite the ICU doors, his sweater now stuffed into a disposable hospital bag, his phone screen casting a cold glow on his face as his thumbs moved across the screen. There was something unnervingly delicate about the way he held it, as if the device was a fragile thing in hands that were anything but.

The moment you sat down next to him, he put the phone away. No hesitation, no lingering glance. It was a simple movement, but something about it made your throat tighten. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before slipping his glasses off and hanging them on the front of his shirt—a worn Nirvana tee, washed so many times the design was beginning to fade.

You hadn’t ever seen him without a sweater before, and the sight of him like this—bare arms, broad shoulders, a body that spoke of quiet strength but with an undeniable softness—made something clench inside you.

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the sheer absurdity of the past few hours, but your lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. Fleeting. Fragile.

Sukuna didn’t acknowledge it, but he didn’t ignore it either.

The silence between you both stretched on, heavy but not suffocating. Your ears strained, trying to pick up anything from the ICU, but the only sound was the distant hum of the hospital, the occasional murmur of nurses passing by.

"Sorry," you finally said, your voice raw, barely above a whisper.

Sukuna let out a low, almost exasperated grunt, a sound that could have been a scoff if it wasn’t so tired. "For what?" he muttered, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

"For—" you gestured vaguely, feeling absurdly helpless. "For dragging you into this. For—"

"Don't," he cut you off, voice rough but not unkind. "Not your fault."

You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands, the frames of Gojo’s glasses digging into your fingers. You wanted to tell him everything—about Gojo, about yourself, about how this felt like a nightmare you’d had before but never woken up from. But you didn’t. Instead, you let the silence settle again, let the exhaustion press down on you like a weighted blanket.

Your body ached, your mind felt too full and empty at the same time, and when your eyes slipped shut, you didn’t fight it. Sleep took you like a warm embrace, and somewhere in the haze before unconsciousness fully claimed you, you thought you felt something—an arm shifting ever so slightly, the air moving beside you, the briefest hesitation of warmth before it disappeared.

You didn’t dream.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth—an unfamiliar, solid warmth that wasn’t yours to have. The second was that your head was resting against something firm, the slow rise and fall beneath you steady, grounding.

Sukuna.

You jerked back almost immediately, your pulse spiking as your head left his shoulder. Your absence made him shift slightly, his frown deepening, but he didn’t wake up. Arms crossed over his chest, his head lolled slightly, pink hair mussed from sleep, strands sticking up rebelliously despite his efforts to smooth them out the moment his eyes fluttered open.

You swallowed hard, trying to fight the mortifying heat creeping up your neck. Your fingers twitched towards the crinkled fabric where your head had rested, some ridiculous impulse telling you to smooth it out, to erase any evidence of your momentary weakness, but before you could, a voice cut through the quiet.

"Excuse me, you’re here for Satoru Gojo?"

The doctor. middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand. You scrambled to stand, Sukuna following suit, his presence now feeling suffocatingly close, too solid beside you.

"Yes," you managed, voice hoarse.

"Are you his immediate family?"

"No, but—"

"But we’re the only ones here," Sukuna interrupted, voice steady, unimpressed.

The doctor sighed but didn’t argue, flipping through his clipboard before glancing back up. "He has a history of Rhabdomyolysis, correct?" you nodded, the word hitting like a familiar gut-punch.

"His current episode was exacerbated by excessive alcohol consumption and exertion. His CK levels were significantly elevated on admission—over ten thousand U/L, which is dangerously high. We administered IV fluids aggressively to prevent acute kidney injury, but he’ll need close monitoring. His creatinine was elevated, but not enough to indicate severe renal impairment yet. However, another episode like this could push him towards irreversible damage. He needs to avoid alcohol completely, and any strenuous physical activity should be moderated. He was severely dehydrated, which worsened the muscle breakdown. Do you understand?"

You nodded, but you didn’t. Not really. The words were running together, tangling in your head like a mess of wires, sparking against your rising anxiety.

"He'll also need to monitor for any signs of compartment syndrome—persistent pain, swelling, decreased sensation. If he experiences any of those symptoms, bring him back immediately."

You barely registered the way your breathing was starting to quicken, your vision blurring at the edges.

"Got it," Sukuna said beside you, voice clipped, sharp. The doctor nodded once, glancing between the two of you before turning on his heel. "He’s stable now. You can see him."

You weren’t sure how you moved, weren’t sure how your legs carried you down the hall, but suddenly, you were there. The sight of him nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

Gojo, hooked up to IVs, his skin pale, lips cracked, dark bruising under his eyes.

But worst of all was the stillness.

He’d never been still. Not when you were kids, not even when he was sick. You blinked rapidly, trying to force the image away, but your brain, cruel as it was, offered another instead—

"It's super juice!"

Gojo's voice, high-pitched with childhood excitement, his chubby fingers tapping against the IV line in his arm, legs kicking at the hospital bed as he grinned at you.

"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch."

Your eight-year-old self had believed him. You had nodded solemnly, clutching his tiny fingers in yours as if he’d slip away if you let go.

But superheroes weren’t supposed to be fragile. Superheroes weren’t supposed to collapse in the arms of people who barely knew them, weren’t supposed to have their bodies betray them time and time again.

The first sob tore out of you before you could stop it. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the weight of everything, the years, the worry, the helplessness, slamming into you all at once. Sukuna exhaled sharply beside you, and you didn’t fight it when his hand found the back of your head, fingers curling, firm but not forceful, grounding you as you broke.

"It's super juice!"

The words echoed, reverberating in the empty, sterile white of the hospital room. His eight-year-old self swung his legs back and forth, IV taped to the crook of his arm, a beaming grin splitting his chubby face.

"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch," he declared, looking at you expectantly.

You, sitting beside him, tiny fingers curled around his even tinier hands, nodded solemnly, as if you were his trusted sidekick. "Duh, ‘course it will," you said, ever the believer, the unwavering supporter.

Satoru grinned wider.

"You still got my Superman?"

Your eyes lit up, and you practically scrambled for your backpack, the zipper catching as you yanked it open. "Yeah, yeah! I kept it safe, promise!" you pulled it out with both hands, presenting it proudly.

Except—

Satoru blinked.

That wasn’t Superman.

His tiny fingers reached out hesitantly, wrapping around the plastic figure, the shape familiar, the weight just right. But when he turned it over—

Not Superman's chiseled jaw, not his perfect spit curl, not the familiar "S" crest on his chest. Instead, two thin black lines slashed across the figure’s cheeks, the eyes a sharp, knowing red, the unmistakable look of—

"Sukuna?"

His voice came out small, confused. He looked at you, expecting the same confusion, the same disbelief, but you just smiled.

"Yeah, he’s strong, isn’t he?"

Satoru's stomach churned. His grip tightened on the figurine, the hard plastic biting into his palm.

"But he’s not Superman."

The words barely left his mouth before the figurine started to melt, its face warping, the red eyes sharpening, almost glowing. The smirk stretched, curling up unnaturally wide, the plastic softening, twisting, until—

"Satoru."

His name was spoken, deep and distant, like an echo through water.

His body jolted.

A sharp inhale, eyes snapping open—except they didn’t. Not fully.

His eyelashes fluttered, the world around him too heavy, his body sinking into the mattress, into the IVs, into exhaustion. His breath came slow, sluggish, as his gaze drifted, unfocused. A burly figure sat just outside the ICU, salmon-colored hair catching the dim, artificial glow of the hallway lights. Beside him, smaller, curled up, the hair color Gojo oh so loved. His lips barely parted, the thought an exhale—

"How bizarre."

And then, the pull of exhaustion won, dragging him back under.

Gojo knew the sound of your crying like the back of his hand.

It was the sound of late-night movie marathons when the protagonist died and you cursed the director through choked sobs. It was the sound of stifled laughter in class until your tears dripped onto your notes. It was the sound of allergies when spring rolled around, your voice thick with complaints about pollen and your own body betraying you.

But this was different.

This wasn’t a sound he knew, and he hated it.

His throat was raw, his body weak, but the words spilled out instinctively, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he rasped—

"You cryin’?"

He hoped it was in the voice you loved, the playful lilt, the teasing edge.

Your head snapped up instantly, eyes wide and glassy, and for a second he thought you might break all over again. But then relief flooded your face so fast it made him dizzy, your breath hitching as you let out something between a sob and a laugh. "You asshole," you choked out.

He tried to chuckle, tried to match your laugh, but the pain punched through his ribs like a fist, dragging his breath into something sharp and broken. And that’s when he noticed it.

Sukuna’s arm, heavy around your head, the way your body curled slightly into his side. Gojo's vision blurred—not from fatigue, not from painkillers—something else, something he refused to name.

"So," he coughed, swallowing down the dryness in his throat, "You two get cozy while I was out?" He meant for it to be a joke, but his voice wavered, weaker than he wanted it to be.

Sukuna, who had been quiet this whole time, only tilted his head, crimson gaze unreadable. "Yeah," he said, voice low and lazy, "So don’t do it again, dumbass."

Gojo wanted to snap back, wanted to roll his eyes, but all he could do was watch as Sukuna’s hand, the same one curled around your head, reached forward and ruffled Gojo’s hair. “Seriously," Sukuna muttered, "Don’t scare her like that again."

Gojo blinked, disoriented, but before he could process anything, Sukuna leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, eyes shutting as if nothing had happened. And you just reached for Gojo’s hand, gripping it so tightly, he thought he might actually feel strong again.

You didn’t know when Sukuna left, only that at some point, the weight of his presence had disappeared from the room. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he knew you needed this moment alone with Gojo.

Gojo, who was trying so damn hard to act like nothing happened. Like this was normal. "So," he started, voice scratchy but still trying for that usual lilt. "I didn't do anything too stupid, right?"

Your fingers curled slightly in the sheets. You stared at his hand, pale and bandaged, IV hooked into his arm, feeding him strength he no longer had on his own. How could you tell him? Tell him about the things he said? The way he spat curses at you, sharp enough to wound, drunk enough to forget? The way he shoved you, both physically and emotionally, as if he wanted to break you just as much as he was breaking?

So you didn't. You forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes, and said—

"Nah. Don't worry about it."

Maybe he’d never remember that night. Maybe you’d never tell him. Maybe that was enough.

Meanwhile, outside the ICU, Sukuna let out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair before pushing his glasses up his nose—a nervous tic he hated, but couldn’t quite shake. He typed out a quick text to his neighbor:

Thanks for watching Choso longer than expected. Will be back soon. Owe you one.

He didn’t expect his pharmacy shift to turn into... this. And just when he thought he could breathe, the doctor from earlier approached him again, clipboard tucked under his arm, mouth pressed into something unimpressed.

"You the guardian?" the doctor asked, voice dry.

"No," Sukuna replied, just as dry.

"Could’ve fooled me," the doctor scoffed, flipping through the chart. "You’re the only one asking the right questions."

Sukuna stayed silent, adjusting his glasses again.

"Kid’s got a history of exertional Rhabdomyolysis, probably exacerbated by alcohol consumption. His CK levels were through the roof when he came in—classic case of severe muscle breakdown. Creatinine levels showed acute kidney strain too. Not to mention dehydration, electrolyte imbalance—"

"Yeah," Sukuna cut in, "I read the labs. Is he gonna be fine?"

The doctor raised a brow.

"You in medicine?"

"Pharmacy," Sukuna muttered.

"Figured," the doctor said. "He’s stabilizing. IV fluids are flushing out the myoglobin, kidneys are responding well. But if he pulls another stunt like this, he might not be so lucky next time."

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly.

"Keep him away from alcohol, heavy lifting, and anything that’ll push his body too hard for a while," the doctor continued. "Not that kids these days ever listen."

"I'll make sure he does," Sukuna said, voice steady, final. The doctor hummed, giving him one last look before walking away.

Sukuna pushed his glasses up again. He didn’t like being in the middle of things, never had. But if it meant keeping you and Gojo from falling apart, then he’d take the brunt of it.

You held your breath as you peeled the hospital gown off Gojo's frame, the fabric slipping too easily over his frail shoulders. He wasn’t supposed to look like this—Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to look small. Weak.

The staff had been hesitant, but between your persistence and Gojo’s insufferable whining, they eventually caved. Sukuna had driven you to Gojo’s house to grab his clothes, and when he dropped you back at the hospital, he didn’t say much—just a curt nod before heading back to wait outside.

Gojo looked down at himself, rolling his shoulders as he flexed his fingers, examining his body like it was foreign to him. And then he clicked his tongue.

“Damn,” he said, patting his stomach with a frown. “Gotta start bulking again. Gym every day. Soon enough, I'll be strong enough to lift you, too.”

"Satoru." your voice was quiet, hands tightening on the sweater you were about to help him into.

"What?"

You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t know when he was serious anymore, when his jokes were actual jokes or just flimsy shields to deflect reality. Was he just saying this because he wanted to move past what happened? Because he thought he could pretend like nothing was wrong if he made you laugh?

Except you weren’t laughing.

Gojo frowned, catching the way your shoulders curled inwards, the slight tremor in your fingers as you bunched up the sleeves of his sweater.

"You’re mad," he said, softer now.

"I’m not mad, Satoru," you exhaled, looking up at him. "I just—" you swallowed, struggling to find the words.

"—I don't wanna do this again."

He knew what you meant.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let you help him slip the sweater over his head, his fingers brushing against yours when he went to pull it down. The fabric smelled like you. He didn’t say anything about that, either.

Because if he did, he might be the one to start crying instead.

The busted Corolla rumbled beneath you, the engine sputtering like it was trying to clear its throat. Outside, the world passed by in a blur of brightly lit streets, but inside the car, it was just the three of you—Gojo snoring in the backseat, you in the passenger seat, and Sukuna at the wheel, his fingers drumming against it as he drove.

It was cruel déjà vu, the way Gojo was sprawled out in the back, except this time, his snores rattled through the car, louder than the engine itself. His glasses sat skewed on his face, dangerously close to falling off, and the Digimon sweater you picked out for him was riding up slightly, the fabric bunching in on itself. He'd regret that later when the print stretched out weird.

You should fix his glasses.

You didn’t.

The silence between you and Sukuna stretched, heavy but not suffocating. You weren’t sure what to say. You’d spent more time with him in the last twenty-four hours than you had since college started, but somehow, neither of you had really talked—not about what happened, not about Gojo, not about anything. It felt weird, like some sort of dirty little secret. You hesitated before finally speaking, voice quiet over the low hum of the radio.

“Thank you.”

You’d been apologizing too much lately—always looking at Sukuna with guilt in your eyes, whispering sorry after sorry like you owed him something for being here. But this time, you just thanked him instead. He didn’t respond right away, just tapped his fingers against the wheel in thought. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh.

“You finally figured it out.”

You frowned. “Figured what out?”

Sukuna shifted slightly, one hand leaving the wheel to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In the dim glow of the sunlight filtering through the glass, you caught something softer in his features—something that almost looked like amusement.

“That ‘thank you’ sits better than ‘sorry.’”

You blinked. Then, slowly, you smiled. Gojo let out an obnoxiously loud snore from the backseat, and the moment was gone, but somehow, the silence that followed felt a little less heavy.

Monday came faster than you could prepare for it, and somehow, you felt more anxious about going to class than Gojo—who, by all accounts, should’ve been the one worried. But no, he was his usual self, strolling through the halls like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ended up in the ICU.

“You good?” Gojo asked, glancing at you with an easy grin as you walked beside him. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I should be asking you that,” you muttered, eyeing him up and down. He looked… fine. Not great, but fine. His usual oversized sweater swallowed him up more than usual, and there were faint bags under his eyes, but otherwise, he was just…Gojo.

He grinned. “I feel like a thousand bucks.”

“That’s not the saying.”

“Nah, ‘course it is. I'm not even expensive enough to be a full million.”

Before you could retort, a loud chorus of “AYYY, GOJO!” rang through the hallway, and your stomach dropped.

The people from the party.

“Party legend! You were insane, man!” one of the guys hollered, clapping Gojo on the back so hard he almost stumbled forward. “Can’t believe you carried all of ‘em! Thought you were gonna drop the last one, but nope, you powered through, my guy!”

Another girl whistled, grinning. “You gotta come again this Friday. We’re going all out this time—got some xans, some weed, and a hell lot more fun than last time.”

Gojo blinked, his confused smile wavering slightly. He waved at them, soaking in the attention, but his fingers toyed with the Digimon keychain hanging off his sling bag—a tic, one you knew all too well. He was overwhelmed. Before he could say anything, one of the girls shoved her phone in his face, and you saw whatever color was on his sickly complexion drain completely.

The blurry video was unmistakable—Gojo, chugging shots like water, his face flushed and his limbs loose as he grinned at the camera, girls screaming his name in the background. And then, the next clip: him picking girl after girl up, his movements growing sloppier, his body swaying, but the crowd cheering him on, girls kissing his cheeks, rubbing against him like he was a prize to be won. Your fingers twitched with the urge to snatch the phone and smash it against the tiled floor.

“Holy shit,” Gojo breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper. He laughed weakly, awkwardly, his fingers fumbling with the keychain. “I—uh—didn’t know I did all that.”

“You were a fuckin’ legend, dude!” one of the jocks whooped. “Gotta top it this Friday.”

“Oh, and don’t let your little babysitter here ruin the fun this time,” another girl teased, her eyes flicking toward you. “You don’t gotta pick him up again, babe. He can handle himself.”

“Yeah, let him have some fun, will you?” another chimed in, nudging you with a smirk. “We’ll take care of him if he blacks out. Promise.”

Your nails dug into your palm as your jaw locked. Gojo looked at you then, and it was like you could see the war waging in his head—this wasn’t how he wanted to hear about that night. This wasn’t how he wanted to remember it. But before either of you could say anything, the jocks pulled him along, dragging him to the back of the class as the bell rang. You stood frozen at the front, heart pounding, hands clenched at your sides, watching as Gojo—your best friend—got swallowed up by the very people who nearly destroyed him that night.

Your eyes flickered to the back of the room, where Gojo sat sandwiched between jocks and party girls, still fumbling with the Digimon keychain as if it could ground him. He wasn’t paying attention to the class. Neither were you.

You almost desperately sought out Sukuna instead.

Even in a lecture hall this large, he was always easy to find—broad frame, unmistakable pink hair, a presence that demanded attention even when he wasn’t speaking. He always sat at the front, where he could see everything, where he could be seen. But today, he wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted.

You didn’t even realize you had gotten up until you were meekly approaching your professor at the podium, your voice barely above a whisper as you asked, “Uh, sorry—do you know where Sukuna is?”

The professor gave you a kind but tired smile, as if she had been asked this before. “Oh, Ryomen? He dropped the subject.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“He—he what?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Such a shame, too. He was one of my brightest students. Would’ve aced the finals with his eyes closed.” You stood there, stunned, barely nodding as you thanked her and returned to your seat.

Sukuna dropped the class.

Your mind reeled back to the last time you saw him at the administrative office, his voice low but firm as he argued with the staff about cutting down his subjects.

“Five. I'll do five, not eight.”

“But you’re more than capable of handling—”

“Five.”

You never thought to ask why. Would it be fair of you to ask now? It’s not like you were friends.

Whatever the past twenty-four hours had been, it didn’t change the fact that you weren’t in any position to question his choices.

But still—his absence left a weird pit in your stomach.

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Gojo wheezed, practically skidding to a stop in front of you, his glasses askew, white hair messier than usual, his entire face flushed like he had run a marathon. "You—you're not gonna believe what just happened."

You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. "Satoru—"

"They—" he cut you off, shaking his head in disbelief, hands gripping the straps of his sling bag. "They were teasing me. Under the desk. Like—like actually teasing me. You get what I mean, right?"

Your stomach turned. "Gojo, what—"

"Like, their hands—like, not just one, okay? Multiple." he laughed, breathless, exhilarated. "And they kept saying how much they loved me at the party, how they wanna see more of that side of me—"

Your fingers curled into fists. "Gojo, do you even hear yourself right now?"

But he wasn’t listening. "I mean—fuck, is this what college is supposed to be like? Because I get it now, I get why everyone hypes this shit up—"

"Stop."

He blinked, the grin on his face faltering at the way your voice cracked.

"What?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste iron. You didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that he was telling you all this so excitedly, or the fact that he genuinely didn’t understand what just happened to him.

"They weren’t teasing you, Satoru," you said, forcing the words out. "They were violating you."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "What? No, they were just messing around—"

Your nails dug into your palm. "Satoru, do you even hear yourself?"

His smile faltered. "What?"

"They were touching you under the desk," you said, your voice eerily calm. "In the middle of class, while you couldn't do anything about it. And you think that's—what? normal?"

He scoffed, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, it's not that big a deal, right? It's just… college stuff, right?"

"No," you bit out. "It's not."

He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "You’re overreacting."

"I'm not," you shot back, voice tight. "Satoru, you almost fucking died that night, and now they're acting like you getting blackout drunk and barely remembering anything is just some fun little game?"

He flinched. "Okay, but—"

"No, listen to me." you inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay steady. "You don’t even remember half of what happened. They do. They remember everything, and they’re still joking about it."

He licked his lips, avoiding your gaze. "But it’s not like I didn't want it."

Your heart dropped. "What?"

"I mean—" he exhaled, voice uncertain for the first time. "I didn't say no, right?"

Your hands were shaking. "Because you didn't know what was happening, Satoru."

He let out a weak laugh, like he was trying to brush it off. "I mean, isn’t this just how it works? People drink, party, mess around—"

"Is that what you think this is?" your voice cracked, anger and something more bitter clawing its way up your throat. "Satoru, this isn’t some wild college experience, this is them taking advantage of you. You were drunk. Too drunk to even walk, too drunk to even stay conscious, and now they're acting like it was all just some… some fun joke—"

He rubbed his temple, sighing. "I don't know, okay? I don't know how this shit works. I've never—" he sucked in a breath. "It’s just… they liked me. They actually liked me. Isn’t that a good thing?"

Your vision blurred. "Not like this."

He blinked at you, expression crumbling, like he was just now realizing the weight of what happened. His fingers fumbled with the Digimon keychain on his bag, the way they always did when he was overwhelmed.

And for the first time, he didn't have anything to say.

Gojo was late.

Not because he woke up late—he never did. Not because he got lost—impossible. But because he was stuck in his own head. Your argument from English class still clung to him, cloying like the remnants of a bad dream.

"Oh, so now you care?"

"You always do this, Gojo. You joke, you push, and then when people actually need you—"

"That's not fair."

"Yeah? Well, neither is this."

His jaw tightened.

So when he walked into Bio, he was already on edge. He just needed a distraction.

And if anyone was good at giving him one, it was Sukuna.

Which is exactly why he practically skidded to a stop next to Sukuna’s desk, breathless, grin stretched wide across his face. "Oi, where the hell were you?" Gojo ruffled his already-messy hair, glancing around as if waiting for Sukuna to tell him it was all a joke. "You weren’t in English today. That’s, like, your thing."

Sukuna didn’t even look up from his notebook. "Dropped it."

Gojo's smile twitched.

"Huh?"

"Dropped the class," Sukuna repeated, pen tapping against the page like he was already over the conversation.

Gojo blinked. "You—what? Why the hell would you do that?" He let out a huff of disbelief, his laughter awkward, forced. "Man, should I be celebrating? One less rival for me, huh?"

Sukuna finally glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable behind his glasses. "Sure."

Gojo's stomach twisted. He didn’t like that tone. He didn’t like the indifference, the way Sukuna looked through him instead of at him. He didn’t like not knowing what the hell was going on.

Before he could say anything else, a few voices from the back of the room called out.

"Yo, Gojo! Over here!"

He turned.

The leeches. They were grinning, waving him over like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t spent the entire morning joking about him behind his back, like they hadn’t made him the punchline of some twisted little game. He hesitated, and then—

A sharp exhale.

When he turned back, Sukuna was staring at him. Not with pity, not with amusement. Just… staring. Like he was waiting for Gojo to make a choice. Like he already knew what it would be.

Like he was daring him to sit in the back again.

Gojo clenched his jaw, his fingers curling around the strap of his bag.

He turned on his heel and dropped into the seat next to Sukuna.

The room felt different up here, the voices fading into the background. He could practically feel them staring, but he kept his eyes ahead. Sukuna smirked. "Thought you liked sitting back there."

Gojo exhaled through his nose, gripping his pen a little too tightly. "Yeah, well… I like keeping you on your toes."

Sukuna hummed, not saying anything else. But somehow, Gojo still felt like he had something to prove.

Gojo barely took two steps out of the classroom when Sukuna hit him with a question that made his stomach twist.

"So how long have you had Rhabdo?"

His grip on his bag strap tightened. A part of him itched to just wave it off, make a joke, pretend he had no idea what Sukuna was talking about. But Sukuna had seen him at his absolute worst this weekend—half-conscious, barely breathing, hooked up to IVs like some pathetic weakling. Lying was pointless. So he shrugged instead.

"Since I was eight."

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered.

Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked, eyes straight ahead. "You know how it is. I was a sickly little guy, hospital trips, IVs, the whole deal. Doctors told me to be careful, to take it easy." he laughed, but it felt hollow in his chest. "But nah, I thought, screw that—I'll just get stronger."

That was what did it. Sukuna, previously listening with that unreadable expression of his, scoffed outright.

"You’re an idiot."

Gojo's eye twitched. "Wow, thanks, Doc. Real insightful."

"No, really, you're a goddamn idiot," Sukuna continued, looking at him like he was some particularly dense patient. "You think pushing your body past its limits is making you stronger? Rhabdomyolysis isn't some gym bro bullshit where you just 'power through' it. You're literally breaking down your own muscle fibers. Your kidneys can’t handle that kind of strain, idiot."

Gojo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Muscle fibers break down, myoglobin floods the bloodstream, kidneys overwork themselves, yadda yadda, renal failure." He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not dead yet."

"You could be."

Gojo stopped walking. Sukuna had already turned to face him, standing there in that ratty Nirvana tee with his rimless glasses pushed up just enough that his eyes—dark, piercing, too damn knowing—could bore straight into him.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Sukuna asked, voice low, measured. "You’re playing chicken with your own body. Your muscles break down faster than they can repair. You think the answer to that is what? Doing more damage?"

Gojo's fingers curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets. "So what, you want me to just sit around and rot? Let it win?"

Sukuna exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "This isn’t a battle, dumbass. This is biology. Your body isn't some enemy to be beaten into submission—"

"It is to me."

That stopped Sukuna cold. Gojo clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but at him. "You don’t get it."

Sukuna tilted his head. "Oh, I get it just fine. You think you have something to prove."

Gojo scoffed. "I don't think. I know."

Sukuna watched him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, gaze steady behind his glasses.

"Do you think you’re the smartest because you’re Satoru Gojo," he asked, voice quiet, but cutting. "Or do you think you’re Satoru Gojo because you’re the smartest?"

Gojo's stomach lurched.

Before he could respond—before he could even think of what to say—Sukuna was already walking away, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his tee riding up just enough for Gojo to see the hint of his waistband. He stood there for a moment, watching Sukuna disappear down the hallway, his brain rattling with something he didn’t want to name.

He was Satoru Gojo.

Wasn’t he?

The door creaked as Sukuna stepped into the apartment, exhaustion pressing against his shoulders like a deadweight. He rolled his neck, stretching out the stiffness from the chairs and the sheer mental load of the day, before kicking off his boots with a heavy sigh.

"S’kuna!"

Choso’s voice piped up from the kitchen table, where he sat hunched over his workbook, pencil gripped tight in one hand and his tongue poking out in concentration. Sukuna felt something in his chest uncoil at the sight—his little brother, safe, alive, chewing over arithmetic like it was the most important thing in the world. "You’re back," Choso said, blinking up at him expectantly. "Did Papa send a letter?"

Sukuna felt his stomach drop.

Shit. He hadn’t written one.

He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing an easy hum out of his throat as he walked over, peeking down at Choso’s workbook instead. "I'll check the post office later," he said, voice smooth despite the guilt curling in his ribs. Choso's expression barely wavered as he scribbled a neat answer beneath a problem.

"One hundred eleven."

"What?"

Choso tapped his pencil against the paper. "Twenty-two plus eighty-nine. It's one hundred eleven."

Sukuna let out a quiet chuckle. "Look at you, little genius." he reached out, ruffling Choso’s already messy hair. "Bet you’re gonna be better at math than me soon."

Choso beamed, tilting his head to lean into the touch, and Sukuna’s tired heart ached in a way he didn’t know how to name. He left him to his numbers, wandering toward his bedroom, but his feet hesitated as he passed by the altar in the corner of the living room.

Yuuji's altar.

It wasn’t much—a framed photo, a small cup of sake, a stick of incense long since burned down. But it was enough.

Enough for Sukuna to let out a tired scoff as he stared down at the grinning boy in the photo, hair a shade too bright, eyes wide with an innocence that made something curl in Sukuna’s gut.

"Still making sure I don't forget you, huh?" Sukuna muttered, running a thumb over the dustless edge of the frame. He exhaled through his nose.

He’d lost Yuuji. And maybe that’s why, even against his better judgment, even against the bristling irritation and sheer stubbornness of the brat himself, Gojo was making every last one of Sukuna’s protective instincts claw up his spine. Because if he could stop it—if he could stop someone from slipping through his fingers again—shouldn’t he?

But was that really his job? His jaw tightened, and he shoved the thought aside, heading for his room. Outside, Choso hummed quietly to himself, diligently writing out the next answer.

Sukuna’s room was everything about him and nothing at the same time. It had the bones of a lived-in space—the essentials of a person who had settled, who had chosen this place as home—but it carried none of the weight of belonging.

His desk, a second hand thing with chipped edges, bore the scattered remnants of job postings—cafés, pharmacies, gas stations, pet shops—places that didn’t require much beyond a working body and a willingness to show up. The papers were curled at the edges from handling, some with pen marks circling pay rates, shift timings, and benefits that never seemed to be enough.

His wardrobe sat half-open, revealing stacks of neatly folded clothes, the organization ruined by his own hands as he shoved fresh laundry into the shelves without much care. His bed was plain, a single pillow with a slightly flattened center, blankets that rarely got pulled up beyond his waist when he slept.

His walls were once a shrine to teenage tastes—old posters of bands that blasted from his headphones, rappers whose lyrics he scribbled on the edges of his notebooks. But now they were wiped clean, replaced with laminated periodic tables, skeletal diagrams, biochemical pathways. Sterile and practical. Just like his life had to be.

But sometimes, his gaze would drift to the guitar case leaning against the far corner of the room, untouched for months, maybe even a year. And sometimes to the wooden drawer by his desk, where a collection of fountain pens lay in their felt-lined case, waiting for hands that no longer had the luxury of holding them just for the sake of writing. He could indulge, maybe. But not now.

Not when an EMI still loomed over him, the weight of Yuuji's hospital bills pressing down on his shoulders even after all this time. It was going to be a year since his brother’s death, but the payments didn’t care. They still came, still drained his account month by month, a reminder that grief had a cost even after the funeral ended.

That was why he dropped classes. Not because he wanted to. God, he didn’t want to. But something had to give. And if it had to be something he liked, then so be it.

Sukuna sat at his desk, the dim yellow light from his study lamp pooling over the page, catching on the slow strokes of his pen as he wrote. The paper was thick, the kind that absorbed ink just right, the kind that made each word feel permanent. He tapped the edge of the page with his fingers, hesitating. A dark thought slithered into his mind, one that had come to him more times than he was willing to admit.

The allowance. It was always there, always replenished, sent for Choso under the guise of family obligation, of keeping up appearances. The Kamos were anything but poor—they wouldn’t notice if a little more was spent than usual, if Sukuna siphoned off just enough to make the monthly payment disappear.

It would be so easy. His grip on the pen tightened. But what kind of brother would he be then?

He had already failed Yuuji once. To fail Choso too—to take from him what little security he had, what little proof that their father even thought of him—would be unforgivable. His parents’ savings weren’t an option either. Dipping into that would only fuck him over in the future. And what then? He’d still be here, still slaving away, just to replace what he took. Sukuna scoffed under his breath, pushing his glasses up his nose in frustration, as if that could straighten out the mess in his head.

No. He’d do what he always did—he’d shoulder it. He’d figure it out.

He shook off the thoughts and focused on the letter in front of him. His handwriting was practiced, deliberate, written in the exact way he knew would make Choso’s face light up, even if just for a moment. The words were careful, warm, carrying the weight of a presence that wasn’t really there but needed to be believed.

"Choso, hope you're taking care of your big brother like you promised. Japan's getting colder these days—I hope you’re wearing the sweater I sent you last time. I have to tell you about this bakery I found, their melon bread is almost as good as the one we make. I'll send some next time if I can. Study hard and eat well. I miss you."

He folded the letter neatly, sealing it in an envelope with a practiced ease. He reached into his drawer, pulling out a stamp, pressing it into place with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before. When he was done, the envelope looked authentic, as if it had traveled across oceans, as if it had come from somewhere distant, somewhere real.

Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Sukuna stood, shrugging on his leather jacket, the weight of it grounding him for a brief moment. He tucked the letter safely into his pocket, walking toward the front door. “I'm going to check on the letter,” he said casually, forcing his voice into something neutral, something easy.

Choso, still bent over his homework, barely looked up. “Okay! Tell me if it’s there!”

Sukuna nodded, stepping out into the cool evening air, exhaling softly.

Relieved.

Relieved that Choso still believed him.

Relieved that, for now, the facade was still intact.

The fluorescent lights of the store buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles. Sukuna moved on autopilot, feet carrying him towards the refrigerators at the back. His hand twitched as he reached forward, fingers hovering over the condensation-covered cans.

A beer.

For a second, it was pure muscle memory. All those nights in high school, leaning against some grimy rooftop ledge, cracking open a cheap can just to prove a point—to himself, to the world, to whoever the hell was listening. He scoffed under his breath, annoyed at the thought alone, and instead grabbed a can of Coke, rolling the cold aluminum between his fingers before heading to the counter. The letter stayed tucked securely in his pocket as he paid.

The automatic doors whooshed open, and he stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. And that’s when he saw—

You.

You, standing under the dim orange glow of the streetlamp, arms crossed as you scrolled through your phone, the light bouncing off your features in a way that made you look softer, almost tired. Something in his chest lurched, but it settled into something quieter when you looked up and spotted him.

“Oh, hey.” your voice was warm, familiar, and it made something in him loosen just slightly.

He didn’t know why he lingered. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him—small, but real. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t look like you were waiting for anyone in particular, and neither was he.

“You just get off work?” you asked, eyeing the way his sleeves were rolled up, the leather jacket hanging off his frame like an afterthought.

“Nah,” he replied, lifting the can of Coke as if that explained anything. “Just needed some air.”

You hummed in response, nodding as if that made sense.

It was quiet for a moment, but not uncomfortable. Sukuna took a sip of his drink, the carbonation fizzling against his tongue, before you sighed, rubbing a hand over your face.

“Gojo's stubborn,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

Sukuna let out something between a chuckle and a scoff. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

You gave him a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. “No, but… it’s different when you see it from someone else’s perspective.”

Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “How so?”

You hesitated, looking down at your feet before shaking your head. “He’s not just stubborn with me, he’s stubborn with everyone. Including you, apparently.”

“Obviously,” Sukuna said dryly, thinking about the way Gojo had planted himself in the front row of biology today, how he had accepted Sukuna’s challenge with that damnable easy grin, despite everything.

The corner of your mouth twitched.

“He told me you called him an idiot.”

“Because he is,” Sukuna retorted.

You actually laughed at that, and Sukuna found himself holding onto that sound longer than he should have. But then the conversation shifted, the air between you both cooling ever so slightly as he admitted, “I know about the Rhabdo.”

Your smile didn’t fade instantly, but there was a moment—a flicker of something, so quick that if Sukuna hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed it. But he was paying attention.

You froze for just a second before exhaling, lips pulling into something smaller, wearier. It wasn’t sad, not quite. It was resigned, and he hated it.

He hated the way you looked as if you had already accepted something terrible, as if you had made peace with a fight you hadn’t even finished fighting yet. Because he knew that look.

He had worn that look when he was eighteen, standing beside a hospital bed, watching a younger version of himself—of Yuuji—grinning through the pain, just as stubborn, just as reckless, just as determined to live on his own terms even if it meant shortening the time he had left. Sukuna’s grip on his can tightened for a second before he sighed.

“You’re just gonna let him keep doing this?”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly. “What choice do I have?”

“You make him listen.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Have you ever tried making him listen?”

Sukuna huffed, because yeah, fair point.

But still.

“So what now?” he asked.

You let out a humorless laugh. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s your plan?”

“Plan?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’ve met him, talked to him. You really think I can make him stop?”

“You can try.”

You scoffed. “Oh, sure. And when he shrugs it off like he always does?”

“Then you try again.”

You gave him a long, searching look.

“Why do you even care?”

Sukuna looked away, running his tongue over his teeth.

Why did he care?

Because he had seen this before. Because he knew what it looked like when someone ran themselves into the ground, all while the people around them stood helplessly, watching it happen. Because—

Because it wasn’t his job.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Just… don’t let him push you out.”

Your expression softened, just a fraction. “You make it sound like I have a choice.”

He didn't have an answer for that.

Sukuna didn’t even get a chance to set his keys down before Choso practically lunged for the letter, snatching it with both hands like a kid being handed a golden ticket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the familiar slant of the writing as if it would reveal something extra if he looked hard enough. His little lips moved silently as he read, his brows scrunching in focus.

Sukuna didn’t comment, only watching as Choso, after a decisive nod to himself, ran to the dining table. He grabbed the nearest scrap of paper—one of Sukuna’s old worksheets from Biology class—and his blue crayon, already pressing it to the page with an eager grip.

“‘Kuna, how do you spell squirrel?” Choso asked without looking up, tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Just sound it out,” Sukuna said, stirring the soup he was throwing together for dinner. Choso muttered under his breath, scribbling something.

“S-q-u-r-l,” he announced proudly.

Sukuna huffed a small chuckle. “Close enough.”

The little one kept writing, pausing only to tap the crayon against his chin like a scholar deep in thought. He took this seriously, as if he were writing a letter to a king instead of a fabrication Sukuna had created for him. And when he finally finished, he hopped off the chair, clutching the paper to his chest like a secret treasure.

“Here,” he said, all but shoving the letter at Sukuna as he stepped out of the kitchen. His grin was beaming, the kind that made his dimples show. “Don’t forget to send it, ‘kay?”

Sukuna took the paper carefully, ruffling Choso’s messy hair in response. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice quieter than before. “I won't forget.”

Choso beamed once more before running off, mumbling something about finishing his addition problems.

Sukuna exhaled, turning the letter over in his hands before heading to his room. The paper was warm from being held so tightly, the edges slightly crinkled. He shut the door behind him, sitting on the edge of his bed as he finally unfolded it, the glow of the bedside lamp casting sharp shadows on his face. The letter trembled slightly in his hands, but only because he was gripping it too hard. He forced himself to ease his fingers, flattening out the creases in the paper.

The crayon-scribbled letters were large and uneven, but neater than before. Choso’s handwriting was improving. Sukuna should have felt proud, should have smiled at the little details—the way Choso still switched his lowercase ‘b’ and ‘d’ sometimes, the way he made his ‘g’ too round like a balloon.

But that last line.

dear papa, i did math today. 22 plus 89=111. my teacher said i am very smart. she gave me a star sticker, but it was pink. i wanted a blue one. next time i will ask. today i saw a squrreal. its fur was crazy like when you wake up and forget to comb your hair. it was eating a nut and looking at me like it knew a secret. do squrreals have secrets? i ate biscuits today. the round ones with sugar on top. you said too much sugar is bad, but one is okay, so i only had five. i watched wicked yesterday. areeanna grandday sings nice. the witch was not a meanie. i think she just needed a hug. do you think bad people are really bad, or are they just sad? also i asked my teecher why do people go to heaven. she said god misses them so he brings them back to him. i think god should miss me too. then i can meet yuuji again. i miss yuuji. love, choso

His chest ached. A quiet, dull throb. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth would snap.

"I think God should miss me too. Then I can meet Yuuji again."

His fingers traced over the letters, smudged slightly where Choso had gripped the paper too hard. In the dim lighting, the deep blue crayon looked almost black, the pressure of the strokes making the paper feel rough under his fingertips. His throat tightened.

For a brief second, he considered grabbing the letter and heading straight back to Choso’s room, waking him up just to—what? Tell him that God doesn’t miss people? Tell him that missing someone shouldn’t mean wanting to disappear?

Instead, Sukuna pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, exhaling through his nose. He closed his eyes for a second before refolding the letter with careful, precise movements.

Then, he reached over to his nightstand, opening the drawer where every single one of Choso's letters lay stacked, neat and safe. He placed this one on top.

He should write back. Tell Choso about his day, tell him that squirrels probably do have secrets, tell him that bad people are usually just people who hurt too much. But not tonight. Tonight, he just needed to sit with it.

Your room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft amber glow of your bedside lamp. The fairy lights strung along the wall flickered faintly, casting uneven shadows over your cluttered desk. Your chair was still pulled out from earlier, a half-empty mug of tea beside your closed laptop, the steam long since disappeared.

A couple of books were stacked haphazardly by your pillow—ones you kept meaning to read but never got around to. A Digimon plush, a stupid little gift from Gojo years ago, sat beside them, its wide embroidered eyes staring blankly ahead. And then there was your phone, still warm from the call, resting in your palm as you stared at the screen.

“Listen, I know I was acting like a little shit,” Gojo started, voice softer than usual, a little hesitant. “I'm, like, marginally self-aware, y’know?”

You snorted, shifting against your pillows. “Yeah, only marginally.”

“Shut up,” he whined, dragging out the last syllable.

You could almost see him, sprawled out in his bed, tangled in his sheets, glasses pushed up onto his forehead as he stared at the ceiling. “But, uh, really,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I just—I dunno, I don't think those girls meant anything bad, y’know? They were just messing around.”

You sighed. “Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he shot back. You rolled your eyes, rubbing your temple. “Just because they didn’t mean anything bad doesn’t mean it wasn’t. You were uncomfortable, right?”

He was quiet for a second. “I mean…”

“Don’t ‘I mean’ me,” you huffed. “You told me yourself you didn’t even remember most of that party, and now you’re gonna defend them?”

Gojo groaned dramatically. “Ugh, why do you have to be right?”

“Someone has to be.”

“Wow.”

“Mhm.”

A beat of silence passed, comfortable enough, until Gojo suddenly piped up, “Anyway! I'm not going this Friday.”

You blinked, sitting up a little. “You’re not?”

“Nah,” he said, so casual, so him. “Rather spend my friday night with my favorite girl, playing Digimon.”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, heart clenching in a way you didn’t recognize. You swallowed. “Satoru—”

“Ah-ah-ah, no need to get all emotional on me,” he teased. “Just let me kick your ass in peace.”

You scoffed, shifting your phone to your other ear. “Please, you wish you could beat me.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

And when you said your goodbyes, when you finally disconnected the call, you stared at the ceiling for a long time, phone resting on your chest. Satoru still had a long way to go. And maybe, so did you.

series masterlist next chapter

Hello everyone, it's been a hot minute 🙂‍↕️ This was supposed to be a Valentine's day release (dedicated to my lovely mutuals) I started working on from January onwards, but one plotline turned into another and eventually here I am, writing it as one of my first full-length fics. A bit hesitant to post it on Tumblr, but I hope you enjoy :)

the love of my life @nanamiskentos <- aka the best proof-reader and hype woman on this site. i love you so much, thank you for giving me the audacity and confidence to share my fics with the big wide net and making me and my work feel seen <3 no gojo post is complete without @gojao <- my favorite gojo girlie, forgive me for gatekeeping this fic from you but you know i had to keep this one a surprise >⩊< i love u so very much you brighten up my dash with every single post you make my beautiful gorgeous wife from the other side of the world -> @nkopurin, i know this is not a toji post but i still want to dedicate this to you, you've been such a light and my fav writer to work with /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ thank you so much for helping me always

my favorite desi girls and possibly the only women who hard-carry the community... @baepsays @deathofacupid and @fushitoru. i may not be at your freakuency when it comes to your writing <- because it's just that good, but it doesn't hurt to try :P my iya -> @chososcamgirl, wrote all this bone-crushing angst thinking about you...i hope you're doing well when you see this ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) my baby who inspires me to be a better writer -> @emphistic in another life we are soulmates sitting besides each other as we write our fics. i love you and your work so very much <3

i could not end this without tagging trish <- @starmapz and kale @to00fu, your works inspired me to take up this project again after abandoning it for nearly a month. thank you so much for your contributions to jjkblr and to my motivation as well (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

Obligatory taglist mention, thank you for your interest in my work <3 @poopooindamouf @paradisestarfishh @voideddd @deathofacupid @uselessbitch8008 @jayathelostdragon @sukubusss @starmapz @your-mum3000 @sukunaslilsocks @aaazade @jeonwiixard @skyxxx17

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #sukugo x reader #gosuku x reader #sukuna x reader #gojo x reader #sukuna angst #gojo angst #sukuna smut #gojo smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo satoru x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader

285 notes · View notes

drewizz · 4 months ago

Text

THIRD TIME - 01. exordium

pairing ꕀ rafe cameron x reader

WARNINGS. mentions of sex & alcohol consumption + start of slowburn starts now.

WC. 1.3K

TAGLIST. open! comment or send in an ask

series masterlist. next

exordium. (noun) the beginning of anything.

The bass wasn’t just loud, it was practically raging. The smell of cheap tasting alcohol and sex was thickening inside the entire house. You had no clue to why you were even here at the party, mingling alone in the corner wrinkling your nose in distaste – busy avoiding the drunk sods who were looking for nothing but a quick fuck.

The house itself didn’t help. Built in a way that it seemed to be making you feel so small and invisible, decorated with furniture that was screaming for attention. The entire house was littered with people. All the rooms were full, the basement, in the pool, on the balcony, there was little to no space anywhere.

Unfortunately, you would be stuck here for a while.

You tugged at the strap of your dress again, the fabric just about physically digging into your shoulders. Your best friend had convinced you to wear it, the fabric clinging on to your body for dear life, dipped low enough to make you self-conscious every time someone looked your way. “You’ll thank me later,” your friend said, grinning as she handed it over.

You sure thanked her. At this point, compared to all the people walking around in the tiniest clothing possible, you felt overdressed. Everything around you and on you felt so overstimulating, constantly jabbing at your body.

The drink in your hand wasn’t helping. It was some awful mix of cheap vodka and cranberry juice, and it tasted like absolute vomit. But at least it gave you something to hold onto, a prop that made you feel less exposed.

Your friend had vanished hours ago, swept away by a guy with a pearly white grin and a trust fund. “Five minute tops,” is what she promised to come back in. But that had been at least an hour ago, maybe two.

You sighed, leaning against the wall and looking around the room. Everywhere you looked there were groups of people laughing, dancing, freakishly grinding on the couches like they owned the place.

You weren't sure why you had agreed to come. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. But at this point, all you felt like was suffocation.

You ducked into the kitchen, desperate for a moment of quiet. It was just as luxurious as the rest of the house – sleek counters with a gigantic beverage cooler so big it fit rows of liquor bottles lined up.

Your eyes landed on a bottle of whiskey near the edge of the counter. It looked expensive, the one that looked like it could cost a lifetime. You weren't a whiskey drinker, but compared to the questionable cocktail and watered-down beer in the other room, it seemed like the better option.

You poured yourself a small splash, wincing as the liquid burned its way down your throat. It was smoother than you'd expected, but still strong enough to make you grimace.

You were just starting to warm to it when a voice cut through your thoughts.

“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing right now?”

You jumped at the sharp tone, spinning around to see who it was.

And there was Rafe Cameron, head cocked to the side in a manner of questioning.

You recognized him immediately. Everyone knew who Rafe Cameron was. His reputation preceded him – all sharp edges and simmering anger. Up close, he was even more striking than the whispers suggested. His jawline was sharp as if it was carved from stone, his hair was currently tousled falling just barely on his forehead – but hidden under a cap. Overall, his presence was just absolutely jarring and overwhelming.

Rafe, it seems, did not look impressed.

Catching yourself amidst stare, you snapped back harsher than intended. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s my bottle,” he said, nodding towards the bottle of whiskey in your hand.

You blinked. “Your bottle?”

“Yeah,” he pressed. “I brought it. And I don’t remember saying you could just help yourself.”

Was Rafe fucking Cameron seriously picking a fight over a sip of whiskey at a party, where people were practically bathing in alcohol that were stolen?

“It was sitting with the rest of the drinks,” you said slowly, trying to keep your tone calm. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. And I needed to relieve some tension, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, it is a big deal and I do mind,” he said coldly, his eyes narrowing.

Your patience snapped. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, dripped with sarcasm. “Was I supposed to fill out a permission form? Do I need to ask for your permission to take a swig?”

Clearly Rafe was getting ticked off as his jaw was tightening. “It’s called common courtesy. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

You let out a short laugh, dry and humorless. “Right. Because this is clearly a party full of people who care about manners and shit.”

He took a step closer, his presence suddenly suffocating. “You don’t even know me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“And I’m starting to think I don’t want to,” you shot back.

For a moment, something flickered in his expression, something you couldn’t quite place. Annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity.

“Who even invited you? Did you just stroll into the party with no friends thinking that bottles of alcohol would help you make some?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I came with a friend. You know, like normal people do.”

Rafe scoffed. “Normal? You don’t exactly scream ‘normal’ if that’s what you really think.”

Your grip on the bottle tightened. “And you think ‘nice guy’ seems to fit your persona?”

“No, because trust me, I’m not.” His mouth twitched, like he was fighting back a smirk.

The air between them was thickening – too fast for your liking. You could feel your pulse pounding in your ears, the bass was extremely deafening as you felt it vibrate off the floor. Everything was tightening up on you, and you were on the verge of puking all over Rafe’s shoes.

“Look,” you finally said, voice firm. “I didn’t know the whiskey was yours. If it’s that big of a deal, I’ll find a new one at the store and buy it for you.”

His eyebrow shot up, his skepticism practically radiating off him. “You think you can just swing by the store and pick up a bottle like that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Sure you will.”

The condescension in his voice made your stomach churn. You opened your mouth to fire back, but before you could, someone called his name from the other room.

“Rafe! Come on, man!”

He didn’t look away immediately. His gaze lingered, as if he was trying to decide whether you were worth more of his time. Finally, he took a step back as his lips were curving into a smirk that made your blood boil.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, his tone mocking. “This isn’t a type of place for pretty girls like you.”

Snatching the whiskey out of your hand, he was gone as if nothing had happened.

“Fucking dick,” you mumbled. You were starting to feel a migraine ease its way into your head with the ongoing commotions of people yelling and the music.

Minutes were quickly strolling past, and you were itching to leave - so you ended up sending a text to your friend who was long lost somewhere in the house.

not feeling good, im gonna head out. get home safe x

Making your way out of the house (avoiding all the touchy drunks), you sighed. Fresh air. This is where you felt most free.

This isn’t a type of place for pretty girls like you.

For pretty girls like you.

Pretty girls like you.

Rafe Cameron had labelled you as a pretty girl. And it just had to fly over your head.

With a groan, you took a last glance back at the house, and there you saw him. Standing near the doorway, leaning with the bottle of whiskey they were arguing over a bit ago. With a quick subtle smirk, he was gone.

Who would’ve thought that you two would meet again. Approximately, the next day.

NOTE. first chapter is now complete woohooo !!! i'm verygiddy rn i wanna hear how you guys feel about this chapter and js everything overall.. i have second chapter coming soooooon. xx isa

TAGS. @urbrunettebombshell

339 notes · View notes

thewritingrowlet · 10 months ago

Text

The Outing Trip pt. 1, ft. tripleS Xinyu

tags: daddy kink, anal teasing, creampie, praise kink (just a bit), rough

tw: violence (OC takes a punch in the face, nothing crazy I promise)

word count: 12k+

author's note: this is the first part of a small series (4 parts max.) inspired by an anon's idea of a university outing trip (minus the "stranded in an island due to a storm with a bunch of girls" part) featuring a handful of tripleS members. This part also mentions Yooyeon, Nakyoung, Dahyun, and Chaeyeon as I consider them to be candidates to be featured in future parts.

p.s. after I finish writing part 2 of this series, I'm gonna stop writing about tripleS members for one or two fics. Let me know if you think there's anyone (who is over the age of 18 in May 2024) that needs attention (be it bcs they're from a less-popular group, or bcs they only debuted recently and you're a fan, etc).

It is now September. The hot summer days are starting to go and be replaced by the chiller and refreshing days of shorter daylight that autumn usually has in its bag. September is also the month where every single student organization in the university goes on outings to welcome their new members. That includes the student council that you’re the president of. You’re having a meeting with a bunch of council staffs and governors—the term your university uses to refer to council leaders on the faculty level because the university wants to replicate real-world governmental structure—in about 10 minutes to talk about details about the outing itself. Everyone will be wearing their uniform, which is a sight you find to be cute.

“President-oppa!”, you hear a girl’s voice behind you as you’re walking to the meeting place, so you turn around to see who it is. You see Xinyu, the council’s vice president who also happens to be your lovely girlfriend, walking like a supermodel towards you. “Hey, princess”, you greet her before taking her hand and pecking it. Xinyu loves it when you do those two things (call her “princess” and kiss her hand), blushing every time she sees you do it. You, on the other hand, don’t really care if her fondness of praises is a sign of narcissism because no one can tell you she doesn't deserve such treatment. You also don’t really care about displaying affection in public—why wouldn’t you want to show affection to your perfect-in-every-aspect girlfriend all the time? It also serves as an announcement that both you and Xinyu are off-limits since the relationship is not a secret.

“O-oppa”, she looks down at her shoes to hide the red hue on her cheeks, “you always do these sweet things to me”. You wrap an arm around her waist, “because you deserve it, sweetie”. She twiddles her index fingers in shyness, “but my heart can only take so much of it in a day, oppa”. “Skill issue, baby”, you chuckle—how adorable is it that you’ve been dating her for over a year and living together in an apartment for almost as long and she still gets overwhelmed with your sweet gestures and words?

“Xinyu-yah”, you throw a lifebuoy to save her from drowning in her own thoughts, “we need to get to get there fast, baby; there’s only a few minutes left and we’re the last people who get to be late”. You take her hand and start running, making Xinyu yell in surprise and possibly turn some people’s heads. You stop running when you’re in front of the elevator and press the button to go up. It’s nice that the elevator doesn’t have a CCTV in it, because you can share a bit of intimacy with Xinyu by pecking her on the lips and forcing a blush once again—her poor heart is guaranteed to give out by the end of the day. “Oppa, I really can’t take much of this anymore”, Xinyu complains. “Of course you can, what are you talking about?”, you laugh. You and Xinyu need to put on a serious face soon, though, as the elevator doors are opening, and you’ll be met with people outside.

“I thought you two were going to be late, not gonna lie”, Nakyoung, Xinyu’s best friend and fellow council member, greets you at the doors of the auditorium. “Do you really think that low of us, Nakyoung-ah?”, Xinyu protests. Nakyoung laughs, “not really, no—just thought maybe you ran off on a date or something”. Xinyu pinches Nakyoung’s cheeks in annoyance, making a small scene in front of a bunch of council members. You shake your head in amusement, “alright, that’s enough, kids. Is everyone here, Nakyoung-ah?”. “Almost; the Faculty of Medicine’s governor will be late. She’s still assisting in a lab and said you can start without her”, Nakyoung explains before taking you and Xinyu’s hands and pulling the both of you into the auditorium. You look at the clock hanging on the wall and see that you’re perfectly on time—perfectly calculated, if you say so yourself.

“Good afternoon, governors. Thank you for taking the time for today’s little meeting”, you take the center spot on the stage. You sometimes wonder why you talk and act like this in front of fellow students but since the university wants this to be as authentic of an experience as possible, you can’t help but play along. “This is September, and you guys know what it means: we need to welcome the new members of our councils on both the university and faculty level. Would someone kindly kick us off and report their preparation progress?”, you see the Faculty of Science’s governor, Kim Yooyeon, raise her hand so you step to the side and let her take your spot on the stage.

She starts presenting the things she and her members have done to prepare, such as consulting with the dean, surveying the area she wants to go to, and calculating the cost of the entire thing. You admire her thoroughness and ability to think ahead—the girl students call the goddess isn’t just known for her looks, but also sharpness of mind. Just one thing, though: she doesn’t like attention, as shown by the way she jogs back to her seat while partially covering her face after she’s done talking. “Thank you, Yooyeon-ah—oh, hello, Jiwoo-yah!”, you greet Son Jiwoo, the aforementioned governor from the Faculty of Medicine who just entered the room. “Hi, hello”, she rushes to her seat, “sorry for being late, I was needed in the lab”. “No, you’re fine, sweetie. Let’s continue, though”, your over-friendliness spills out and Xinyu glares at you from her seat, but you miss it since you don’t have eyes on the back of your head.

One governor after the other takes turns to present their plans; some have come up with elaborate plans, while others have simpler ideas as to how to welcome their new members. Once everyone is done presenting their plans, you wrap up the meeting (not without expressing appreciation to everyone) and let them go so that they can go about the rest of their day. Yooyeon stays behind, probably because she has some things to discuss with the three of you. “Hey, guys”, she approaches slowly, “I want to talk about something, but can we get out of here first? This auditorium keeps reminding me of some of my hardest days”. “Yeah, sure. Lead the way, unnie”, Nakyoung says before suggesting another idea, “are you guys free, by the way? We can talk over some food if you are—oppa will pay since he’s the richest among us”.

Nakyoung and Yooyeon walk side-by-side while holding hands, while you and Xinyu walk behind them with your hands intertwined. Xinyu then slows down her steps, creating a decent gap between Nakyoung and Yooyeon. “Oppa”, she tugs your hand, a hint of sadness in her voice, “you.. you’re not interested in Jiwoo-unnie, are you?”. Her question catches you off guard, “Jiwoo-unnie? Son Jiwoo? No, of course not. Why?”. “You, um, were a little too friendly with her earlier—I mean, she is pretty, so I understand”, she sulks. You try to recount what happened during the meeting, and you realize that you called her “sweetie”—that pet name is supposed to be reserved for Xinyu only. You instantly feel a huge wave of guilt at the realization, “I’m so sorry, baby. I promise you it was nothing but a slip up”. She lets go of your hand and hugs the clipboard she’s holding with both arms, “please don’t do that again. I-I didn’t like it”, she says.

She refuses to hold your hand for the rest of the walk, and that’s a hint the size of a mountain that you’ve fucked up and you’ll need to make it up to your princess. You finally arrive at the student-favorite noodle spot after a few minutes of walking. It’s not too packed since most students are in class, considering what time it is. Nakyoung joins your group after ordering for everyone. Yooyeon sits across Nakyoung, so that leaves Xinyu no option but to sit across you. Only when she sits down can you see her teary eyes, “you fucked up and now you’re in trouble, son”, your heart says. “Okay, unnie, we’re here. So, what was it you wanted to talk about?”, Nakyoung says. Yooyeon scratches the back of her head, “oh, um, I actually just wanted to hang out with you guys. You seem to be a fun trio to be around”. You chuckle, “yeah, that’s fine, we were getting food regardless. Welcome to the fold, I guess”. You arrange your words more carefully this time because you don’t want to fuck things up even further.

You’re now standing at the bus stop after the meal, still surrounded by your friends. “So, what now?”, you ask. Nakyoung, oblivious to your situation with Xinyu, throws her idea into the ring, “let’s go to your place, oppa. I really wanna lay down on that gloriously soft and fluffy sofa of yours”. You glance at Xinyu, who doesn’t seem to hate the idea, and nod in agreement to the idea, “yeah, we can do that. What about you, Yooyeon-ah? You have other classes after this?”. “N-no, ca-can I join you again? I-I don’t have many friends, you see”, Yooyeon hides her face behind her hands after saying that—you never knew a goddess could be so shy around people and have so few friends, but here you are. “Alright, let’s get on that bus so that we don’t have to walk to the parking lot”, you point to the approaching yellow campus bus—the off-site parking lot is not too far but you just can’t be assed to walk at the moment.

Doesn’t take long for the bus to arrive and take the four of you to the parking lot. You lead them to your car and Yooyeon makes a comment when she sees it, “nice car, Jisung-ah”. “I’m telling you, Jisung-oppa is rich, unnie. Daddy and mommy’s money, right, oppa?”, Nakyoung chimes in to tease you—this mischievous cat never runs out of ideas to tease her friends. “Well, when you put it like that”, you say. You’re never one to brag about your wealth, so you simply thank Yooyeon for the compliment and unlock the car so that your friends can get in. Xinyu gets in the front passenger seat like usual while the other two sit in the middle row.

You’re now out of the parking lot and on the way back to your apartment. “I need to stop at a convenience store, sorry. I need to buy something”, you say to your friends. “I bet he’s buying condoms”, Nakyoung chirps. Xinyu is probably not too entertained with what Nakyoung is suggesting, but they tease each other like that all the time. “I promise you I’m not”, you say as you pull into the driveway of the convenience store. “You guys do it raw, Xinyu-yah?”, Nakyoung lets out a fake surprise gasp at the end. “Kim Nakyoung, I promise I will throw you out the window of our apartment if you keep teasing me”, Xinyu says. “Look at them, unnie; they live together and have unprotected sex all the time”, Nakyoung turns to Yooyeon, who hides her face behind her palms again. You roll your eyes and get out of the car—you just want to get Xinyu’s favorite chocolate and snacks, it is not supposed to be this difficult, ever.

You finally arrive at your building after a short drive from the university. You hop off the car and walk in front, and would you look at that: Xinyu is wrapping a hand around your arm and leaning her head against your shoulder; “glad you’re feeling better, baby. I’m so sorry for being an ass”, you whisper to her. “I can’t stay mad at you for long, oppa, you know this”, Xinyu whispers back. Nakyoung is used to seeing your public display of affection, but Yooyeon, who is hanging out with your bunch for the first time, is not; she’s probably looking away so that she doesn't have to see this. You walk to the elevator and continue to your unit followed by the three girls, until you finally arrive at the door. Xinyu does the honors and unlocks the door before running into the bedroom. “Welcome to our little apartment, girls. Please make yourself at home”, you stand to the side and let them in. Nakyoung, as she has promised earlier, runs straight to your sofa and lies down on it, “Little apartment, my ass—oh my God, it’s so comfortable; this thing must be mad expensive. Unnie, come here, what are you doing?”, she invites Yooyeon who’s standing awkwardly in the doorway. “You can go with her, Yooyeon-ah. Please, make yourself comfortable”, you encourage her.

You then make your way to the bedroom to follow Xinyu and close the door behind you, you see that she has ditched her shirt for a white sleeveless tee that fits her perfect body like a bespoke glove. “I know you bought me snacks. Show me where they are or I will, I will—what’s a good one—not kiss you for the rest of the day”, she knows she can’t threaten you to save her life, so she must improvise to make herself sound scary. You chuckle and fish a bar of chocolate and a bunch of chips out of the bag, “for you, princess”. “Oh my God, chocolate too?! Thank you, oppa, you’re the best!”, she happily accepts your tribute and rips open a bag of chips. You peck the girl who’s munching so enthusiastically on the forehead, “anything for you, love. My world is dark without you”. Xinyu blushes at your words, “I can say the same about you, oppa. You know that right?”. You open your mouth to answer her, but that’s when you hear a knock on the door. “Oppa, Xinyu-yah, are you guys done having sex? Yooyeon-unnie wants to talk”, Nakyoung says from the other side of the door.

Xinyu rushes out of the bedroom and flicks Nakyoung’s forehead, “we were not having sex, God damn it!”. You follow Xinyu out of the bedroom and head to the dining table, “play nice, girls. Come, we can talk here”, you call out to your friends. Yooyeon joins you on the table, followed by Xinyu and Nakyoung who have broken their little scuffle. “Before we start”, you poke Xinyu on the shoulder, “order some pizza for us, sweetie. We can get your favorite”. Xinyu runs back to the bedroom to get her phone and order her favorite pizza—food is truly the bullet train to her heart (and pants but we’ll save that for later). She high-steps her way to the table to join you, seemingly excited at the prospect of having her favorite pizza. She stops next to you and pecks you on the cheek, “I love you”, she says. “I love you more, sweetie. Sit, please”, you pull a chair for her. Nakyoung sighs, “I know you just joined us, unnie, but I guarantee that you’ll get tired of seeing these two act like this very soon”. “Oh, uh, I personally find it cute, actually. I’m happy for them; I hope I can experience that myself one day”, Yooyeon confesses before looking away.

“It’s nothing crazy, really”, Yooyeon starts, “I was just curious about your council’s plans to welcome the new members of your own. I-I was thinking maybe I discuss it if that’s okay with you guys”. Xinyu gets excited hearing those words, “of course, unnie. We would love that”. “Can you tell me a summary first?”, Yooyeon says. You tell her how you and Xinyu plan to do a 3-day trip to the nearby island that also happens to be a famous tourism destination. Nakyoung helps explain the schedule and agendas that she and another council member have come up with. Lastly, Xinyu explains other details such as logistics, methods of transportation, and accommodation; “we are prohibiting alcohol for this trip, by the way. The last thing we need is some drunk freshmen fucking things up”, she adds. “How do you plan to do that, exactly?”, Yooyeon inquires. “Well, I called the manager of the accomodation and specifically and precisely asked them to not sell anyone from our group alcohol and to notify ask should someone try”, Xinyu explains.

Yooyeon gets up from her seat and asks for your permission to get water, so you tell her to get some from the dispenser in the kitchen. She then gets back in her seat and starts talking again. “So, president, vice president, and—what are you again?”, Yooyeon turns to Nakyoung, who lets out a frustrated grunt, “Oh, God damn it—I’m the secretary and the third wheel to the president and vice president. Remember that, please”. “Right, sorry”, Yooyeon clears her throat, “The reason I wanted to talk to you guys is because I have some potential candidates that might be able to join you guys in the council at the university level”. “Okay, go on”, you encourage her to keep talking. “They initially wanted to join us at the faculty, but we couldn’t accept them simply because we were full. I was thinking that maybe these two can thrive under your flag instead”. “Names, unnie?”, Nakyoung asks as she pulls out her phone to write their names. “Seo Dahyun, born in ‘03, and Kim Chaeyeon, born in ‘04”, Yooyeon says, “Dahyun had to retake the SAT for the second time; that’s why it took her a bit longer to get here, but that fact doesn’t take anything away from her, I assure you”.

Yooyeon obviously knows these people better than anyone in the room, since she knows them and has interviewed them personally, so the three of you decide to trust her perception of them. Xinyu arranges an interview for each of them tomorrow at noon—no precise time yet since you’ll need to confirm their schedules with each of them. Yooyeon gives Nakyoung their numbers and she starts hitting them up on CocoaSpeak. “One more thing, Jisung-ah”, she looks at you, “I want to be in the room where it happens”. “Sure, you can be there with us for the interview”, you say to her. “Won’t that be too intimidating?”, Xinyu utters her concern. Yooyeon shakes her head in disagreement, “these two don’t get intimidated easily, they’ll be fine”.

You hear a buzz from the door, so you ask Xinyu to get the pizza from the delivery guy. You make sure to pay attention to the exchange because Xinyu has had a bad experience with a degenerate delivery guy who thought that she was attractive and decided to take his 1-in-a-billion chance. You understand that you can take the pizza yourself but letting her do it helps Xinyu overcome her trauma as she knows that you have her back. Xinyu slams the door a bit too roughly and runs back towards the dining table. “I present to you, the Zhou Xinyu Special!”, she opens the box and puts it down on the table. Yooyeon keeps staring at the large pizza on the table in confusion, until Nakyoung notices and pokes her in the arm to get her attention, “it’s a pizza with ground beef, pepperoni, mushroom, and extra cheese, unnie—they use a lot of cheese, hence the pie-like visual”. “Ah, I see”, Yooyeon nods after hearing the explanation.

You take a slice from the box and start eating, followed by the three girls. “I’ve eaten this pizza so often, but it still amazes me every time. You really know your way around food, don’t you, Xinyu-yah?”, Nakyoung remarks. “Of course, food is the second thing I love the most in this world after oppa”, Xinyu says before exclaiming at the taste of her favorite pizza. “I love you too”, you wipe your mouth with a napkin before pecking Xinyu on the cheek. Xinyu blushes after hearing your words and receiving a peck, as she tries to hide her face behind the slice of pizza in her hand. “You two are so cute”, Yooyeon comments, not helping Xinyu overcome the heat on her cheeks.

The four of you start talking about a bunch of topics, from how Yooyeon initially wanted to join the university’s council but got rejected, how Nakyoung met Yooyeon for the first time and thought that she was a cold and scary person, and, at Yooyeon’s request, how you and Xinyu started dating. You explain that you had known Xinyu for a while as a fellow member of the council during freshman year but only admired her from afar. The two of you were then placed in the same group for a community service project the president at the time had come up with. “Xinyu was crying alone after the first day because of how exhausting and hard it was, so I mustered up the courage to approach her and offered to take her to dinner because I always hate seeing a girl cry, no matter what reason she might have. I actually was so scared that she would push me away instead of taking my offer”, you explain to the small crowd in front of you. It’s now Xinyu’s time to tell her side of the story; “I saw how kind oppa really is behind his rich guy façade; he was super helpful and attentive to everyone that day and there was no way I would’ve pushed him away—I wanted him for myself”. Xinyu leans against your shoulder before continuing her speech, “After our first time having sex, he revealed that I was his first and all I could think about was how I hoped he had been my first as well—I’m so sorry, oppa”. You squeeze her hand, “there’s nothing to be sorry for, love. You’re here with me now”.

Everyone has dispersed from the dining table and is now in their own worlds. Yooyeon is looking at notes on her tablet, Nakyoung is lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, Xinyu is chilling in the bedroom, and you’re sitting on the toilet with your phone in hand. You’re mindlessly scrolling through social media until you see a notification from Xinyu. It’s a picture of her lying in bed in her pajamas with one of the dolls you bought for her. “How cute”, you think to yourself. She sees that you’re not replying to her, so she expresses her unhappiness, “>: say something already”. “I’m busy, bby”, you reply to her before flushing the toilet and cleaning your ass. You’re on your way to the bathroom door as it swings open seemingly on its own. Xinyu barges into the bathroom and locks the door behind her. She puts her hands on your chest and pushes you to the wall, “if you won’t give me the attention I want, I’ll get it myself”. She pulls your shorts and boxers down together as she kneels in front of you, making your cock spring out of its restraints instantly.

“We could’ve done so much more had you given me the attention I wanted”, she’s doing her best to instill regret and guilt in your heart. Her hand is wrapped around your cock tightly and you don’t want to make her mad even more because you don’t want her to break your cock. “P-princess, they’re still here. We can do this later”, you persuade her. “I don’t care, they can go suck cock if they want”, she says before taking you in her mouth. The wetness and warmth of Xinyu’s mouth sends shivers down your spine. You dare hold her hair in your hand as she bobs her head up and down your shaft while gagging every now and then. “P-princess”, you mutter before moaning, “you’re so good, baby”. She instantly removes you from her mouth and squeezes your cock, “stay quiet if you want to make it out of this alive”. “Oh, fuck—I’m-I’m sorry, please don’t break my penis”, you say to the angry-but-horny girl kneeling in front of you.

She accepts your apology for now and gets back to stuffing her face with your cock. You don’t want to upset her considering how vulnerable you are at the moment, so you do nothing but moan. She removes your cock from her mouth once again when she feels it twitch in her mouth, “I’ll let you cum if you ask nicely”. You take a deep breath before ‘asking nicely’, “please let me cum, princess”. “Not good enough, but I’ll take it for now”, she says before letting you in her mouth once again. It doesn’t take long until your cum is accumulated on the tip of your cock. Xinyu knows this, so she goes deeper until she reaches the base of your cock. “I’m cum-ming”, you say with heavy breaths, “princess, please”. Your cock blows a load as soon as you say that, and Xinyu tries her best to not let a drop leak out of her mouth.

You lean back against the wall to catch your breath, feeling drained—quite literally—by Xinyu’s little stunt. You look down at Xinyu who is still on her knees, and you see her gulp down your load into her stomach. “Xinyu, baby”, you say with heavy pants, “thank you, that was really good”. “Of course, oppa. I love you—I’ll drain your soul the next time you ignore me, though”, she rises to her feet and wipes her mouth before pecking your cheek. “Now how do we get out of this place?”, you ask her for ideas. “Just walk out, we’re adults”, she shrugs. You do as she suggested and walk out of the bathroom as casually as possible. Yooyeon sees the two of you walking out together and covers her face with some papers. You see Xinyu give her a wink and gesture to her to stay quiet.

Xinyu then walks to the sofa and poke Nakyoung in the arm, “Naky-yah, are you staying the night or what?”. Nakyoung wakes up slowly from her peaceful nap on your sofa, “hngh, what time is it?”. You look at the clock above the TV, “about 7.30 pm”, you tell the sleepy cat. Nakyoung rises and walks to the fridge like a zombie, “I’m tempted to stay but I imagine you two want some private time”, she says. You can tell that her playfulness hasn’t returned to her entirely, as shown by how she hasn’t bantered or teased anyone yet. She takes a few gulps of fridge-cold water out of her bottle—she visits your apartment a lot so a few months ago she decided to leave a bottle in your fridge so that she wouldn’t drink from one of yours—and turns to you, “did you guys have fun when I was asleep?”. Xinyu answers her right away with confidence, “I did—I don’t know about oppa, though”, she says, hinting at sex. Nakyoung smirks as she walks back to the sofa, “if you had fun, then so did oppa, most likely”.

Nakyoung spends another 30 minutes lying on your sofa while on her phone, while Yooyeon is still busy with studying. “Unnie, I think we should leave soon”, she says to the studying goddess as she gets up. “Hm? Oh, yeah, sure”, Yooyeon says as she starts tidying up her papers and tablet. Nakyoung takes Yooyeon’s hand and walks to the door with her. “Thank you for the hospitality, you two”, Yooyeon bows slightly and waves at you and Xinyu. “You should hang out with us more, Yooyeon-ah. See you at the interview— byeee”, you say as they exit the door and close it behind them.

Seeing that the coast is now clear, Xinyu runs to you and jumps at you, so you catch her with both arms. “I’m tired, oppa. Take me to bed, please”, she says with a cute whiny voice. You peck her temple and carry her to the bed as requested. You set Xinyu on the bed with you on top of her body, and she immediately wraps her long limbs around your body. “Stay, please”, she says, acting cute to convince you to do what she wants, “I can feel you poking me down there, by the way”. It’s not that you’re horny, it’s just that you’re long—almost too long, “I’m sorry, sweetie”. “I’m horny and tired at the same time, which one do I choose, oppa?”, she pinches your cheek playfully. “I suggest sleeping, love. I don’t know if I have another load for you and I would hate to disappoint”, you kiss her forehead apologetically. “Hmph you’re no fun, oppa, but I love you so I’ll listen to you”, Xinyu pouts and lets you go from her strangling limbs.

It is now Friday. You and the usual suspects will be interviewing the candidates that Yooyeon told you about a few days ago. Nakyoung gave each candidate freedom to choose the place of the interview, and they both chose the multipurpose meeting room in the library building, so now you and Xinyu make your way to the appointed place—one problem, though: there’s quite a commotion in front of the meeting room. “You’re holding an interview, aren’t you? I know you are. Why aren’t you letting me in?”, the guy is shouting at Nakyoung who’s holding the line at the door. You see that Nakyoung is in deep distress, but you want to observe the situation a little bit more before jumping in. That is when you see the guy lay his hands on Nakyoung, which you’re not a fan of—Xinyu’s friends are your friends, and you’re not letting harm come their way. “Listen to her and just leave, man. We’ll pretend this never happened”, you say with a serious voice and grab him by the shoulder.

Surprisingly, the guy thinks that it’s a good idea to get violent and punches you in the face as he turns around, “SHUT THE FUCK UP”, he yells out. Nothing could’ve prepared you for a punch in the face, so you took a few steps back in surprise. Xinyu rushes to your aid in panic while screaming, “oh my God, oppa! Oppa, are you okay? Somebody, get security!”. “Holy shit, you’re so fucked”, Nakyoung says to the guy, who only now figured out who he just punched, “out of all the people present, you chose to punch the president—absolutely incredible. You still expect us to accept you after seeing you act like this? We will make your life miserable for this, by the way; we don’t forget”. The guy approaches you slowly in fear, “I-I’m so sorry, sunbaenim, I don’t know what got into me. Are you okay?”. You sigh in disappointment, not because you just took a punch in the face, but because someone thought it was okay to be violent, especially on campus grounds. “I suggest finding a lawyer”, you say, angriness obvious in your voice. He kneels and bows in front of you to beg for forgiveness, “no, no, please. I’m so sorry. I’ve learned my lesson, sunbaenim, please”. You hear the boots of the security guards approaching, so you say your last piece to the brat, “you have not, but you will soon”.

Once you see that the security guards have control of the situation, you leave the scene and forcefully drag Xinyu and Nakyoung by their wrists into the room. “Op-oppa, you’re hurting me; please let go”, Nakyoung tries to pry your fingers off her wrist. You didn’t realize that you were holding their hands so tightly, so you let them go and apologize. “Thank you for saving me, guys”, Nakyoung sobs as she hugs Xinyu for comfort, “he-he was so adamant, and I got so scared”. “I’m glad he decided to punch me and not one of you”, you sigh, “where is Yooyeon, by the way?”. “I’m here”, Yooyeon says as she closes the door behind her, “what just happened? Why are there security guards?”. “Someone thought it was a good idea to punch Jisung-oppa”, Xinyu explains to the confused girl. Yooyeon shakes her head and sighs, “are you okay, Jisung-ah?”. You rub the spot where the punch landed and reply to her, “I’ll be fine—it hurts, though”.

You take a few minutes to catch your breath and process everything that just happened while Xinyu, Yooyeon, and Nakyoung brief each other about the upcoming interview. You soon hear some knocks on the door and a girl peeks into the room, “excuse me, we’re here for the interview”. “Oh, hello, you guys must be Dahyun and Chaeyeon”, Nakyoung greets them and lets them in. Dahyun gasps in surprise when she sees your face, “oh God, what happened to you, sunbaenim? Why is there a bruise on your face?”. “We can talk about that as we go. Please, have a seat and stop calling me and everyone else in this room ‘sunbaenim’. We’ll interview you guys at the same time, I hope that’s okay”, you gesture to the empty chairs on the round table, and they take a seat in them. “So, there’s something I need to explain before we start”, you start the conversation, “you guys are here because Governor Kim over here recommended that you be considered to be recruited into the university council because her faculty council is full”. They turn to Yooyeon and express their appreciation to her, which makes Yooyeon smile in shyness.

You take the first turn to ask them a bunch of questions, from what makes them interested in joining the council, what they think the council should be for students and the surrounding community, and if they’ll interested in becoming the president in the future. They answer each question with some of the best answers you’ve ever heard in your term as president, and you can tell that everyone in the room is impressed and is starting to like them. Xinyu and Nakyoung then take turns asking them questions of their own while Yooyeon opts to observe and listen in silence.

Once they’re done asking questions and getting answers, it’s the recruits’ turn to ask questions. Dahyun kicks off the session by asking you about your wound, “can I ask what happened to your face, oppa?”. “You can, Dahyun-ah”, you sigh, “someone punched me in the face after screaming at Nakyoung-ie because she didn’t let him join the interview—disappointing behavior, if you ask me”. Xinyu moves to you in her chair and grabs your hand, “are you actually pressing charges, oppa? I would love it if you did—no one gets to punch my boyfriend like that”. “He’s your boyfriend, unnie?”, Chaeyeon asks the vice president. Xinyu brings a palm to her forehead, “oh, right, I forgot that you’re not in our circle yet—yes, he is, and I love him and I hate seeing him get hurt. We’ll go get some ointment after this, oppa, okay?”. “The president and vice president are dating, unnie. Are we in a drama right now?”, Chaeyeon turns to Dahyun, who lets out a giggle.

The six of you spend more time getting to know each other better as individuals, and you can tell again that everyone is really interested in having them join the council and this small circle of yours. Nakyoung explicitly tells them about it; “I know we only met today but I know that everyone here likes the two of you, so I sincerely ask you to consider joining our little friend group once you’re formally accepted as members of the council. Your cute little governor here is also with us, by the way”, she says—the way she’s saying it makes it sound like it’s a circle of nepotism with leading figures of the council and a bunch of new recruits. Dahyun shyly accepts the invitation, “we would love that, unnie. Thank you for being so kind to juniors like us”.

The interview is now done, and you find yourself surrounded by 5 girls outside the library. “Oppa, I’m hungry. Can we get lunch?”, Xinyu tugs your hand. “We can, sweetie. Wanna invite the others as well?”, you reply to her. Xinyu turns to the others, “guys, we’re gonna go get lunch, wanna join us?”. Nakyoung and Yooyeon obviously nod in agreement, but Dahyun and Chaeyeon are hesitant. “You two can join us as well, no need to be shy. We’re your friends, just a bit older in age”, you say to them. Chaeyeon answers for herself and Dahyun, “we would love that, oppa, if that’s okay with you”. Nakyoung pinches Chaeyeon’s cheeks playfully, “we’re friends, God damn it. Start acting accordingly, will you?”. You lead them to your car that’s parked in the campus’ parking lot—the parking lot is not as packed on Fridays since the professors are usually doing other stuff off campus, and you managed to find one because you arrived early. Chaeyeon makes a comment when she sees your car, “OF COURSE HE’S RICH—oh my God, I’m so sorry, oppa”. You chuckle at her comment, “it’s okay, I’ve heard that a lot before. Come on, let’s get in”.

You find yourself sailing the slow sea of Friday afternoon traffic, thankfully it’s not as bad as usual. “Does anyone have any idea where we should go?”, you ask the crowd in your car. Dahyun raises her hands after mustering up as much confidence as she can, “can we go get burgers, oppa? There’s a good burger shop nearby—if-if everyone else agrees, that is”. Xinyu is the most excited one at the prospect, “we sure can, I looove burgers. Drive faster, oppa!”. You laugh at her words, “just admit that you love everything, sweetie”.

Dahyun wasn’t lying when she said it was near, as you are now parked in front of an alleyway where the burger shop is. “We’ve been students for so long, but we’ve never heard about this shop once”, you remark. Dahyun shyly confesses to the group, “Th-this place is my parents’, oppa. I-I wanted to promote my parents’ business since they only opened recently, I’m sorry”. Xinyu rushes to hug Dahyun from the side, “awww, how cute. You’re such a good daughter, Dahyun-ah”. Dahyun hides her face behind her palms before replying to Xinyu, “you’re so kind, unnie”. “Now you know why people fall for her, Dahyun-ah”, you say, bragging about your lovely girlfriend to your new friend.

Dahyun leads you into the shop and runs towards the cashier to hug the lady attending it. “Everyone, this is my mom, you can call her Mrs. Seo—duh. Mom, this the council’s president, vice president, secretary, and governor—obviously you know Chaeyeon already. We just became friends today”, she introduces everyone to her mom by pointing at you one by one. “Aigoo, you brought your friends, Dahyun-ah? Welcome, kids—oh my God, what happened to your face? Also, you don’t need to pay today since you’re Dahyun’s friends”, Dahyun’s mom says to your group. You don’t want to not pay, considering how much your friends eat and the fact that your friend’s parents own the place; “It’s a bit of a long story, madam. We would hate to not pay; we eat a lot, you see”, you try to convince her mom. “Okay but promise us you’ll come back. Now what can I get for you?”, Mrs. Seo asks you. You turn to Dahyun, who most likely knows what’s best here, “you have any recommendations, Dahyun-ah?”. “I mean, I think everything is good but I’m very biased”, she giggles.

Since this is your first time here, you decide to choose whatever catches your fancy, which happens to be a double cheeseburger with portobella mushroom and beef bacon. Everyone else then takes turns to order before leaving to find a place to sit together. Mrs. Seo tells you to join two tables together since they only have 4 chairs each, so you do as she says. While you wait, you decide to talk with your friends—you know, like friends do.

It takes about 20 minutes for the food to come out, not bad at all considering how big of an order it was. Mrs. Seo calls out to Dahyun to help carry the food to your table, so she stands up and heads to the kitchen to help. You see the visuals of each thing on the trays, and you can’t help but drool at the sight. “Holy sh—excuse my language—that looks so good!”, Nakyoung shows her enthusiasm to the food. You see that Yooyeon, who usually shows little emotions, has an excited face as well, and it brings joy to Mrs. Seo. “You are such sweet kids. I’m glad Dahyun can be friends with you”, she says. “The pleasure is ours, madam. Dahyun is such a sweet girl as well”, Xinyu says.

Dahyun and her mom set the trays on the table, and everyone jumps to get their stuff right away. Nakyoung is the first to take a bite, and she exclaims in excitement immediately, “oh my God, this is incredible—Mrs. Seo, this is amazing!”. “Omo, I’m so glad you like it”, she says before putting a big squeeze bottle on the table, “try this with the fries, will you? We’ve been developing a sauce recipe and would love to hear some feedback—Chaeyeon-ie has tried this before so she knows already”. Xinyu squeezes the sauce on a piece of fry and shoves it in her mouth, “oh my, that is glorious. What sauce is this, Mrs. Seo? Oppa, try this, quick!”. You take the bottle from Xinyu’s hands and do the same thing she did, and you instantly let out a satisfied groan thanks to the taste. “it’s minced garlic, chives, and white pepper mixed with mayonnaise and a little bit of my husband’s hot sauce—you know, you two look so cute together; have you considered dating?”, she explains. “They are indeed dating, madam”, Nakyoung answers for you with a laugh like the spokesperson that she often is. Mrs. Seo gasps, “oh, that’s so cute. Alright, I’m gonna stop bothering you guys—enjoy!”.

No one says anything for the rest of the meal as they savor every glorious bite of their food, letting out excited yelps and satisfied groans at the incredible taste. “Dahyun-ah”, you say after swallowing a bite, “would your parents be interested in getting some investment?”. “Look at him, flexing his wealth in front of his junior”, Nakyoung says. Dahyun’s eyes widen at your unexpected question, “I-I’ll need to ask my parents”, she says. “Can you please ask now? I’m curious what they’d say”, you push further. Dahyun sips her drink before running to the cashier and dragging his mom back to the table. “Mom, mom, president-oppa wants to invest in us!”, Dahyun excitedly says to her mom. Mrs. Seo’s turns her head to you in surprise, “do you actually?”. “I do, madam”, you say, as humble sounding as possible, “I think you can do great things with this business, hence my interest”. “I, I”, you see tears gathering in Mrs. Seo’s eyes, “thank you for the kind words, son. Yes, we would love to get an investment—what are the terms, though?”. “My family’s treasurer will reach out to your family in less than 7 business days, madam. You can discuss the terms with her—I’ll make sure it’s more favorable to you than me”, you say to her. “Please stand up, son”, Mrs. Seo says to you, so you do as she says. She hugs you warmly as she’s shedding (you hope) happy tears, “thank you so much, son; it means a lot to our family. How rich are you that your family has a treasurer, though?”. You answer her question with the answer your parents have taught you since you were a kid, “we are comfortable, madam”. She lets go of the hug and wipes her eyes, “I gotta call my husband; this is crazy! Dahyun-ah, isn’t this crazy?”. Dahyun bows to you, “thank you so much, oppa. We won’t forget your kindness”. You’re surprised to see her bow to you, so you grab her shoulders and make her straighten her back, “oh, c’mon, there’s no need to act like that”.

You excuse yourself and head to the back alley behind the shop to call your family’s treasurer, Mrs. Kwon Yuri. She picks up immediately after one ring, “Good afternoon, Mr. Jung. Can I help you?”. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kwon”, you greet her, “I’m planning to make an investment in a burger shop owned by my friend’s family. Can you please handle it for me? I’ll send you their number after this”. Mrs. Kwon stays silent for a few seconds, but you hear her keyboard clacking over the phone, “I can, Mr. Jung; I will reach out to them in two days”. You feel a wave of relief in your heart, “sounds great, Mrs. Kwon. Be sure to make it favorable for them, please—5 or 10 percent is fine. Thanks for the help”. You send her their number after hanging up and with it, your investment will soon be confirmed, and they’ll get a small boost to grow their business.

Unbeknownst to you, Xinyu has been hiding around the corner waiting for you to end the call. She runs to you when she hears you hang up the phone and hugs you tightly. “My God, that is so sexy, oppa”, she says. “What is, baby?”, you say, unsure about what she’s referring to. “The fact that you’re willing to use your money to help someone else. I know it’s probably spare change for you but it’s still meaningful”, she looks at you straight in the eyes as her hands are on each side of your head. ”I was just trying to help, it’s not like they don’t deserve it—I mean, you know how good their stuff is”, you tell her. “Oh, I know, but you know what else is good?”, she smiles at you. “No?”, you say, oblivious. “My boyfriend’s lips on mine”, she says before pressing her lips against yours. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like kissing Xinyu but kissing her in broad daylight in a back alley feels scandalous. You let your lips stay pressed against Xinyu’s for what feels like a few seconds before you push her away. “Baby, we can’t afford to get caught”, you bargain. “You’re right”, she sighs, “we’ll continue this later”.

You take her hand and enter the shop again. You see Dahyun and her mom crying while a man, who you assume is Mr. Seo, tries to calm them down. Dahyun then points a finger to you and the man walks up to you and reaches his hand out to shake yours. “You must be Jung Jisung”, the man says, “I’m Dahyun’s dad. Thank you so much for your help, son. It means a lot to us”. You’re surprised by how Dahyun’s family is reacting to your little feat, “I-I just wanted to help, sir. My friends and I really like the products your family is selling here”. Mr. Seo pulls you into a hug and you see that Nakyoung and Chaeyeon are leaning against Yooyeon’s shoulders on each side while sobbing. “What is happening, man?”, you think to yourself. Mr. Seo lets you go after a few seconds and shakes your hand one more time; “I need to go; I have two ladies to attend to”, he says, referring to his wife and daughter who are still weeping.

You sit down at the table again and ask your friends about what happened when you were away for that short a time. “They-they told us how hard it was to start this business, oppa”, Nakyoung holds back a sob before continuing, “they-they had to take a bunch of loans and barely had customers at the start—our tab today is one of the biggest ones they’ve had so far. Dahyun even had to do several part-time jobs to help her family’s economy”. Chaeyeon is making it obvious that she’s the most sensitive person in the friend group, as she cries even more after hearing Nakyoung’s summary of what has just happened. “They were over the moon when you said you were going to invest, and now the emotions have finally caught up to them”, Yooyeon says before wiping her eyes with a napkin. You realize that this is what your parents have been preaching for your whole life: to be able to help someone with what you have—especially money—no matter how big or small it is. You silently praise your parents and pray to whatever celestial being is up there for their health and safety.

You wait until everyone has calmed down before walking to the cashier to pick up the tab. “Ji-Jisung-ah”, Mrs. Seo’s emotions are still high as she keeps sobbing after all this time, “are you 100% sure you’re going to invest in us?”. “I am sure, madam. I’ve called the treasurer; she’ll reach out in two days. It’s the least I can do to help, madam”. Mrs. Seo opens her arms and hugs you, “thank you, son; thank you so much”. You close your eyes and savor the genuine emotions she’s showing you, “the pleasure is mine, madam; believe me”. She lets go and fiddles with the computer in front of her, “since you insisted on paying, everything will be ₩50.000 and I’m giving you a 10% discount—so what is that, then?”. Your eyes widen in surprise when you hear her words, “wait, no, no, no. Please, there’s no need for that”. You argue back and forth with Mrs. Seo until she agrees not to give you a discount. You hand her two ₩50.000 banknotes and tell her to keep the rest, which makes her bawl her eyes out again. You’re starting to feel terrible for making these people cry so much today, so you awkwardly walk back to the table so that you can get your friends to leave with you.

Everyone stands up when they’re finally ready to leave and file out of the door one by one except for Dahyun. Before it’s your turn to leave, Mr. Seo pulls you to the side and hugs you one more time. “Thank you for everything, Jisung-ah”, Mr. Seo says to your ear, “I would offer you my Dahyun but I was told that you have a girlfriend already”. Your eyes widen in shock, “That won’t be necessary ever, Mr. Seo. I don’t even know if Dahyun likes me like that—also she’s not anyone’s property, respectfully”, you whisper in his ear. He lets go of you and shakes your hand softly, so you reciprocate his gesture and do the same. “Oppa”, Dahyun calls out to you, “thank you so much for everything, seriously. I promise I’ll do my best in the council; I’ll do whatever you guys ask me to”. You smile at her, “I know you will, Dahyun-ah. I can tell that you’re a hardworking person as well”. Dahyun looks at the door and makes sure that the coast is clear before hugging you. “I know you have Xinyu-unnie but please let me have this for now”, she then gets on her tippy toes and pecks your cheek, which makes the two of you blush at the same time. “Thank you, Dahyun-ah. I wish you and everyone health and safety. See you soon, okay?”, you make to leave the restaurant and catch up with your friends.

You get back in the car and start driving again; everyone except Xinyu (obviously) asks you to take them back to campus, so you do as they ask and take them back there. They get off at the campus gate and wave at you as you leave, and now you’re left alone with Xinyu. “Let’s go home, oppa”, she says before reaching over and palming your cock, “I’m so fucking horny, oppa—if you hadn’t stopped me back in the alley, I would’ve got on my knees and sucked your cock”. You can feel your cock getting hard and your patience running thin, so you take a deep breath before replying to Xinyu, “patience, princess; we’ll get home before you know it”. You hope that your words were good enough to convince her to be patient, but they apparently weren’t, as she keeps palming your cock the rest of the way home.

You make it back to the parking lot of your building again. You stand next to the car and wait for Xinyu to get off. Instead of taking her hand and walk side by side, you lift her by her thighs and carry her to your destination. “You’re not getting away with being such a brat—you wanna palm my cock because you’re horny? Fine, I’ll show you horny”, you whisper aggressively in her ear. “You’re gonna make me pay, daddy?”, she whispers back, her voice laced with lust. You rush to your apartment and enter the bedroom straight away. Your lust-controlled brain doesn’t want to play nice, as it makes you drop Xinyu on the bed not-too-softly. Xinyu bites her bottom lip; “I like it when you’re rough”, she says, trying to rile you up more. You want to talk dirty with her, but you’re given another idea instead; “let’s make a deal: if you can make it through this session without cumming, I’ll buy you whatever you want—including Dahyun’s restaurant. Now pick a fucking safe word”. You take off everything you have on your body in front of her, and she bites her lip again, “Oh please, just who exactly do you think I am? Just come and punish me, daddy; use me, stretch me, choke me, cum in me—do whatever pleases you and I’ll take it like a good girl, because I am one”.

You pull her off the bed and onto her feet; “strip”, you command. “Yes, daddy” is her reply; short, but laden with obedience. She takes her sweet time to take off each thing and tries putting on a show for you, but since you’re now thinking with your cock and not your brain, you’re getting impatient; “I told you to strip, princess, not to take off your clothes”, you say as you palm her neck and squeeze it slightly while glaring right into her eyes—she’s taller than most people but you still tower over her (shoutout to dad for his genes). You see that she’s starting to get intimidated but still has her strong girl façade on, “hngh—patience, daddy, plea-please”. You let her neck go and she takes the rest of her clothes seemingly nervously, as seen by how her hands shake as she’s doing it. Xinyu gets back in bed when nothing is on her body, now ready to start the session. As much as you’re horny and rough, you’re never one to act without consent, so you ask the seemingly scared girl in your bed, “are you okay? Was I too mean? Do you want to keep going?”. “N-no, you’re okay—I’m okay”, she takes a deep breath and welcomes you to bed.

You get on top of her and start sucking and nibbling her neck, marking it with your lips as she moans and sighs at the contact. “You love marking me, right, daddy?”, she eggs you on, “you like showing people who I belong to, don’t you?”. You leave her neck when you see that it has a red spot on the side, knowing that it will turn into a decently sized hickey tomorrow, “Uh-huh; they’ll know if they haven’t already”, you say to her, “if you cover it with makeup, I will make you sleep on the sofa for a month”. She pleas her case, “but what if my professors see it?”. You shrug, “we’re adults—your words, not mine. Now stay still, I have things to do”.

You move to her breasts, putting one in your mouth while fondling the other. Xinyu has always been sensitive there, so you know it’ll be plenty of stimulation for her. “Daddy”, she sighs, “why do you like my breasts so much?”. You lift your mouth off so you can reply to her; “because they fit in my hands so well”, you palm a breast; a perfect handful in your hand, “can you feel how perfect it is in my hand?”. Xinyu nods to your question, “ye-yes, daddy; they’re perfect for you, just like the rest of my body”. “Good answer, princess—you should be able to feel this as well”, you pinch a nipple and tug, making Xinyu scream instantly, “oh, fuck, fuck—the-they’re sensitive, daddy”. You chuckle, “I know they are, but you’re mine to play with”.

You play with her tits a bit more before moving on. You opt to skip her tummy (no matter how firm and soft it looks) and go straight to her pussy. “Open your legs, princess”, you command her, and she instantly spread her long legs enough for you to fit your head between them. “I-I hope you like what you see”, she says with a blush on her cheeks. Honestly, how can you not like the sight despite having seen it a lot—her perfectly pink and glistening pussy is making you drool, literally. You dive into her pussy right away; your tongue is pressed against her entrance, threatening to invade it while your index finger is on her nub. Xinyu starts moaning and squirming around as you start licking her pussy, so you hold down her thighs so that you don’t miss your target. “Remember to hold your cum”, you remind the moaning girl. Her heavy breathing makes it hard for her to verbally answer you, so she just nods to your say.

“Op-oppa”, she calls out with heavy pants, “you-you’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that”. You lift your face off her crotch and look at her in disbelief, “is that supposed to be a threat? You dare threat me, you slut? That’s the wrong name too, by the way”. Xinyu panics, “no-no, daddy; I would never—oh, fuck—I would never threaten you, I swear”. You plunge two fingers into her pussy, “that’s what I thought”. “Oh, fuck—daddy, please”, she lets out whiny moans. You know that she’s doing her best to hold off her orgasm, and you praise her for her efforts; even good girls have their limits, and hers is very close. You keep fucking her with your fingers until you feel her pussy squeeze them, indicating that she’s having her orgasm soon. True enough, she screams from the top of her lungs after a few seconds, “I’M-I’M CUMMING, FUCK!”. You pull your fingers out as she squirts her juices out and stroke her thighs to help her calm down. It takes a few minutes of moaning and whining until her mind is cleared and her high is dissipated. “You came”, you say with a fake disappointed voice. Realization of what just happened slaps her in the face, “I’m so sorry, daddy; please don’t punish me, I beg you. I-I’ll give you my mouth, I’ll give you my asshole—anything you want. Just don’t punish me, please”. “There’s no way she’s offering you her ass”, your brain says, “she’s never trained for it, has she? She’ll never be able to take your cock there—don’t take it, son”.

You decide to keep her in the dark and not tell her that you’re not getting in her ass because you’re naughty like that. “On your stomach, princess”, you command her, and you see that she’s nervous because she’s clueless as to what you have in mind. “I’m so dead; we’ve never trained my ass before and he’s getting in there—this is why you don’t run your mouth, Zhou Xinyu”, Xinyu thinks to herself. She gets even more scared when you lift her ass but not the rest of her body. You make her think that you’re going in her ass by asking her to spread her cheeks. Xinyu’s fear peaks when you put your thumb on her asshole and slather spit on it—she even sheds a tear because she’s that scared. “Look at it”, you say, “that must be so tight and snug”. “I guess this is how I die”, she thinks as more tears are released from her eyes, “he’s going in there dry, too—fuck, this will hurt like a bitch”. You remove your thumb and announce to her that you’re going in, so she closes her eyes and braces for the pain. To her surprise, you decide to plunge into her pussy instead, so Xinyu lets out a loud moan immediately; “oh, God, daddy, yes, yes—I’m your good girl, daddy”. A wave of relief washes over Xinyu; “he’s not getting in my ass!”, she thinks to herself.

You lean forward and whisper in Xinyu’s ear, “you thought I was gonna take your ass, didn’t you, princess?”. She moans before answering you, “ye-yes, daddy. I-I was so scared”. You laugh at her; you’d think she would know by now that you’d never do anything without her explicit and clear consent, but here she is, scared shitless at the prospect of losing her anal virginity to you. “I might not be taking your ass today, but I’m taking your pussy”, you say before pulling her gloriously thick jet-black hair. “It’s yours, daddy—I’m yours; take me anytime you want—oh, fuck, that’s so fucking deep”, she replies. You press Xinyu’s head into the pillow, “I’m cumming in your pussy and I want you to keep it in”. You feel her nod against your hand, and you pick up the pace of your thrusts.

You keep pumping her pussy deep and fast, just like how you like it. Xinyu is holding the pillow under her head with all her might, her knuckles turning white thanks to how hard she’s gripping it. You feel your lust peaking, so you give her rougher thrusts as your crotch makes clapping sounds when it hits Xinyu’s cheeks. Xinyu is moaning and screaming your name away, as she feels the rough thrusts you’re giving her; “I’m gonna feel this tomorrow”, she says in her head. You can feel your orgasm approaching, so you get in a squatting position without pulling out and keep thrusting into her pussy with all your strength. Xinyu knows this as well, so she eggs you on, “keep stretching me like that, daddy—oh, fuck, you’re in my belly”.

You start feeling tired from fucking her in such position. Thankfully for you, you’re so close to cumming as well. “Princess”, you say with heavy breathing, “I’m so close”. She turns her head to see you over her shoulder, “yes, daddy; I’m so close as well—oh, fuck—please let me cum with you”. You’re reminded of her words a few days ago when you said you were close, and you decide to use it against her, “I’ll let you cum if you ask nicely”. She takes a deep breath so that she can ‘ask nicely’, “daddy, please, let me cum with you—I’m-I’m begging you, daddy”. Satisfied with her answer, you pet her head; “good job, princess”. To make sure that she indeed cums with you, you reach around her waist and rub her clit as you’re fucking her.

Your orgasm finally hits after some more thrusts. You plug your cock deep into her and start shooting your cum deep into Xinyu’s pussy; at the same time, Xinyu’s legs quiver thanks to her second orgasm—no squirting this time, unfortunately. You stand up on the bed after all your cum is released into her; “if you let it leak out, I’m taking your ass”, you threaten her falsely. You know that Xinyu lacks training, so unless she trains her ass, you’re not getting in there—unless she decides to act like a brat again. Xinyu doesn’t know that it was a fake threat, so she keeps her ass up to prevent your cum from leaking out while she tries her best to catch her breath.

You jump off the bed and leave to get water and towel, “be right back, princess”. When you return, she still has her ass up because at heart, she is very obedient and just wants to please her boyfriend as much as she can. “Daddy”, she calls out with teary eyes, “can-can I put my ass down now? I’m s-starting to get tired”. You feel a rush of guilt in your heart because she actually fell for the false threat; “you can, princess. Just relax, okay?”, you say as you guide her waist down by pressing down on the small of her back until she’s flat on the bed. “I’m gonna wipe your body with this towel, okay, princess?”. You see her nod, so you start wiping her body from her nape down to her legs, making sure not to miss a spot as you go. You roll her over onto her back to clean the other side of her body and that’s when you see the messy makeup on her face—solid proof that tears were running down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, princess”, you stroke her cheeks softly with your thumb, “I was so rough on you, wasn’t I?”. She sniffles before answering you, “you-you were, but it’s okay; nothing I’m not used to”. “Can I clean that makeup for you, or do you want to do it yourself?”, you ask her. She reaches out to grab the towel from your hands and wipe her face with it, “this should be enough”. She then returns the towel to you so you can clean the rest of her body.

“Honey”, you call out to her, “wanna shower or no?”. She sighs in exhaustion, “no, too tired—you can shower if you want”. You jump back in bed and lie next to her; “no, too tired”, you return her words. She gathers all her might and scoots over so that she can cuddle you; “I hope that was satisfactory”, she says. You peck her head, “of course it was. Thank you very much, love”. “I was so scared that you were going to fuck me in the ass, daddy”, she hasn’t dropped the name yet, “you know I’ve never trained my ass so I thought you were gonna take my anal virginity raw and dry—I mean sure, it’s only right that I give you that but I was super scared”. You stroke the back of her head softly, “we can talk about that later, sweetie—just know this: I would never do anything to you without your clear and explicit consent, so until I hear that you’re ready to take me in your ass, I’m not fucking you in the ass. I promise you that”.

She hums in understanding—you can tell that she’s grateful too—but is then reminded about the deal from earlier, “so I guess you’re not buying me whatever I want since I came?”. You let out a chuckle, “what do you want to get, sweetie?”. She blushes when she realizes that she didn’t lose the deal because of how sweet and kind you really are behind all those façades, “oh-oh, um, I-I wa-want burgers and fries from Dahyun’s place again, oppa”. You nod to her, “sure, love. We can go after this if you want”.

You and Xinyu get back in the car after regaining energy and showering, as you two are now on your way to Dahyun’s restaurant for the second time today. When you arrive, you see that Dahyun’s attending the cashier this time. She sees you two in front of the door and rushes to open it for you, “oppa, unnie, welcome back!”. “Hey, baby. Nice to see you again”, Xinyu hugs the girl in front of her. “We promised we would return so here we are”, you say to her. “Where are the others, though?”, Dahyun asks. “No idea; we just had sex at home and came here after cuddling and showering”, Xinyu utters oh-so-brazenly. “OH MY GOD! UNNIE!”, Dahyun covers her ears and runs away from the two of you. You palm your face, “I’m so sorry, Dahyun-ah; you didn’t need to hear all that”. Dahyun fans her cheeks with her hands to fight her blush, “oh my, how could you say that so casually—wh-what can I get for you guys this time?”. You pinch Xinyu’s cheek for her little shenanigan before turning to Dahyun and repeat your order from this afternoon; “oh, can we get 2 more fries and that sauce again? So 4 fries in total and the sauce”, you ask her. “Of course you can, oppa. Please wait at the table for your food”.

Dahyun brings a tray of food to you after about 15 minutes. She thinks that she can waltz away after that, so you call out to her, “where on God’s green earth do you think you’re going, Dahyun-ah?”. Surprised to hear you call her that way, she walks back to you your table awkwardly, “I-I’m sorry?”. “Why do you think we ordered 4 burgers?”, you point at the empty seat next to Xinyu, “have a seat with us. We can have a little chit-chat—you can get back to work if there’s another customer coming”. “Uwuwu, my baby”, Xinyu peppers Dahyun’s face with pecks. “I’m sorry, oppa, but is unnie always like this?”, Dahyun asks you. “No, only to people she likes”, you say with a smile, indicating to her that she’s one of those people.

No other customer ends up coming, so you have the entire restaurant to yourselves. “Dahyun-ah, would you be able to cater for the entire council? I would love to introduce your products to our staffs”, you say before shoving another piece of fry coated in sauce, “holy shit, that is glorious—you know what, we’ll pay for this bottle of sauce since we’re probably finishing this”. “Oppa”, she says with a soft voice, “you.. are you serious?”. You’re not sure what she’s talking about, “pardon?”. “Are you serious about asking us to cater for the council? That’d be, like, our biggest sales so far”, she says, tears threatening to burst out of her eyes for the second time today. “Let’s ask Xinyu what she thinks”, you point to the girl sitting next to Dahyun. “I agwee wif offa”, she says with a full mouth before swallowing her food, “ehm, excuse me—yes, I agree with oppa’s idea; we should introduce this to everyone. We’ll need the sauce as well, by the way”.

Dahyun sits in silence before covering her face to hide her tears; “oppa, unnie, why are you guys so kind to us? First it was the investment and now this?”, she says with trembling voice. Xinyu hugs the crying girl, “because we love you and we love your food, baby”. If Xinyu was calling another guy “baby”, you would flip out, but you don’t mind since it’s Dahyun. “I know that we sound like a broken record, but we genuinely love the food here. Can you give me an estimation as to when you think you’ll be able to do it?”, the way you say it makes you sound like your dad right now. Dahyun sniffles and gathers her mind to think of an answer, “um, probably in a few weeks; I need to talk with my parents, though”. “Very cool”, you clap your hands once, “we’ll be having a meeting with everyone in the council at the end of September. We’ll tell them to come with an empty stomach”.

You’re now ready to leave the restaurant after finishing your burgers, fries, and a whole bottle of sauce. “We’re gonna need to hit the gym this weekend”, you think to yourself. You’re standing in front of the cashier with Dahyun and Xinyu, and that’s when Xinyu excuses herself and runs to the toilet. Dahyun keeps her eyes on Xinyu until she disappears behind the toilet door and walks up to you slowly. You’re not too sure what she’s trying to do, so you opt to let things run their course for now. She wraps her arms around your nape and pulls you down for a kiss. As she’s kissing you, you can’t help but notice how soft her lips are. Dahyun then pulls away from the kiss after a few seconds; “I swear I’ll find a way to repay you, just wait—also, don’t think that I didn’t see your mark on unnie’s neck; sex with you must be amazing, oppa”, she says before taking a few steps back to avoid Xinyu’s suspicion. “You’re saying a lot of nonsense right now, darling”, you say in a quiet voice—that’s another pet name spilling out of your lips and Dahyun catches it right away. “Darling, hm? I like the sound of that, darling”, she winks at you and walks away. Perfect timing, really, because you see that Xinyu is opening the toilet door and about to walk out.

You close your eyes and put a palm on your forehead; “what is happening right now, man?”. Life is throwing another girl at you, and you’re not sure why because you already have a girlfriend—a lovely one at that. You take a deep breath before holding your girlfriend’s hand and leading her out of the door. You take a glance at Dahyun over your shoulder, and you see her wink at you once again. “I’m so fucking cooked”, you think to yourself.

#girl group smut #triples smut #kpop smut #smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #male reader smut #male reader

462 notes · View notes

world-of-aus · 9 months ago

Text

The Arrangement - Prologue

Pairing: Mobboss!Bucky x Reader

Chapter Warnings: None.

Authors Note: Any and all writing errors are my own. Am I going to attempt a mobboss, arranged marriage series? Yes. Will I give this series my all? Also yes! I hope yall enjoy this prologue, more to come soon 🤍

Your sister called off the wedding. Come home now.

“Mother please sit down,” you plead, watching her pace the carpet in your fathers office, “you’re going to worry yourself sick, surely she just caught a case of cold feet its going to be alright, she’ll come around you'll see, she’s done this before – she knows how important this union is for both our families.”

Your mother stops in her stride head snapping to you her eyes turned to slits, desperation hidden behind the anger in her eyes. “Your sister went to Winnifred Barnes herself this morning, told her she could no longer marry her son didn’t even give a valid reason as to why, no actual explanation and then what does she do? She up and leaves town, hasn’t answered a single call or text from me or your father even her ex-fiancé cant get a ahold of her. And what’s worse is we didn’t even find out from her, this information came from Winnifred and let me just say – she wasn’t pleased this isn’t just a case of cold feet.”

Trying to be the voice of reason you go to reassure your mother, “this a big event in her life mother, she’s to be handed off in less than a week for a merger that’s been written in the stars for years now between two families ours and the Barnes. You must give her some grace, she’s overwhelmed, she’s probably scared, her life is going to change drastically in less than a weeks a time. She knew – no she knows how important this merger is for both families, she wouldn’t do this she loves him.”

“But she did sweetheart,” your father speaks up a weak and tired smile on his lips, “and as much as you want to come to her aide, there is no defending your sisters actions. We’re even lucky that Winnifred has agreed to give us a chance to right her wrongs.”

“That’s great, we can buy ourselves time! I’ll change her mind, make her come home.”

Your father shakes his head, “we’re out of time sweetheart.”

“No, just give me a chance to talk to her, talk her off the ledge, I’ll even reach out to Winnie.”

Your dads shaking his head again, your mothers pacing stopped as she moves over to you, “there is no more time sweetheart,” your mother murmurs as she takes the seat next to you, her hands reaching for yours, “they no longer see your sister as an option for this marriage.”

You suck in a breath, “but that means –“ your fathers expression is enough to confirm your suspicion.

“You’re to be married to James Barnes in a weeks time.”

You forget how to breath, “No. No. We can – I can.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart.”

Those words are the nail in the coffin, neither your mom or your dad stopping you as you bolt from the room. As you race down the hallway you rip your phone from the confines of your coat getting your sisters contact open.

“Tell me where you are, I can come to you – we can fix this.”

“I can’t do this. I love you all so much, but I just can’t. I’m sorry, please understand.”

“I know you’re scared, but you won’t be alone I promise, please just tell me where you are lets talk about this.”

Free MSG: Unable to send message—message blocking active.

“No. No. No.” You breathe pressing the call icon bringing the phone up to your ear. Your curse when you’re automatically forwarded to her inbox .

“Please don’t do this, they want me to marry him, I cant do that to you, to him, please!”

Free MSG: Unable to send message—message blocking active.

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening, this wasn’t part of the plan, this wasn’t part of the plan.

It was supposed to be her, not you.

He wanted her, not you.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #mobboss!bucky

327 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 1 month ago

Note

Hello! I was wondering if I could request Topaz for your mystery plant series? If you don't mind, of course! I really like your works!

MYSTERY PLANT

Yandere!Topaz x Reader

The bulb of the strange plant shuddered. You stepped back, watching as the thick, golden-hued vines unfurled from the pod, slithering along the damp earth like greedy fingers. The energy you had poured into it moments ago still hummed in the air, a faint, shimmering light pulsing from the petals. Then, with a final tremor, the bulb split open.

A figure emerged—limbs stretching, hair tumbling down. Her eyes locked onto yours, filled with a sharp intelligence that sent a chill down your spine.

“Ah…” Her voice was soft, musing, like someone waking from a pleasant dream. “So, you’re the one who gave me life?”

She took a step forward, bare feet pressing into the soil. The vines behind her coiled and pulsed, as if still connected to her, feeding her energy.

Her head tilted slightly. “Mmm… You’re quite the generous one, aren’t you? Giving me all this energy… It almost feels like a contract.”

Before you could step back, a soft touch grazed your wrist. You felt the energy between you shift, like invisible threads tangling, tightening.

“So tell me…” Her eyes gleamed, “How long do you plan to take responsibility for me?”

Numby appeared moments after Topaz, its small, round form emerging from the remnants of the bulb like a creature shaking off sleep. It let out a soft, inquisitive hum before rolling over to your feet, sniffing at the energy still lingering in the air.

Your brow furrowed. This… wasn’t supposed to happen.

Normally, when you used your energy to create artificial plants, there was only ever one spawn—one life form birthed from the process, no more, no less. It was a fixed rule, something you had confirmed through trial and error countless times. But now, standing before you, were two.

Topaz must have noticed your expression because she let out another small giggle, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she crouched down to stroke Numby’s head. “Surprised?”

“You shouldn’t exist like this,” you said plainly, eyes flicking between her and Numby. “There’s only ever one spawn per creation. Something about you is… different.”

Topaz hummed at that, tapping a finger to her chin in mock contemplation. “Different, huh?” A mischievous smile curled her lips as she straightened, stepping even closer to you. “Then maybe that just means I was meant to be special.”

She reached out again, fingers brushing against your wrist as if testing the connection between you two. Numby let out a small trill, nudging against your leg, its presence reinforcing the reality of the situation.

---

The streets buzzed with the usual hum of city life—voices overlapping, machinery whirring, advertisements flashing on massive holo-screens. It was nothing new to you, but for Topaz and Numby, it was an entirely different world.

Topaz walked beside you, taking everything in with calculating eyes. Numby, on the other hand, had taken to perching on her shoulder, its ears twitching at every unfamiliar sound. Occasionally, it would let out a small hum of interest, only for Topaz to pat its head in silent reassurance.

You had expected her to be overwhelmed. Most spawns, even the strongest ones, took time to adjust to the sheer density of artificial structures, the lack of natural energy in the air. But Topaz? She was completely unfazed.

“This place is noisy” she mused. Her eyes flicked to an overhead drone delivering packages across the skyline. “But it’s efficient.”

“You’re handling this better than I expected.”

“What, did you think I’d be clinging to you for guidance?”

You said nothing, and she laughed, her voice light but carrying that same undeniable confidence. “Relax, I’m adaptable. Besides, you’re here to show me the ropes, aren’t you?”

“Right. Come on.”

You led her through the city, pointing out the basics—the transport system, the automated shops, the information hubs. She absorbed it all quickly, asking the right questions at the right times, making it clear that she wasn’t just following along but learning. Numby, meanwhile, had discovered the joy of vending machines, bouncing in place every time a drink or snack was dispensed.

At some point, Topaz stopped in front of a large stock exchange board, watching the numbers flicker and shift in real time.

“This world runs on deals, doesn’t it?”

You nodded. “Money, contracts, trades—it’s all about value.”

Topaz tapped a finger against her lips, a slow smile forming. “Sounds familiar.” She turned to you, “Then I guess I’ll have to find my worth here, too.”

“Come on, teacher,” she teased. “Show me more.”

You weren’t sure whether you were guiding her through the city or walking straight into a deal you couldn’t back out of.

The day stretched on as you led Topaz and Numby through different parts of the city. She was sharp—far too sharp for someone who had only just been born from your energy. Each new concept you introduced was absorbed quickly, as if she had already been familiar with the mechanics of this world and was simply refreshing her memory.

She tested things, too. When you explained the transport system, she didn't just nod along—she insisted on navigating it herself. Within minutes, she had accessed the terminal, calculated the most efficient route, and stepped onto the train like she had done it a hundred times before.

Numby, on the other hand, was less concerned with efficiency and more concerned with fun. It had taken a particular interest in the moving walkways, rolling across them in sheer delight until Topaz had to pick it up with an amused sigh.

"You really shouldn't be learning this fast" you muttered as the train doors closed behind you.

Topaz turned to you with a playful smirk, resting an elbow on the safety bar. "Shouldn’t I? Or do you just not like how easily I’m catching up?"

You frowned. It wasn’t about pride—it was about how unnatural this was. Spawns always struggled to adjust, needing guidance, patience. Yet here she was, already blending into the world like she had always belonged.

"Don't think too hard about it," she added, leaning in just slightly. "Maybe I'm just special, remember?"

You let out a breath, watching as the city blurred past the windows. She wasn’t wrong.

After a few more stops, you reached the marketplace—an open plaza lined with vendors selling everything from high-tech gadgets to handmade crafts. It was one of the busiest areas in the city, a perfect place to see how Topaz handled crowds.

She thrived in it.

Where most newcomers hesitated at the overwhelming stimulation, she weaved through people effortlessly, stopping only when something caught her interest. A merchant showcasing valuable minerals? She analyzed them with a keen eye, even bargaining like she already knew the tricks of the trade. A food stall selling grilled skewers? She grabbed one without hesitation, offering you a bite with an easy grin.

"You should eat too," she said. "Gotta keep your energy up. Wouldn’t want you collapsing on me, would we?"

You took the skewer with a sigh, watching as she turned her attention to a nearby digital board displaying the latest economic trends.

"You seem really interested in all this business stuff."

"It’s just… familiar. Feels right, you know?"

Numby let out an affirming trill, rubbing against her cheek.

"Say," she mused, stepping closer, "you never did answer my question from earlier."

"Which one?"

"How long do you plan to take responsibility for me?"

Topaz stared at you. You had expected her to laugh it off, maybe tease you again—but instead, she simply tilted her head.

"Until someone chooses me" she echoed, voice slow, deliberate. "Or until I can live on my own."

You nodded. "That's the purpose of my role. I bring things like you into existence and support them until they can sustain themselves. It’s not about ownership—it’s about balance."

Numby let out a small hum, nestled against Topaz’s neck, but she barely reacted. Her focus was entirely on you.

"That’s an interesting perspective" she mused, taking a step closer. "But tell me—what if I don’t want to be chosen by someone else?"

"That’s not really up to me. Everyone finds their own path eventually."

Her fingers tapped against her arm in thought. "And if I decide that my path is you?"

"That’s not how this works, Topaz" you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You were born from my energy, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay tied to me. You’re supposed to grow, adapt, and—"

"—and what?" she interrupted, stepping even closer. "Leave you behind?"

"You gave me life. You’ve shown me this world. And now you’re telling me that, at some point, I should just go?"

"That’s a flawed system" she finally said, crossing her arms. "If you bring things to life only to let them go, then what do you get out of it?"

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off with a knowing chuckle. "Let me guess—‘it’s not about getting something in return.’ Right?"

Topaz sighed, shaking her head. "You’re too selfless for your own good." Then, before you could react, she reached forward and grabbed your wrist.

"Fine," she said, squeezing just slightly. "If I have to prove I can sustain myself, I will. But don’t think for a second that means I’m going to walk away."

Topaz had already decided she wasn’t going anywhere.

The day had been routine—another cycle of creation, watching as new life formed and found their place in the world. You had always found a quiet satisfaction in it, knowing that your role was to guide and nurture until they could stand on their own.

Topaz had watched the process with a thoughtful expression, her sharp gaze analyzing every moment. She didn’t say much, but you could tell she was absorbing everything. Even Numby, who usually found more joy in simple pleasures, had been curiously observing the way you worked.

By evening, you were preparing to head back when the distant sound of alarms cut through the streets. Smoke curled into the sky, and without hesitation, you, Topaz, and Numby rushed toward the source.

The fire had engulfed a grand estate, flames licking at the ornate walls, threatening to reduce everything to ash. The city’s emergency forces were already responding, but there was too much damage spreading too quickly.

Without thinking, you leaped into action, using your abilities to create a barrier of plant life—moist vines and thick roots curling against the fire’s edges to slow its spread. Topaz, never one to stand idly by, took charge of organizing the efforts, directing people to safety.

And Numby—Numby was the true hero.

The small creature darted through the smoke, following the panicked cries of a trapped child. With incredible speed, it found its way inside and emerged moments later, the child clinging desperately to it. The sight of them, framed against the burning house, sent a wave of relief through the onlookers.

By the time the fire was under control, exhaustion had settled into your bones. But the gratitude on the faces of the family who owned the estate made it clear that your efforts had not gone unnoticed.

The patriarch of the family—a man of considerable wealth and influence—stepped forward, his expression grim yet grateful. "You saved my child. You saved us. Whatever you need, whatever is within my power, consider it yours."

You opened your mouth to refuse—after all, this wasn’t about rewards—but before you could speak, Topaz placed a hand on your shoulder, stepping forward with a confident smile.

"Actually," she said smoothly, "I do have a request."

The family turned their attention to her, intrigued. You, however, felt a sense of unease creep in.

"I want official recognition in this world. A place where I belong."

A silence fell over the group.

Topaz wasn’t just asking for a favor.

She was securing her place—permanently.

The head of the wealthy family exchanged glances with his wife, then nodded. “That is a reasonable request” he said. “We will make sure you are properly acknowledged.”

“Good.” Topaz’s fingers curled slightly against your shoulder, grounding herself. “And one more thing.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“I want to be registered with them,” she continued, glancing at you. “Not just as someone who exists in this world, but as someone under their care.”

You opened your mouth to object, but the patriarch simply nodded again. “That can be arranged. Given the circumstances, it would be fitting.”

Fitting? Fitting?!

You finally turned fully to Topaz, lowering your voice so only she could hear. “What are you doing?”

She smiled innocently. “What do you mean? Didn’t you say it yourself? You bring things like me to life, and you support us until we can live on our own.”

“That doesn’t mean tying yourself to me like this”

“You said I’d have to find my own path,” she murmured. “I just decided that my path is you.”

Numby let out a soft trill, as if agreeing.

Before you could protest further, the family’s legal aide approached, already drafting the paperwork. “If you’ll both provide identification, we can finalize this within the hour.”

Topaz tilted her head at you expectantly, waiting.

You could refuse. You could fight this.

But looking at her now, at the way her grip on you never loosened, at the way her presence had already begun to entwine with yours like it was always meant to be there…

She had no intention of letting you go.

When the contract was signed, Topaz beamed, her eyes shining with satisfaction. The rich family—grateful for the fire rescue—handled everything swiftly, securing her official residency papers, identification, and even setting her up with financial resources.

It should have been a relief. Instead, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

“This means I’m officially part of this world now” Topaz mused, stretching her arms with a pleased sigh. “No more uncertainties, no more temporary existence. You really are reliable, aren’t you?”

She turned to you, her gaze lingering just a second too long before she grinned. “Now, all that’s left is securing my future. I should get a job.”

The declaration caught you off guard. “A job?”

“Of course,” she replied easily. “You said it yourself—people here need to be able to support themselves, right? If I’m going to stay, I should learn how this world works firsthand.”

Over the next few days, Topaz threw herself into researching job opportunities. She poured over listings, asked you endless questions about different careers, and even dragged you to various workplaces to observe how things functioned.

She was meticulous, but more than that—she was determined.

It didn’t take long for her to settle on what she wanted.

“I’ve decided” she announced one evening, leaning against the table with a triumphant smirk. “I want to work in finance.”

The moment she set her sights on the industry, she moved quickly. The rich family pulled a few strings, arranging an interview for her at a prestigious firm. You thought she might need time to prepare, but Topaz approached the opportunity with an unsettling confidence.

“They’ll love me” she said with absolute certainty. “After all, I know exactly how to get what I want.”

And she did.

She aced the interview, securing a position almost immediately. The higher-ups were charmed by her charisma, her keen eye for opportunities, and—most of all—her aggressive approach to negotiations.

“I made quite the impression” she told you afterward, her eyes glinting with amusement. “The hiring manager said I was relentless. Can you believe that?”

You could.

You really, really could.

With a job now anchoring her to this world, Topaz’s presence in your life should have lessened. She should have become busier, more independent, more focused on her own path.

Instead, she became even more involved in yours.

She adapted quickly—too quickly. She learned how to balance her work while ensuring you remained within reach at all times. No matter how much time passed, no matter how late her shifts ran, she always made time to check in on you.

“Did you eat today?” she would ask, appearing at your doorstep unannounced. If you hesitated, even for a second, she’d already be pulling out pre-packaged meals—ones she had chosen for you.

“I heard you had a long day” she would say, messaging you before you even got the chance to tell her.

“I made sure you weren’t overworked” she’d mention casually, dropping hints that she knew more about your workplace than she should.

Everything had been moving so fast. Topaz’s job, her increasing presence in your life, the way she always seemed to anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It was suffocating, but you convinced yourself that she was simply adapting to her new life.

That illusion shattered the night you found the hidden clause in the contract.

While cleaning, a stack of old documents caught your eye—the papers from when the rich family arranged Topaz’s residency. You skimmed through them absentmindedly, expecting nothing unusual.

Until you saw it.

A clause written in fine print, nearly imperceptible at first glance:

“The creator assumes responsibility for the subject’s well-being and longevity. Any attempts to abandon, neglect, or separate from the subject will result in automatic reinforcement of binding protocols.”

The contract wasn’t just about giving Topaz legal status—it was a binding agreement tying you to her indefinitely.

A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

"You finally noticed, huh?"

Topaz’s voice was warm against your ear, dripping with amusement. Her grip tightened slightly, just enough to keep you in place.

“I was wondering when you’d find out.”

"Topaz… what did you do?"

She hummed, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Nothing too drastic. I just made sure you wouldn’t leave me behind."

"I knew you'd be hesitant," she continued, as if this was completely normal. "So I planned ahead. This world is unpredictable, after all. What if you decided I didn’t belong here? What if you thought I’d be fine on my own?"

Her fingers traced lazy patterns against your skin, her voice lowering to something almost dangerous.

"I couldn’t risk that, could I?"

You should run.

But when she turned you around, her eyes burning with possession, your body betrayed you—drawn into a kiss that sealed your fate.

Your breath came in shallow gasps. The weight of the revelation crushed you, and before you could react—before you could even think—Topaz’s arms tightened around your waist.

She was stronger than she looked.

"Let go" you choked out, trying to push against her hold, but she didn’t budge.

“Why are you fighting me?” she murmured, her voice soft, coaxing, as if she were gentling you instead of trapping you. “Didn’t I do everything right? I worked hard, I adapted, I made myself worthy of this world—worthy of you.”

Her fingers dug into your sides slightly, grounding you, keeping you from slipping away.

"That’s not the point, Topaz!" Your voice wavered, frustration and something dangerously close to fear creeping in. “You’re a kind person. You saved that child. You helped people. Why—why go this far? Why force me into this when I never even tried to abandon you?”

“Exactly,” she whispered. “You never tried to abandon me… yet.”

Her hands trailed slowly up your arms.

“But what about tomorrow? What about a year from now? What if one day, you wake up and decide you don’t need me anymore?”

“You create life, but you don’t keep it. Everything you bring into this world gets adopted, moved, taken away.”

“I refuse to be just another creation that slips through your fingers.”

You struggled harder, twisting in her grasp, but then—

Thud

Something heavy landed against your feet, pinning them down.

Numby.

Then, the creature had plopped its entire weight onto you, pressing firmly, restricting movement.

“Numby?”

It cooed, rubbing its head against your leg—but it didn’t move off you.

Topaz exhaled, pleased. “Good job, Numby.”

"You even got Numby involved in this?"

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Numby loves me. And Numby knows what’s best for me." She leaned in, her breath fanning against your cheek. "And what’s best for me… is you.”

"I won’t let you slip away."

Then, before you could protest, her lips descended on yours again.

You tried to move, but between her grip and Numby’s weight, you were utterly trapped.

The worst part?

Somewhere, deep down, beneath the shock and the fear—you kissed her back.

Your teeth sank into Topaz’s lower lip, hard enough to taste blood.

She let out a sharp breath, momentarily loosening her grip. You should have used that moment to push her away, to run—but you didn’t.

Because despite everything, part of you knew it was already too late. You weren’t going anywhere.

Topaz's tongue flicked out to taste the blood, a smirk forming as she gazed at you. “You still have fight in you” she murmured. “Good. I don’t want you to break too easily.”

Numby pressed more of its weight onto you, ensuring you wouldn’t try anything else. It cooed—as if this was just another routine moment.

You had little choice. Within days, you were packed up and moved to a new place.

It wasn’t just a different neighborhood—it was an entirely separate sector controlled by Topaz’s people. A district bustling with traders, enforcers, and business elites, where everything operated under the watchful eye of a single authority: Topaz.

It was clear you wouldn’t be able to escape. Not when every street had her people stationed, not when Numby would follow you everywhere, ensuring you never wandered too far.

And Topaz?

She was busy—so busy.

You watched from the sidelines, carefully observing as Topaz commanded her subordinates.

The room was grand, a luxurious office filled with data projections and financial reports, with enforcers and officials standing at attention.

She sat at the head of the table, completely in control.

“Profits are up by 12%, but our collection efficiency is still below expectations” one of the officers reported.

Topaz crossed her legs, fingers tapping against the polished desk. “Unacceptable.” Her voice was sharp, unwavering. “I don’t care if the clients have excuses. We don’t run a charity.”

No one dared to oppose her.

“Double the enforcement on delinquent accounts,” she continued smoothly. “And if they can’t pay, remind them what happens to those who waste my time.”

The enforcers nodded immediately, moving to execute her orders.

Even in her absence, her power was absolute.

After an entire day of watching her command, dictate, and control—after witnessing the sheer authority she wielded over her subordinates—you expected her to return home and carry that same presence with her.

But you were wrong.

The moment she stepped through the door, the aura of the ruthless executive vanished.

“Y/N~”

Her voice was warm, almost syrupy as she called out to you, and before you could fully react, she had already wrapped herself around you, arms winding tightly around your waist.

Numby cooed happily beside her, nuzzling against your leg as if this had become an established routine.

You stiffened, still unsure how to react to this softer version of her.

Topaz pressed herself closer, resting her head against your shoulder with a satisfied hum. "Mmm… finally home."

“You were just terrifying a few hours ago,” you muttered. “Ordering enforcers to hunt down late payments, making your subordinates tremble—”

“And now I’m here,” she interrupted, nuzzling against your neck, “where none of that matters. Just you, me, and Numby.”

“You’re the only one who gets this side of me.”

“…You’re not letting me go, are you?”

She laughed softly, her breath tickling your skin. “Never.”

Then, before you could process it, she leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Now,” she purred, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “why don’t you tell me how much you missed me?”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #hsr topaz #topaz x reader #heliosmysplant

101 notes · View notes