20's midlife crisis.mp4 loading....}

11 hours, 34 minutes, and 34 seconds. then 40. then more. sukuna counts them all without meaning to, like something wired too deep into him to stop. each second stretching, dragging, carving itself into his bones as time refuses to move fast enough.

his eyes burn, raw and unforgiving, a kind of ache he’s never known. not even in those long, merciless nights bent over a laptop back in his college days. this is worse. dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, lashes still damp.

he sits rigid in a cheap, dark blue hospital chair, one that creaks every time he so much as breathes too deeply, yet he hasn’t moved from it in hours. maybe longer. his body feels locked in place, but his mind drifts, slipping in and out of a dull haze until the sound of a door jolts him upright again, sharp, alert, feral in the way his gaze snaps toward it. every time without fail. his hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching, trembling despite himself, nails pressing into fabric as if grounding himself is the only thing keeping him together.

the baby is fine. he knows she is. he’s checked too many times for anyone to comment on without risking the look he’d give them. each visit ends the same way: standing on the other side of the glass, large hand pressed flat against it, breath fogging the surface as something unfamiliar tightens in his chest. he doesn’t stay long. he can’t. not when you’re not there.

everything in him had gone cold— no, empty the moment they rushed you away. the world had narrowed down to the sight of you on that bed, face twisted in pain, your fingers clutching his with a strength that spoke of fear you rarely ever showed. and he had felt it too, sharp and suffocating, coiling tight in his chest in a way he couldn’t fight, couldn’t control.

then a clipboard had been shoved into his line of sight, a nurse speaking too quickly. “mr. ryomen, you need to sign this form in case the baby—”

“my wife.”

his voice had cut through hers without hesitation. not loud nor panicked. just final.

for a moment, everything had stilled. even you had looked at him, eyes wide despite the pain. He hadn’t even looked back at the paper.

“i choose my wife.”

after that, they had forced him out, the doors closing between you with a finality that made something ugly claw at his ribs. since then, all he’s done is wait, endless, suffocating waiting, counting seconds like they’re the only thing he has left to hold onto.

people came. of course they did. gojo, loud and insufferable even in a hospital, arms filled with gifts that cost more than necessary. geto, calm, offering congratulations that barely registered. toji lingering off to the side, megumi in his arms as he tried, awkwardly, to show him the newborn through the glass, jin nearby with itadori and choso, their presence filling the hallway with low conversation and quiet excitement.

sukuna acknowledged none of it beyond a glance at best.

because none of it mattered.

not the gifts, not the voices, not the child he had already seen and silently loved.

the only thing on his mind was you.

his wife.

“mr. ryomen?”

his name lands and something in him snaps taut and slack all at once. sukuna is on his feet before he’s fully aware of moving, the chair scraping faintly behind him. the sudden shift makes his vision tilt for a second, exhaustion catching up, but he steadies through it, jaw set, legs carrying him forward even as they threaten to give.

“she’s awake, everything is stable. you may see her now.”

that’s all he needs.

the door barely has time to open before he’s through it, pace quick, bordering on reckless, yet each step feels impossibly heavy as the weight of the past hours clings to him, refusing to let go. the sterile white of the room greets him, too bright, too clean, and then—

you.

everything else falls away.

you’re laid against the stark sheets, small in a way he’s never seen you before, exhaustion carved into every line of your face, the aftermath of something brutal and beautiful all at once. you look fragile. spent. human.

and still— still you’ve never looked more perfect to him.

his chest tightens, something sharp and overwhelming lodging itself beneath his ribs as his eyes lock onto yours. they find him easily, soft despite the fatigue, a faint smile ghosting over your lips as your hand lifts, barely reaching for him.

“my love…” your voice is hoarse, worn thin, and it nearly undoes him.

he closes the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees at your bedside without care for anything else, large hand immediately enclosing yours as if to confirm you’re real, warm and alive. here. he brings it to his face, pressing slow, reverent kisses to your knuckles, your palm, your wrist, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

something wet slips against your skin.

“ryo…?” your voice is softer now, concerned, your fingers twitching as if to pull away, but he doesn’t let go not out of force, never that, but out of something far more desperate.

he tightens just enough to keep you there, head bowed, shoulders trembling in a way that doesn’t belong to a man like him.

“there…” his voice catches, rough, uneven, breath hitching as the memory crashes back; your face twisted in pain, the sound of it, the helplessness of being torn away. his brows pull together sharply, grip faltering for a second before tightening again. “there won’t be another.”

he presses another kiss to your skin, slower this time. like sealing a vow into you.

“there won’t be another,” he repeats, quieter, but no less absolute.

you blink at him, caught off guard, and then despite everythin a soft, breathy laugh escapes you. “don’t be stupid, ryo.”

his head lifts just enough for you to see the way his expression twists, raw and unguarded, eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped.

“i don’t—” his breath stutters, voice breaking in a way he doesn’t bother to hide, “—want to see you like that again.” his hand curls into the sheets beside you, gripping the fabric tight as if grounding himself, “not like that. not ever.”

you soften instantly, both hands coming up carefully to cradle his face, guiding him closer despite the way he resists for half a second.

“did you see her?” you murmur, thumb brushing beneath his eye, catching the dampness there.

he nods, quick, almost eager despite everything, leaning into your touch without thinking. “i did… but—” his voice drops, “i wanted to see my wife.”

“oh, ryo…” you pull him closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips; soft, lingering, tasting faintly of salt.

he exhales against you, eyes closing briefly, forehead coming to rest against yours as his hand finds its place around yours again, unwilling to let go.

“there won’t be another,” he says, quieter now. final.

you study him for a moment. at the fear still lingering beneath the surface, and the love that outweighs everything else, and your expression softens into something certain.

“okay,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “there won’t.”

Loki: “Why would I say ‘cheese’?”

Mobius: “It’s— It’s just a thing people say when they have their photo taken…”

Loki: “What if I was lactose intolerant, Mobius? Very insensitive of you. Saying ‘cheese’ does not make me want to smile. It makes me hungry.”

Mobius: *sigh* “Okay, say… ‘When I was 8 I once stabbed Thor after tricking him by turning myself into a snake as a prank’.”

Loki: “When I was 8 I once stabbed Thor after tricking him by turning myself into a snake as a prank.” *smiles*