#machines and life intertwine in a beautiful

[ergodyke]

My boy builds coffins

ok what’s your florence + the machine song. mine is rabbit heart (raise it up)<3

[sukunahs]

This blindness I'm condemned to - ryomen sukuna

summary: you've spent your life as a priestess dedicated to the two-faced god known as sukuna. As war descends upon your treasured city you call upon your god for aid only to find that he's taken a particularly special interest in you.

this is greek mythology au, inspired by the story of apollo and cassandra.

word count: 11k

warning: there is some dubious consent in this one, if you’re not comfortable please don’t read.

content: 18+ mdni, smut, dubcon, fem!reader, greek myth, angst, character death, power imbalance, age gap (kinda - he’s a god and she’s mortal), spitting, loss of virginity, dacryphilia, piv, cunnilingus, blow job, depictions of war/sacking of a city, unhappy ending (sorry!)

authors note: was listening to cassandra by florence + the machine on repeat for this one.

Your whole life has been devoted to one thing, the worship of him. 

There’s no moment in your memory that exists without him, his being was intertwined with your very existence. As a child you would spend hours at the temple under the strict orders of your parents, engaging in prayer and offerings. As you grew and matured you underwent training to become a priestess, to dedicate your whole life to him, to Ryomen Sukuna. 

He was great, but terrible. An all-powerful being worthy of reverence. He could make or break nations with the flick of his wrist, cause great plagues or cure impossible ailments, bestow blessings or inflict terrible curses. Such was his nature of being a two-faced god, his mood ever-changing. 

Sukuna was a constant part of your life, and yet he always felt so distant to you. Like some far-off character from a fairy tale that your parents used to tell you. You had faith in his existence of course, the evidence was everywhere. But your modest little life was confined primarily to the four walls of the temple that you had grown up in, so far removed from those brilliant and terrible acts that Sukuna committed across the world. 

Until they weren’t. 

The sleepy city that you had lived in your whole life was drawn abruptly into centre stage, with the crown prince kidnapping a princess from a neighbouring country. 

He had claimed that it was for love, that the woman he had taken wanted to be with him, to be rid of her brute of a husband. But as with all matters of marriage, the woman’s say matters little. So, the offended party called upon his legions of allies and marched upon the city. Your beautiful city, which had only ever lived in peace, turned into a warzone - under constant siege from the enemy at the door, all over a single girl. 

For just one single girl, the eyes of all the gods were keenly watching. Waiting to see what would happen next, who would prevail. The gods all have their favourites of course, leading to them intervening with mortal squabbles in esoteric ways - not wanting to appear as though they’re actively aiding their chosen mortals to avoid open war amongst each other. 

You can’t understand the bloodshed, but you know better than to start questioning the gods and their love for war. That doesn’t stop you from despising the way that the city walls are painted red, the constant clashing of swords, the sound of soldiers taking their last breaths on the battlefield. You hate that no matter how hard you pray for safety, for yourself and your people, that your prayers go completely unanswered. 

But without your piety you have nothing. You’d be stripped of your entire being. So you lock yourself into the temple, spending day after day knelt at the altar, providing offerings for your god and hoping that for once you will be heard. 

Until one day your wishes are answered. 

Things had been perfectly mundane on that warm evening, with you being the only priestess left in the temple, humming to yourself as you went about your usual duties. 

You hadn’t noticed him at first, hadn’t bothered to turn towards the door when you heard it creak open. People were always coming and going, worshippers and priestesses alike. Especially in these troubled times, more and more of the devout would find themselves seeking out answers in the temple, in the hope that their piety would bring a swift end to this war. 

But as the minutes dragged on, it felt as though the air in the temple had grown heavy - oppressive even. Taking a moment to catch your breath, assuming that you must have overexerted yourself whilst sweeping the floors, you braced your hand against the wall. Out of the corner of your eye you saw movement, and you instinctively dragged your gaze up towards the door. 

The first thought that crossed your mind as you looked upon the hulking figure in the doorway was that he was beautiful. It was beauty in a devastating sort of way, like watching a volcano erupt - gorgeous, but only if you’re far enough away from the destruction that it will leave in its wake. 

As your eyes trailed over him slowly, taking in the four arms, four striking red eyes, tanned skin littered with tattoos and stained with blood; your second thought was that you were terrified. You found that in your heart was a deep-set sense of fear, screaming at you to look away, to run, to get as far away from him as you possibly could. 

But your body wasn’t capable of doing anything in that moment, feet rooted to the floor and your eyes glued to his form. 

“Shouldn’t you be on your knees, priestess?” His voice was deep and gravelly, the sound felt like it was reverberating through your bones. 

It was as if your body responded instinctively to his order, with you dropping to your knees at his command, head bowed respectfully. You wanted to mumble out an apology, but you found yourself unable to draw upon any sound. 

“That’s better.” He purred. 

There was silence for a moment, before the temple filled with the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing as he approached your kneeling form. He towered over you, heat rolling off his battle-hardened body in waves. You didn’t dare to chance a peek upwards, keeping your eyes firmly on the marble beneath you. 

You flinched a little as he chuckled. There was a sound of fabric shuffling as he crouched down, and all of a sudden a warm feeling of his fingers brushing against your chin, as he firmly raised you into a kneeling position. Tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Heart fluttering a little at his touch, your eyes darted around his face, taking in the striking black lines that ran down his cheeks, the twisted mask that sat on the right side of his face - responsible for his reputation as the two-faced god. Your eyes finally settle on his, which seem to be carefully studying you, a deep intensity burning behind those red irises. 

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He spoke, his tone almost soft as he dropped his hand from your face. “Tell me your name.” 

You tell him, your words coming out shaky and unsure. A smile spreads across his face at the sound of your voice - perhaps his response should’ve put you at ease, but there’s no warmth in his expression, an involuntary shiver running through you at the sight. 

“Ah, so you are the one I’ve heard of. Good.” 

“You’ve heard of me?” You hate how small your voice sounds. 

He gives you a hum of acknowledgement. “Plenty of the men on this side of the fight mention you, you perform your role diligently. Most of the offerings in my name are coming from this side of the wall, I suppose to some extent I have you to thank.” 

“I just do my duty.” 

“Indeed.” There’s that smile again, all teeth, never quite spreading up to his eyes. “I wonder though, if those men visit my temple so regularly because they are devout, or because they lust after the one who provides the services.” 

Your face went red with the implication. You paid little attention to the desires of men who entered the temple, it’s likely that any attempt at an advance would’ve gone unnoticed by you. You had sworn an oath of chastity when you became a priestess, the wants of men mattered little to you - your only concern was maintaining the sanctity of Sukuna’s sacred halls, anything else was inconsequential. 

“I can’t imagine that anyone would enter here other than for worship.” You responded. 

He stared at you for a moment before bursting into laughter, a loud booming sound that echoed around the room. 

“Oh sweetheart, you should hear some of the things that those men out there say about you. The things that they would do to you, if they weren’t so afraid of me.” 

He paused for a second to take in the look of disgust that flickered across your face. 

“I had assumed that those men were exaggerating in their tales of your beauty, that they simply hadn’t had a woman in a long time - but if anything, I’d say they were underselling you. You are something truly divine. It's strange, all these humans squabbling over that fool of a girl, but she’s nowhere near as exquisite as you.”

Your heart was hammering desperately in your chest, wondering for a moment if you might be dreaming, to have him bestow such high praise upon you.

“Thank you…” You whispered. 

“I wish to bestow a blessing on you.” He said, matter-of-factly. 

“A blessing?” You asked, your curiosity piqued. You’d heard of this sort of thing, gods providing all sorts of boons to their favored mortals. For the most part it was men, great heroes among mortals who would receive such gifts, very rarely women. You wondered what he would even expect you to with his blessing - you were no fighter, he couldn’t possibly expect you to wield one of his gifts out on the battlefield. 

“Yes, something to help you perform your role as my priestess more effectively.” 

“How would it work?” 

He seemed to ponder on that for a moment. “I can provide you with the gift of foresight. You’ll be able to see the future, like an oracle of sorts but with much greater clarity. You’d be able to see the outcome of this war.”

You thought about that for a moment. It was an excellent gift, one that would keep you and everyone else safe. It was an ability that most men would kill for. 

“What’s the catch?” You asked. 

Amusement flickered through his red eyes, his lips quirked upwards into a sly smile. “The catch?”

“Yes. You forget that I’m a priestess, I’m well versed in the actions of the gods, and I know that very rarely does a gift come without a price.” You watched his reaction carefully, scanning for any hint of deception in his face, only for him to bark out a short laugh.

“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” He leaned forward, his fingers once again coming to rest on the underside of your chin, skin tingling beneath his touch. “You’re right. Nothing is granted without something being given in return. But, all I ask for now is that you stay true to the vows that you made to become my priestess. That you’ll live to those vows by the letter.” 

That was simple enough, you’d lived by those vows your whole life. A little voice in the back of your head nagged at you though, questioning whether that was truly it, turning over the wording of his statement in your head, trying to comprehend what loophole might exist for him to exploit. But who were you to question your god? You had devoted your life to him already, why would anything change now? 

“Okay.” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I agree to those terms.” 

“It’s a deal then.” He responded with a smirk. “Stand up for me.” 

You did as ordered, shakily rising to your feet. You had already felt small on your knees before him, but now that you were standing you somehow felt even smaller, realising how tiny your full height was compared to his - he must’ve stood at around 8ft tall, a true monster of a being. 

“Good.” He purred. “Now open your mouth.”

Once again you followed his command, a light red blush dusting your cheeks as you parted your lips as requested. 

You felt Sukuna’s hands brush through your hair, lightly tugging your head back as he leaned down, his lips just above yours. Your heart was pounding at the proximity, your eyes wide as they gazed uncertainly into his red ones. 

He smiled down at you for a moment, before parting his own lips and spitting into your mouth. The sensation was odd and for a moment you considered spitting it out, but he was quick to bring one of his spare hands to your chin and push your mouth closed. 

“Swallow it.” He ordered. And just like an obedient little devotee should, you gulped down the glob of spit before parting your lips once more and sticking out your tongue to prove you had done as asked.

“There’s a good girl.” He praised you, one hand tenderly stroking your hair, with another gently cupping your face. “The gift will come in time. Don’t be alarmed if you get a little overwhelmed at first, you’ll improve.”

You leant into his touch as spoke, enjoying the feeling of his hands on you. Even though his skin was tough and calloused, he radiated warmth. It was pleasant to be at his side, to bathe in that divine light that he seemed to give off. It was as though something safe and familiar was wrapping around you, keeping you protected. 

“I need to take my leave.” He said, a hint of disappointment seeping into his tone. “Things amongst the gods are tense right now, I cannot be away from my station for too long. But I will be back, my little priestess, to make sure that you’re still holding up your side of our deal.”

And with that, before you could say anything more, he was gone. The only evidence of his presence being the sweet aftertaste that his saliva left on your tongue.

—

For days after the encounter you wondered if you’d dreamt it all up. Life continued as normal, the war raging on outside the city walls, with you tending to your duties in the temple as you always had. Perhaps the extra pressure that had been on your shoulders since the war began had been getting to you, so desperate for a sliver of attention from your god that you had built yourself a pleasant little fantasy. 

But then the visions started. 

At first they were only present while you slept, distant and confusing dreams with meanings just out of reach. But slowly and surely they started to seep into your waking life. An embrace with your mother, brushing hands with a fellow priestess, your shoulder bumping against a stranger’s - each interaction led to vivid imagery filling your mind. You could see their lives, the near and the distant. You could see all the branching possibilities of choices that they could take, and the impact that those options seemed to have on their outcomes. The visions always ultimately ended the same way though, with the person’s demise - one way or another. 

Sukuna’s suggestion that his blessing would be overwhelming was something of an understatement. In reality, his gift constituted complete agony. So many images that it was impossible to really make sense of any of them, far too much input making your brain feel like it was overloading at any given moment. It was hard to even understand which vision belonged to who, whether what you were seeing was a memory of your own life or a future of another’s. 

A small mercy was in your inability to see your own future. You were able to see yourself in a handful of the visions that appeared for your mother, as if watching through her eyes - but the full extent of your own future remained a mystery. That was probably best for the sake of your sanity. 

Sukuna had said that you’d improve at using his gift, so perhaps all you needed was time, a greater amount of experience with those jarring images before they’d finally start to make sense. But that didn’t stop you from wishing that he’d given you just a little more guidance, a handful of tips to lessen the gift’s burden on you would’ve gone a long way. 

Several weeks passed by before Sukuna finally returned to your temple. 

It was late at night when he finally manifested in the doorway, and once again you were the only priestess present. You’d taken to sleeping in the temple since the visions had started. Sleeping at your home would conjure an endless stream of images surrounding your family’s fate, keeping you awake through the night. In the temple your brain was eerily quiet, as though residing in Sukuna’s holy place was shielding you from seeing too much too quickly. 

You were curled up on the cool marble at the foot of the altar, already half-asleep when his heavy footfalls reached you. He knelt down beside you as you stirred, your tired eyes taking in his form. 

“How do you feel, my little priestess?” He asked. “Struggling with your gift?”

You willed your body to sit up, wiping sleep from your eyes as you did so. 

“I see so many things.” Your voice came out in a hoarse whisper, you hadn’t done much speaking in the last few weeks, doing everything that you could to avoid contact with other people, in the hopes that you could keep your mind as clear as possible.

“Hmm, I bet.” 

“I can’t be around my family. I can’t touch anyone or my mind becomes overwhelmed with how much I’m shown.” You continued. “I feel that it may be more of a curse than a blessing.”

You didn’t realise your mistake until you noticed a frown settle across his features. 

“Are you not grateful for my gift?” He asked.

“Oh, no I-”

“Because I don’t grant boons to just anyone.” He said, as he stood up to his full height. “You’re special, I’ve granted you my attention, you should be weeping at my feet with thanks and instead you’re complaining like some ungrateful little brat.”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered. “I didn't mean it that way, it's just I can’t control it - it's painful for me.” 

You looked up at him with desperation in your eyes, hopeful that he’d be forgiving enough to accept your explanation. After a moment his face softened slightly.

“Let me help you. I’ll show you just how much of a gift this skill truly is.”

He reached down to you, gripping your hand and tugging you to your feet. The second that your skin made contact you were faced with the familiar onslaught of imagery. This particular tidal wave was more intense than anything you had encountered so far, for a god’s life was infinite - no death to signpost the end of what you could witness. 

You pulled your hand away from his quickly, as though you’d been shocked. “Please don’t touch me! It's too much...” 

He looked back at you incredulously. 

“How do you think you’re going to learn if you keep running?” He asked. “You have to open yourself up to foresight or you’ll never get any better. Seeing my future is the most overwhelming thing you’ll ever encounter, if you can even slightly come to grips with that, you’ll have no problem sorting through the futures of boring little mortals.” 

He sat down on one of the marble benches situated around the perimeter of the temple, gesturing for you to join him. He was spread out across the seat, his hulking form taking up most of the space. You were just about to perch yourself right at the end when his deep voice echoed out across the temple.

“Not there.” 

You looked at him, tilting your head a little in confusion. Your eyes followed his hand as it reached down to his thigh, tapping the surface invitingly. 

“I- uh–, no it's okay.” You could feel heat blossoming across your face at the idea of being in such close contact with him. 

“I’m not asking. I thought your job was to comply with my wishes? You’ll do as you’re told.” His tone was stern and it sent your heart racing in your chest. You hadn’t intended your words to come across as defiance, your response instead formed from years of politely declining any advance from men. 

“Sorry.” You apologise for your second fumble with him that evening, shuffling towards him and delicately perching upon his thigh. Perhaps leaning was a more appropriate term for it, with you keeping the tips of your toes on the cool floor, trying not to place all of your weight on him. 

He said nothing, but it was evident that this displeased him from the flicker of annoyance that passed through his eyes. He wrapped one of his four muscular arms tight around your waist and pulled you closer, your feet raising off the ground as he sat you properly on his lap, your upper body pressed up against his broad, bare chest. 

Once again, the flood of images that filled your mind was unbearable. So many visions that the temple around you completely disappeared, all of your senses completely overrun by Sukuna and the future that awaited him. It felt like the very fabric of your mind was being torn apart at the seams and rewritten with only that which you could currently see. 

The number of images was so vast that it was impossible to make heads or tails of any of it. It was as though you’d been pulled under the surface by a wave, stuck tumbling beneath the water, desperately needing to breathe but unable to comprehend which way was up. 

For a moment it felt like you had lost yourself completely, that you were stuck in this infinite loop of Sukuna’s future. Until the sound of his gravelly voice pulled you back, anchoring you to something real. 

You could hear him speaking, from some distant place, soothing you - praising you. All of sudden you could feel the sensation of his large hand on your waist, rubbing gentle circles into your side. You could hear his thunderous heartbeat where your head was resting against his chest. Reality no longer felt like something far off in the distance, but something that you could reach out and touch if you just willed yourself to. 

As you focused intently on that rhythmic thud of his heart, you slowly felt your grip on the world return once more. The visions in your head were still there, playing along in the background, but they were passing by more slowly now, much more of a stream than a flood. Something that you could push into the very back of your mind if you needed to.

You let out a relieved little laugh, a sense of pride swelling up in your chest as you looked up to him, seeking out his validation. He was regarding you with amusement, a slight smirk on his lips. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“I- No, I suppose not.” You responded breathlessly. 

“You just have to tether yourself, never let it sweep you away, lest you lose your mind entirely.”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment, his hand still pressed firmly against your waist. It was a comforting feeling, to be so completely enveloped in his warmth. 

As you sat, you started to take notice of the visions that were reeling through the back of your mind. You hadn’t thought much of them at first, witnessing grand events that seemed to take place so far from your lifetime, in foreign lands that were unrecognisable to you. But as you watched for longer, the images became more familiar. Places that you knew, people that you knew, all encountering great despair and ruin. All viewed through Sukuna’s eyes. 

You encounter a scene that has you as the centrepiece. You, on your knees outside the temple, sobbing over the bodies of your family which were strewn out across the blood-soaked cobblestones. The city was burning around you, and all you could hear was Sukuna’s booming laughter. 

You were quick to jump to your feet, distancing yourself from him and by extension the images that his touch provided. He looked towards you, red eyes questioning. 

“Something wrong?” He asked. 

You frowned, barely registering his question. That scene was playing on a loop in your mind. You had to be looking at it the wrong way, right? You were misinterpreting things. Sukuna had provided you with this great gift, had taken time to teach you how to use it - he wouldn’t bring about ruin to you. You were far from an expert on foresight, it was foolish to jump to conclusions. 

And yet, as you looked at him, his expression quizzical, you couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort that sat in your gut. 

“No - I’m fine.” You lied. “Just a little disoriented.”

You knew that he didn’t believe you, your hesitance to answer was far too telling, and he made no effort to disguise the skepticism that was written all over his face. But instead of questioning it further he just shot you a cunning smile. 

“Make sure to practice more on mortals now you’ve got the hang of it - you should find it easy now.” 

He rose from his seat, giving you a once over, waiting to see if you had anything to add. Perhaps he was hoping you’d share whatever you were hiding, as after a few beats of silence he let out a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll return in a few weeks to check on you, little priestess.”

And just like the last time, a moment later he was gone.��

—

The next few weeks were far less painful than the last. It seemed that following Sukuna’s lesson you had finally gotten to grips with your newfound ability. 

You wasted no time in putting the new skill to use, greeting disciples at the temple each day and offering to peer into their future. You would take their hand briefly and inform them of their fate - occasionally you would bring up different pathways they could take, which choices they should steer clear of to avoid tragedy. 

However, it was rare that you would share absolutely everything with a person whose future you were seeing, it didn’t feel right to explain to them how they were going to die, especially when this was generally a fixture in every one of their potential futures. Death was the only certainty for mortals after all. 

It felt good though, to be able to help with the smaller things. Offering the people of your city advice on what actions to take day to day to improve their lives. More and more of the soldiers had been coming in recently, asking about the outcomes of their upcoming battles, and what they could do to outmaneuver the attacking forces. Wherever you could see an answer to give them, you would provide it willingly - eager to help put an end to this war. 

Your prophetic abilities had become well known across the city, with even some of the invading force slowly becoming aware of your feats. But this fame was something of a double edged sword - it was hard to find a moment alone anymore, with crowds of citizens flooding to the temple to get their fortunes told. 

Not to mention, your renown brought in plenty of sceptics who either claimed that your skills were a hoax, or branded you as a witch who needed to be disposed of. But as a priestess of Sukuna you were used to drawing the ire of certain groups, so you simply brushed off all the criticism and continued on with your duties - that’s what Sukuna had demanded of you after all. 

Yet, as you read more and more fates, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had been sitting in your stomach since your last meeting with the god. The most common death that you encountered in all of your visions, was the individual perishing violently in this very city, fire burning all around them. 

You had informed several of the soldiers of this, concerned that it may be a plot of the invading force, something that they could perhaps avoid if they were made aware of it in the first place. But unlike most other scenes that you encountered when learning a person’s fate, the image of the burning city was never preceded by anything useful - nothing that could tell you how the situation manifested, as though a connecting scene was being intentionally obscured from your view.

And as you watched more and more futures, all with the same fate, you began to dwell on what you had seen in Sukuna’s own future, on the image of you on your knees amongst all of that fiery chaos. 

You didn’t like to doubt him, it wasn’t your place to do so. As a priestess your entire role was unmoving obedience to him, but there was a tiny voice in your head telling you that something was amiss, that he wasn’t quite what he seemed. 

But what were you to do? As long as your visions were obscured there was no evidence of foul play beyond your own uncertainties. It was better to trust him. After all, it’s well documented that no mortal who turns against a god ever ends up happy. 

—

The next time he came to visit you were in the midst of prayer. Knelt down before the altar at the back of the temple. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear him approach, only registering his presence when a large hand came to rest on the back of your neck. 

“I’m not really listening, you know.”

You flinched in surprise, quickly sitting up and twisting to look at him. For once he looked quite pristine, no blood marring his tanned skin in the way it had been on his previous visits. His expression amused as he gazed down at you. 

“You…aren’t?” 

“No. I’m a busy man, if I had to listen to every prayer and pay attention to every offering I’d never get anything done.” He said, matter of factly. 

“Oh…” 

“I always know when someone’s doing it though, I get this warm sensation deep in my bones - it's pleasant.” 

“I see.” You paused for a moment, deep in thought. “I suppose that’s why you never responded to me then?” 

“Hmm?” His brow was raised questioningly. 

“When this war first started, I spent day after day making offerings and praying, begging you to do something to bring an end to this. But nothing ever happened. I suppose you just never heard any of that.” 

He shrugged. “I suppose not. The list of people begging for my help at all hours is endless, I can’t give everyone attention.” He shifted forward, reaching out a hand to tenderly brush your cheek. “But you have my attention now, my little priestess. I answered your wish for aid didn’t I? Granted you your foresight, is that not the miracle that you had been praying for?” 

You hummed softly. You had been bracing yourself for another tidal wave of imagery to overcome at his touch, but none appeared this time. Your confusion must have been evident on your face because he let out a low chuckle. 

“Even with your control, it's not good for a mortal to see too much of a god’s fate, I’d prefer for your sanity to remain intact, so I’m keeping you out of my head for now, sweetheart.”

You frowned, irritated by this development. You were desperate to see those visions again, to seek out answers on the fate of your city. His sharp gaze was carefully fixated on you, his expression unreadable. 

“Something wrong?” He asked. 

“I– I saw something in your future, something that I couldn’t explain. It’s been weighing on my mind.” You spoke. 

His expression remained neutral, almost bored as he waited for you to continue. 

“In the vision, this city was burning. Everyone other than me seemed to have perished, and you were there, laughing.” Your voice came out a little shaky as you spoke, not wanting to draw his ire in any way. You directed your gaze down to the floor, almost fearful to witness his reaction. “I mean- it was probably just a misunderstanding right? It's not like I had mastered the gift back then, but I see fire and death in many people’s fates so I have to bring it up.”

He studied you for a moment before speaking. 

“It's likely not a misunderstanding.” You raised your head up to stare at him in shock. “It sounds like something I’m capable of.” He continued, his voice lacking in any real emotion. “But what you were witnessing was simply one of many outcomes of how things can play out, you should understand how it works by now.”

You flinched a little as one of his hands slid around your neck, his thumb rubbing gently over your pulse point, not applying any pressure but just resting there as a silent threat. 

“That vision is likely your fate should you do something to displease me, should you break our sacred vow.” He explained. “Perhaps, you’re already on the path to betrayal, my little priestess.” 

His grip on your neck tightened slightly and you let out a tiny little gasp. 

“After all, if I didn’t know better I’d say that you were doubting me. Doubting that I’d take care of you after I’ve been nothing but generous.” 

“No- I’m sorry I didn’t mean anything by it!” Your hands reached up to his, trying to pry his fingers from your neck, but he was immovable. 

“Hmmm. I’ve been so good to you, have offered you nothing but kindness and guidance, and now you repay me with suspicion? It hurts, you know?”

“Sorry-” You rasped. It was becoming harder to breathe with his firm grip on your neck. 

“I’m going to need more than that, little priestess. How about you show me a little gratitude for once?” One of his hands moved into your hair, playing gently with the strands while a third hand moved to your shoulder, toying with the strap of your dress. His fourth hand finally came to settle on your waist, pulling you in closer to him. 

“Gratitude?” You squeaked out, your gaze dropping down to his hands resting on your body.

“Mmm.” He moved his hand slowly from your waist to your ass, squeezing gently. “You’re going to give yourself to me. Show me how grateful you really are for everything I’ve provided to you.”

Your blood ran cold at the realisation of what he was asking of you, your hands moving up to his chest to try and push yourself away from his grip. 

“I’m s-sorry, I can’t...I can’t break my oath of chastity, to be a priestess I must remain pure.” Your heart was thumping in your chest as you denied him, suddenly aware of what a precarious situation you were in. All alone in a temple, with a god who could nullify your existence with a flick of his wrist. 

Fear spiked through you as you looked up at his stormy facial expression. He didn’t budge at your attempts to move away from him, gripping you firmly.

“But your body belongs to me, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what you promised when you became my priestess, that your body, mind and soul are all completely devoted to me?”

“Yes, but-” 

“But what?” He scoffed as he leaned closer, breath fanning your face. “Do you honestly think that you, my little inconsequential priestess, are in a position to deny me?” 

The fingers tangled in your hair were tugging a little on the strands now, pulling you close so that his lips could brush against the shell of your ear. 

“Besides, be honest with yourself, you know you want me - I‘m your god.”

And with that he released you, dropping you unceremoniously back to the floor. Both sets of his arms were crossed as he examined you.

“Stand up and remove your clothes.” He ordered. 

You remained frozen for a moment, before slowly pulling yourself up to standing. Your cheeks started to burn and you diverted your gaze to the ground as you slowly removed your dress, leaving you standing in your undergarments. A shiver ran through you as the cool air in the temple kissed your skin, the hair on your arms standing up. 

“Take off everything.” He said, “I want to see all of what’s mine.” 

You could barely hear him, a battle warring in your head. This was wrong - you had made a promise to live your life in purity, to remain untouched by any man. And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. He was no man after all - he was the god that you had taken your vows for in the first place, surely that changed the rules? Besides, there was no denying the tingling feeling in your stomach at the thought of his closeness, the way your skin heated up whenever he touched you. 

To deny him and lose everything: your gift, your position as a priestess, even your city. Or, to fall into sin for him, to give yourself over fully in exchange for his favor. What choice did you really have?

So, as requested, you shimmied yourself free from your undergarments, heart racing as you stood completely bare before him. Nervously you looked up, meeting his enthused expression, his mouth drawn back into a wide grin.

“There’s a good girl.” He praised as he admired your form, taking in every inch of your body. You felt a little shy beneath the intensity of his gaze, for no man had ever seen you in this state of undress before. 

He approached slowly, savoring that sweet, unsure expression that sat on your face. It suited you. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asked softly, his breath warm against your skin as he brought a hand to your waist, pulling your smaller body against him. “Just let me take what I want…” 

Keeping you flush against him, he crashed his lips into yours. It was rough for a first kiss, not tender and romantic as you had imagined it to be when you were young, but dominating and all-encompassing. 

One of his hands snaked around the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss, as his tongue pushed against your lips, demanding entrance. You were quick to comply, opening your mouth a little. It was an odd sensation, feeling his tongue brush against yours. It felt a little humiliating, that you were so clumsy with your movement, clearly lacking in experience compared to him. 

He pulled back for a moment, grinning down at you. “First kiss, sweetheart?” 

Your face turned a deep shade of red, embarrassed that he’d draw attention to your obvious innocence, making you feel small and foolish beneath him.

“I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” He dove back in without waiting for a response, leaning down over you to make up for your height difference. It was a little uncomfortable to crane your neck up to meet him, a discomfort that he must’ve shared, for he reached two arms behind your thighs and picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist so that you were closer to his level. 

Slowly the kisses become easier, more familiar, his tongue flicking against yours as you sink in against him. You were so focussed on the kiss that you were caught off guard when one of his hands made its way down to your breast, giving it a firm squeeze. You jumped a little, pulling back in surprise. 

He smirked at you. “Problem, little priestess?” 

Maintaining eye contact with you, his fingers moved to your nipple, deftly pinching it. You let out something between a yelp and whimper, the action sending heat pulsing through your legs, and in that moment you became acutely aware of your position - completely naked and wrapped around him.

“Oh? Does that feel good? Can feel that pretty pussy of yours leaking against my stomach.” 

He brought another hand up to your other breast, his remaining hands clutching at your thighs and holding you up. He ran his fingers over the other nipple, watching as it peaked under his touch, before bringing his lips to your neck, sucking marks into your soft skin. 

Whimpering, you arched your back, your legs squeezing against his waist as you tried to bring yourself closer to him. It was hard to think straight with his hands on you like this, your body acting on its own, desperate for more of him. 

You were just starting to get used to all of these new sensations when you suddenly felt a foreign wetness between your legs. You yelped out in shock as you looked down, met with the sight of a large mouth that had opened on his stomach, a monstrous tongue sticking out from it, lapping at your pussy. 

There was a part of you that felt as though you should be horrified, but that reasonable section of your brain was quickly overruled by the pleasure that this new appendage was granting you. He was lapping at your pussy without restraint, the tip of the tongue running up and down your folds, occasionally flicking at your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure shooting through you. 

Sweet cries of his name left your lips, echoing across the chamber as your fingers dug into his biceps. He chuckled as he continued to bite at your neck, still paying great attention to your nipples. You could feel an odd sensation building up in your abdomen, like a dam about to burst. 

“S-Sukuna!” You whined. “Something’s wrong-” 

He ignored you, continuing with his ministrations. He was no fool, he knew exactly what you were referring to and was certainly not going to stop now. The multiple sources of pleasure were becoming too overwhelming, and that knot in your stomach tightened further. 

“Please-” You begged. One of his hands moved down to your clit, applying a little pressure which finally sent you over the edge. That knot in your abdomen snapped and you came, letting out a cry of his name as you had your first orgasm on his tongue. 

“Good girl.” He cooed, petting gently at your hair as he carried you over to one of the marble benches, taking a seat and carefully positioning your naked body in his lap. “That felt good huh?”

You nodded, your mind still a little hazy from what had just happened, your body felt limp, as though you’d just swam a great distance. Before you could have much of a chance to recover, one of his hands was between your legs, fingers running through your folds, getting you used to his touch. 

“Need to get you ready for me.” He spoke as he slowly started to press a finger into your opening. He held you still as you started to struggle in his grip. “It’ll hurt more if you move about too much.” 

Placing your trust in him you stayed as still as possible, letting him slowly ease his finger into you. It was painful, the burning sensation of having something inside you for the first time, but all it took was a few moments for the discomfort to subside. He curled his finger inwards a little, letting it rub against a pleasant spot inside you and causing you to clench around him.

“Mmm, there we go.” He hummed as he slowly pushed in a second finger, repeating the process over again until you seemed comfortable with the stretch. He rubbed at your clit with the palm of his hand as he started to move his fingers more quickly. 

You braced your hands against him, burying your face into his chest to try and hide your embarrassment at the obscene sounds that were echoing with each movement of his fingers inside your wet pussy. He was revelling in it, loving how tight you felt around his fingers, wondering just how good you’d feel wrapped around his cock instead. 

“Feel good?” He asked. 

You nodded, unable to find any words in that moment. You could already feel that pressure building up once again, each careful flick of his fingers driving you wild as he struck that spongy spot inside you over and over again.

Leaning forward, he captured your lips with his, and the affection of that action was the final push that you needed to reach your second release, gushing around his thick fingers as you let out a sweet little whine against his mouth.

He pulled his fingers out of you before bringing them up to your mouth. 

“Clean them.” He ordered. 

You complied without any complaint, parting your lips and taking his fingers into your mouth and sucking on them obediently until he deemed them to be clean enough. 

“You’re so eager to please.” He praised, lifting you off his lap and placing you back down on the marble floor at his feet, propped up on your knees. 

He kept his eyes on you as he removed his own clothing, dropping his robes to the ground. You’d never seen a real man bare before, and you weren’t sure what you were expecting - but it certainly wasn’t this. The statues that you’d seen of naked men couldn’t hold a candle to the immense magnitude of the cock that hung between Sukuna’s legs. The sheer size of it had your mind riddled with fear at the thought that he was going to try and fit it inside of you. 

His expression was smug as he watched the horror play out across your face. He was fully aware of how big he was and revelled in watching your reaction, already thinking about how lovely you were going to look all stretched out around him. 

“Let's see what that pretty mouth of yours can do.” He suggested, gesturing down to his cock. “You do want to please me, don’t you? After how much pleasure I’ve given you.”

Reluctantly you shuffled forwards, crouching before him as you gripped his cock with your much smaller hands. Experimentally you brought your lips to the tip, giving it a few tentative licks. He left you to your own devices for a few moments, waiting to see what you would do.

“You need to do more than that, sweetheart. No need to be scared.” He soothed as his hand came to rest on the back of your head, pushing you towards his cock. 

You opened your mouth and wrapped your lips around him. It was a tight fit, with you struggling to open up wide enough to take him in. He let you adjust for a moment, watching as you became more comfortable with the feeling of him in your mouth, before he started to push his cock further down your throat. 

You felt yourself starting to gag at the sensation as he slid deeper into your mouth, struggling to breathe. Closing your eyes for a moment, you took a deep breath through your nose and tried to centre yourself before slowly starting to bob your head, taking him slightly deeper each time, finding your rhythm as you did your best to appease him. 

He let out a groan of pleasure, loving how your warm mouth felt nestled around his cock. He could feel his own release building as he stared down at you. You looked so pretty on your knees before him. Drool was dropping down your chin, and your eyes were glassy as you looked up at him - a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks, a sight that made his cock jump. 

The grip that he had on your hair tightened and he took control of the pace, moving you up and down on his cock as he chased his orgasm. A few thrusts later and he was cumming in your mouth, your nose pressed up against his abdomen as he released deep in your throat. 

“Swallow it.” He muttered out through gritted teeth, his ego satisfied as he watched your throat bob around him. 

He pulled himself out, and in an instant he had you down on the marble floor, all spread out in front of him, your legs parted allowing him easy access. He admired you openly, his gaze trailing down to your pussy, liquid dripping to the floor below from the two previous orgasms that he’d granted you. 

“So pretty…” He mused as he positioned himself over you, pushing your legs further apart to allow space for his body between them. 

Fear was clouding your eyes as you stared up at him, your heart beating desperately within your ribcage. To him, it was a beautiful sight, to have you completely at his mercy like this. He rubbed his cock teasingly up and down your slit, occasionally catching your clit with the very tip and eliciting a moan from you, leaving you shaking a little each time - still overstimulated from your previous release. 

“You want this, pretty girl?” He teased, staring down at your tear-stricken face. 

“Yes, please–” you rasped. 

“Mmm, I don’t know…I think you could want it more.” He said, intent on dragging this out, to make it more humiliating for you as your cheeks began to burn. 

“Please Sukuna, I want it, I want you-” 

That was more than enough convincing for him as he slowly started to push the fat tip of his cock into you. More tears sprung to your eyes at the immense stretch that he was causing, your body struggling to cope with his massive size. You let out a cry of pain, your fingernails digging into his arms desperately as the pain grew in intensity. 

“No, please- it's too much!” You begged. 

“Shhhhh.” He cooed affectionately, one of hands moving to stroke your hair gently. “You’re doing such a good job, being such a good girl for me, just relax and take it.” 

You took a deep breath, trying your best to adjust to the stretch as Sukuna edged his way further into you, letting out a satisfied little sigh as he bottomed out inside you. You were so warm and tight, he felt like he was in paradise with you wrapped so snugly around him. 

It was less pleasant for you, your legs quivering as you tried to grit your teeth and withstand the pain. You’d heard plenty of tales from women about how it felt to have your innocence taken, that it would be painful at first but eventually it would give way to pleasure. So, with Sukuna completely filling you up and overwhelming your senses, you found comfort in those tales - you just needed to push through the pain. 

Whilst you were battling your inner turmoil, you felt Sukuna snake a hand down between the two of you, his fingers brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you which momentarily overwrote the burn of having him inside you. 

“Just relax.” His fingers rubbed circles against your clit, slowly leading the pain to give way to pleasure. “Feels good doesn’t it?” His eyes were locked on yours, watching you closely as he felt your pussy tighten around him. 

You let out a little whimper of agreement, and that was all he needed to hear before he started moving, filling you up with deep and hard thrusts, his fingers still pressing against your clit. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands finding purchase on his back, nails digging into him with each brutal thrust. 

He leant down, bringing his face into the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin and leaving a trail of red marks in his wake. He continued a path down your body, kissing softly at your breasts before taking a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking at it meanly for a few moments before sucking on it, leading you to arch your body into him with pleasure. 

As he continued to thrust into you, you felt that familiar warmth building up in your stomach, sent spiralling over the edge once more as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you which had you seeing stars. You let out a cry of ecstasy, your vision going white for a moment as you clenched around him. 

His laughter was echoing around the chamber. “There’s my good girl, huh? You look so pretty cumming around my cock like that, squeezing me so fucking tight.” You could barely register his words, your ears ringing as you slowly came down from your high. 

A few thrusts later and Sukuna was pulling out of you, leaving you a little confused and disoriented as he pulled you up onto your feet, manhandling you over to the altar at the back of the temple. He stood you before it for a moment before placing a large hand between your shoulder blades, bending you forward over it. 

Your body felt exhausted and you complied without a concern. In the back of your mind you could hear a faint voice telling you how sacrilegious it was to dirty an altar with lust like this, in a place that was meant to be a sanctuary - it was unforgivable. But in that moment you couldn’t bring yourself to care, giving yourself to him fully. 

His hands ran tenderly down your back, tracing along the curve of your spine until they rested on your ass. He paused there for a moment, admiring your form in the moonlight, before positioning his cock back against your pussy and slowly easing himself in. 

You let out a little gasp, but the stretch wasn’t nearly as painful this time, not after he’d already had you cumming around his cock once. It was as if he’d moulded you to his shape now, which was far from a problem considering that he was the only man who would ever lay hands on you. 

He watched with amusement as you scrambled to grab at the marble of the altar, knuckles turning white as you struggled to hold on under the weight of his thrusts. Two of his hands were gripping your hips tightly, holding you still as he fucked into you at a merciless pace, balls slapping rhythmically against your clit and adding to the pleasure. One of his hands curled into your hair, pulling your head back so that he could more clearly hear the cute little sounds leaving your mouth - the moans and whimpers of his name. 

This position felt even better than the last, his cock reaching so deep in your pussy, hitting that one spongy spot inside you over and over again, your orgasm building up even faster this time as you teetered right on the edge. 

“O-Oh, I’m going to–” 

“Are you going to cum for me again, pretty girl?” He asked, his pace increasing as he leaned forward over you, the tip of his cock reaching an even deeper spot inside you. “F-Fuck sweetheart, you’re so tight, feels so good.” The stutter in his voice had your heart leaping with pride, the idea that your god would be so proud of you, so contented with what you had to offer to him meant everything to you.

And just like that, he had you cumming again. You probably would’ve collapsed to the floor after that one if not for his hands on your hips keeping you up. The speed of his thrusts didn’t relent, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing across the temple. 

“T-that’s it pretty girl, just stay still.” He was groaning against your ear, so much of his weight resting on top of your much smaller body. “I’m so close. Need to fill you up.” You let out a small strangled whine, feeling utterly helpless beneath his body. 

A few thrusts later and he was cumming, sheathed to the hilt inside you as he did so. He let out a low groan and held you still beneath him, wanting to make sure that you took all of his seed into you, not wanting to see any go to waste. You let out a whimper at the foreign sensation of him finishing inside you, feeling entirely too full as that hot, thick substance was released into you. 

You lay still beneath him against the altar, unable to move until he finally pulled away, removing his cock from your sore pussy. As you pushed yourself up from the altar you felt some of his cum dripping down your leg and for a moment, in some far off part of your brain, you registered how much of a sin you had just committed, how much of yourself you had just given away. But before you could dwell on it, Sukuna was holding out his hand, pulling you over to one of the benches where he placed you carefully in his lap, holding you close against his body. 

Contrary to popular belief, he took good care of what belonged to him. 

—

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there in Sukuna’s arms, not long enough for the sun to have risen, for silver moonlight was still floating through the window when you awakened. The god was still there below you, breathing softly as though he were at total peace with the world.

For a moment you felt happy - glad that you had been provided with such undivided attention from him. You were just a mortal, completely insignificant to most, but not to him. What more could you ask for? 

And yet, as soon as that thought crossed your mind the visions returned in full force. It was as though Sukuna had let his guard down in his slumber. They weren’t overwhelming this time - you’d gotten far too good with your foresight for that. But part of you wished that they were still incomprehensible to you, for that would’ve been a greater mercy than coming to terms with the fate that you were witnessing. 

Because this time, you saw everything. 

The city aflame, the invading forces spilling out of a great wooden horse that they had presented as a gift, a sign of peace. A cunning betrayal that led to them ransacking the streets, slaughtering and pillaging as they went. You watched in horror as citizens were ripped from their homes, the men killed and the women taken as prizes for the victors. 

Sukuna was there in these visions, standing by and watching the massacre, making no move to provide any sort of aid, a cruel grin stretched across his face at the sight of such glorious bloodshed. He’d always been such a fan of war. 

In an instant you were brought back to reality, scrambling desperately out of his lap, desperate for some distance from him and the horrors that you had just witnessed. 

He awoke with your movement, red eyes fixing on you with interest as he noticed your defensive figure, eyes wide and your body trembling. 

“Bad dream?” He asked calmly. He was no fool, and the look on his face made it clear that he was well aware that there was more to it than that. 

“You– you’re going to let this city fall to ruin.” You accused, your voice shaking. 

He tilted his head at you. “So?” 

It felt like your heart stopped at his blatant dismissal of your accusation. You couldn’t comprehend how he could respond in such an uninterested manner. This place was your whole world, the citizens of your city were everything to you. You’d just become aware that he was going to stand by and allow tragedy to take place, that he was going to let everyone you’d ever loved die, and all he could care to say was ‘so’?

“You promised–” 

“I didn’t promise you anything.” He cut you off, raising to his full height. “I said I’d give you a blessing, and I did. Don’t you think it's greedy to demand more from me? You should know your place.”

You were shaking with anger now. “But, you said it was likely only the outcome if I were to betray you! I gave you everything - I laid with you to show you my loyalty and gratitude, surrendered my very innocence and you’re still going to let this city burn.” Tears sprung to your eyes, running down your cheeks. 

“Yes, I am.” He said simply. “But I won’t let that be your fate. I want to keep you for myself, little priestess.” He reached out for you, hands caressing your hair for a moment before you stepped away. 

“Don’t touch me.” You spat. It made you feel sick, the way that he spoke about you. It was as though you were nothing more than a pet to him, something pretty and easily appeased with no existence or desires outside of your relation to him. He didn’t consider you to be a citizen of this city, didn’t consider that you were a daughter, a sister, a friend. He couldn’t comprehend your care for anyone other than him.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it mere hours ago.” Your face twisted in disgust at his words. “Perhaps I just need to fuck you again, you seemed plenty compliant when I had you bent over that altar.” 

You took another step back, fearful of what he might do should you get too close. “Don’t come anywhere near me. I saw the whole plan, I’m going to tell my people not to accept that gift, I’m going to make sure that this city stays standing.” 

He sighed. “So be it.”

His body was on you before you could move, taking you down to the marble floor. One of his hands grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them above your head, the weight of his body keeping you still beneath him. 

Another hand caressed your face tenderly as he gazed down at you. But as you met his eyes, you found that there was no warmth behind them, just the cold and calculating stare of an immortal being who couldn’t care less about the life or fate of any mortal. 

“Last chance, sweetheart.” He spoke. “You can survive this. You can belong to me completely, stay at my side, be mine to enjoy whenever I choose. Wasn’t that what you always wanted anyway? To have my attention? I’ll grant it to you.” 

“In exchange for a whole city?” You asked incredulously. 

“What do they matter, really? What can silly little mortals provide you that I can’t? Don’t be foolish, my pretty little priestess.” He could see your expression waving, a feeling of total helplessness washing over you as you lay beneath him. “Besides, you enjoyed getting fucked by me, didn’t you? I could see how good I made you feel - I can give you that all the time.” 

His tone was almost convincing, but as you studied his face you found that his facade was entirely transparent. He didn’t care for you, he wasn’t capable of care. Even if he saved you from your fate today, one day he would tire of you and dispose of you in the same way that he’s disposed of thousands of other mortals. You’d just be his pet, a temporary source of entertainment. 

“I’m telling everyone what I saw.” You said evenly. “I’m done being your priestess.”

He gave you a sympathetic smile which reeked of mockery. 

“What a shame.” He whispered, one of his hands made their way up to your mouth, forcing your lips apart as he lent in close to you. “No one will ever believe you.” And with that he spat into your open mouth before quickly forcing it shut with his hand.

Your eyes widened in horror as you felt the globule of spit sit in your mouth. He was staring down at you expectantly, and you did your best to hold it there in your mouth, hoping that by some divine intervention you may be able to escape your fate.

You struggled against him, trying to push him off you, to remove his hand from your face. If you could just spit it out and tell one person what you had seen, you could save everyone. But Sukuna was far stronger than you, and he had nothing but time - keeping you locked in position until your mouth grew so dry that you involuntarily found yourself swallowing what he had given you. 

Your blessing had become a curse. 

“There we go.” he purred, before standing up. He looked down at your body with disdain. “I’m disappointed. I would’ve liked to play with you longer - but I’ll settle for witnessing your despair instead.” He turned to leave. 

“Why?” Your voice came out ragged and broken, and he glanced over his shoulder at you, waiting for further elaboration. 

“Why does this city have to burn?” You asked. 

He shrugged. “We gods always use these silly little mortal wars to settle disputes amongst each other. In this case I stand with the gods who favor the men laying siege, so I’ll allow this city to burn for them.” 

“But, they’re my people–”

“And what does that matter to me? All of you mortals are always so petty - they’d all be dead in 80 years anyway, what difference does a few years make?” 

You opened your mouth to respond but he was already gone, nothing but empty space where he had previously stood.

Gathering yourself together as best you could, you ran out into the street. The sun was rising over the city now and the battlefield was quiet. Perhaps if you were quick you’d be able to pass the message on before Sukuna’s curse set in. 

You banged on doors and cried out in the street, approaching every person that you saw to warn them. But it all fell upon deaf ears. Your tale of the great horse and the men hiding inside it was brushed aside with ridicule and laughter. 

Even your family, when you finally made your way back home at midday, were unreceptive to your message. They suggested that maybe you needed a lie down, that you’d been spending far too much time at the temple and were losing your grip on reality. 

It was just as Sukuna had said: no one will ever believe you. 

It was regret that filled you as the men wheeled that great wooden horse into the city - as the enemy jumped out of it in the middle of the night and slaughtered your city, setting it ablaze. You were hollow as you knelt over the corpses of your family, babbling out prophecies that no one would hear. 

Sukuna was there then, watching you in your despair, allowing you to be taken away as a war prize for the invading force. After all, who were you to deny him? You deserved this. And as you were pulled into your new life far from the only home you’d ever known, you wondered if you should pray, if his prior fondness for you would bring him back to your side. 

But you knew it was foolish. 

He wasn’t listening anyway.

a/n: thank you for reading, had a bit of a cry writing the end of this one honestly.

I adore mythology so if anyone has any fic recs please send them my way! I'm considering doing an orpheus and eurydice retelling as a choso fic but we'll see how I'm feeling!

© sukunahs

[muletia]

𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭 — [𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏] ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

obsessed!b-127 x human!reader

summary: the joy of having a new friend in sub-level 50 quickly transforms into something dangerous and destructive and above all, addictive, as B-127’s life becomes inextricably intertwined with yours. to the point that he can no longer imagine it without you

cw: angst, fluff, slight obsessive behaviour but it will get much, much worse later, isolation, captivity very poor take on sci-fi tech

word count: 2300

future chapters probably won't be this long but we shall see. this is just a introduction to show how I want to torture bee. i plan on writing a few chapters max...

"To hell with this planet," you curse bitterly.

The reconnaissance mission was a failure. Instead of gathering data about the planet where your onboard ship had detected deposits of "living metal," you wandered through the nooks of a city inhabited by steel giants, trying not to be noticed, or trampled.

You crawl through a tight tunnel blindly, with no real idea where it will lead or whether you'll ever manage to return to your crashed ship. Your backpack, stuffed with supplies, scrapes against the low ceiling, making movement harder, but you have to push forward. Find a quiet but not claustrophobic corner to strategize how to escape from here. Return home — the firmly set goal pulls you onward. Eventually, you're forced to descend lower, squeezing between pipes and perpendicular walls of metal until you see a larger tunnel below.

You jump down, looking around for danger, but see none, allowing yourself a moment's respite. You adjust the oxygen hoses connected to the futuristic, tiny machine producing the precious gas tucked in your backpack, but that's all you manage before you hear the sound of metal striking metal. Alarmed, you stand upright, looking toward the source of the noise, which approaches dangerously fast and quickly takes the form of massive pieces of metal barreling straight toward you.

You don’t even have time to dodge as a hard wall slams into you, forcing the air from your lungs, dragging you forward.

And then down, as the floor collapses beneath you, and you grab onto the metal, bracing for a hard landing.

Silence pierces the processor. It seeps into the deepest cracks between cables and takes root, reminding of loneliness. Painfully and mercilessly, it drives home the fact that sub-level fifty is a hell where the concept of time does not exist. In truth, no concept exists here except sorting trash and watching it burn. Day after day, hour by hour, the same routine. Sort, reject, try not to go insane. The bot who designed this prison did an excellent job if his main goal was to drive everyone who had the misfortune to end up here into madness.

B-127 doesn’t remember the last time he spoke to someone real. A month? A year? Time had long since lost its linearity, looping and zigzagging aimlessly. Did Iacon still look the same? Maybe it had changed during his absence. Maybe it was even more beautiful now. Or maybe it no longer existed at all, and he would never find out.

Enough numbing silence. He’s had enough.

"We’ll get out of here someday," he mutters. "Right, Steve?"

The response is... silence.

"It’s just a matter of time," he laughs nervously. "Everything will be fine."

He wraps his arms around himself. Barely two kliks pass before B-127 starts rambling to his imaginary friend about everything and nothing. Dreams he’s talked about dozens of times, the past life that brought him here. Anything to kill the silence, to prevent it from creeping deeper into his processor, because then it would force him to think. It was his enemy, an opponent he tried to knock out as quickly as possible before it landed a blow. One blow was all it took to remind him where he was and how he got here.

What a failure he was.

But fortunately, he doesn’t have to think now. Not when his glossa works tirelessly, holding conversations with three entities at once. It’s a good distraction from the disgusting, depressing reality. It doesn’t solve the problem, but it makes him feel better, more valuable than the trash he sorts. He knows no other way. None existed in these conditions.

A new, unfamiliar sound hidden among the metal hitting the conveyor belt pulls him out of his self-deprecating thoughts. Softer? Less hollow. The curious mech reacts immediately, digging through the junk, quickly searching for the source before the entire batch ends up in the furnace. What he finds surpasses all his expectations.

His servo shoots forward to grab the anomaly. He catches it and pulls it closer to himself, stepping back a few paces from the conveyor, wanting to examine the discovery in peace.

A living thing. A real, moving organism. Tiny — it could fit entirely in his servo — but alive. Soft, strange, but alive. It kicks frantically, clearly displeased with being held, but B-127 can’t let go, utterly fascinated.

“Wow,” he whispers, scanning the unknown.

On the surface, you’re very similar anatomically — two arms, two legs, optics, and an intake in the same place on the faceplate — but everything else is fascinatingly different.

“What are you, little one?” he asks, and the creature in his hand trembles. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you! Ugh, I’m so, so sorry. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, I promise!”

His attempt to soothe the little alien ends in failure when your tiny servo smacks his forearm. Then another hit and another, as if something gently brushed against his mesh. It was... pleasant? He thinks. Your servos, though anatomically identical to his, were much more delicate. Softer. Strange. But pleasant.

On your helm reside odd, firmer yet still springy... cables? "Hehe, how funny. What are these?" He doesn’t even know what to call the strange structure but knows he wants to learn about it. Ignoring your attempts to push him away and disregarding the puzzling language you use, he dips a single digit into your mane, exploring your exoticness. Again, it’s... pleasant. Your entire body is delightful to the touch. As his excitement grows, a smile spreads across his faceplate.

“Wow, you’re so soft. Is your whole body like this? That’s so strange, I’ve never encountered soft before. Can I touch lower? Please? May I? I want to see.” He fires off a series of questions, even though he knows he won’t get answers. He doesn’t mind; he’s long since gotten used to it.

He presses a digit into your cheek, for which you strike him, but he pays no mind to your aggression, nor to the glare you send, brimming with fury. You say something to him, but he can only guess what colorful phrases you’re throwing his way. Besides, his fascination leaves no room for worry or offense.

“What’s this?” he asks, brushing a digit against the tubes coming out of the two holes on your faceplate. You slap his hand away harder this time. The message is clear — he is absolutely not to touch those. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. You’re feisty for such a tiny thing. I like you already,” he grins.

The digit slides lower, reaching your plush armor. “Heh, you really are soft all over!” He chuckles, hooking a digit on your collar, but you squeak, stopping him from satisfying his curiosity. Immediately, he lets go, infected by your fear.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must be squeezing too hard,” he loosens his grip, completely misunderstanding the reason for your panic. “Are you okay? I hope you’re okay. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. What’s your name? Who are you? An alien? You must be an alien. Or maybe some strange mini-bot? Oh, this is so exciting; I’m so glad I found you!”

You shake your tiny helm, clearly conveying that you have no idea what he’s saying. And while you don’t give him a verbal, stimulating response, you offer an active reaction. Primitive, but you’ve communicated, filling his spark with unrestrained, pure joy. You gave him a sliver of normalcy, fulfilling the bare minimum that had been taken from him.

Steve had been excellent company, but he couldn’t shake his head. He couldn’t hit his forearm to communicate discomfort. Steve was a figment of his imagination. But you, oh, you. You were real.

B-127 desperately needed realness.

He realizes he’s been staring at your optics this whole time. And you’ve been staring back into his. A strange embarrassment washes over him, though it’s incapable of overshadowing the elation he feels in your presence. Even though you’ve only known each other for a few short kliks.

He averts his optics for a moment, but barely a nanoklik passes before he’s looking at you again, unable to satisfy his curiosity. “Did I mention I’m glad I found you? Because I really am. So very, very glad. I promise I’m good company. You won’t get bored with me; really, I’ll make sure of it. Don’t worry, I’ll talk for both of us, I don’t mind that we can’t understand each other. Hey, do you think we could learn to communicate over time? That would be amazing!”

Suddenly, he smacks his servo against his forehead. He doesn’t notice how the motion makes you flinch with fear.

“Oh, right, where are my manners? I should introduce you to the others.”

He heads toward the table with his other companions in misery and sets you on the surface, taking a seat himself. He moves as close to you as possible, and you take advantage of the momentary freedom from his massive servo to dart to the opposite side.

“Hey, wait! Don’t run away!”

He catches you again in his servo, receiving a punch to his thumb as thanks. Unfazed by your aggression, he merely smiles, his excitement at having a real companion still vividly dictating his body language. He can barely stop himself from trembling with joy.

“Don’t do that again, alright?” he laughs nervously. “I haven’t even introduced you to everyone yet.”

He gestures toward each of his friends, introducing you to them one by one, all the while wearing a broad, excited grin that doesn’t waver, even when you shoot him a pitying look. He chooses to completely ignore it, preferring to focus on the other components that make up who you are. You may not be a Cybertronian, but it was wonderful to finally meet someone real. Someone alive, who brought light to this dismal, lonely place. Someone who filled him with emotions far more vibrant than sadness and despair.

“I’m going to let you go now, but don’t run away from me, okay? Can I count on you? You won’t leave me, will you? I don’t want you to leave me.”

Slowly, he loosens his digits, keeping a close watch on your body language for any signs that you might flee. His fears of you running away materialize the moment the last finger releases you. Immediately, you turn and dash toward the other end of the table.

“Oh no, no! Please don’t run away! I won’t hurt you, I promise!”

But, just as before, you don’t make it more than a few meters before his servo blocks your path. A second one joins from the opposite side, caging you in.

“Well, now you’ve got nowhere to run.” He grins, attempting to convey friendliness through his body language. “I’m not your enemy. I won’t hurt you,” he tries again, with the same fruitless result.

You observe him closely, searching for any hint of deception, a change of mind, or a sudden crushing motion.

“See? I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Without breaking eye contact, you step backward, increasing the distance between you until you deem it safe. Crossing your arms over your chest, you glare at him, and B-127’s grin widens even further. You’re no longer trying to flee in panic — he considers this a huge breakthrough in your relationship!

“Oh, I’m so happy! I’m finally going to have a real friend. No offense, guys,” he says, glancing at the scraps of junk. The interaction draws a subtle, sympathetic smile from you, though B-127 doesn’t seem to notice as he turns back to you, his dazzling, excited smile still firmly in place. “I’ve waited so long for this, for someone real. I thought I’d never see another living soul again. Oh, Primus must have sent you to me. You’ll see, I’ll take great care of you. We’ll have such a wonderful time together! I have so many amazing stories to share with you!”

Automatically, he scoots closer but freezes when he notices you don’t share his enthusiasm.

“Sorry, I got carried away,” he laughs nervously. “I’m just so happy. I can’t wait to tell you everything about myself.” His pedes tap cheerfully against the ground. “And then you can tell me everything about you, right? You… you? Oh, Primus, I didn’t ask for your name! What should I call you? I’m B-127, but you can call me Bee. And you are?” He points a servo at you, but all he gets in response is a shake of your head. For a single nanoklik, his excitement falters, but it immediately returns. “Oh, right, I forgot. Well then, I’ll just talk for both of us. I’ll call you ‘friend,’ okay? Friend?”

His aft can’t sit still. At last, after such excruciatingly long isolation, he’s found a friend — someone he can speak to and expect a reaction from. Any reaction, no matter how small.

He rests his helm on his outstretched arm, unable to tear his optics away from you. He wants to feel your softness in his servo again. To wrap himself in it, to anchor himself in the incredible sensation of having a companion.

His digit twitches, a prelude to catching you in his servo and pulling you close again, but he doesn’t want to ruin what the two of you have built so far. Especially since your relationship is still in its infancy, a mere beginning of something greater and more beautiful. He feels certain it will become something wonderful.

“I don’t know how you ended up here or why, but thank you for showing up. I promise to be a good friend to you.”

For the first time in so long, he’s looking forward to experiencing what tomorrow will bring.

[euphoricfilter]

the silent ‘i love you’

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: fluff || non-idol au

summary: sometimes you don’t need words

word count: 1.1k

tags/ warnings: fluff!!!! just very soft and nice and easy to read for tonight. intensional lowercase. sort of sleepy thoughts about love <3

where you can find my other works :D

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

some days jungkook simply felt like those three words weren’t enough. that the warm glow of his fragile soul couldn’t scream loud enough for your own precious existence to know how much he truly loved you.

that the whispered words of love as the both of you woke, or a gentle kiss before you both slept and met in your dreams— it simply was only the surface of how he felt. that the silent ‘i love you’ the both of you shared each day was somehow louder than the words themselves.

tender souls touching in a whimsical dance between your existence.

tangled so tight, unmoving, seeping out of you with that fluttery sort of love.

the kind of love that pulls a smile onto your lips at the mere thought of them. gentle touch enough to have your skin alight. obsessive, itching greed consuming every fibre of your being, needing them closer than humanly possible. bodies pressed together and heart beats in sync, tied together by a string of fate and life times you shared before this one.

and some days neither of you had to say ‘i love you’ but that didn’t mean the love wasn’t there. that either of you loved the other any less than you had the day before. or more than you would tomorrow. because it was ever-growing. blooming in both your chests, a flower that would live through all of eternity.

it would be him waking before you, purple and blue toothbrushes sat beside one another in the cup on the sink. or how on some days he’d pick your shower gel over his own. for no other particular reason that he loved everything about your existence, that he felt that little bit closer to you in the hours you had to part.

or remembering to tuck one of your hairties in one of his pockets, just in case.

the same hair tie you’ll find in the washing machine days later, smile tugging at your lips. because as much as you remind him to take everything out his pockets before putting them into the washing machine, there were things you could never get mad over. not when he thinks of you, even when you’re not there. a silent show of care that you never bring up because that was his secret to keep, dissolved into the back of your mind for safe keeping.

he likes to hold your hand as you cross the road, fingers interlaced. because he knows sometimes you get too caught up in your own head, unaware of the wider world around you. so he keeps you glued to the pavement before tugging you across the road. fingers squeezing yours when he knows the both of you are back to safety and you’ll let him pull you around, blind trust in him to take you where you need to go

you like picking him up from work, sat outside on a bench with a box of treats for the walk home. and he would indulge you, even if he had the car parked a block away. not caring if it would mean he had to walk the next morning. because he would never abandon those gentle moments with you, shoulders knocking as you kiss sweet cream from his lips, desperate to hear about his day just as much as you want to share yours

you liked to say ‘i love you’ through the stars. tugging him to the roof of the apartment building, legs tangled as you lay on a blanket.

you both look up at the sky.

so many questions slipping off your tongue. where you talk of fate and destiny and how you loved to believe that two souls so intricately intertwined like your own was probably crafted by something as beautiful as the stars, or another celestial being that just knew what the future held. speckles of fine stardust crafted and moulded, so, when you found a mortal body there would be no doubt he was the one for you, just as you were the one for him.

he likes sending you photos of cats. adopting the habit of carrying a small bag of treats around with him; though neither of you have a pet.

he remembers the frown that would tug on your face each time you’d come across a stray. and he’d stand there for as long as you like as your fingers pet over fluffy heads and behind furry ears. another silent vow of love to a lonely creature.

you liked to pack him lunches, hours spent in the kitchen of a nighttime experimenting, because you never wanted him to have a dull meal. and he’d sit there at the table, reading as a piano piece plays over your phone. not a word spoken between the both of you, and some nights you scuttle his way with a fork-full of something for him to try.

there was love in the tv shows you watched together, the music you shared, the space you both lived in. the closet was a muddle of clothes and accessories that he liked to steal from you just like you steal from him. racks of both your shoes line the entry way of the apartment, collection of mugs a sudden birthday tradition that will go on for as long as you’re alive.

you lived in his mind like you lived in the plants around the house. or the posters you’d put on the walls. and he lived in your mind with gaming consoles and photos of you hung up that he had taken, loved and forever cherished; thriving in the memory of you and how much he loved you then and how much he loves you now.

jungkook had tried to find a better word.

hours spent laying in bed, with your head on his chest, moon spilling into the room as he mulls over the thought of you.

how he likes how warm you are, how he likes sharing this space with you. that he’s glad he’s found you, grateful that you exist within the same time line as him.

your silly little stories of a wonderful sweet sort of love filling his own mind— because maybe you really were crafted for one another. and even if he forgets three simple words, the both of you know love lives within the sphere of your existence.

because maybe that’s what the both of you are when you’re together. maybe even in those moments you’re apart. perhaps you’re the epitome of the word love and that’s why all the silent ‘i love yous’ equal more than words ever will

[nanamincreampie]

Post-Shibuya Nanami

Nanami Kento x Black plus size reader

Warnings: jjk spoilers, post-shibuya, no angst just pure fluff, giving my man the happy ending he deserves

Nanami lay in the infirmary bed, his usually sharp and composed demeanor softened by the lingering effects of anesthesia. Shoko had assured you he would be fine, but the sight of him battered and bandaged sent a pang through your chest. The room smelled of antiseptic, the hum of machines monitoring his vitals providing a steady rhythm to your worried thoughts.

You sat by his bedside, your hands nervously clutching the edge of the chair. The braids you had so lovingly installed a few weeks ago brushed your shoulders, their deep mahogany highlights catching the harsh fluorescent light. Your dark skin, smooth and glowing with undertones of honey and bronze, seemed out of place against the stark white of the infirmary. Despite the sterile setting, you radiated warmth, your full lips slightly parted in anticipation, your curves spilling over the seat of the chair in a way that made you feel self-conscious, though Nanami always reassured you he adored every inch of you.

A soft groan pulled you from your thoughts. Nanami’s hazel eyes fluttered open, their golden flecks dimmed but still breathtaking. His gaze wandered briefly, scanning the room as if piecing together where he was, before finally landing on you.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. His eyes widened slightly, the grogginess fading as he stared at you, utterly captivated. The crease between his brows smoothed, replaced by something softer something reverent. “Am I dreaming?” he rasped, his voice low and gravelly from disuse.

Your heart clenched, and you leaned forward instinctively. “No, Ken, you’re awake,” you replied softly, your voice carrying the warmth you knew he needed.

He continued to stare, his eyes tracing every detail of your face as if committing it to memory. The curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the way the light danced across your skin all of it seemed to hold him in a trance. “You’re… breathtaking,” he murmured, the words slipping out as though he couldn’t contain them.

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you tried to ignore the fluttering in your chest. “Ken, it’s me,” you said gently, brushing your fingers against his.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, “but I think I’m falling for you.”

A bittersweet smile tugged at your lips. Before you could respond, his eyes dropped to the wedding band on your finger. His brow furrowed, and a look of guilt flickered across his face. “I can’t,” he muttered, shaking his head weakly. “I shouldn’t… I think I have a wife. Someone who’s waiting for me. I don’t know why I can’t remember her face, but I know she’s out there.”

“Ken,” you called softly, squeezing his hand. He looked up at you, confusion swirling in his gaze. “You do have a wife. And she’s sitting right here.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before realization began to dawn in his eyes. His gaze dropped back to your intertwined hands, lingering on the wedding bands the matching gems cut from the same diamond. Slowly, his eyes returned to your face, and the fog lifted.

“You’re… my wife?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Yes, Ken,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m your wife.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep, shuddering breath. A shaky smile tugged at his lips, and his thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “Hi, beautiful,” he murmured, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

“Hi, Ken,” you replied, a soft laugh escaping you as tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry for worrying you, for scaring you. During the fight… my life flashed before my eyes, and all I could think about was you.”

Your grip on his hand tightened, grounding him as he spoke.

“I’m done,” he said with quiet determination. “I’m retiring. No more missions, no more risks. I want to live. I want to go to Malaysia like we planned. I want to wake up next to you every day.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you nodded, his words wrapping around your heart like a promise. “Then let’s go, Ken,” you whispered, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “Let’s live.”

In that moment, as he gazed at you with an intensity that made your knees weak even now, you knew his love had only deepened. He wasn’t just remembering you; he was falling for you all over again, which was beautiful.

[igwb]

Snow Flower.

"when the world turns beautifully white, i'll spread those fading colors with you."

pairing: kim taehyung x oc

genre: first love au; angst + fluff

summary: when we’re faced with the weight of a future that feels uncertain, we often try to grasp onto the past, wishing for what we once had, but the reality is—taehyung had no choice but to focus on the present. his time was slipping away, each moment feeling like it could be the last, and yet, he longed for nothing more than to share what little time he had left with you.

word count: 27K (one shot)

warnings: taehyung has a brain tumor, the pain of losing a loved one too soon, mentions of; illness, grief, loss, blood, emotionally cheating & sad ending (i keep torturing myself) and basically a lot of tears

playlist: snow flower, forever winter, the view between villages

The heat of the coffee spreads across your tongue, just on the edge of burning—hot enough to sting, yet comforting in a way that anchors you to the moment. Outside, the crisp autumn air stirs the golden leaves, sending them drifting from the branches like delicate fragments of time. You watch them fall, mesmerized. You’ve always loved this sight. It speaks of change, of renewal—of something ending so that something else, something beautiful, can begin.

Soon, the gentle chill of autumn will sharpen into the unforgiving cold of winter. Then, after what feels like an eternity, spring will return, as it always does. A cycle of endings and beginnings.

You lift your cup for another sip, seeking just a few more seconds of stillness—but before the warmth can reach your lips, the sharp beeping of your pager cuts through the quiet.

Reality pulls you back in. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the rhythmic hum of machines, the hurried footsteps in the hallways—all of it rushes back, reminding you where you are. There is no time to linger in fleeting moments. Duty calls.

You hastily wipe away the coffee that has seeped into the fabric of your blouse, sighing as you push open the door and step out of the quiet room. The moment your foot crosses the threshold, the world outside rushes back to meet you—chaotic, urgent, relentless.

People move past you in hurried strides, their faces painted with emotions too vast to contain. Some are crying, shoulders shaking with silent grief. Others are laughing, relief spilling from their lips in nervous bursts. And then there are those caught somewhere in between, laughter and tears intertwining as if unsure which one to lean into.

Hospitals are strange places—an intersection of every possible human emotion, all condensed within the same sterile walls. For every person receiving good news, another is hearing the worst. For every minor injury, there is a life-altering diagnosis. Some will walk out of here with nothing more than a cast and a prescription; others will never leave at all.

Each story is different. Each life, precious. And yet, in this space where time feels suspended between hope and despair, the world keeps moving forward.

The sound of your name pulls you back to the present, shaking you from your thoughts. You turn just as your colleague comes into view—dyed blond hair, though at this point, you wonder how it’s still holding on after so many bleach sessions. It always amuses you, how he manages to pull off such bright colors—sometimes pink, sometimes blue—in a place so often drenched in monotony.

Park Jimin is the kind of person who brings warmth into spaces like this, a reminder of why you do what you do. His presence alone makes the hospital feel a little less cold, a little less heavy. He is a contrast to the quiet suffering that lingers in the air, a reminder that your job is not just about science and medicine—it’s about hope. About making people believe, even when the odds are stacked against them. Some can be saved. Some can’t. But that doesn’t mean you stop trying.

“Time for my break,” he sighs, already shrugging off his blouse with the weariness of someone who has seen too much in too little time.

“Rough morning?” you ask, slipping your hands into your coat pockets, fingers fidgeting with the small objects inside—an unconscious habit.

Jimin plops himself onto a chair meant for patients, limbs sprawled out in a way that seems almost comical. It’s a funny sight—one of the best nurses you know, looking like he’s the one who needs saving. A quiet reminder that even the strongest among you sometimes need a moment to breathe.

“A kid came in because he didn’t want to go to school, so he broke his own ankle,” Jimin says, shaking his head. “Another one came just for diarrhea.”

You try not to laugh, biting down on your lip. Sometimes, it’s better to laugh—better to find humor in the little things, to let yourself breathe, even in a place like this.

But then, his voice shifts, quieter now, almost fragile.

“And…” He looks down at his white sterile sneakers, the brightness of them suddenly dull against the cold hospital floor. His blond bangs fall slightly over his eyes, shielding them from view. “A guy my age… diagnosed with a brain tumor.”

Your smile fades instantly. For the first time, you see him without the usual light in his expression. His normally vibrant presence feels dimmed, his bright hair no longer making his face pop like it usually does. Instead, it looks like a curtain he’s trying to hide behind.

Jimin isn’t the one suffering, and yet, he carries the weight of it. He’s the one who’s supposed to be strong, the one who’s supposed to bring comfort. But right now, in this moment, he’s just human. Just someone trying to process the unfairness of it all.

“How bad is it?” you ask, lowering yourself onto the same stiff beige chair, no longer caring that it was meant for patients.

Jimin sighs, running a shaky hand through his blond hair. “Like… three months? Five at best.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if the movement alone could push back the tears threatening to spill.

Your chest tightens. For the patient, yes—but also for Jimin. You know what kind of person he is, how deeply he feels. And of course, hearing that someone his age, someone with their whole life ahead of them, is now living on borrowed time… it’s enough to break even the coldest heart.

“That guy could be me,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he turns to you, eyes searching yours, grounding you before you can spiral too far into the cruel unpredictability of life.

“Hey.”

“Yeah, Jimin?”

He hesitates, his fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs, knuckles white. Then, in a voice laced with shame—shame for something that shouldn’t even be shameful—he asks, “Would you mind if… I don’t know. If I transfer his file to you? It hurts so bad.”

And you understand.

For the first time in his career, Jimin needs to step back—not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because this time, the weight of it is too personal, too raw. And though his request is spoken with hesitation, with guilt, you see it for what it is. Not weakness. Not failure.

Just humanity.

You nod without hesitation, hoping it will bring him even the smallest bit of relief. Hoping that, if nothing else, handing over the case will make his heart feel a little lighter—if only because he won’t have to see the patient’s face every day, won’t have to be reminded of how cruel fate can be.

“Of course, I will,” you say, placing a reassuring hand on his stiff shoulder. “Now go take your break, and don’t worry about me. I’ll do a good job, Park!” You try to sound lighthearted, playful even, slipping into the same role he so often takes—the one who makes things a little easier to bear.

Jimin finally stands, stretching before bouncing on his feet in an exaggerated motion. Then, just like that, he puts on his best smile—the one that makes his eyes crinkle shut, that turns his entire face into something radiant. For a moment, he looks like himself again.

“I owe you for this. What about drinks tonight?”

“I can’t tonight,” you reply with a small shake of your head, already bracing for his dramatic reaction. As expected, he groans, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

“Wife duty,” you add, grinning as you raise your left hand slightly, letting the bright diamond on your ring finger catch the light. Shiny. New. Beautiful. A tangible reminder of the love you chose.

Jimin clicks his tongue but smiles anyway—because your happiness is real, undeniable, the kind that makes even cynics believe in love. “That bastard is lucky,” he says, though his voice holds no resentment, only fondness. Then, as if unable to help himself, he smirks. “Tell Minsu I said hi—and that he’ll have to lend me his wife sometime.” He winks before disappearing into the break room, a mischievous glint still lingering in his eyes.

And just like that, the moment of heaviness passes. At least for now.

You make your way to the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the surface as you wait for Ms. Han to hand over your patient list for the day. She shuffles through some files before passing you three thick sheets of paper.

“That’s all?” you ask, giving them a quick glance. Routine treatments. Checkups. Basic things. Things you can handle without much thought.

“Well…” She swallows, then lowers her voice. “The last one is a bit tough. Jimin didn’t—”

“The patient with the brain tumor?” you interrupt gently.

She nods, confirming what you already knew. Your eyes skim over the last page, taking in the details as quickly as possible. 27 years old. Diagnosed today.

“He doesn’t want treatment,” Jihyun murmurs, staring at the bouquet on the counter rather than meeting your eyes. The flowers are vibrant, a gift from her boyfriend, their colors standing out against the stark white of the hospital walls. You’ve always thought hospital hallways were too lifeless, too sterile. It makes you glad the flowers are there—small bursts of color in a place that so often feels drained of it.

“Okay,” you say, slipping the papers under your arm. “I’ll go see him. Thanks, Jihyun.”

She nods, but her expression remains troubled as you turn away. You understand why. A patient refusing treatment is never easy. But something tells you—this one will be even harder.

You move through your rounds smoothly, tending to the first two patients with quiet efficiency. Seeing them improve—even just a little—fills you with something warm, something close to pride. The relief in their eyes, the way they talk more freely about anything and everything, makes your heart feel lighter. You answer them with genuine enjoyment, hoping that even the smallest conversation can brighten their day. Hoping that, for just a moment, they forget where they are.

But now, it’s time for the last patient.

You glance down at the room number. 136.

The hallway suddenly feels longer, the earlier lightness fading with every step. It has always been difficult—this part. Facing someone whose fate has already been written in cruel, unchangeable ink. No matter how many times you’ve done this, no matter how many names and faces have passed through your hands, it never gets easier. Because at the end of it all, they’re not just patients. They’re people. Someone. Someone’s life.

As you reach the door, your eyes flick toward the glass window that looks into the room. The curtains are wide open. Unusual. Most patients in his position prefer to shut themselves away, closing the blinds so no one can see them—so no one can pity them.

Inside, a man sits with his back to the door, gazing out the window. His posture is relaxed, almost too still, as if he’s trying to commit the view to memory.

You take a deep breath, flexing your fingers before curling them into fists, willing them to stop trembling. Then, swallowing down the strange unease settling in your chest, you lift your hand and knock gently on the door.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls out, almost sing-song, light in a way that feels at odds with where you are.

You swallow, closing your fingers over the doorknob before pushing the door open. Don’t think too much. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s just a patient. A 27-year-old man in a hospital room. Someone you need to help. Not someone with death looming over him.

“Hi, I’m—” But the words die in your throat.

The man in front of you turns, and suddenly, the world tilts.

The same boxy grin. The same caramel skin. The same thick eyebrows framing big, soulful chocolate eyes—the kind that always smiled, even before his lips did. A sculpted smile. A face you could never mistake.

Your breath catches. “Taehyung?”

He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, his grin widens, eyes crinkling at the corners like he was expecting this. Like he’s been waiting.

And just like that, something shifts in your chest. Not from stress. Not from anticipation.

But from something older. Something that had been buried—forgotten, maybe.

Something only he could bring back.

You look down at the papers in your hands, desperate—begging—to see another name written there. Something different. Something that would make this less real.

But the letters blur together, your fingers trembling so violently that the pages crinkle under your grip. Focus. Read. Breathe. But your mind refuses to obey.

“Woah, so you really work here!”

His voice is light, almost amused, as he bounces slightly on the bed, letting out a small laugh.

You can’t mirror it. Can’t match his strange, detached ease. Because to you, this isn’t nothing. This is the world drowning you alive.

Your eyes dart around the room, searching—praying—for someone else to be here. The real patient. The real man with the brain tumor.

Because it can’t be Taehyung.

Not him.

“Where is he?” you breathe, your voice barely audible.

Taehyung tilts his head, confused. “Who?”

Your gaze lands on his backpack in the corner, and your stomach drops. The keychains. Bright, mismatched, a collection of weird little things that only he would own.

It is him.

“The…” You try to gesture with your hands, unable—unwilling—to say the words.

Taehyung hums in understanding, looking around the room as if following your frantic search. Then, without hesitation, he answers, his voice still so damn casual.

“The unlucky guy with a brain tumor?”

And then you look at him—really look at him. The boxy grin is still there, but now you see it for what it is. A mask. And beneath it, his eyes are hollow. His cheeks are damp.

He knows.

And in that moment, so do you.

“I am,” he says.

And your mind goes completely, utterly blank.

Spring had just begun, and everything felt alive.

The flowers blossomed on the trees, their bright colors dancing in the light breeze, and the air was soft against your bare arms. The sun, warm and gentle, kissed your skin just right, filling you with a sense of peace.

It was your favorite season—the start of something good. The fresh promise of a new beginning, just like the flowers that slowly unfurled their petals, reaching toward the sun.

Your hands were full of books—so many books, stacked high, pressing into your arms as you made your way down the path. Every sound was muffled by the music blasting through your earbuds, the rhythm of the song vibrating through your bones. Your parents always warned you about it, how the sound would damage your hearing and leave you deaf too young. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

But the greatest mistake you made that day wasn’t turning the volume up too high, or carrying too many books because you were too lazy to make multiple trips. It wasn’t even losing track of time as you let the music consume you.

It was stopping right there in the middle of the path.

You closed your eyes, lifted your face to the sun, and let it warm you completely. The moment was pure bliss. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling the weight of the world melt away in that quiet, peaceful moment.

But as soon as you did, your foot caught on something, your body teetering for a second before you fell back, the books flying from your hands and joining you on the ground with a soft thud.

“Shit, are you okay?”

The first thing you see is the shadow of someone blocking the sun, and then you’re met with the face of a stranger. His wide eyes, hidden behind thick glasses, are filled with concern and something else—guilt, maybe? His mouth hangs open as though he’s already expecting to be yelled at, yet he quickly offers his hand without hesitation.

“I do,” you say, grabbing his hand. His fingers, slim and warm, wrap around yours, pulling you up gently. His movements are quick, almost frantic, as he crouches down to gather your scattered books.

“I’m really sorry,” he says in a rush, his voice bubbling with sincerity. “I was running late and I was running like an idiot.” His gaze darts between you and the floor. “I should have been more careful.”

You feel your cheeks flush, the heat creeping up as you watch him struggle to collect the books, his clumsy hands almost dropping them in the process. He asks where you’re headed, offering to walk with you as an apology.

“It’s my fault,” you admit, avoiding his gaze but not his words. “It wasn’t the best idea to stop in the middle of the hallway.”

He laughs softly, the sound light and carefree, almost childlike. “Guess we both have our faults in this!” he says, nearly dropping a book as he fumbles with the stack. You quickly catch it, your fingers brushing his.

“God, I’m clumsy,” he mutters, shaking his head with an embarrassed grin before focusing on following you down the hall.

The walk feels oddly natural, and before you know it, you find yourselves standing in front of your classroom. He hands back your books, his eyes slightly less frantic now, though still carrying a bit of that nervous energy.

“My name is Kim Taehyung, by the way,” he says, his voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should still be talking. “It’s my first day here.”

Before you can say anything, he’s already on his way, running off with his backpack swinging wildly behind him, the keychains clinking noisily with every step.

But the sound of them fading into the distance isn’t the only thing lingering in the air. You feel it too—your heart, hanging loosely, caught somewhere between surprise and something new.

And just like that, Kim Taehyung became spring to you. A new beginning. Something fresh. Something beautiful.

You feel terrible. Guilty.

Guilty for something that isn’t yours to control, for something you can’t even decide. But the guilt is there, eating at you from the inside out, because you had to run to the nearest bathroom to escape him. To escape yourself.

You’re shaking as you lean over the sink, and the contents of your stomach spill out violently, until there’s nothing left but bile, a sour reminder of everything you’ve been avoiding. The thought of facing him. Of being by his side during this. It churns in your stomach, makes it twist and burn. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe because the thought of it is suffocating.

The memories of him flood in—the way you used to walk beside him, holding his hand, kissing his cheek shyly in the hallways. It used to feel so natural. So right. So easy.

But now? You’re not sure if you can even look at him.

You take a shaky breath and lift your eyes to the mirror, staring at your reflection, and it’s a version of yourself you don’t recognize. The eyes staring back at you are dull, haunted, and the weight of everything feels like it’s pressing down on your chest.

You splash cold water on your face, the coolness doing little to erase the taste of vomit still lingering in your mouth. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing can erase the deep ache in your heart.

You try to calm your racing thoughts, but the pain stays. It’s like a shadow, stretching over every part of you. A wound that just keeps growing.

You hear the soft knock on the door, followed by the sound you never thought you’d hear in this moment—his voice. It’s gentle, laced with concern, the same voice that once made you smile without thinking.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry I followed you—”

A pang of guilt hits you immediately.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, I swear,” you respond quickly, your voice muffled through the door, but firm enough to mask the cracks in it. It’s not his place to care now. Not when it’s him—him—the one who needs help. You should be the one to care, to hold it together for him. But this isn’t that simple. Not anymore.

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead against the cool tile, willing your heart to steady, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest.

Taehyung—the most caring, selfless person you’ve ever met, even when he’s the one with a stupid brain tumor, even when he’s the one who should be cared for, not the other way around. He’s the one standing outside the door, waiting for you to say everything’s fine, even when you know it isn’t.

Even when it never will be again.

You slip your white coat back on, pulling it tight around your shoulders as if the fabric could somehow shield you from everything that’s swirling in your mind. It feels like a silly thought, but you cling to it anyway. Maybe the coat will help you focus. Maybe it’ll give you back the sense of control you’re desperately seeking, even if just for a moment.

You take a deep breath, letting the cold, sterile air fill your lungs. Then, you step outside of the bathroom, your heart racing again as you make your way back to him.

“Sorry to have run off like that,” you say, your voice shaky but steady enough to sound convincing. “It was very unprofessional of me,” you add, and you don’t trust your own words—don’t believe them—but you push them out anyway. “Really needed to… pee.”

You can hear how forced it sounds, but you can’t stop yourself. You want him to believe it. You want him to believe that the reason you ran away wasn’t because of him—because you were scared.

If he notices your red eyes, your disheveled state, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t question you. Instead, he just smiles—childishly, like he always does—his eyes crinkling with that carefree joy that you’ve always loved about him. Even at 27, he still found humor in the smallest things, like this moment.

It’s a silly smile, but it works. It works because for a brief second, you’re reminded of everything that felt normal between you two. And somehow, despite the knot in your stomach, you manage to smile back.

You walk silently beside him, the sounds of your shoes echoing in the hallway. His words are light, almost playful, as he talks about his diagnosis in a way that doesn’t quite match the gravity of the situation. “It’s weird to see me there, right?” he asks with that typical, innocent smile of his. But his smile feels out of place now, like it’s masking something deeper.

You nod, not trusting your own voice to speak, afraid that if you say something wrong, it’ll all fall apart. You’re thankful when he continues, his words somehow more carefree than you know they should be.

“I never thought it would happen to me. Guess I’m unlucky!” he laughs, that laugh bouncing off the sterile walls. And you wonder—does he really understand? Does he know what he’s facing, what the doctor’s words meant when they told him three months, five if he’s lucky?

You don’t think he does, at least not in the way that you do. Not in the way that every part of you feels the weight of those words crushing down on you.

“Taehyung,” you stop in your tracks, a hand reaching out to grab the sleeve of his beige sweater. You can feel the tension in your chest, the tightness that’s been building up since you first saw him. “They told me you don’t want treatments,” you say, your voice shaky, but you push on. “Why?”

He pauses, glancing around at the other patients, the ones moving about in their own little world, all of them wrapped in their own battles. You see the way his eyes flit around, like he’s looking for an escape. He doesn’t want to say it, you can tell. But he does anyway, his voice quieter now.

“I want to live normally,” he says, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning. “Not like someone who…” He stumbles, his voice faltering for a second, but he pushes through. “If I have one year or less, I want to make the best of it. Not being dependent on stupid pills.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You watch as his smile falters, the cracks in his bravado starting to show. He’s trying so hard to stay strong, to keep that carefree front, but you can see the rawness in his eyes.

You want to scream, tell him he’s wrong. That the treatments, even if they don’t work miracles, could give him more time. And you wonder, as you stand there, if there’s anything left you can do to save him.

“At least I know you,” Taehyung says with that smile of his—the kind that always seemed to light up any room. And for a moment, you almost forget. You almost forget what he’s really here for, what’s really happening to him, because in his smile, you can see all the memories of who he used to be. The carefree boy you once knew. The boy who made you laugh so hard your stomach ached, the boy who could always find the light, even in the darkest moments.

You want to protect that smile. You want to shield it from the reality that is creeping closer every day. But you can’t. You can’t hide from what’s real, and the truth is—you’ve never been more terrified.

But the fear is nothing compared to the weight of your decision. You take a deep breath, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You’re not just here to help him as a nurse, not just to monitor his condition or make sure his pain is controlled. You’re here because he needs someone to walk beside him through this.

The files that Jimin gave you, they weren’t just a piece of paper. They weren’t just cold, sterile facts about his condition. They were a sign. A sign that you were meant to be more than just the nurse in charge of his care. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was a twist of life’s cruel sense of humor. But whatever it was, you couldn’t walk away from it.

You couldn’t walk away from him.

“I don’t want to be alone in this,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I don’t think I could do it.”

His voice falters, softer now, a noticeable tremor threading through every word he speaks. His smile slowly fades away, replaced by an expression of raw fear and vulnerability that cuts deep into your heart. He knows what’s happening to him—he isn’t blind to the reality of his situation. He may be young, just a boy in the grand scheme of life, but he’s wise enough to see that this fight isn’t one he can win. He isn’t dumb, just a young man trying desperately to hold onto hope, hiding the weight of his pain behind the most beautiful, effortless smile that once filled the room with light.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, and he tucks his face behind his dark, curly bangs, as though trying to disappear from it all. His words catch in his throat. “I don’t want to die.” The vulnerability in his voice cracks you wide open, and then, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer, he breathes your name, followed by a quiet sob, sniffing back the tears that refuse to be contained.

In that instant, there’s no hesitation. Not a second of doubt. You don’t even have to think about it. Without a moment’s hesitation, you step forward, wrapping your arms around him as though it’s the only thing you know how to do. His body is trembling, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The hallway feels distant and empty, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is him—his pain, his fear, and the promise you need to make.

“You’re not alone, Tae,” you murmur, your voice low and steady, just for him. “I’ll be with you. I promise.”

And as you hold him, the weight of the promise settles in. You realize that while you can’t change what’s happening, you can offer him something—your presence, your unwavering support, the kind of comfort that transcends words. This moment, fleeting as it may be, becomes a promise of solidarity, a bond neither time nor illness can sever.

You felt like a hypocrite. You, of all people, knew better than this. You were the one who always reminded your patients and their families to trust the doctors, to avoid searching for answers in random corners of the internet. And yet here you were, scrolling through endless websites, looking for some sort of comfort in articles that didn’t know the first thing about the reality of brain tumors. You were desperately seeking something—anything—that could make this nightmare feel less real. But all you found was more uncertainty, more fear, and the cruel reminder that there were no easy answers.

Frustrated, you threw your phone onto the sofa with a groan, feeling utterly helpless. You were a professional, you told yourself. You were supposed to be strong, level-headed, and yet tonight you felt like a fraud.

“What happened?” Minsu’s voice broke through your haze, his breath warm as he leaned over your shoulder, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. The weight of his presence was grounding, but it only made you feel worse. You hadn’t even looked at him since you came home. The night you’d planned, the night that was supposed to be just the two of you, had slipped away from you. The second you stepped through the door, Taehyung’s face had taken over your mind, and there was no room left for anything else. Not even your husband.

You sighed, deeply, feeling the guilt weigh heavily on your chest. You should’ve been present for Minsu. You should’ve been with him, but instead, you were consumed by Taehyung’s pain, his fear, and the crushing weight of your own helplessness.

“I had a rough day,” you finally admitted, the words slipping out without thinking. If you couldn’t share this with Minsu, who could you share it with? You knew he would understand. You knew he’d listen, even if he didn’t fully comprehend the depths of your emotions. But tonight, you needed someone who cared. You needed someone who could hold you, even if just for a moment, so you didn’t feel like you were drowning in this mess of conflicting emotions.

Minsu’s words hit you harder than you expected. “You always have rough days at the hospital. You sure you still love it?” It wasn’t that he meant any harm, but the way he phrased it, so casual and unthinking, made your heart ache. It felt like he was questioning your passion, your calling, and suddenly you were defensive, like he didn’t understand.

Could he think you didn’t love what you did? That you didn’t love being there, that you didn’t care for your patients with everything you had?

No, you loved it. Every minute of it. Even the difficult, gut-wrenching moments when you felt helpless and broken. You couldn’t imagine a life without it, without being a nurse, without being beside someone like Taehyung in his time of need.

You felt the words bubbling up inside you before you could stop them, and you spat out, “It happened. I would get through it.” The tone was sharper than you intended, and you immediately regretted it. But the words were out, and you couldn’t take them back.

Minsu’s expression softened, but the hurt in his eyes was clear. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Maybe we could go to the cinema tonight, right? Just the two of us. A little distraction?”

But you couldn’t accept it. Not tonight. Not when your mind was overwhelmed with everything. You were running on empty, emotionally drained, and you couldn’t fake your way through it. “I’m tired,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes, and walked toward the bedroom. You could feel the weight of your emotions beginning to overwhelm you—frustration, guilt, fear, everything swirling together in a messy cocktail you couldn’t push aside.

Your phone vibrated softly against the bedside table, breaking through the haze of your thoughts. You barely opened your eyes, the exhaustion weighing on you, yet sleep refused to come. You picked up your phone and saw an unknown number had sent a message. You furrowed your brows in confusion, but your heart skipped a beat when you saw the selfie that followed.

It was a close-up of his face. His eyes, deep brown and full of warmth, stared back at you from the screen. The mole on his nose caught your attention immediately, familiar and comforting. His face was messy, his hair slightly askew, but it was the perfect snapshot of him—messy, goofy, and utterly Taehyung.

You giggled softly, a schoolgirl-like giggle, at the silly selfie. It made your heart flutter, the warmth of his presence in the image feeling like a small glimpse of the past. But before you knew it, the smile faltered. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited, and soon you were a mess of silent sobs. The laughter that had bubbled up in you just moments ago was now replaced by an overwhelming ache deep in your chest.

You hadn’t wanted to think about it, about what lay ahead because it hurt too much. But how could you not? How could you not look at that goofy, happy face, the eyes that held so much life, and not think about the cruel reality?

His smile, his laugh, the way he lit up a room—how could you imagine a world without that?

Because even though you hadn’t seen him in years, you knew he was still out there, somewhere. Living his life, chasing his dreams, following the rhythm of his heart and the desires of his beautiful soul. And somehow, knowing that his heart was still beating, still full of life, even for someone else, was enough to soothe the ache that lingered in your chest.

It was better than imagining a world where that kind heart, the one that had always been so full of warmth, wasn’t beating at all.

Tonight, your dreams were only about him. The kind of dreams where everything felt so vivid—his laughter, his smile, the warmth in his eyes. He was alive, his heart still beating, and you both were together, just like you used to be.

But then, as the night deepened, the dreams twisted into something darker. His smile began to fade, his laughter drowned in an eerie silence. His eyes, once full of life, became hollow, and you couldn’t stop the feeling that time was running out.

And that’s when the nightmares started. The night felt endless, a cruel loop between the love you remembered and the loss you dreaded, as if your mind couldn’t decide whether to remember or to forget.

As you walked to the hospital, you tried to steel yourself a little more than yesterday, hoping for a better day. You knew it was all about taking it one step at a time, but the weight of everything still sat heavy on your chest. As you rounded the corner, your gaze caught something unexpected—Taehyung, sitting on the bench outside the hospital entrance.

Your breath caught for a second, and you couldn’t help but smile. He was bathed in sunlight, his caramel skin glowing under the morning rays. It was almost as if the sun always followed him, and you couldn’t help but think back to the first time you’d seen him—how it had always felt like a sign whenever the sun seemed to shine a little brighter around him. His attention was focused on the small notebook in his lap, and his pen moved gently, doodling patterns you couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

You took a breath, your heart lightening just by seeing him. It was strange how one person could do that. You checked your phone to make sure you had time before your shift started, and when you saw that you did, you made your way toward him without a second thought.

“What are you drawing, Van Gogh?” you asked with a teasing smile as you sat beside him, leaning over just enough to peer at the pages of his notebook.

He glanced up, his eyes bright, though his focus quickly returned to his sketch. “The trees,” he said, pointing to the large trees standing tall before you both. “They look majestic,” he added, as if he was in awe of their simple grandeur. Leaves were scattered around the ground, signaling that fall had begun to settle in.

“I think I want to be a tree in another life,” he mused, almost too casually, as he traced the lines of his doodles.

You burst into a laugh, the sound light and easy, filling the space between you. “A tree?” you repeated, the words slipping out of your mouth before you could stop them. “When you could be a tiger or a bear? Something cool like that?”

He gave a soft shake of his head, his curls tumbling over his forehead as his bangs swayed out of the way, revealing his deep brown eyes more clearly. “Definitely not a tiger,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m more of a bear guy.” His voice dropped into a more playful tone, as if this was a deeply important decision. “But being a tree is just… so cool. You can live for thousands of years. You don’t have to plan everything because you have all the time in the world.”

His words hit you unexpectedly, the weight of them sinking deeper than you thought possible. It was such a simple statement, yet it left you thinking.

Taehyung smiled at you, his expression softening as though you’d understood a part of his mind that most people wouldn’t have even noticed. That was the thing about him: he had a way of seeing things from angles most people never considered. What others would call an ordinary tree, he saw as a symbol of calm, of timelessness. His mind always surprised you with how deeply he thought about even the simplest things.

“You’ve always had a way of seeing the world differently,” you added, feeling a quiet admiration for him. “It’s like you find meaning in everything.”

He shrugged casually, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess I just like to think there’s more to life than just what’s in front of us. You know?” He glanced up at you, his smile widening as he leaned back into the bench. “Plus, trees are cool. They don’t rush.”

He adds the final touches to his drawing, a soft smile playing on his lips as he studies the page. With a small sigh, he closes his notebook and glances over at you, his eyes shifting to your left hand.

“What’s his name, by the way?” he asks casually, as if the question is the most natural thing in the world, his attention now focused on the colorful stickers decorating his notebook. Some were peeling at the edges, faded from time, while others were bright and new, perfectly placed. It was clear—his notebook was more than just a tool for drawing; it was an extension of himself, filled with fragments of his heart, his mind, his life.

He nudges your hand slightly with his chin, his gaze falling on the ring again, and the question feels less like curiosity and more like a gentle reminder of something. “The one who managed to make you want to marry him,” he says with a soft chuckle, almost nostalgically. He remembers the days when you would laugh off any mention of weddings, teasing him about how you’d never buy into the whole marriage idea.

“Oh,” you respond, your gaze drifting down to the ring, momentarily lost in its reflection as the sun dances off the diamonds. But for some reason, it doesn’t shine as brightly as it used to. The way the light catches Taehyung’s skin seems to be a more dazzling sight, something far more captivating than the material in your hand.

You clear your throat, trying to pull yourself back into the conversation. “Choi Minsu,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s my husband,” you add, but it’s as if the words are harder to say than they should be. You don’t understand why, but a sudden pang of guilt fills your chest, almost as though you’re betraying something you shouldn’t be, just by saying his name aloud.

There’s a long pause between you two as the words hang in the air. Taehyung’s eyes search your face, though he doesn’t press for more, sensing the tension you didn’t want to admit was there. Instead, he smiles softly, his usual lightheartedness fading just a bit.

“Choi Minsu,” he repeats the name, testing the way it feels on his tongue, but there’s no judgment, only acceptance. “He’s lucky. He gets to marry you.”

Taehyung’s chuckle fills the air, light and playful, but there’s a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes as he looks at your wedding ring. “You know, seeing that you work here wasn’t surprising at all, but seeing you with a wedding ring—now that caught me off guard,” he laughs, shaking his head.

You force a smile, but inside, it feels like a crack has formed. You and Taehyung had once shared an understanding, a deep connection that went beyond words. He had always been the one who understood you in a way that no one else did. Back then, you had never seen yourself walking down the aisle, wearing a ring, or subscribing to the traditional idea of love. Love, for you, had always been more than just a symbol. It was in the way you felt when you were with him, in the quiet moments, the laughter, the unspoken bond. A ring on your finger never felt necessary to prove how deeply you cared. Not when it was Taehyung—when it was him, no symbol could ever capture the depth of your feelings.

But now, here you were. Married. To someone else.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you try to deflect the tension and lighten the mood, offering a soft laugh as you glance at him. “And I’m surprised you don’t have a ring. You always used to love that stuff,” you tease, wanting to move past the uncomfortable space between you and to remind him of the carefree, dream-filled conversations you used to have.

He raises an eyebrow, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, though it’s a little dimmer than it used to be. His smile doesn’t have the same carefree energy that once lit up his face. Instead, it’s tinged with something more somber, more reflective. “Yeah, maybe I did,” he says, his voice quieter now. He shifts his gaze downward, his finger absentmindedly tapping his pencil against his temple, the rhythm slow, almost as if he’s trying to process something inside his own mind. “But, you know… sometimes things just don’t turn out the way you expect. Guess I’m not the kind of guy who chases fairy tales after all.”

He shrugs lightly, but the heaviness in his words lingers in the air. His eyes flicker to the ground, and you follow his gaze, not wanting to see the vulnerability in his face. Then he taps his pencil again, this time with a slight irony. “I mean, look at me. I’m a ticking bomb,” he adds, the words blunt but wrapped in that dry humor of his, referring to his brain tumor without flinching.

You promised yourself you’d be stronger today. That you wouldn’t let it get to you. You take a deep breath, fighting to steady your voice as you speak. “I like to believe in fairy tales now,” you begin, your words soft, almost tentative. You force a small smile, the kind you know is only half genuine, but it’s all you can muster. “That everything will end perfectly,” you continue, but even as you say the words, you can hear the tremble in your voice. It betrays you, cracks the façade you’ve been desperately trying to hold up.

“I used to think that too,” he continues, his gaze moves beyond you, to the trees he had been drawing earlier. A gentle breeze stirs the branches, and for a brief moment, the world feels suspended in time. “I was always focused on the ending, thinking that if I just waited long enough, things would fall into place. But… maybe that’s not how it works.”

He takes a breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. His eyes flicker back to you, locking on with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “Maybe life isn’t about waiting for the perfect ending,” he adds quietly. “Maybe it’s about making the best of the time you have even when you know it’s limited.”

The words hang in the air, like the sound of wind through the trees—quiet, but undeniable. The weight of them presses into your heart. He was right, wasn’t he? Life wasn’t about waiting for everything to line up perfectly, for some happily-ever-after to fall into place. It was about being present in the here and now, embracing the fleeting moments, even when they were fragile, even when they were tainted by the harsh reality of time running out.

“I should go, work is calling me,” you say, breaking the silence. You feel the tug of duty, knowing that you can’t stay with him for long, even if you wanted to.

He immediately nods, the movement almost mechanical, like he’d been anticipating the moment you would have to leave. “I should go too,” he replies, the smile he offers barely reaching his eyes. “I have an appointment. I don’t know, they want to check something, like somehow it would change overnight,” he chuckles dryly. His words are a sad attempt to mask the reality of what he’s facing, the tests, the unknowns, the countdown ticking inside him.

You both stand up, your footsteps syncing as you make your way toward the hospital’s main entrance, the hallway ahead a familiar path. Same destination, but your roles have shifted in an unspoken way. He’s walking to an appointment, to the uncertainty of what the tests might reveal, and you’re walking toward your shift—your work, your patients, your responsibilities. But in that moment, despite the difference in where you were going, you both carried the same heavy burden.

“Can I ask you something?” Taehyung’s voice breaks the silence, unsure, hesitant, like he’s afraid to burden you with another question. “You can say no if you want, of course. I don’t even know why I’m asking—”

“Yes, Taehyung? Tell me,” you urge, offering him a reassuring smile, letting him know that it’s okay to speak his mind, to ask whatever it is that’s weighing on him. You can see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes, his mind already spiraling into “what ifs,” but you want him to know that you’re here, that you’re listening.

He takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice quieter now, tinged with vulnerability. “Would you mind being there during the appointment? I really don’t like all of that stuff,” he says, referring to the cold, sterile white hallways and the medical staff that often feel like strangers in their white coats. He makes a gesture with his hand, indicating the whole clinical environment—the place that has become so familiar, yet so alien to him.

You pause for a moment, looking into his eyes, seeing the uncertainty and fear beneath the humor he tried to hide behind. You don’t hesitate. You know your answer before he even finishes asking. “I will be there,” you confirm softly, the words carrying a promise, a sense of unwavering support.

He smiles, a little more genuine this time. He moves toward the patient chair and settles down, his posture stiff but trying to remain calm as you walk away to change into your scrubs.

You run through the hallways, each step echoing in the sterile silence, the long corridor seeming endless as you hurry toward Taehyung’s appointment. You hate how drawn out the walk feels, how it stretches your nerves taut as you try to make up for lost time.

Before leaving, you’d asked Jimin to cover for you, asking him to check on your patients without hesitation. He didn’t ask questions, only gave you that reassuring smile of his—something that, in this moment, felt like a lifeline. You couldn’t help but be brief with him when he asked about Taehyung. You spoke of him like any other patient, glossing over the things that made Taehyung different. The truth, the emotions, the weight of knowing him personally, all those things you couldn’t say out loud. If Jimin knew what had happened between you and Taehyung, that he was more than just a patient to you, that the lines between professionalism and personal connection had blurred, you knew he would feel guilty. He would question whether he had done the right thing by giving you Taehyung’s file, and you couldn’t let him carry that.

By the time you open the door to the room, you’re already out of breath. Your gaze immediately finds Dr. Jung, the best neurosurgeon in the city. You’re thankful it’s him handling Taehyung’s case.

As you enter, you try to force a professional smile, but it’s hard when the familiar face you want to see most is right in front of you. Taehyung’s eyes flicker toward you almost immediately, and his signature boxy grin spreads across his face. It’s the same grin that has always made your heart flutter, the same one that used to melt away all of your worries, even in the toughest of times. But now, it feels bittersweet, like a smile that’s hiding something deeper beneath.

You stand behind Dr. Jung’s chair, forcing yourself to focus, to remain calm and composed. You can’t let your emotions overwhelm you, not now. But as you glance at the screen in front of the doctor, a knot tightens in your stomach. You can see the results—Taehyung’s condition—and the numbers on the screen only confirm what you already know. The reality of his diagnosis is undeniable.

You clear your throat, trying to steady your breath as you look at Dr. Jung, then back at Taehyung, before focusing on the x-ray once more. The image of Taehyung’s brain, with those three ominous, small but present masses within it, seems to weigh down on your chest. Each of the balls on the scan felt like a ticking clock—something you couldn’t ignore, no matter how badly you wanted to.

“So, Mr. Kim,” Dr. Jung begins, his voice shaky but professional, trying his best to sound detached from the devastating reality you see in front of you. “The imaging results show a few noticeable masses in your brain, three lesions in total, which are consistent with a diagnosis of a form of brain cancer, aggressive, and unfortunately, given its location and size, it’s going to be challenging to treat.”

You glance quickly at Taehyung’s face, looking for some reaction, some sign that he’s not fully processing what you’re saying, that this isn’t real, that he’ll get better somehow. But his face has already shifted into something else—something resigned. His eyes, though still bright, seem distant, and you can see the subtle change in his demeanor as the words settle in.

Dr. Jung steps in to continue, his voice steady and calm, though you know he’s trying to gauge the situation with every word. “We’ll have to discuss treatment options soon, Mr. Kim. We could try a combination of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy.” His tone is clinical, compassionate, but you can feel the weight of every word.

Taehyung shakes his head, exhaling through his nose before his gaze finds yours over Dr. Jung’s shoulder. He smiles—soft, warm, familiar. But right now, it only makes your chest tighten unbearably. You quickly avert your eyes, scanning the room as if the framed certificates on the wall or the stack of patient files could distract you from the sting of tears welling up, threatening to blur your vision.

His voice pulls you back. “How long?” he asks, shifting forward in his seat, his hands clasped together like he’s bracing himself. “I mean, how long do you even give me?” He lets out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ve read five months if I’m lucky. Three if not. A year, if I feel like lying to myself. And—” he scoffs, his lips curling into something bitter, “some website even said two days.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You want to scold him for looking up his condition online, tell him how unreliable and terrifyingly misleading those sources can be—but you don’t. Because you did the same thing last night, didn’t you? Sat in the dark with your phone screen burning into your retinas, scrolling through every possible prognosis, searching for something—anything—that could contradict the truth you already knew.

Taehyung sighs, his fingers drumming restlessly against the edge of the desk. “So just tell me,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s tired. Like carrying this question has already drained him. “I don’t want to hear about treatments that’ll make me feel worse than I already do.”

And that—that—is what shatters you. The way he says it. Because you’ve spent so much time thinking about what he’s going through, about the medical facts, the test results, the harsh reality of it all. But hearing him admit it makes your heart drop to your stomach.

Dr. Jung hesitates. “It’s hard to say—”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Taehyung cuts in, sharper than before. There’s frustration there, anger even, but it fizzles out as fast as it came. His shoulders sink, his head falling into his hands like he’s lost a battle only he knew he was fighting.

You move instinctively, stepping behind him, your hands finding his shoulders. A grounding touch, a silent reassurance. I’m here.

“Mr. Kim,” you say, forcing your voice into something steady, professional, even though every part of you is crumbling inside. “Are you feeling okay?”

He doesn’t answer. And then, before anyone can say another word, a single drop of blood escapes his nose, staining the surface of Dr. Jung’s desk. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t send a fresh wave of panic coursing through you.

His voice drops to something almost fragile. “Just tell me. Please.”

Dr. Jung sighs, his fingers tapping against the file in front of him before he straightens in his chair. He hands you a tissue without a word—an unspoken instruction to wipe away the blood. Then he meets Taehyung’s gaze, his own eyes heavy with something that almost resembles guilt.

“Three months,” he says finally. “That’s the best I can offer.”

Silence.

And then—Taehyung exhales, long and slow. His lips press together, his jaw tightening for a moment before he lets out a small, humorless laugh.

“Three months,” he repeats, rolling the words over his tongue. Like he’s trying to make sense of them. Like he’s testing their weight.

Your hands tighten slightly on his shoulders. Because three months isn’t enough. It’s not even close.

Taehyung tilts his head slightly, studying you with an expression that’s both expectant and uncertain. “That’s enough time to do a lot of things, right?” his voice is light, but his eyes—his eyes are searching, needing something from you. Agreement? Reassurance? Hope?

You nod, though the movement feels weak, hollow. You don’t trust yourself to speak because you know if you do, your voice might betray you.

He watches you for a second longer before turning back to Dr. Jung, inhaling deeply as he forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright then, Doc. Guess I should start making a bucket list.” His tone is playful, almost careless, but you hear the weight beneath it. The resignation.

Dr. Jung nods solemnly and begins explaining something—options, procedures, maybe just medical advice—but the words become nothing more than background noise. Your mind shuts down, the details slipping past you like water through your fingers.

Your focus is locked on the crumpled tissue in your hands, now stained dark red. Taehyung’s blood. A small, tangible piece of his suffering. A cruel, undeniable reminder of the war his body is waging against him.

You barely register the end of their conversation until Taehyung shifts beside you, rising to his feet. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you around,” he says, casual, as if he were just leaving a routine check-up instead of carrying the weight of an expiration date.

You move to follow him, your steps automatically falling in line with his, but Dr. Jung’s voice stops you in your tracks.

He calls your name gently, carefully. “Can we talk?”

You hesitate, glancing at Taehyung, but he only smiles, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll be by the coffee machines. Take your time.”

You nod, watching as he walks away, his figure disappearing down the too-bright hallway.

Then, slowly, you turn back to Dr. Jung, bracing yourself for whatever he’s about to say.

Dr. Jung leans back against his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp as he studies you. “You know him, don’t you?”

You school your features into something neutral, something professional. “He’s my patient,” you answer, but he only scoffs, shaking his head.

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of knowing to it, like he’s already put the pieces together. “You know him personally. I can see it in the way you look at him, the way you’re here. Who is he to you, miss?”

The question makes you pause.

Who is Taehyung to you?

Once, the answer would have come easily, instinctively. He was everything. The love of your life. Your best friend. The person who made the world feel lighter, warmer. You would have said it with certainty, with the kind of reckless confidence only youth allows.

But now? Now, the words feel heavier, tangled in the years you’ve spent apart.

You exhale, settling on something simpler, something safer. “A friend,” you say, though it doesn’t feel like enough.

Dr. Jung watches you for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push further, but then he nods. “Well, take care of your friend, then,” he says, walking back to his chair. His voice softens just slightly. “Be there for him. And I need you to be fully aware of his condition.”

You swallow hard, nodding, even as your heart sinks. “I will.”

With a quick bow, you leave Dr. Jung’s office, but the weight of his words lingers in your chest. You shake it off as best you can because right now, there’s only one thing you want—to see Taehyung. To make sure he’s still there.

As soon as you step into the hallway, your eyes search for him, and relief floods through you when you spot him standing by the coffee machines, two cups in his hands. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but there’s something oddly comforting about the sight of him waiting there.

“Coffee?” you tease, laughing as you approach.

He takes a small sip, his face immediately twisting in disgust.

“You don’t even like coffee, Tae,” you remind him, shaking your head as you accept the cup he offers you. The warmth seeps into your fingers, grounding you. The simple gesture, the familiarity of it, tugs at something deep inside you. A memory of him wrinkling his nose at the bitter smell, of him teasing you for your obsession with it, of endless conversations where he tried—and failed—to understand why you loved it so much.

Some things never change.

Taehyung lets out a dramatic groan, his whole body shuddering. “God, that’s awful. It tastes like pee and Red Bull mixed together.”

You burst out laughing, taking a long sip of your own cup. “And yet you’re still drinking it.”

He pulls a face, staring down at the offending drink like it personally betrayed him. “I don’t know. Just figured I should drink one before I die.”

Your smile falters. Just for a second. But Taehyung doesn’t seem to notice. He scoffs, shaking his head. “Wanted to see why you liked them so much.”

Your fingers tighten around the cup. There’s something lighthearted about his words, but beneath the teasing, there’s an unspoken truth, a quiet confession that hits deeper than it should.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing your voice to stay steady. “And? Do you get it now?”

He makes a show of considering, rolling his lips together before taking another tentative sip. Immediately, his whole face scrunches up.

“Nope. Still disgusting,” he announces, sticking his tongue out in exaggerated distaste. “You have terrible taste, honestly.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm. “And yet you’re still drinking it.”

Taehyung shrugs, lifting the cup in a half-hearted toast before taking another reluctant sip. “Guess I just wanted to understand a piece of you again.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be. Your chest tightens.

A piece of you.

“You know, I haven’t changed much,” you say, hiding behind the rim of your cup as you take another sip, hoping the bitterness will drown out the emotions creeping up your throat.

Taehyung scoffs, tilting his head as he studies you. “You’re married,” he points out, raising an eyebrow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s a pretty big change.”

You exhale, lowering your cup just enough to meet his gaze, but his expression is unreadable. He leans casually against the machine, but there’s a weight behind his words, something lingering between you both.

“And it’s been, what? Seven years since we’ve seen each other?” he continues, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it. “You had to change.”

You swallow, his words pressing against you like an unspoken truth you don’t know how to hold. Seven years. It sounds like a lifetime when he says it out loud.

You force a small smile, hoping to shift the mood, to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “Still the same as you can see. Same obsession with coffee,” you say, raising your cup as if it proves your point.

Taehyung huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Some things never change, huh?”

“Guess not.”

But even as you say it, you both know it’s not entirely true.

It was one of those afternoons where time seemed to stretch endlessly, the golden warmth of early autumn wrapping around you like a soft embrace. You sat across from Taehyung at the worn wooden picnic table outside your high school, watching as he sketched, lost in his own world.

His pencil moved effortlessly across the page, bringing to life the landscape around you—the towering trees swaying in the breeze, the distant outline of the school building, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shadows on the ground. He had a way of seeing the world that fascinated you, capturing even the smallest details with an almost careless ease, as if it was second nature to him.

“You’re going to make a career out of this one day,” you murmured, resting your chin on your arms as you studied his work. “I can’t wait to buy your art.”

He didn’t look up, just let out a soft chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching into a small smile.

You’d known Taehyung for five months now—long enough to watch spring fade into summer, and summer melt into the crisp edges of autumn. Long enough to realize that, despite the depth in his art, he never thought too much about the future.

You were always planning ahead, certain of what you wanted—to be a nurse, to help people, to have a path laid out in front of you. Taehyung, on the other hand, seemed to exist purely in the present. He never worried about where he would be in five years. He’d just shrug and say, I don’t know. I’ll see when I get there.

Sometimes, you envied him for that.

“Come on, draw me,” you said suddenly, sitting up straighter. You lifted your chin, placing your hands delicately under it, gazing off into the distance as if you were deep in thought. “Like one of your French girls.”

Taehyung snorted, finally looking up at you. His blond hair—something that had shocked you when he first dyed it—peeked out from under his red backward cap. He had always been so particular about his hair, claiming he’d never dye it because he loved how healthy it was. But one day, without warning, he showed up blond, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And, of course, it suited him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. “You know I don’t draw people. And quoting my favorite movie won’t work,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

You pouted. “Why not? You’d do a great job.”

“I just don’t.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “That’s not a real answer.”

Taehyung hesitated for a moment, his pencil pausing against the page. He glanced down at his sketchbook, then back at you.

“Because I don’t want to get them wrong,” he said finally, his voice quiet but sincere. “Because my drawings won’t ever do justice to the human beauty,” he added, his gaze flickering toward you as he nodded gently. You felt your heart skip a beat, your cheeks flushing with heat. Did he just call you beautiful?

You immediately shook your head, trying to dismiss the thought. He said human beauty, not you. But somewhere deep inside, you couldn’t help but want to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were included in that sweeping statement.

“I don’t want to capture one emotion in a single drawing. I hate having to put someone on hold, to freeze them in time,” he continued, his voice soft but resolute. Your mind clung to every word, drinking them in like water after a long drought.

His thoughts, the way he expressed them so effortlessly, were a masterpiece in themselves. You found yourself mesmerized, captivated by the depth of his mind, the sincerity in his voice. And the way the sun bathed him in a golden glow behind him, casting a halo around his figure—he looked like a fucking angel.

“Ugh,” you groan, dropping your head onto the table, wincing when it hits a little harder than you intended. The dull throb spreads through your skull, but you don’t care, trying to hide the way your heart feels heavier as the days go by. “Sometimes I wish I could stay young forever,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

You feel the lightness of his laugh before you even register it, the sound of him chuckling, unbothered by the casual way you let your mind spill out of your mouth. It’s like a weight off your chest, hearing him laugh.

“You’re missing out on everything if you stay seventeen your whole life,” he says, his voice warm and filled with that familiar playfulness, as he turns to the next page in his sketchbook, his pencil already in motion as his eyes find something new to capture.

“Missing on gray hair? Wrinkles?” you tease, lifting your head just enough to glance at him, a smirk tugging at your lips.

He shakes his head, tapping his pencil gently on the top of your head. “No, dummy,” he says softly, his voice still teasing but with something more sincere behind it. “You’re missing out on life, the beauty of it. The beauty of growing old. Some people don’t have that luck. I think it’s beautiful,” he says, lost in the simplicity of his thoughts, eyes focused on the butterfly he’s drawing.

You realize, in the silence that follows, that it’s at this exact moment you fall in love with him. No grand gesture, no dramatic declaration, just him, in all his simplicity, speaking with the quiet wisdom of someone who knows more about life than most people ever will.

Each memory hits you with the same quiet weight, much like how your coffee settles deep in your stomach, lingering longer than you’d like. Lately, your thoughts have been drifting back to the simpler times you shared with Taehyung before everything—before the illness, before the fear and the uncertainty. You long for those moments when being with him felt enough. When everything was uncomplicated, when laughter was endless, and love was just easy.

You catch sight of him in the hallway as you finish up your shift. He’s sitting in a chair, as usual, his sketchbook open in his lap. His pencil moves in fluid strokes as he sketches, lost in his own world. It’s strange, how quickly he’s become a fixture here at the hospital, his weekly visits now a regular part of your life. Three weeks have passed since Dr. Jung gave him that devastating news—the kind of news that you couldn’t bear to think about, but Taehyung? He takes it in stride. He remains unchanged, almost untouched by the gravity of it all. It’s like he’s found a way to make peace with the darkness, to see beauty in places where others would only see pain.

You make your way to him, tossing your empty coffee cup into the bin, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders, but the pull of being with him is stronger. No matter how long the day has been, no matter how heavy your thoughts are, you’re always ready to be with him.

“Hello, my dear Vante,” you say, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you approach him. You love that nickname, the one you created for him—a mix of his name and Van Gogh, because his art needed its own identity, something as unique as he was. Vante. It suited him, and you liked how it felt to call him that.

You lean over to peek into his sketchbook, but the moment you do, he quickly snaps it closed, his face flushing slightly as he clears his throat. It’s a small, fleeting moment, but the sudden defensiveness catches you off guard.

“Hey, can’t I see your masterpiece now?” you tease, putting a hand over your heart, pretending to be shocked, your mouth dropping open in playful disbelief.

The air between you shifts, a strange tension curling in your chest. You didn’t expect the feeling of disappointment to settle in, but it does. This small, insignificant thing—him not letting you see his drawing—is somehow more than that. It feels like a subtle wall being put up between you. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just your imagination, but you can’t shake the feeling that this time, for some reason, he’s keeping something from you.

It makes you sad. Maybe more than you’d like to admit.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” Taehyung says quickly, trying to brush off the tension as he stuffs his sketchbook into his backpack, replacing it with a crumpled sheet of paper.

“Come on. Read this,” he adds, handing it to you with a nonchalant smile, though there’s an unmistakable flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

You take the sheet, your fingers brushing against the wrinkled edges, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it before even reading the words. You glance at the paper and see Taehyung’s messy handwriting scrawled across it: Kim Taehyung’s Bucket List!

Your heart tightens, a lump forming in your throat as you read the words. There’s a strange chill creeping over you as you realize what you’re holding. The list. His list. The one thing he had decided to write down for the future, the future he’d never thought he’d have to plan for. You see him chuckling quietly, clearly amused by your shock, but you can’t shake the feeling of heaviness settling in your chest.

For someone who used to scoff at the idea of planning, who always lived in the moment, who had no care for anything beyond what was right in front of him—Taehyung, this carefree soul, had made a list. A bucket list. And that fact alone made your heart ache.

He didn’t have a choice, did he?

The knowledge that time was no longer his ally.

“There’s some things I can do alone, but there are things I really want to do with you,” Taehyung admits, biting his lip slightly as he throws you that signature boxy grin.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the paper again as you scoff. “Eating four jajangmyeon by yourself in one hour?” you read aloud, your voice laced with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Some of the items on the list were crossed out, others highlighted in bright neon, like they were top-tier priorities. “Seriously, Taehyung?”

He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “What? I want to try!” he defends himself, snatching the paper back from your hands. “It’s a challenge! Besides, I figured, if I’m going to do something wild before… you know… I should at least make it interesting.”

You shake your head, your heart aching in ways you can’t fully express. But before you can even comment further, he holds up the paper again, his face lighting up with excitement as he points to something else.

“Look, I wrote that too,” he says, his fingers tracing over the next line of the list.

Taehyung’s words spill out in a rush, his voice confident as he lists off his bucket list with such enthusiasm that you can barely keep up. He doesn’t give you any time to comment, his eyes flicking to the paper in his hands as he reads through everything in a blur. The speed at which he lists each item almost feels like a race—he’s determined to get it all out, as if the time to do it all is somehow slipping away faster than he can keep track.

You hear snippets, some simple, others daring. “A snow fight,” he says with a grin, clearly imagining the fun of it. “Start a flash mob in the middle of a crowded street,” he adds, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Learn how to crochet,” he continues, almost too casually as though he’s always wanted to make a blanket or something.

Then there are the bigger, wilder ones that make you blink in disbelief. “Bungee jumping,” he says, a playful tone in his voice, but you know there’s a part of him that’s dead serious. “Drink a liter of coffee in one sitting,” he smirks as if that might actually be a fun challenge, despite the obvious health risks. And then, almost like it’s nothing, “Climb Hallasan.”

You can’t help but laugh at the randomness of it all. But at the same time, your heart sinks a little, realizing that these are the things he wants to experience before time runs out. Things that, despite his usual carefree attitude, now carry so much weight.

You try to catch your breath, not sure whether to laugh or cry. He’s talking about living life to the fullest, but each word feels like a fleeting moment, something that’s both incredibly precious and terrifying.

He finishes his list with a flourish, his eyes still scanning the paper before looking back up at you with that infectious grin of his. You don’t have to say anything for him to know that his list has left you speechless.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, his grin widening as he waits for your response. He doesn’t seem to notice the tightness in your chest, or maybe he’s just pretending not to see it. Either way, it’s clear that he’s still the same Taehyung—bold, reckless, and impossibly charming.

“I can definitely help you check off a thing or two,” you confessed, your voice quiet but filled with a warmth that lingered despite the cool autumn air that pressed against your skin. October was slipping by quickly, and soon the first snowflakes would start to fall, marking the beginning of a harsh but beautiful season. The chill in the evening made you hug your arms tighter around your chest, but it wasn’t just the cold that had you pulling inward. Your heart ached, a familiar heaviness pressing down on your chest, and you fought the urge to let the tears that had been threatening to spill finally escape.

Taehyung, oblivious to your inner turmoil, grinned brightly. “Nice. Maybe we can start with jajangmyeon, then?” he suggested, his voice light, his eyes sparkling with a glimmer of hope.

You nodded, offering a weak smile in return, but just as you opened your mouth to speak, the familiar vibration of your phone broke the moment. You glanced down at the screen and immediately felt a pang of guilt. Minsu.

You hesitated before biting your lip, a familiar sense of unease creeping over you. But as if sensing the shift in your mood, Taehyung leaned closer, his curiosity piqued.

“Oh, is that him?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. Before you could even respond, he swiped the phone from your hand, his expression playful as he squinted at the screen. “Let me see him.”

You watched as Taehyung focused intently on the photo, and a small lump formed in your throat. It was a picture from your honeymoon, a candid moment where Minsu was sitting outside, the soft glow of the sunset casting a warm, golden light on his face. He looked peaceful, content. The kind of beauty that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, to keep it in your heart, preserved against the ever-changing tides of time.

Taehyung didn’t say anything right away, his eyes still on the photo, his face unreadable. You could feel the weight of his silence, the unspoken questions swirling between you two. But he didn’t press for answers, just nodded and handed the phone back, his eyes now fixed on the ground.

“It’s a nice picture,” he said quietly, a shift in his tone. He didn’t seem angry or jealous, but there was something in his voice that hinted at a deeper emotion, something he wasn’t saying.

“I should go home. On Thursdays, we usually watch movies and—” You cut yourself off, feeling a twinge of guilt as you realized how much you didn’t want to share the details of your evening with Minsu, not when Taehyung was standing right there. It wasn’t that you were ashamed of your life outside of him, but the weight of the unspoken history between you and Taehyung made it difficult to mention.

But Taehyung only nodded, his movements smooth as he folded the paper with the list of his dreams and tucked it into his back pocket. His smile was still there, but there was something else in his eyes—a quiet understanding, perhaps. “No, no. It’s fine, of course it’s fine. Another time then?” He said it with hope, a flicker of brightness in his voice, the kind of optimism that made your heart ache. Without thinking, you nodded and agreed.

You gave him a small wave, a half-hearted smile, before turning to walk away, the sound of your footsteps growing fainter as you put distance between yourself and Taehyung. Once you were far enough from him, away from the hospital’s bright lights and the weight of your emotions, you finally let go. The tears you had been holding in for so long fell freely, rolling down your cheeks as you tried to swallow the grief that was consuming you.

The sight of Taehyung, so hopeful and full of life, lingered in your mind, but what hurt most were the words from his bucket list.

Getting married.

The words stood out to you on the crumpled piece of paper, written in Taehyung’s messy handwriting. At first, they were crossed out, then rewritten, as if he was unsure of whether it was even a dream worth holding on to anymore. Yet, there it was, clear and undeniable. He wanted it—just not enough to let go of his doubts. And as you read those words, your stomach twisted with an ache you couldn’t quite name.

Marriage.

It was a word you had once despised. Something that felt suffocating, distant, and foreign to you. Yet it was something Taehyung had always talked about with a quiet longing, something he dreamed of. And now, you found yourself in the thick of it, married to Minsu. You had taken the step, and now it seemed impossible to untangle the truth of it all.

The irony didn’t escape you. You had lived the thing Taehyung had always wanted, and yet he was left with nothing but the idea of it—written in the corner of a bucket list that seemed too fragile to hold such a wish. But there was another sting, a deeper one, when you thought about it: marriage was once something you had imagined you’d only experience with Taehyung. He had always been the one you pictured standing at your side for such a commitment. It was his name that had been written in your mind long before Minsu’s, and it was his future you envisioned, entwined with yours.

But now, here you were—feeling the weight of the life you had chosen with someone else while Taehyung, the one person who had once been everything to you, was being left out of that equation entirely.

It was Saturday, and for once, you had a day off—a rare moment of respite that you had desperately needed. The past two weeks had felt like a blur of constant motion. Work had consumed you: the long hours at the hospital, the endless rounds with patients, and the seemingly never-ending responsibilities that came with being a nurse. In between, there was Taehyung. Every day, you found yourself with him, trying to balance the time you spent together, knowing that it was limited. And yet, there was Minsu—your husband—who deserved your attention too.

It wasn’t like you were doing anything wrong, at least not in your heart. You weren’t cheating. You would never cheat. But there was a certain feeling, a sense of guilt, that always clung to you whenever you left for Taehyung. The late nights, the rushed moments you spent with him, and the way your heart felt lighter every time you saw him—it all made you feel like you were betraying something, even if you weren’t.

As you were tying your shoes, ready to leave for another day with Taehyung, you heard Minsu’s voice from the living room. “Where are you going?” he asked, his tone casual, but you could feel the weight behind the question. He had asked it so many times before, but today, it felt different.

You froze, caught off guard by the question. You hated lying to Minsu, but the truth was something you couldn’t bear to explain—not yet, not in the way you would have to. Taehyung had sent you a picture of a dyed bottle, asking for help, and of course, you had agreed to go. But how could you explain that to Minsu without making it seem like something it wasn’t? How could you tell him that you were going to Taehyung’s house to help him with something that seemed so trivial in the grand scheme of things but meant everything to both of you?

It wasn’t like you wanted to hide it from Minsu, but the reality of it—of everything—was crushing. The truth was too raw, too complicated. How could you explain that what you shared with Taehyung wasn’t something simple, that it wasn’t just about helping him with a project or passing the time? How could you explain that you needed him in your life, even if it was just in small moments like this, before it was too late?

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you stood up. “I’m just going to help a friend with something. It won’t take long,” you said, your voice a little too light, too casual, even to your own ears.

Minsu raised an eyebrow, clearly not entirely convinced. But instead of pressing further, he just nodded. “Okay, just don’t stay out too late,” he said, the concern in his voice unspoken, but clear.

You nodded quickly, slipping out the door, feeling the familiar pang of guilt in your chest as you left. The weight of your actions, the secret you were keeping, pressed down on you with every step you took towards Taehyung. But despite the guilt, there was something else, something far stronger, that kept you moving forward—something that told you, even if it wasn’t right, even if it didn’t make sense, you had to be there for him.

Taehyung’s text arrived with his address, and a mix of excitement and nerves twisted in your stomach. You’d been imagining this moment, picturing what his place would look like—the space he lived in, surrounded by the things he loved. Taehyung was never one for minimalism. He was a living canvas, always surrounded by chaos and color, with things that didn’t always seem to belong together but somehow made perfect sense when they were with him. You imagined his apartment would be a reflection of that—lively, colorful, and a bit wild.

You weren’t disappointed when you walked through the door. His apartment was everything you had envisioned and more. The clutter, the vibrancy, the artful chaos—it was all there. But there was something different. Something you weren’t expecting.

As you stepped inside, you noticed it right away. There were post-its scattered everywhere. Yellow ones, stuck on walls, on tables, on shelves. You didn’t think much of it at first, assuming it was just another one of his quirks. But as your eyes traced the notes, you realized there was something more to them. They weren’t just reminders of random things—shopping lists, to-do lists, or inspirational quotes. They were everywhere, carefully placed, almost as if he was trying to remind himself of something important.

The realization hit you. It wasn’t just the usual clutter Taehyung had always surrounded himself with. It wasn’t just his creative, free-spirited energy that filled the room. The post-its, the notes, were a reminder. A reminder that Taehyung was trying to hold onto something—anything—that could keep him grounded.

Each note you read was simple, but they spoke volumes. “Don’t forget to call Mom,” one said. “Remember to buy more paint,” another. But these weren’t just trivial things. They were his attempts at holding onto memories, things that had been slipping away. His need to remind himself of the little things that made up his world—things that could easily fade in the midst of everything else he was battling.

You felt your chest tighten. It hit you all at once—how real this was. How Taehyung was facing something you couldn’t even imagine. His mind, the one thing that had always been as vibrant as the world he lived in, was beginning to betray him. The tumor, the thing he had been fighting, was taking pieces of him away. And those post-its were his way of holding on, his way of trying to preserve the memories, the moments, the little things that made him, him.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of helplessness. There was nothing you could do to stop it, nothing you could do to protect him from losing himself to this illness. But as you looked around his apartment—his chaotic, beautiful space—you realized that Taehyung wasn’t giving up. He was fighting with everything he had, even in the small, simple ways. And you admired him for it.

Taehyung came back into the room, his hands full of supplies for his latest spontaneous project—dyeing his hair. He handed you a towel and a bottle of dye, and your eyes instantly widened as you looked at the color.

“Blue?” you almost exclaimed, unable to imagine Taehyung with such a bold hair color. But even though it seemed like such a drastic change, you knew he’d somehow make it work. He always did.

“I wanna have blue hair before I die,” he said with a shrug, flashing you that familiar grin. “I think it’ll look cool, and I don’t know, it feels like something I need to do.” He took the towel from your hands, wrapping it around his shoulders like he had done it a thousand times before. “Also, it’ll make me look less sad,” he added, chuckling softly.

You found yourself smiling at his attempt to make light of things, even though you knew that was just his way of coping. “You’re beautiful with dark hair, though,” you said, your hands already reaching for the gloves as you began to prepare.

“I can pull off every color,” he replied, cocky as ever, but there was a spark of humor in his voice. Then, he broke into one of his signature laughs. “I mean, come on, I am that beautiful.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you started mixing the dye. “I remember how you totally rocked that blonde look back in high school,” you said, your fingers working methodically. You could almost see it in your mind—his blonde hair, messy and wild, just like him.

He rolled his eyes, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “How could I forget? It was so ugly though. But I kinda liked it. It was like, what was I even thinking?” He laughed again, the sound light and carefree.

You smiled as you worked, focusing on the task at hand, but the conversation was familiar, comforting. It was one of those moments where everything felt right, even if you both knew there was something deeper at play.

“It haunts me for days now that I think about it,” Taehyung continues, his voice softer now, as if the memory was genuinely bothering him. “I had blonde hair when we first started dating, and those pictures… they traumatize me. How could you even say yes?” He scoffs, shaking his head, but the movement is small, careful, trying not to mess up the delicate process of you applying the dye to his hair.

You can’t help but smile at the memory. That moment, when Taehyung asked you out so unexpectedly. He had looked so silly, so shy, and you could see the nervous excitement in his eyes. How could you have said no? You wanted it for so long, and none of his hair changes—blonde, dark, or even blue—would have ever changed a thing. Taehyung was still Taehyung, the person you couldn’t help but fall for over and over again.

“You still have those pictures?” you ask, your voice light, teasing. You keep your eyes focused on his hair, but your mind drifts back to those early days—the awkwardness, the excitement, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything was finally falling into place.

“Of course I did,” he admits quietly, his gaze dropping to his hands resting in his lap as you apply the last bit of dye to his hair. “I always loved to live in the present, but somehow those memories of you, us… I couldn’t let them stay in the past,” he says, his voice soft but heavy with something unspoken.

You pause for a moment, your hands stilling as his words settle between you, heavy with nostalgia and something deeper. You glance up at him, noticing the way his fingers are absently fidgeting, a nervous energy in them despite the calmness of the moment.

You feel the weight of guilt pressing down on you. Because, even though you still remember those days with Taehyung—the laughter, the endless summer nights, the feeling that nothing could separate you—you couldn’t say the same. You couldn’t tell him that you still held onto those memories like treasures locked away in a chest.

When you moved in with Minsu, you threw it all away. The pictures, the notes, the small things that reminded you of Taehyung—those souvenirs from a love that once felt so real. It wasn’t an easy decision. You cried for hours after. You mourned the loss of what was, even as you tried to embrace the future. But you had to. You couldn’t continue living with the ghosts of someone else’s love while trying to build a life with Minsu. You couldn’t let the past have such a hold over you. It wasn’t fair to him, and it wasn’t fair to you.

The strangest part was that, despite everything, a part of you knew it wasn’t really over. Maybe it was always that lingering feeling before you met Minsu—that the story with Taehyung wasn’t finished. That somewhere, there was an unfinished chapter, one that had ended not with bitterness or shouting, but simply with two people parting ways, growing apart as life moved them in different directions. There had been no tragic ending, just distance. No finality, just time that stretched too long without either of you taking the steps to reunite.

But life went on, and so did you. You moved forward, and you convinced yourself that it was time to let go. It was only two years—two beautiful years that felt like a lifetime—and you had spent more time with Minsu than with Taehyung in the end. But somehow, no matter how many years had passed, a small part of you always wondered if Taehyung felt the same way. If he had ever thought about what you both had, or if he had moved on just as easily as you’d been forced to.

You could still feel the echo of him in your chest. Taehyung had never been just a fleeting part of your past. His absence left a gap that had never quite been filled.

“Come on, Tae, I want to see the results!” you shout, knocking repeatedly on the bathroom door, eager to see the result of his spontaneous decision to dye his hair. He insisted on keeping it a surprise, promising he’d handle the washing process himself. And now, you could hear the familiar sounds of him rushing, objects clattering, and his usual clumsiness filling the air.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” His voice comes from behind the door, hurried and full of excitement, just like it always is when he’s about to show off something new.

But as seconds turn into minutes, your excitement starts to shift into concern. “Is it that bad?” you ask, pressing your ear to the door, hoping for some sort of reassuring response.

“I—no…” His voice falters, quieter than before. A strange tightness forms in your chest, a sense of unease creeping in, and you can’t help but feel like something’s not right.

And then the door opens. Taehyung stands there, his usual grin absent, replaced by a pained expression. His hands are pressed against his nose, blood seeping between his fingers.

“Sorry, I—”

The sight of him immediately shifts your focus. Forget his hair. You can’t even see it clearly now, not when his hands are gripping his head so tightly, like he’s trying to hold it together. The playful, carefree Taehyung you know so well is gone, replaced by someone struggling with the weight of pain that’s too much to bear on his own. The worry that hits you is overwhelming, and your heart races as you move toward him without a second thought.

“Hey, hey, come here,” you whisper urgently, gripping his shoulders despite the blood that stains your t-shirt. The sight of him in pain makes your breath catch, but you don’t care. You guide him gently toward the sofa, sitting him down as carefully as you can.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, your hands steadying his head. It’s like his body’s trying to reject everything, but you’re not going to let him go through it alone.

Before you can even process what’s happening, everything around you starts to blur. Your mind, trained to keep calm in emergencies, starts to shut down, every instinct telling you to stay composed, but nothing feels real anymore. Everything you’ve learned during those years of study, to keep your head in the moment, to stay detached from emotion, feels like it’s slipping away.

Taehyung suddenly doubles over, his hands gripping his stomach. He doesn’t even have time to warn you. A loud, gasping sound escapes his lips, and before you can react, he throws up onto the carpet, the strain of the headache causing his body to betray him. His breathing is ragged, uneven, like each breath causes him more pain than the last. You want to reach out, to hold him, to somehow ease the agony that’s taking over his body, but it feels like nothing you do can help.

You feel helpless. Utterly useless.

If only you could take even a fraction of his pain, make it your own, so he wouldn’t have to feel it. You would bear it for him, without hesitation. Someone like Taehyung, someone who should always be the one to bring warmth and laughter into a room, shouldn’t have to experience this.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him this broken. The sight is almost unbearable. You knew, of course, about his condition. You knew about the tumor, but seeing it, feeling its weight on him so visibly, it’s an entirely different kind of heartbreak.

He struggles to open his mouth, to say anything, but his body betrays him. You can see it in his eyes, that desperate desire to apologize, to explain that he’s fine, that this isn’t his fault, even though you know deep down it’s not something he can control. He’s terrified, and yet he doesn’t even have the strength to voice it, his body trembling uncontrollably.

You don’t think. You just act. Instinct takes over as you grab his shoulders, guiding him into a fetal position, your hands steadying him as his body stays stiff, unresponsive. It’s as if his body has forgotten how to follow his commands. His limbs are limp, and for a split second, you feel a rush of panic—the feeling that maybe you won’t be able to help him. You’ve studied this. You’ve seen worse. But right now, everything feels so foreign.

You’re a good nurse. You know you are. But in that moment, all the procedures, all the steps you’ve memorized, all the rules you’ve been trained on—they slip away from you, leaving you in a haze of uncertainty. Why can’t you remember what to do? Why does it feel like you’re failing him when he needs you most?

But then, slowly, gradually, Taehyung’s body begins to relax. His breathing steadies, his shoulders lower as the tension releases, piece by piece. He closes his eyes, his face still pale but no longer contorted with pain. It’s a small relief, but it’s something.

“Taehyung… stay with me,” you whisper, your voice shaky, but firm. You need him to hear you, to stay conscious. “Focus on me, okay? Just breathe. You’re doing fine. I’m here, I’m right here.”

Your hands don’t leave his shoulders, feeling the slight tremors beneath his skin, holding him close, making sure he knows you’re there. It feels like a long time before he finally opens his eyes again, blinking slowly, but he’s with you. He’s fighting through it, and that’s all you need to know right now.

You lost track of time, the hours slipping by in a blur. Long enough to clean up the mess that had happened, long enough for the sun to sink lower in the sky, casting an orange glow through the windows. Taehyung was still asleep on the couch, his breathing shallow and quiet. You couldn’t help but check on him constantly, watching the rise and fall of his chest, unable to shake the feeling that something might change, something might happen in the next moment. It was almost compulsive, like if you didn’t keep an eye on him, if you didn’t pay attention to every little detail, something might go terribly wrong. If he could see you now, so frantic, he’d probably laugh at how anxious you were, but the thought was fleeting—he was too weak to care.

His head rested gently in your lap, the weight of it grounding you in this moment. You ran your fingers through his hair, the once-dark strands now an unexpected blue. It was a strange sight, but somehow it felt right, like this was part of him. His hair, his spirit, his essence. It made you smile despite the tears that kept streaming down your face. You had cried so much you thought you might never stop. You should’ve been strong, you should’ve been the one taking care of him, but instead, you felt helpless.

Your phone was buzzing incessantly, and you could guess who it was—Minsu. He was probably wondering where you were, if you were alright. But you didn’t know how to answer him. How could you explain where you were, how could you explain the turmoil inside you when you were so scared, when Taehyung needed you more than ever? You couldn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he was hurting this much.

Then, you heard his voice. It was faint, weak, but it cut through the silence like a knife. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. You immediately wiped your tears, forcing a smile on your face even though your heart was breaking into pieces. You didn’t want him to feel guilty for what had happened, not when he was already in so much pain.

“It happens sometimes. It hurts so much,” he whispered, his words trembling. His eyes remained closed, his body barely able to move, his face too tired to turn toward you.

You swallowed hard, fighting back your own grief as you tried to keep your voice steady. “How often does it happen lately?” you asked, your voice sounding more confident than you felt, but you needed to know. You needed the answers, even though they made the situation feel even more real, even more overwhelming. Your mind, trained in medicine, was already processing what he was saying, trying to piece everything together to figure out just how bad things were.

“Thrice a week,” he answered with a dry laugh that held no humor, “Twice on a good one.”

His attempt to joke felt hollow, but you managed to smile, a tight, painful smile. The numbers lingered in your head. Three times a week. Twice on a good week. That wasn’t good. You knew that. The severity of the situation was undeniable.

You try to keep your voice steady, even though it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. “Medications can make it less painful,” you offer again, your words sounding hollow even to yourself.

But then, Taehyung shifts. Slowly, carefully, his body turning until his face is pressed against your lap, his eyes still closed. You can feel his breath, shallow but steady, as he tries to find comfort in your presence.

“It will kill me less slowly?” he asks, his voice laced with irony. There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it cuts straight through you. “I’ll die anyways. In two months precisely.” He exhales, the weight of his own reality settling between you both. His eyes close, hiding the tears that you know are there, but the tremble in his voice betrays him.

It hits you like a physical blow. You want to say no—you want to tell him that it’s not over, that he can fight, that maybe there’s still time, still hope. You want to convince him to keep pushing, to keep believing in a future.

But you can’t. You can’t betray him like that, not now. Not when you know the truth. As much as you want to offer him comfort, to wrap him in hope, you can’t give him something that isn’t real.

It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do—sitting there, watching him cling to the little bit of strength he has left, and knowing that no matter how hard you wish for it, the clock is ticking.

You’re trained to help, to heal, to give people the best chance they have. But you also know when to stop pretending. You can’t lie to him, not as a nurse, not as his friend, and certainly not as the person who once shared his heart.

It’s terrible.

The silence between you both feels unbearable, like the world has paused, holding its breath. You want to reassure him, to tell him everything will be okay, that this is just a bump in the road. But those words, they’re false hope. And false hope would break him even more. It would shatter the last pieces of him that are still fighting.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there, hand gently running through his hair, trying to offer him comfort in the only way you can. You can’t lie, but maybe, just maybe, you can be there. Be there for him in these final moments, even if that’s all you can do.

“It’s my favorite time of the year,” he murmurs, his head resting comfortably on your lap as you both sit on the old wooden bench outside your high school.

The bench has seen better days—worn down by time, the changing seasons, and countless students who once sat where you are now. You’ve watched it transform through the years: vibrant and full of life in the spring, warm and familiar in the golden hues of autumn. But in winter, it’s something else entirely. The world around you is still, coated in soft white, making everything feel untouched, almost magical.

Your breath curls in the cold air as you tighten the thick scarf around your neck. Your cheeks are flushed from the biting wind, and your beanie is pulled low over your forehead, probably making you look ridiculous. But you don’t care—because Taehyung looks just the same.

His hair is back to black now, hidden beneath a white beanie that matches yours. His oversized coat engulfs him, making him look even cozier, and you remember how insistent he was about you both wearing matching outfits.

Taehyung has always been that kind of lover—not the kind who overdoes grand gestures, not the type to shout his feelings to the world, but someone who loves in quiet, meaningful ways. He doesn’t need the world to know, just you. Just the two of you, wrapped in the stillness of winter, in a moment that feels like it could last forever.

“I wish I could freeze the world in winter,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he closes his eyes. His breath comes out in soft puffs of white against the cold air, and you can’t help but smile at how peaceful he looks.

Without thinking, you bring your gloved hands to his cheeks, cupping his face gently to warm him. His skin is cold beneath your touch, but the moment he feels the heat from your palms, his lips curl into a lazy smile. His face, framed between your hands, makes him look impossibly soft—his sharp features melting into something almost childlike.

He giggles, the sound light and unguarded, and you can feel his breath against your fingers.

“You’re such a bear,” you tease, tilting your head as you watch him, the corners of your lips quirking up.

Taehyung scrunches his nose in response, nuzzling further into your warmth. “A cute one, right?” he asks, eyes flickering open to meet yours, playful and expectant.

You roll your eyes but let out a laugh, your thumbs unconsciously brushing against his skin. “The cutest,” you admit, and he grins like he just won the lottery.

As you look at him—his cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes gleaming under the soft winter sky—you realize that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to love winter as much as he did.

Because in moments like this, winter wasn’t just a season. It was the way Taehyung’s voice softened when he talked about the snow, the way he leaned into your touch without hesitation, the way time seemed to slow down whenever you were together.

For a moment, it was easy to forget.

To forget the looming uncertainty of what came after high school, the inevitable paths that would pull you in different directions. To forget that promises made under falling snow weren’t always ones that could be kept.

Right now, none of that mattered.

You force yourself out of your daze as you step inside the hospital, pushing away the memories threatening to consume you. Now wasn’t the time. You needed to focus, to keep your mind sharp. But ever since that day at Taehyung’s apartment—since seeing him again—it had been impossible not to think about the past. Your past with him.

A sudden shout jolts you back to reality.

“We need help! Someone!”

The urgency in the voice sends a chill down your spine. You barely have time to process before you see Jimin rushing past you, his expression tight with focus as he sprints down the hallway.

Your heart pounds in your chest. It was always intense to witness moments like this—to see the staff moving with practiced urgency, to feel the weight of life and death in the air. But there’s no room for hesitation.

Without a second thought, you rush forward, falling into step with the team. It doesn’t matter that your shift hasn’t started yet. Someone needs help, and that’s all that matters.

The first thing you see is a woman kneeling in front of someone, panic written all over her face. And then, just beyond her, a glimpse of blue hair sprawled across the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Taehyung.

His body is shaking violently, his limbs jerking uncontrollably as a thin trail of bile glistens at the corner of his mouth. A seizure.

Your feet feel rooted to the ground. Your mind registers everything—the rapid movement of Jimin and the other staff members as they spring into action, the controlled chaos of the emergency response—but you can’t move.

You’ve seen patients in this state before, but this is different. This is Taehyung.

You hear Jimin shout your name, his voice sharp with urgency, but it feels like it’s coming from a distant place, muffled by the overwhelming panic in your chest. His eyes meet yours, and for a brief second, you see that same mix of concern and helplessness that you’ve seen too many times. It’s painful, seeing him this way, knowing he’s been trying to put distance between himself and Taehyung.

“Bring a saline perfusion!” Jimin orders, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. It snaps you back into action.

Without hesitation, you dart past him, your heart pounding in your throat as you rush to find the saline drip. Every second feels like an eternity, and even though you know Taehyung is in the best hands possible, you can’t shake the overwhelming sense of helplessness. You wish you could be there, right next to him, doing more than just grabbing medical supplies. But you know you’re needed here—your training, your experience, this is where you can help the most.

As you grab the saline, your fingers shaking slightly, you fight back the urge to look back at Taehyung. You don’t want to see him like this anymore. Not like this. But you know you’ll have to face it. You’ll have to face everything, because he’s not going anywhere.

As you return, the sight of Taehyung on the stretcher hits you like a punch to the gut. His body still trembles uncontrollably, his face pale, eyes shut tightly as if he’s trying to escape the pain. Jimin doesn’t waste a second, quickly grabbing the saline perfusion from your hands, expertly connecting it and ensuring there are no air bubbles. His movements are swift, practiced, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the worry that flickers in his eyes whenever he glances down at Taehyung.

Without saying a word, you instinctively move to the side of the stretcher, your hands trembling slightly as you take hold of it. You help guide Taehyung down the hallway, your mind racing. It’s like the world has narrowed down to this single, agonizing moment. Every breath he takes, every second that passes, feels heavier, and you try to steady yourself.

You lead the stretcher into a nearby room, carefully maneuvering it towards an empty bed. The usual hospital room smells and sounds blur around you—monitors beeping, doctors shouting orders—but you barely register them. All that matters right now is getting Taehyung stable.

Jimin stands by the side, his gaze never leaving Taehyung’s face as he adjusts the saline, checking his vitals. There’s a sense of urgency, but a quiet professionalism to Jimin’s movements. You can’t help but glance at Taehyung, the blue hair still sticking out under the hospital lighting, a cruel reminder of how quickly things can change.

“Stay with him,” Jimin says, not needing to ask. It’s a command wrapped in a request, and without a word, you nod.

Taehyung’s eyes flutter open slowly, his gaze confused as he takes in his surroundings. The sterile white walls, the beeping of machines in the background, the IV drip connected to his arm—everything is unfamiliar to him, disorienting. He blinks, trying to make sense of it all, his breath shallow as he scans the room.

It feels like the world is moving in slow motion, and for a second, time seems to freeze as you stand there, just watching him, waiting for any sign that he’s okay. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of recognition. For a moment, his expression is one of bewilderment, but then it softens.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips as he exhales in relief, and you realize how much weight has been lifted from your chest. You hadn’t even known you were holding your breath until now. His gaze holds yours, and for a brief moment, it feels like you’re back in that small, quiet world you had with him before everything became complicated. Before the weight of reality set in.

You force a smile, though it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on you. You try to make it look effortless, as if you’re holding yourself together for him—for Taehyung. But the truth is, you’re not. Inside, you’re trembling. Your heart is racing, and the last thing you want is for him to see you unravel.

The moment you glance over at Jimin through the glass doors, you feel a strange sense of relief, as if his familiar presence might anchor you, even if just for a moment. In the chaos of everything that’s happening with Taehyung, it was comforting to see someone who understood, someone you could rely on. You couldn’t shake the unease you felt when you were alone with Taehyung. Every word you wanted to say felt like it might break the delicate thread of control you were clinging to.

“I’ll be back,” you manage to say, your voice sounding steadier than it feels as you step away from the room.

Jimin, arms crossed tightly across his chest, stands by the glass, his gaze fixed on Taehyung. There’s a pause, and then he speaks, his voice a low whisper, almost as if admitting something he doesn’t want to acknowledge. “It was so scary.” The vulnerability in his voice takes you by surprise, and for a brief moment, you see that even someone as experienced as Jimin can feel fear in the face of uncertainty.

It’s easy for others to say that nurses need to be strong, that they need to stay composed at all times. But in that moment, you both knew the unspoken truth: it’s okay to be scared.

You place a hand on his shoulder, offering a quiet reassurance, though you’re just as shaken inside. “You did well, Jimin.” Your voice feels raw, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “I honestly couldn’t even move.”

Jimin shifts uncomfortably, his gaze falling to the floor before he looks back toward the room, almost unwilling to make eye contact. “Speaking of that…” His words trail off as he bites his lip, the silence stretching between you both. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you, his hand firm on your shoulder, his other arm wrapping around you when he sees the first tear slip down your cheek. You hate crying—especially here, especially now—but there’s something about the way Jimin asks, something about the way he looks at you that makes it impossible to keep it in any longer.

“What are you hiding from me?” he asks again, voice softer this time, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear it from you.

You try to steady yourself, inhaling deeply, but it doesn’t help. The weight in your chest has been sitting there for days, weeks even, ever since Taehyung walked back into your life. You don’t know why you fought so hard to keep it all in—to not talk to anyone about it, not even Minsu. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it all too real.

“I met him in high school,” you whisper, voice shaking despite your best efforts. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. “We fell in love. And we haven’t seen each other since.”

“And now he’s here,” he murmurs, finishing the thought for you.

You nod. “And now he’s here.” Dying. And you don’t know how to handle it.

Jimin sighs, running a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “God, you should’ve told me. I would—”

“Jimin,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You don’t know how grateful I am to be beside him. It’s just… so hard. It hurts.”

You glance through the glass, your eyes finding Taehyung. He’s staring out the window, lost in thought. At least his room has a good view—the hospital park stretches out beyond the glass, and a tall tree stands right in front of it. You hope it brings him some kind of peace.

Jimin follows your gaze, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know how to say this, but… they might want to keep him here,” he says carefully. “Maybe even put him in a medically induced coma. Just so he won’t have to suffer through this if he stays conscious.”

You inhale sharply, his words hitting you like a punch to the gut.

“No one deserves to go like that,” Jimin adds, voice laced with pain. He looks back at Taehyung for a moment, then turns away, like the sight of him is too much to bear.

Neither of you say anything for a while. The weight of reality is suffocating.

“Maybe you should take care of him,” Jimin says suddenly. “Somewhere else. Anywhere but here.”

You frown, not understanding. “Jimin, what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying that… fuck, I don’t want that guy spending his last days in a hospital. He deserves more than this.” His voice is firmer now, conviction bleeding into every word.

You swallow hard, the weight of his suggestion settling into your chest. The thought of taking Taehyung away, of giving him a place where he could live—not just exist—feels impossible. And yet, the idea of him wasting away in a sterile room, surrounded by beeping machines and white walls, is unbearable.

Could you really do it? Could you give him that?

Jimin sees the hesitation in your eyes. “Just think about it,” he says, softer this time. “He deserves better.”

Minsu,

I’m so sorry for what I’m doing. Please believe me when I say this isn’t me giving up on us—on you. I never could. I never will. But I understand if you don’t see it that way right now, if you’re hurt or confused or even angry. I just need some time. Please, let me have that. When I come back, I’ll explain everything. And I hope you’ll understand.

I love you.

You stared at the note for a long time before finally placing it on the kitchen counter, the weight of your actions sinking into your chest like stones. It wasn’t enough. No piece of paper, no carefully chosen words could make up for the fact that you were leaving.

It wasn’t fair to Minsu. It wasn’t fair to you either.

But there was no time to dwell on that. No time to sit with the guilt. Because when your mind is pulled in every direction, when your heart is split between past and present, sometimes all you can do is act.

So you did.

The drive to the hospital was quiet, the silence thick with your own thoughts. Doubts crept in—was this really the right thing to do? Would Minsu forgive you? Would you forgive yourself?

But the moment you pulled up in front of the hospital and saw Taehyung sitting outside, all those questions faded into the background.

He looked small beneath the weight of his oversized hoodie, his blue hair catching the golden light of the setting sun. He shouldn’t have been outside in the cold, but there he was, waiting. And the instant he spotted your car, his face lit up.

Despite everything—despite the pain, despite the exhaustion dragging at his body—he smiled.

And in that moment, for the first time since making your decision, you felt something close to certainty.

You were exactly where you needed to be.

“Hey, Tae,” you call out, shutting the car door behind you and making your way toward him.

Taehyung looks up, a surprised grin spreading across his face as he takes a step closer. “No way. Since when do you drive?” He eyes your car like he’s some kind of automotive expert, tilting his head in mock curiosity. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not that surprising.”

“Trust me, it is,” he teases before his gaze flickers back to the hospital doors. “Didn’t know you were working today.”

“I’m not,” you reply simply, stepping past him and heading toward the entrance.

Taehyung follows without hesitation, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “So what, you just choose to be here? You must be a masochist, because if I had the choice, I’d be anywhere but this place.” His voice is light, laced with humor, but there’s an underlying exhaustion to it.

As you both walk through the corridors, he nods and smiles at a few passing nurses and patients. The sight of it makes your chest tighten. It’s not that Taehyung had friends here, not in the way that truly mattered. No, it was more like he had found people—fragments of companionship in a place where loneliness was inevitable.

That was just who he was. Even in the most difficult places, he found a way to connect, to weave himself into the world around him. It was a survival instinct, a way to keep himself from slipping too far into the darkness of his reality.

Since being hospitalized two weeks ago, he had latched onto whatever familiarity he could find. He exchanged jokes with nurses who had seen him at his worst, shared quiet conversations with patients who understood the unspoken weight of being sick. It was his way of pretending everything was okay.

But you could see through it. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way his movements were just a little slower than before. He was tired.

And yet, he still smiled.

You let out a quiet breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m here for you,” you say softly.

For the first time, Taehyung falters. His steps slow, and he turns to look at you fully, like he’s searching for something in your expression.

Then, after a beat, he exhales a small chuckle, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “Well, damn,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Guess that means I’m special.”

He says it playfully, but you both already know.

He always has been.

“And you’re leaving that place too,” you announce with a bright smile, watching as Taehyung’s chocolate-brown eyes widen in shock.

His lips part slightly, his breath catching. “I… I can’t,” he stammers. “They want to keep me there in case I have another seizure. They told me it could be fatal if I’m not at the hospital when it happens.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” you counter, your voice filled with conviction. Then, gripping his shoulders firmly, you make him look at you—really look at you. You want him to see the determination in your eyes, the certainty in your smile. If he can’t believe in himself, then at least he can believe in you.

“Guess what?” you continue, lifting a small folded sheet of paper between your fingers. “If you’re leaving, I’m leaving too.”

His jaw drops. His hands fly up to your shoulders, mirroring your own gesture, as if he needs to physically hold onto you to ground himself. “Wait, what?” His voice rises slightly, filled with disbelief. “Are you resigning?”

His expression is priceless—eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, making him look almost like a child who just heard the most unbelievable news.

You chuckle softly, nodding. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

For the first time in a long time, you see something shift in his eyes—not just surprise, but something deeper. Hope.

It wasn’t like you were resigning forever—no, you could never truly leave the hospital. It was more like taking a few months off, a pause, a stolen fragment of time just for you and Taehyung. A chance to be there, fully and completely, in a way that the sterile walls of the hospital would never allow.

You were relieved when your superiors didn’t argue, didn’t question your decision. They only nodded, offered you a small, understanding smile, and told you to focus on him. Because, in the end, everyone knew there was only one possible outcome.

One where, eventually, you would return to work.

And one where Taehyung would leave this world.

You just hoped—with everything in you—that when that time came, he would leave it happy.

“You still have that bucket list of yours?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

Taehyung grins. “Of course I do. It’s in my room,” he says, pointing upward as if his hospital room was floating right above you.

“Perfect. Go grab it, pack a bag, and meet me outside,” you say, the excitement bubbling in your chest as you watch him sprint toward the elevators.

As you turn toward the office to hand in your leave request, you run into Jimin. He’s standing in the hallway, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“When will you be back?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I hope not too soon.” Because leaving too soon would mean the inevitable was closer than you wanted it to be.

Jimin chuckles, but his eyes betray something deeper—understanding, sadness, maybe even a bit of hope. “Then I don’t ever want to see you here again.” His voice is light, but the weight of what he means lingers between you.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He’s a nice guy, you know,” Jimin adds, his gaze flickering away for a moment, lost in thought. “We talked a little.”

“He is,” you agree. And for the first time in a long while, despite everything, you feel a little bit lighter.

As you walk toward your car, you spot Taehyung already waiting, his backpack slung over his shoulders, jingling slightly from the numerous keychains attached to it. His arms are stacked with notebooks, likely filled with memories, sketches, or maybe even unfinished dreams.

“Okay, where are we going?” he asks, his excitement barely contained. If he had the energy, you’re sure he’d be bouncing on his feet.

You smirk, nodding toward the passenger seat. “I don’t know. You tell me. What’s on your bucket list again?”

He throws his bag into the car and slides into his seat, flipping through one of his notebooks. “A lot. But with this weather…” His gaze drifts to the window, watching as the wind howls through the streets, shaking the bare trees. The sky is heavy, and soon, snow will start to fall.

You tap your fingers on the wheel, a playful glint in your eyes. “So? Have you never wanted to go to the beach in the snow?”

He turns to you, blinking, before his face lights up with pure, childlike joy. “Hell yeah! I want that!” He claps his hands together, his grin infectious, you feel warmth bloom in your chest.

You shift gears, pulling onto the road. “Then let’s go.”

Taehyung slept through the entire journey. At first, he had fought hard to stay awake, doing everything in his power to entertain you—spouting random facts, curating a playlist of songs that reminded him of you, and scribbling into his notebooks. Every time you tried to sneak a glance at what he was drawing, he would immediately pull it away, laughing as he insisted, “It’s not worthy enough for your eyes.”

But eventually, exhaustion won over, and his eyelids fluttered shut. His breathing evened out, his features soft and relaxed. You kept stealing glances at him, taking in the peacefulness of his face. Even if he looked tired, he hadn’t once complained. You could only hope that if he ever felt truly unwell, he’d tell you.

As you finally pull up in front of the beach, the waves stretching out endlessly before you, you hesitate for a few moments before reaching over to wake him.

“Taehyung?” you call softly, but he only shifts, turning his head further into the seat. You bite back a laugh.

“Kim Taehyung?” you try again, a teasing lilt in your voice. “There’s a cute Pomeranian running on the beach.”

His reaction is instant. His eyes snap open, head turning toward the window, scanning the shoreline for the tiny fluff ball. When he finds nothing, he rolls his eyes, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Such a liar,” he mutters, shaking his head. But he’s smiling as he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car.

You let out a small breath of relief. He still loves Pomeranians. He still remembers that silly dream he once shared with you—that by the time he turned thirty, he’d own one because he believed it would make him look like a hot thirty-year-old man. You had laughed back then, nodding in agreement.

And now, watching him stand on the beach, hair tousled by the cold ocean breeze, you silently hope that by some miracle, he’ll get to have that dream come true.

You take a deep breath as the cold wind sweeps over you, the soft crunch of sand beneath your boots reminding you of the rare stillness that’s enveloping this moment. Taehyung walks ahead, his figure almost swallowed by his oversized beige coat, his beanie pulling down low to cover his blue hair. From behind, even just the silhouette of him feels beautiful—like an abstract masterpiece, blending perfectly with the waves and the sky. He’s always been beautiful, but in this light, in this moment, there’s a peacefulness about him that makes your heart ache.

You shake your head, trying to snap yourself back to reality. But before you can fully catch your breath, the familiar vibration of your phone pulls you from your thoughts. You glance down at the screen to see Minsu’s name flashing across the display. A pang of guilt hits your chest, sharp and uncomfortable. You had left without saying more than a hasty note. You hadn’t explained why, or what had gotten into you. And it hurt, because part of you knew you owed him that much.

But another part of you—the selfish part, the one that craved these fleeting moments with Taehyung—wanted this to be just for the two of you. One last moment to remember how you used to be. One last memory of what you once had.

“You’re prince charming?” Taehyung’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft and teasing. He glances at your phone with a knowing smile, and the way he looks at you isn’t full of jealousy or anger. No, it’s a little more complicated than that. There’s a gratitude in his expression, an understanding that you’re here with him now, and that’s all that matters.

“Yeah,” you respond quietly, your eyes focused on the waves crashing against the shore. The ocean roars, but to you, it sounds like nothing more than background noise, drowned out by the loud pounding of your own thoughts. The cold wind bites at your cheeks, but with Taehyung next to you, it doesn’t feel like anything more than a reminder that you’re alive. Together, in this moment.

“Does he know?” Taehyung asks, his voice laced with a quiet humor. “That you’re here with your ex?” He chuckles, and there’s no malice behind the words—only a touch of curiosity, and maybe a little bit of amusement.

You turn your head to face him, unsure how to answer. His chocolate eyes are watching you, warm despite the chill in the air. It’s hard to articulate the complicated mess inside you. “He doesn’t know,” you admit, voice soft, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him everything yet.”

He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours, his touch a silent comfort. And for a moment, the future—the responsibilities, the unanswered questions, the pain of everything you’ve left behind—feels far away. It feels like it can wait. Just a little while longer.

Taehyung’s grip tightens around your hand as if he’s holding on to the very last thread of something beautiful amidst the chaos.

“I don’t think we would ever cross paths if it wasn’t for that,” he says again, his voice quieter this time. It’s not just a casual observation, but a confession of sorts—one that carries the weight of everything that has led to this moment. You understand him completely, more than you can express. Fate had a way of pulling the two of you together in the most twisted of ways, through pain, sickness, and heartache, but somehow, it had given you both this sliver of happiness.

You wish you could tell him you didn’t need the brain tumor to meet him. That you would’ve found each other no matter what. But it wouldn’t be true, would it? The thought lingers, unspoken, between you both.

“Don’t say that,” you mutter, voice almost defensive as you tighten your fingers around his, instinctively pulling him closer. The action feels right—like you were meant to hold him this way, not just for the moment, but for every moment you’ve missed.

His chuckle fades into something softer, something more sincere. “Why? Because you think I’ll jinx it?” he teases lightly, but there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes now, the playful smile failing to mask the exhaustion that lingers just beneath the surface.

You hesitate, then finally look up into his eyes. “Because it’s not just the tumor. It’s us. And I don’t want you to think that something so awful gave us the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

For a moment, you both just stand there, hands still entwined, the weight of your words hanging between you, mingling with the salty sea air.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything for a while, and you think maybe you’ve broken him a little with your honesty. But then, he lifts his head slightly, his smile reappearing—genuine and soft.

“You always know exactly what to say to make everything feel better,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your hand. “I guess that’s what you do to me… make everything feel a little bit lighter.”

You watch as Taehyung lowers himself onto the sand, his face contorting in a playful grimace as he rubs his legs. “Ugh, my legs are killing me,” he groans. “You know, walking too much really does a number on me.” You can’t help but smile at his exaggerated complaints, the way he never lets anything get to him, even when it’s clear he’s physically drained. It’s one of the things you love most about him.

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” you say, your voice excited, a spark of inspiration lighting up your mind. Taehyung raises an eyebrow, intrigued, as he stretches out on the sand, sinking into the warmth. The weather may be chilly, and the beach almost entirely deserted, but none of that matters right now. It’s just the two of you, and that’s enough.

You bounce on your toes as you stand up, already plotting what you want to do. “Let me go grab something, I’ll be right back!” you call over your shoulder, already turning to sprint back to your car.

The wind bites at your face, but you ignore it, your focus entirely on the task at hand. You don’t care if you look silly, running across the beach with your arms flailing awkwardly, the sand sticking to your shoes.

As you reach your car, you pull open the door and rummage through the bags on the seat, your hands searching for the small surprise you had brought along, the one you thought would make today feel even more unforgettable. But as you shift things around, one of Taehyung’s notebooks slides off the passenger seat, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You bend down to pick it up, but as you open it to place it back inside, the pages fall open to a specific spot, and your breath catches in your throat.

There, spread across the page, are drawings. Taehyung’s drawings. But they’re not just any sketches. They’re of you. The way you smile when you laugh, the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Each drawing feels like a secret he’s been keeping, tucked away in his notebook, just for himself.

Your eyes sting as they well with tears, the sight before you too overwhelming to process at first. You flick through the pages of the notebook, each one telling a story—some of you, some of his family, others of his friends. You can pick out his mother, his siblings—older now, their faces more mature than the last time you saw them, but still, Taehyung’s delicate strokes bring out a beauty in them that only he could capture. There are others, too—friends you recognize from high school, and others you don’t know. People who had come into his life after you, people who had clearly made an impact on him.

But what makes your heart tighten in your chest is the realization that Taehyung has done something he swore he’d never do—he’s drawn people. Taehyung never liked drawing people. He never had, not like this. He always said he hated it, that he didn’t want to trap a moment in time, to freeze someone on paper forever.

You close the notebook, reluctant but understanding. This was a part of Taehyung that he hadn’t shared with you yet, and you can’t bring yourself to pry any longer, not when you know there’s a deeper reason behind it all. If he wanted to share these drawings with you, he would. And when the time comes, you’ll ask him, but for now, you allow him that space, that quiet secret.

You reach into your bag for the small Polaroid camera, an old model, but still reliable. The weight of it feels grounding in your hands, as if this moment, too, needs to be captured, frozen in time—something tangible, just like the way Taehyung has chosen to preserve those around him.

As you make your way back to the beach, you glance over at him again. He’s still lying there on the sand, his eyes half-closed against the sun, a small, peaceful smile tugging at his lips. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore fills the space between you, the world quieter somehow, as if it too were holding its breath.

“You still have it? Is it the same one from high school?” Taehyung asks, opening one eye as he sits up, his curiosity piqued.

“It is,” you reply, smiling as you hand him the familiar old Polaroid.

He takes it, turning it over in his hands with a knowing grin. “You were always with that thing. I’m not surprised you still have it,” he says, the nostalgia evident in his voice.

You watch as he brings the camera up to his eye, the way he handles it so carefully, almost as if it’s a part of him too. He adjusts the focus, directing it toward you, making you laugh nervously.

“No! There’s not a lot of film left!” you protest, reaching your hand out to stop him, but he’s already pressing the button.

“Too late,” he grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “That one’s mine.” He watches as the picture slowly starts to develop in his hand, then slides it into his pocket, still smiling.

“Hey!” you laugh, trying to grab it back, but it’s no use. He’s already claimed it as his own, looking more pleased with himself than he should.

“Maybe I’ll let you see it later,” he teases, leaning back on the sand, clearly enjoying the way he’s gotten under your skin.

“You’re impossible,” you say, shaking your head, but inside, a warmth settles in your chest.

You take the Polaroid back in your hands, your fingers brushing against the smooth surface as you frame Taehyung in your lens. He’s lying there on the sand, his body relaxed, his eyes half-closed, looking like something straight out of a fashion magazine. It doesn’t matter that his cheeks are a little thinner now, or that there’s a shadow under his eyes, or that his skin is paler than it used to be. To you, none of that matters. He’s still Taehyung—the boy you fell in love with all those years ago—and he’s still the person you love now, just as deeply as ever. Your heart aches with it, in the best way, because you know you’ll keep loving him for as long as you have breath in your lungs.

“Looking just like a Vogue cover,” you say, your voice light and teasing, as you watch the image start to form in the Polaroid, slowly taking shape.

Taehyung chuckles softly, his arms behind his head, and you can hear the hint of self-doubt in his voice. “You’re only saying that because you’re being kind. I’m really ugly right now,” he says, his tone playful but with a hint of vulnerability.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look at him. He might see the changes, the signs of exhaustion, but you couldn’t care less about that. He was still the same person to you, and you loved him just as much as you ever had.

“You could never be ugly,” you reply without hesitation, your words sincere. There’s no room for doubt in your voice, only the truth of what you feel.

He looks at you then, his eyes softening as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe you or not. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—maybe surprise, maybe relief—but it fades quickly into a lighthearted smile. “Well, I guess I’m lucky then,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh.

He closes his eyes again, letting the sound of the crashing waves fill the silence between you. The horizon stretches out endlessly before you both, painted in shades of gray and blue, but your eyes can’t leave him. Not when the soft smile playing on his lips feels more meaningful than the entire view in front of you.

“I saw your drawings,” you say quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace surrounding you both, though the words hang heavy with curiosity and something more tender. “You always told me you’d never draw people.”

At that, his smile fades, like a candle blown out by a sudden gust. His expression softens into something unreadable, and for a moment, he just breathes. In. Out. The silence stretches again.

“I did say that,” he murmurs eventually, eyes still closed as if avoiding your gaze would make the truth easier to speak. “And I meant it. I hated drawing people.”

You hesitate for a moment, then shift closer, sitting cross-legged in the sand so you can watch his face better. “But you’re really good at it,” you say, your voice almost a whisper, gentle. “So why now? Why draw them?”

He finally opens his eyes, blinking slowly before turning his head to look at you. There’s something there—a mix of nostalgia, pain, and quiet acceptance. Something raw.

“Because I can’t forget the ones I love,” he says, his voice barely audible over the wind, trembling with emotion. “Their faces, their expressions… the way their eyes light up when they laugh. When I draw them, it’s like I can still smell their scent, hear their voices echoing, feel their presence beside me.”

A single tear slips down his cheek, carving a quiet path over his skin. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’m starting to forget things,” he admits, and that’s when your heart cracks. “One by one. Small details I thought would never leave me—they’re fading. Like a film rewinding too fast. I try to hold on, but they’re slipping away.”

His eyes finally meet yours, raw and filled with something too heavy for words. “I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to forget you.”

The air around you thickens, heavy with everything he’s saying and all that he isn’t. So you don’t speak. You simply lean forward, resting your forehead gently against his, as if that closeness could anchor him here. As if your presence alone could keep the memories from vanishing.

“You won’t,” you whisper. “I promise, you won’t.”

His hands gently cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. His gaze is soft, but behind his watery eyes is a storm of emotion threatening to break.

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, voice cracking with the weight of it all. “Because I want you to be the last thing I see before I die.”

But then, like a sudden shift in the tide, his hands fall away from your face, retreating with something heavier. “But you?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. “You’ll live. You’ll go on. What if one day… you forget me?”

“Taehyung,” you say, breathless, already shaking your head. The idea alone feels like a betrayal to everything you are—everything you’ve ever felt. You reach out, grasping his hands tightly between yours, grounding him. “How could I ever forget you?” your voice trembles with conviction. “You were my first love.”

“Was I?” he teases, the corner of his lips curling into that familiar boxy grin, the one that once made your heart skip beats in the middle of crowded hallways.

“You know you were,” you say through a quiet laugh, warmth spreading across your chest despite the chill of the sea breeze. You tilt your head, eyes locked with his. “You’ll always be.”

His gaze drops to your hand, to the simple ring that suddenly feels unbearably heavy. He doesn’t linger—just a glance, a flash of something in his eyes before he looks away with a soft, bitter smile and a quiet shake of his head.

“I really thought I’d be the one to marry you,” he says, voice gentle but aching with everything left unsaid.

You follow his eyes to the ring, your fingers instinctively moving to twist it around, searching for comfort in the motion, something steady to hold onto while your entire chest feels like it’s caving in. “I thought so too,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “But we were young. We didn’t know… we didn’t know how easy it was to drift apart.”

You try to convince yourself that it’s the truth—that time and distance were the only reasons. That maybe it wasn’t meant to be. But the ache in your heart tells you otherwise. Tells you it was more than just bad timing. Tells you it still is.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a beat, turning his head toward you, his eyes full of quiet hope and restrained pain.

You nod slowly, bracing yourself.

“If things were different… if life gave us another chance and we somehow found our way back to each other—” he pauses, his voice more fragile than you’ve ever heard it— “would you give us another shot?”

Time seems to stop, the waves hush, the sky holds its breath. And all you can feel is the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding with a truth you’ve buried for too long.

“It’s scary how easy it would be for you to have me back,” you say, the words falling from your lips before you can stop them.

As soon as they’re out, a wave of shame crashes over you—thick and suffocating. Your chest tightens, your stomach knots, and the guilt creeps in like a shadow you can’t shake. You think of Minsu—kind, patient Minsu. The man who waited for you to come home, who trusted you even when your silence was too long, your explanations too thin.

And here you were, confessing—no, admitting—to another man that your heart, in all its flawed and fragile mess, still belonged to someone else.

To Taehyung.

The boy you fell in love with in high school. The boy who wrote himself into your past so deeply that no amount of time or change could erase him. And now, he was here again, like a skipped heartbeat, like muscle memory—achingly familiar.

You couldn’t meet his eyes right away, afraid of what he might see there: the truth, the conflict, the longing. But you didn’t take your words back either. Because as terrifying as it was to say it out loud… it was real. And it had always been.

One month slipped through your fingers like snow melting on skin. The roads were now blanketed in white, rooftops glistening under the soft winter sun. Your heads were tucked into oversized scarves and thick beanies, your cheeks stained pink from the biting cold. You still didn’t understand how winter could be Taehyung’s favorite season—it was harsh, relentless—but he somehow made it look magical. Even as his body grew thinner, more fragile, he looked ethereal under the winter sky.

You had crossed off a surprising number of things from his bucket list—some whimsical, some wild, some heartbreakingly simple. But it hadn’t all been laughter and dreams. There were bad days too. Days where his nose bled suddenly, where migraines made him wince in silence, clutching his head while pretending he was fine. He always reassured you, always smiled, always said, “I don’t want to go back yet.” And so you stayed on the road, giving him what little freedom time could still offer.

Now, you were standing at the foot of Hallasan, snow crunching beneath your boots as you pushed his wheelchair forward. The mountain towered in front of you, silent and ancient, blanketed in white. It was breathtaking.

“I can’t believe we’re in Hallasan during winter!” Taehyung said with a wide grin, his eyes sparkling like he wasn’t tired at all.

But he was. You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the quiet wheeze in his breath, the way he leaned into the warmth of the blanket over his lap. His body wasn’t keeping up anymore. The days of walking freely had turned into hours in bed. His legs—once so steady, always dancing, always moving—had finally given up on him.

The wheelchair hadn’t been a choice. It had been a necessity.

Like always—like every time—it was just the two of you. Alone. Everyone else could afford to wait for the perfect weather, the right moment, a clearer sky. But you and Taehyung couldn’t wait. You didn’t have that luxury. Time was no longer a friend, but a constant ticking reminder of how little of it he had left. The urgency had stopped being subtle. It lived in every step, every breath, every plan made in half-rushed laughter.

“There’s no way we’re climbing that,” you said, staring up at Hallasan’s snow-draped silhouette with a mix of awe and exhaustion.

Taehyung turned toward you in mock surprise, eyes wide and playful. “Are you sure?”

“You’re not the one walking!” you laughed, throwing your head back as the cold air stung your lungs. “I’ve been pushing you around for weeks. My arms are basically ripped now.”

You laughed, because laughter kept the ache away. Crying was something reserved for the night, when Taehyung’s breathing would slow beside you, his face soft in sleep. That was when the tears came. Never during the day. Never where he could see.

“At least take me there,” he said, pointing to a quiet spot at the base of the mountain. There was a snow-covered bench, untouched and waiting, and he was already rummaging in his backpack with that boyish glint in his eyes. “You remember when you asked me to draw you like one of my French girls back in high school?”

You burst out laughing again, the memory hitting you like a snowball to the face. “Don’t you dare bring that up now.”

He just grinned, pulling out his old, worn notebook and flipping to a fresh page. “Too late. Today’s the day.”

You rolled your eyes but followed his direction anyway, brushing snow off the bench and sitting down.

“I’m not going naked,” you warned.

“What a shame,” he muttered with a smirk, already sketching the first lines. “Guess I’ll have to settle.”

You smiled, pulling your scarf closer to your face. “Just make sure you get my good side.”

“They’re all good,” he murmured without looking up, the pencil dancing between his fingers. “Just smile and be pretty.”

“Already am,” you teased.

“You’re right,” he said, and there was something soft, something heartbreakingly sincere in the way he said it—as if he were trying to memorize you, not just draw you.

And so, you sat there in the snow, smiling for the boy who once stole your heart—and never gave it back.

Within minutes, after a heavy, comforting silence filled only by the soft sound of his pencil gliding over paper and his quiet humming, Taehyung finally looked up and turned the notebook toward you.

“It’s messy,” he said, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You can see every stroke, every line. But I think… that’s what makes it beautiful.”

And it was. It was raw, unfiltered—his own eyes and hands had shaped you onto the paper. No filters, no polish. Just you, as he saw you. It made your chest tighten.

“I’m glad I can still do this,” he added softly, his voice barely above the breeze. “If my hands ever gave out on me… I think I’d die before the tumor ever got the chance.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything to ease the weight of those words—but you froze.

“Taehyung…” you whispered.

Blood.

A thin trail of it was slipping from his nose, and before you could even move, a few drops had already fallen onto the page—onto the sketch. Panic hit your chest like a punch as you rushed to him, grabbing his hands and fishing through his backpack for a tissue with shaky fingers.

“Shit—Taehyung—stay still,” you said, your voice breaking as you pressed the tissue to his face, gently, but firmly.

His hand instinctively went to his forehead, wincing from the sharp pain. “I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to help, but only smudging blood across his cheek and knuckles. He was trying to brush it off, like always, but the tremble in his hand told you otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you breathed, wiping the blood from his upper lip, heart pounding in your ears. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like this is nothing.”

The sketch lay forgotten on the bench beside you, stained with red, like the cruelest metaphor.

It became the last drawing Taehyung ever made. Not by choice, but because his body, little by little, started surrendering. His hands grew too weak to grip a pencil, his fingers trembling too much to trace even a line. Soon after, even holding his sketchbook on his lap became too much.

And then, one day, without warning—but somehow exactly as he knew it would—his heart stopped beating.

That messy, beautiful sketch was the last imprint of him in motion. A love letter in graphite.

Taehyung became a star in the sky, one that blinked into existence on a snowy day. The kind of snow that didn’t bite but fell gently, wrapping everything in a soft hush. As if the world knew it had to slow down for someone like him. As if the universe itself was bowing its head, just for a moment.

The journey back home was unbearable.

The seat next to you was empty. His scarf still smelled like him. His notebooks sat quiet in the backseat, as if mourning too. You didn’t cry, not at first. It was like your body refused to accept he was gone, as if you were just on your way to the next stop on the bucket list.

But then the silence got too loud. And your heart—your stupid, aching heart—started to break open, piece by piece. You had never felt pain like this. Not even when you first broke up. Not when you watched his body weaken.

This was different.

This was final.

You couldn’t face reality, not when those two months spent away from everything familiar—away from the life you once knew—were everything you had ever wanted and more. With Taehyung, you found comfort, laughter, and moments of beauty in the chaos, even though you knew deep down that it wouldn’t last. You had always known it wouldn’t.

Those two months were your favorites. But they were also the hardest. Because every sunrise with him felt like a blessing, but every sunset reminded you of the inevitable goodbye. And now, that goodbye was an unshakable weight you couldn’t lift from your chest.

You left your heart behind on the mountains. No, you left it with Taehyung, hidden in the snowy peaks where time stood still for just a moment, where you both could breathe easy. It was the only place your heart was truly safe—because, in truth, it belonged there, with him.

It wasn’t yours anymore. And, somehow, you didn’t want it back. Because as painful as it was, you knew it would always be his. Forever.

You kept everything that reminded you of him—each little piece a fragment of something once real, once whole. His keychains, his notebooks, his beanie. Every object felt sacred, as if holding onto them was the only way to keep him close. Because they once belonged to him, and for as long as you lived, they would be part of you.

You knew you could never return to the life you had before Taehyung came back into it. It was impossible. It wasn’t just about the days you spent with him, but about the way he had shifted everything inside you. The old life felt distant now, like a faded picture in the corner of a room you no longer visited. So you left. You drove, letting the miles stretch between you and the life you once knew, until all that was in front of you was a familiar neighborhood.

The high school, the benches where you once spent hours, his head resting in your lap, came into view. It was all so clear in your mind, like it had never left. His childhood home was there too. The same old car parked out front, the same street, the same world—but everything was different now. Inside that house, a family grieved the son who had been taken away five years ago.

But Taehyung could be gone for five years, ten years, or thirty, and his absence would always be felt. His presence, his smile, his laugh—none of it could be replaced. You realized that, no matter how many years passed, he would always be a part of you, woven into the fabric of your life, and nothing would ever fill that space. No one else could ever take his place.

Because even though the love story between you and Taehyung could be summarized in just two young hearts finding each other in high school, it was so much more than that. It wasn’t just a fleeting moment or a chapter in a book; it was a deep connection that shaped both of your souls, intertwining in ways words could never fully express.

Some love stories don’t last forever. They don’t stand the test of time in the way we wish they would. But that doesn’t mean they’re any less significant. Some love stories mark a soul forever, leaving an imprint that stays long after the final page has been turned.

And what you had with Taehyung was one of those stories. It was a love that lived, not in forever, but in every moment you shared, in every memory that will stay with you.

That’s just how life unfolds—the right person at the wrong time.

[ru8yx]

Secret lady Crown Prince Eshawr x reader? I don’t mind what kind of format you put it in.

CROWN PRINCE ESHAWR X READER!!

From the moment of her birth, her life had been predestined as a plaything for her family, and they bestowed upon her a name as sweet as the gentlest flowers and as passionately fiery as the wind.

As the first daughter of the Duke, every aspect of her future had been meticulously planned, shaped by the heavy weight of the family's expectations and ambitions.

Fate had woven a path she had little choice but to follow, each step leading her deeper into the intricate web of the ducal machinations.

Their destinies intertwined like a bittersweet thread, woven by the intricate hand of fate. The Crown Prince, with golden locks that danced in the sunlight and eyes the hue of molten gold, was her predestined match, chosen to be her future husband.

Under the watchful gaze of their families, she too was caught in the trap, as they bowed in introduction, their lives now inexorably linked by the constraints of their assigned roles. Like flies entrapped in a spider's web, their path forward was laid out before them, with no escape in sight.

She had endured a lifetime of lessons, honed to be the perfect future Empress, leaving no room for errors.

Her every waking moment was spent striving for flawlessness under the relentless scrutiny of demanding nobility. Everywhere she went, their greedy eyes tracked her every move, waiting to pounce at the slightest imperfection.

Despite the suffocating weight of expectations and the omnipresent gaze, she stood tall, unyielding in her regal bearing. She would always bear the title of Crown Princess, a symbol of both her lineage and the burden of her role in the tumultuous world of imperial politics.

Eshawr, the beloved Crown Prince, was exalted as the very life force of the empire, lavished with praise for simply existing.

To her, however, he was much more than that—he was her devoted husband, whose playful banter and steadfast presence provided both comfort and joy.

Despite the looming threat of his family's curse, which claimed the lives of partners of the royal family in tragic manners, Eshawr remained vigilant, standing guard through numerous sleepless nights to protect the one whom he had sworn to spend his life with.

Fate, though relentless, couldn’t dampen the love that burned within their entwined hearts.

The nobles painted a vivid picture of their love, likening it to a fairytale, with the princess embodying grace and beauty while the prince was the dashing savior protecting her from the ills of the world.

However, beneath the surface, cracks began to form, threatening to shatter the perfect facade. Problems emerged, revealing that nothing in life was ever truly flawless, reminding them that even the most enchanting fairytales could have unexpected twists and turns in the narrative of their love story.

She was known for her iron grip, unwavering and stoic, allowing no weakness or emotion to sully her image as the Crown Princess.

The nickname "Iron Grip Rose" had been bestowed upon her, symbolizing her unwavering strength and resilience.

She had endured countless trials without ever letting on the pain and suffering that gnawed at her from within. However, the tragic death of her beloved husband, the Crown Prince, left her broken and vulnerable, shattering the impenetrable façade she had nurtured so fiercely.

Plagued by the torment of losing her beloved husband, the woman spiraled into madness, descending deeper into despair with each passing day.

She refused to eat or drink, her body becoming frail and her once radiant eyes turning lifeless and dull. Driven to the brink, she pulled at her hair, howling like a wounded beast, feeling the weight of isolation and desolation, her heart shattered beyond repair.

The absence of her husband had torn away the light that illuminated her world, leaving only the suffocating darkness to consume her.

The whispers of the maids echoed in the grand halls, lamenting the transformation of the once-beloved princess into a tormented wraith.

They spoke of how sorrow had drained her vibrancy, how she appeared so lifeless and pain-stricken, murmuring unintelligible words as she rocked back and forth.

And all the while, her gaze remained fixated on a portrait of her and her beloved late husband, a time when they radiated in power and beauty, before fate wrenched his life away.

The descent into insanity reached its pinnacle as she vented her anguish on her surroundings, smashing even the most fragile of vases and leaving her hand bloodied from the shattered shards.

As tears streamed down her face, she saw her deceased husband before her, his teasing smile still haunting her. In her delusion, he beckoned to her from the balcony, his tall figure standing against the backdrop of the sky.

In a moment of desperation and despair, she gripped her dress and lunged toward him, only to be met with a fatal fall from her chamber’s window

❝ they say, if you stand underneath the balcony of princess [name] you could still hear her cries and screams of pain❞

HII THX SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING 🫶hope u enjoyed , (hope its not badly written ) and no happiness 💕🎀

[fanfictiongirlie]

Twilight: The Human and the Wolf Chapter Eighteen

Click here for masterlist

Parings: Paul Lahote x OC (First person, no use of Y/N)

Description: Bella Swan's twin moved to Forks with her sister. Whilst Bella falls for a vampire, her twin falls for a wolf. The story runs parallel to Bella's story in Twilight. But following her twin and her life with the wolves.

Hii - Hope you enjoy this chapter, it has a lot in it, and I think you will like it! If there's any mistake, I do apologies, I may have written this after being awake for 24 hours :)))

Chapter Eighteen - We Could Share a Cheesecake?

Another week past, and Bella had finally started to leave her room. I was beyond happy, as was our dad. She said she had been spending time with Jacob, and I was beyond pleased, she had started leaving her room more, and I felt hopeful that my sister was slowly starting to break out from the depression and sadness that had gripped her for so long. 

Bella wouldn't tell me what her and Jacob did together, Paul had an inkling they were building bikes together, and whilst that did stress me out, a lot, I didn't care as long as she was getting better. 

I looked into the mirror once more in my room, smoothing out the beautiful, but simple green dress I wore. I wore a pair of black heels to match. It was the perfect outfit for my date night with Paul. I couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement. I left my room and walked down the stairs to see, first, Jacob and Bella chatting happily in the kitchen, and second, Paul standing in the doorway, joining in on the conversation. 

"Hey you" I whisper as I walk towards Paul, I reach up slightly and kiss him. His hands move to rest on my hips as his lips moved against mine. 

"Hey, sweetheart. You look stunning"

"Thank you" I say, blushing slightly, I press another kiss to his lips before turning to face Bella and Jacob. I beam inside when I see a smile on my twin's lips. "See you too later"

Bella smiled a little wider at me, and Jacob flashed me a quick grin. Paul and I left my house and quickly got into my car. Paul climbed into the passenger seat beside me. He glanced over to me, a small smile on his lips as he reached over taking my hand in his.

"Mmm, you look gorgeous in that dress, sweetheart. Gonna turn a few heads tonight"

"I only care about yours" I say as I start the car up. He chuckled at my response, his smile widening into a wolfish grin. He squeezed my hand as his voice dropped into a low, seductive murmur. 

"Don't worry, sweetheart. You've got my undivided attention...and you're gonna have it all night long" 

Once we reach the restaurant, I parked the car up and waited for a moment. Paul loved opening the car door for me, and who was I to deny that of him. Once out the car, his hand immediately intertwined with mine, gripping it loosely as the two of us walk into the building. 

Paul led me confidently into the entrance of the restaurant, as we wait to be seated he leans close to me. "You know, you're making it real hard to focus, looking so beautiful. I might be to distracted to eat"

"See, I know that's not true, you're a food machine" I say with a smirk, I hold onto his arm, keeping it close to my chest.

"True, true...I'm always hungry" He says, chuckling. We were taken to a small booth, it was dimly lit and perfect for us to sit by each other, there was a small candle in the middle of the table, which only added to the vibe. I take a menu and open it, holding it so the two of us could share it. 

"Whatcha in the mood for?" I ask, looking over the menu. "I might get pasta"I watch his eyes for a moment as they skimmed the menu. "I'm in the mood for a lot of things right now...but I think they're all off the menu" He says, his tone seductive. "As for food though, I might just get a steak... I'm actually really hungry"

"You're always hungry" 

The waiter arrived promptly, taking our orders and then swiftly moving away. The two of us were left alone in the secluded, intimate corner, the soft, ambient music creating a warm, romantic atmosphere. 

"I like having random date nights" I admit, taking his hand in mind over the table. Paull immediately took my hand in his, his thumb rubbing against the soft skin of my hand. A soft, warm smile curled onto his lips, his gaze never leaving mine. 

"Me too, sweetheart. Just the two of us...You know how much I love it when I get to have you all to myself"

"And I even get to treat you this time, thanks to my new job" I say excitedly, I had recently gotten a job at the movie theatres, nothing fancy, but I loved it. Loved having my own money. Paul chuckled softly, shaking his head in mock resignation. 

"Alright, I'll let you treat me this time...But don't get used to it, sweetheart. I like paying for you. I like spoiling you, treating you well" 

"I'm okay with that, just excited about my first job" I say, squeezing his hand a little. He smiled, his expression warm and supportive. 

"First jobs are exciting baby, especially at a cinema, you little movie geek" He says playfully. 

 "Today usher of movies, tomorrow producer of movies" I say, my tone silly as I speak. Paul lets out a small laugh, shaking his head in amusement. He squeezes my hand again, his eyes sparkling with affection. "I bet you will be doing that one day, sweetheart"

"We can only hope" I say with a shrug. Our food arrives, the smell alone enough to make my mouth water. The aroma of the pasta and steal wafted through the air, filling our small corner of the restaurant with a warm, savory scent. Once the waiter was on his way, Paul glanced from his food to me, his voice low and hungry. 

"Mmm, looks almost as delicious as you do, sweetheart"

"Eat your food, you dork" I chuckle, taking a bite of my own food. I almost moaned out loud from the taste, the buttery sauce and soft pasta melted in my mouth, and the garlic hit me so strongly, it was like eating heaven. Paul picked up his fork and took a bite of his food, a small, satisfied hum rumbling from his chest as he chewed. 

"So" I say, mouth half full of food. "Do you think Jacob will pluck up the courage and ask Bella out?"

Paul paused taking another bite, his lips curving into a small, wry smile. "Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't. He's got it bad for her, anyone can see that. And I mean, if she is finally coming out of that funk, maybe he'll do it soon"

"I hope so, Jacob's good for her. Better than that Cullen" I mutter. He nods in agreement, as he takes another bite of his food. 

"Yeah, Jacob cares about her. I think he would stick with her through thick and thin"

"I hope those leeches never come back" I say as I take a sip of my drink. Paul nodded, agreeing with me, his expression hardening, a hint of anger in his eyes. I moved my arm, placing my hand on his arm, squeezing him slightly, just to remind him, I was there, and there was no need to be angry. He relaxes almost instantly, it warmed my heart, I had the same effect on him as he did me. 

"I hope so too"

We focused on our food, finishing our plates, and just enjoying the moment. 

"Would you like dessert?" I ask, smiling sweetly at him. He leans back in the chair slightly, with a small satisfied smile on his lips. He ran a hand over his stomach, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. 

"Mmm, I could never say no to a dessert" He says with a goofy grin. 

"We could share a cheesecake?" I suggest, looking over the menu. aul's smile widened into a wolfish grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire. He leaned forward on the table towards me, his voice dropping into a low, seductive murmur. "Mmm, now that sounds like a dangerous idea, sweetheart... Sharing a cheesecake? Getting all messy with whipped cream and cake, feeding each other?"

"You're a dork, luckily I know how to eat properly, so I will not be making a mess"

Paul chuckled softly, shaking his head with mock-resignation. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on me with playful affection. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. Live a little. It'd be fun to be a bit messy with you for a change. Maybe lick some whipped cream off your fingers..."

"You'd love to lick whipped cream off me, wouldn't you?" I ask, letting my voice drop down to a whisper. Paul chuckled again, his eyes darkening slightly, his gaze roaming slowly over my body, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Oh, you know me so well, sweetheart. I can think of a few other places I'd like to lick whipped cream off of you... If you'd let me, of course."

"You're a menace" I say, fondly. Paul smiled wolfishly, shrugging his shoulders with feigned innocence. He leered at me from across the table, his eyes dark with desire, his voice low and sultry. "Me? A menace? I'm just appreciating the view... And I like the idea of getting messy with you. You're just too damn irresistible, sweetheart."

The waiter soon came back with a luscious, decadent cheesecake that looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale. Paul smiled widely at the sight of it, his gaze immediately flickering over to you, his eyes dark with desire and a hint of mischief. "That looks good, sweetheart. Can't wait to get a taste of that... And the cheesecake too, of course."

I feel myself blush at his words. "Behave" I say to him as I grab my spoon to take a bite. We eat our dessert, sharing it equally, even though I know full well Paul could eat this and more just by himself. As the cheesecake slowly disappeared, he couldn't resist reaching over to brush some stray crumbs and whipped cream from my lips. I poke my tongue out, catching his thumb with a cheeky grin. 

"You're making it very difficult to behave." He whispers. 

"Well, my dad's working late tonight...Bella will be home, but she won't bother us in my room" I say with a shrug. Paul's smile widened into a devilish grin, we finished up and paid for our food and quickly left the restaurant, hand in hand. Once we got into the car, Paul moved closer to me, pressing hot kisses to my neck as I started the car. 

"Christ, sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me... I don't know how I'm going to keep my hands off you on the drive home."

"Well, I don't want to crash, so you'll have to" I say sternly, I can hear my dad's voice in my head, saying the same. When I park my car at my house, I'm extra happy when I don't see the police cruiser. Paul followed me closely as I led the way into the house. The moment the door closed behind them, he immediately pulled me into his arms, pressing my back against the wall as he leaned down to capture my lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. One of his hands rested on my hip, his grip tight and possessive, while the other cupped the nape of my neck, holding my head firmly in place as he deepened the kiss.

"Paul...ahhh" I whined against his lips knowing full well Bella would most likely be in the kitchen. He ignored my protests, his lips moving against mine hungrily, his body pressed tightly against mine, pushing me to the wall with a near-animalistic need. 

"Uhh guys?" I heard my twin's voice, I cringe hard. Paul reluctantly pulled away from my lips, though he made no move to release me from his grip. He let out a low, frustrated growl as he heard Bella's voice, his eyes still darkened with lust and annoyance. I giggled softly and looked to my sister, she was sitting along in the kitchen, like I had thought. 

"Hi Bells, sorry....Paul's an animal" I say joking, "We'll be in my room, alright? Warn me if dad comes home?"

Bella rolls her eyes with a small smile, it warmed my insides seeing her smile again, I had missed that smile. I take Paul's hand in mine and pull him up to my room. The moment I closed the door behind me, he immediately pulled me into his arms again, pinning me against the wall with his body. His lips found mine once more, his kiss deep and hungry, his hands roaming over my body possessively, his fingers tangling in the fabric of my dress.

"Fuck.. you're really needy for this aren't ya?" I ask, feeling a little breathless. 

He moved, kissing down my jaw, groaning as he grinds against my body, his hands roamed more insistently over my curves. "What can I say, sweetheart... You drive me crazy. All I can think about when I'm with you is getting you alone, having you all to myself."

"God" I whisper, moving my hands to run up and down his sides. We moved to the bed, our lips on each other's as we move, we stumble until we fall down onto the bed. 

"Christ, sweetheart... You are driving me absolutely insane. I want you so goddamn bad." He groans. 

"Me too, Paul...I want you" I say quietly. Paul captured my lips in another fierce, hungry kiss as I spoke, his tongue delving deep into my mouth, his hands continuing to explore my body. He pushed himself up onto his knees, straddling my hips as he loomed over me, his body covering mine possessively, his gaze fixed on my face with aching need.

"Say that again, sweetheart... I want to hear it again... Tell me how much you want me."

"I want you, my sexy wolf" I answer back playfully, he chuckles at my words, his eyes dark with desire as he gazed down at me. He leans down, and traces a hot, wet path along the side of my neck, his lips brushing against my skin as he spoke in a low, possessive growl.

"You have no idea how much I need you right now... I want to touch you, taste you, make you mine."

"Paulie" I whisper, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. "I don't want to go all the way yet, I'm not ready"

Paul paused his movements for a moment, he lifted his head to look at me, our eyes locked. He took a deep breath. 

""I know, I know... And I respect that, sweetheart. I would never push you to do something you're not ready for. We'll go at your pace, okay?"

"We can still do, other things" I say with a wicked grin. Paul smiled down at me, his gaze darkening with lust as he considered my words.

"Mmm, damn right we can, sweetheart. I'm more than happy to pleasure you in other ways. Just as long... as I get to hear you moan my name."

"Put your fingers where I like them, and I'll moan your name" I say, promising him, I still feel a little weird talking about this stuff out loud. Paul chuckles softly, his hands slowly trailed up my thighs, moving my dress further up my body. 

"Oh really, sweetheart? You want me to touch you like that? You want me to make you moan my name in pleasure?"

"Please baby" I whisper, feeling my cheeks flush red. Paul groaned softly at my words, his hands moving to hook under the edges of my panties, his fingers slowly pulling them down my thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was dark and intense as he looked down at me, his voice a low, guttural growl. "You're driving me crazy, sweetheart... You're so beautiful..."

He slipped his fingers through the wetness between my legs, touching my exactly where I needed him, I bit my lip as I moaned, trying to not make too much noise. His fingers continued to tease and caress me, his movements becoming more purposeful, his touch expert and knowing.

"Mmm, that's it, sweetheart... I want to hear you let yourself go. Don't hold back... I want to hear you moan my name"

"Maybe when we have a free house I'll scream for you.."

"Oh sweetheart, you're trying to kill me. Goddamn, I can't wait to get you alone in an empty house and make you scream louder than you ever have before"

He pressed two of his fingers into me, whilst using the other hand to press against my clit, my legs were shaking as he sped up with his words. 

"Fuck.. keep going baby.. god.. yes you make me feel so good" I panted. He moved forward to press his lips to my neck.

Paul continued his assault on my senses, his fingers continuing to work their magic on me, his mouth moving along the length of my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses against my skin. His body ground against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. "Mmm that's it, sweetheart... just keep making those sexy noises... You're gonna drive me wild, you know that?"

"Uhh....Paulie...I'm close!" I pant. Paul's fingers continued their rhythmic, deliberate movements against me, his mouth moving from my neck to my ear as he whispered in a low, needy growl. "Yeah sweetheart.. that's it... let it all go for me... I want to hear you moan my name as you come for me... I want you to feel so good... I want to make you mine"

"I'm yours...I'm yours" I chant as I feel myself come, the feeling washing over me, my legs shake against him whilst my vision goes spotty. 

Paul held me tight as I came undone, his hands and body never ceasing their ministrations, his mouth moving to capture my lips in a deep, passionate kiss. He held me close, his voice low and possessive as he spoke."Damn straight you're mine, sweetheart... all goddamn mine... I'm never letting you go"

"Fuck...that was good" I whisper, lifting my head slightly to kiss his lips. He had a satisfied smile on his lips, he reaches a hand up to gently push a strand of my hair back from my face. 

"Yeah it was, I love hearing you moan"

I smile at his words and move my hand down to his jeans to rub my hand over his hard cock. "Mmm, sweetheart.... Yeah I like it... But careful, you're gonna make it hard for me to control myself if you keep that up, you know that?" He whispers, a goofy smile on his lips. 

"Let go baby, it's your turn to feel good"

Paul groaned again, his eyes locked on mine as you spoke, his body tense with restraint, his hands still gripping my hips tight. He let out a slow, shaky breath, his voice shaky and desperate as he spoke. "Baby... you... you're gonna drive me insane... You sure about this? You want to make me feel good too, sweetheart?"

"Of course I do, you dork" I say, moving my hand a little quicker over the bulge in his jeans. "Take your jeans off"

Without a word, he shifted, standing up from the bed for a moment to pull off his jeans and boxers. He lies back down, but next to me this time. I wrap my hand around his cock and start moving my hand slowly, rubbing my thumb over his tip, spreading the wetness all over. 

"Oh God... sweetheart...you... you're gonna make me lose it... Oh God, that feels so good"

"That's it, good boy..want you to feel good" I whisper not slowing my movements, I watch his face as he leans his head against the pillow, his mouth slightly open. 

His hands continued to cling onto the bed sheets, his body tense with restraint as he fought to control himself, his voice reduced to a shaking, needy whisper. "F-Fuuuuck... baby... don't stop... that feels so good... Oh God... I want you so bad"

I pepper sweet kisses to his shoulder as I move my hand a little faster. Paul lets out a soft, needy whine. "Baby... oh... oh god... That feels so good... I'm... I'm getting close"

"Good, come for me, finish for your girl" I whisper, scraping my teeth over his shoulder gently. His body trembles as he grips the bed sheets tight into his fists, his hips rutted up into my hand as he spurts out, covering my hand in his seed. "F-Fuuuccck baby, don't... don't do that... I'm... I'm gonna... oh my... oh God..."

"That's my boy" I say with a giggle. 

"Mmm... baby... oh my god... that was... damn, you're gonna... gonna be the death of me, you know that?"

"I sure hope not" I say playfully, I reach over grabbing a towel from my dirty washing hamper, I wipe my hand and his body down. 

"Mmm... don't worry, sweetheart. Even if you do end up being the death of me, I'd die a very happy man."

"Dork"

He gave me a soft, affectionate smile, his eyes still dark with an afterglow of pleasure."Yeah, yeah, I'm a dork, I know. But I'm your dork. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

"That's right" I say, I sigh a little as my breathing and mind goes back to it's normal state. 

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"You have to get dressed before my dad gets home" I say with a pout. 

"Yeah, yeah, I guess you have a point. Don't wanna get caught in a compromising position, do we?"

"Definitely not" I agree. 

"Yeah, I can only imagine what your dad would do if he saw us like this. I doubt he'd be too thrilled with me, huh?"

"No, he wouldn't. Come on, get dressed, I'll even walk you out" I say, adding a wink. "Sure you don't want a lift home?"

"Nah, I'm alright, sweets. I'm on patrol tonight" He answers as he gets dressed. I watch him, enjoying his body, like I did everytime he was naked for me. 

"Be safe?" I say, a sad smile on my lips. He nods his head in assurance. "I will be, sweetheart. I promise. Don't worry about me, okay? I'll be safe, I always am."

I walked him to the door, giving him one last kiss before he leaves. Bella was in the living room, so once I closed the front door I went in and sat by her. 

"Hey Bells" I say as I skip into the room. 

"Hey you" She responded, she smiled but I could see her eyes were sad. "You seem strangely giddy. What happened?"

"Oh Bells" I whisper. "I don't want to upset you with all my relationship talk" Bella's expression softened as I spoke, a hint of understanding in her eyes. She shook her head and reached out to rest a hand on my knee. "you're not gonna upset me. I want you to talk to me."

"In that case..." I say carefully, a stupid smile coming onto my lips. "Paul and I are great, I'm so happy with him"

"That's fantastic. I'm so happy to hear that. Paul is a good guy and he's clearly good to you. It makes me happy to see you so happy with him."

"Thanks Bells" I say, my cheeks red. 

"Of course. That's what sisters are for, right? To listen to and support each other."

"Exactly..which leads me to a question.. do you think you're okay now?" I ask, knowing she was still upset about Edward, but maybe she was better. Jacob was helping her be better. Her smile falters, a hint of pain in her eyes. Eventually, she sighed softly, her voice soft and hesitant as she spoke.

"I... I'm trying to be. The pain is still there, but it's not as raw as it used to be. I'm... I'm getting better, slowly but surely."

"That's...good, you'll get there eventually, spending time with Jacob seems to help" I say, leaning a little closer to her. 

"Yeah... yeah, Jacob definitely helps. He's been there for me a lot, you know? Helping me get through this. He's a good friend."

We spend the evening chatting away, it felt like a giant catch up, like we hadn't spoke in weeks, which in truth, we hadn't. I felt so happy, I had missed my sister, more than anything, things were starting to feel normal again. 

Taglist:

@jaybbygrl, @strayteez3staner, @8crazy-freak8, @idontliketoread2137, @bonni-98

[lynn-tged-posting]

i was recently thinking about how whenever the hoyoverse devs have created characters that are intended as duos, their color palettes are inversions of each other

zhongli and childe, alhaitham and kaveh, etc. (there's probably more but i can't recall off the top of my head)

and it's a little design detail that i've always been enamored with because like. damn! even your colors are paired together! intertwined in a way that goes even beyond the already matching accessories and personalities and story! that shits beautiful!

anyway yes i was thinking about that

and like a slot machine slipping into a jackpot, a lightning bolt finding the weathervane, a lawnmower finally revving to life, it hits me.

what if i invert lloyd and javier's colors.

DO THEY MATCH?

i race through my photo gallery, and grab a screenshot that has the two of them together. i run it through a color inverter website. i click invert, and,,,

OOOOH MY GOD IT'S REAL THEY'RE MATCHING TRULY THE DUO OF ALL TIME LLOJAVI WIN LLOJAVI WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LIKE ARE YOU SEEING THIS

its even their clothes, lloyd's clothes when inverted ends up being blue too

javier's ends up yellow, which at first is like "hm that doesn't show up on lloyd" until you look at his goofy ass when he's dressed formally THIS BITCH!!! FUCKED UP MOLE CRICKET AND CRACKED ASS KNIGHT!!! SHAKING THEM

THERE RIGHT THERE ITS RIGHT THERE THEY'RE INVERSIONS they make me CRAZY!!! CRAZY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i know odds are that it's not intentional - the colors match but theyre not quite exact - but i will always be under the copium that it was and that javier's bright minty blue ass (/aff) was intentionally that color because of the inversion

in conclusion, llojavi real. the duo ever. their colors match. end post

[ghostofskywalker]

Hello!

Can I please request this prompt for your event with the beautiful Sargeant Hunter???

“You love me?” || “I always have”

hello! sorry this is so late, but i hope you enjoy it!! i always liked thinking of pabu as a place where people don't lock their doors and neighbors drop off baked goods to each other just because they wanted to share, like small new england towns in the 80's, so this is kind of based on that

Not Exactly How One Plans a Love Confession

words: 1,230

summary: Hunter originally doesn't want to tell you how he feels, but after you overhear him talking to his brothers, he decides to take the plunge.

clone troopers masterlist

Everyone talks about falling in love like it’s a boulder that rushes down the side of a mountain, mowing down the unsuspecting people standing in its path. But for Hunter, things came on a little bit slower than that. Maybe it was the fact that he was still adjusting to life on Pabu and experiencing so many new things each day, but after a while he didn’t even question the way he felt about you, or the way your lives had become so effortlessly intertwined. 

Shuffling out to the kitchen one morning (with a particularly egregious case of bed head), he barely took note of the fact that there was already a steaming pot of caf waiting for him, and he grabbed a muffin from the basket sitting on the counter without a second thought. It was only when he moved to sit down and enjoy his breakfast that he realized the confections were new. They still didn’t have much in the way of material possessions (despite being here for almost a year now), and a wicker basket like this definitely wasn’t on any of the lists he and his brothers had made of all the things they still needed to fix up and buy. 

As Hunter took a sip of his caf, Crosshair stepped into the kitchen, signature scowl on his face as he filled a canteen with water from the chiller. It wasn’t a shock to see him awake, since he slept on the couch most of the time. “Those better be good,” he said plainly, gesturing towards the muffins. 

Hunter wasn’t quite awake enough to catch his drift the first time around, and he just looked at Crosshair in confusion. “What?” 

“Your girlfriend woke me up when she left them on the counter,” his brother responded. “She walked in like a gundark in a china shop.” 

Hunter just raised his eyebrows, his mind having not even registered the fact that you were never referred to by name, but he knew exactly who Crosshair was talking about. “I doubt that’s exactly how it happened,” he said. “If it was that loud, are sure it wasn’t Wrecker who brought the muffins in?”

Crosshair raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure. No one else would be humming when the sun isn’t even up yet. You know, the two of you should just hurry up and get married, or at least invite her to move in. Maybe then I won’t get woken up by the door slamming open at 0600.” 

Although still half-asleep, Hunter did catch Crosshair’s words the second time his relationship with you was referenced. “Shut up, you know she’s not my girlfriend.” 

Crosshair snorted. “I don’t know a single person who would wake up at the crack of dawn and break into my home to leave freshly baked muffins and start a pot of caf this way she knew I ate something.”

“That’s because no one wants to be around you,” Hunter shot back. 

The sound of someone descending the stairs stopped Crosshair from whatever he was going to say in response, and it was Echo who stepped into the kitchen next. “Good morning,” he said sleepily, trying to stifle a yawn as he shuffled over to the caf machine. “Where did the muffins come from?” 

“A little fairy dropped them off before sunrise,” Crosshair said, raising his eyebrows as he looked over at Hunter. 

Echo nodded, knowing exactly what Crosshair meant. “Make sure to thank her today when you go over there,” he said. 

“What makes you think I’m going over there?” Okay, his brothers were right, he did plan on seeing you today, but Hunter didn’t really want to admit that so easily. 

“We know you,” Echo responded. “And even if you don’t want to admit how you feel about each other, it’s kind of obvious.” 

There were only so many times Hunter could vehemently deny the accusations before he broke, and apparently this was the moment that his defenses came crumbling down. “Fine, I will make sure to thank her.” 

Crosshair gave him a look. “And you’ll tell her how you feel?” 

Without even thinking about what he was saying, Hunter spoke in response. “I’m not going to just tell her that I love her without even going on a date first.”

Both Echo and Crosshair’s eyes widened, but they didn’t even get a chance to make a joke about the situation, because a new voice had entered the conversation. “You love me?” 

Silence fell over the area in an instant, and all eyes turned towards the doorway, where you were standing. The sound of the front door closing behind you made it clear that you had just arrived, and there was a basket of fruit in your hands, no doubt a gift from Shep and Lyana, who you were very close with as well.

Hunter froze, his mind racing as he weighed his options. 

Did he lie and try to save face? But what if you felt the same way? 

Did he own up to his feelings? What if that ruined your friendship?

Whatever was going to happen though, it was clear that Crosshair and Echo had no intentions of being part of it, because they cleared out so fast it was almost as though they dissipated into thin air, and Hunter couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse. The room seemed so much emptier now, and the silence was starting to grow awkward. 

Well, the damage was already done, he thought, before taking a deep breath and speaking. “I think I always have,” he said, getting up from his chair as you took a few steps closer to him. “Even if I didn’t realize it until a little while ago, and I wanted to tell you in a slightly more acceptable way.” 

You laughed, taking the final few steps so that you were close enough to take his hand. “I’ll admit it’s not the most romantic way to find out,” you said. “But I don’t care, I love you too.”

If he was dreaming, he officially never wanted to wake up. “Really?” 

“You’ve become such a big part of my life that I don’t think I ever want to go back to the way I lived without you,” you said. “I’ve lived on Pabu my whole life, but you make it feel like so much more of a home.” 

Okay, now Hunter was trying to keep from tearing up (even though he would never admit it if asked). “Can I kiss you?” he asked, moving even closer. 

“Yes,” you breathed, before finally closing the gap between you and pressing your lips to his. He could hear the basket of fruit clatter to the floor the moment his hands found your waist, but at the moment, he didn’t really have it in him to care. 

When you finally broke apart, he couldn’t help but smile, saying the first thing that came to mind. “By the way, the muffins were really good.”

You just laughed before leaning in to kiss him again, a quick peck this time. “If that was your way of saying thank you, I’m certainly not complaining.” 

“Well then, allow me to fully express my appreciation.” 

Hunter supposed he might have to eventually thank his brothers for getting him to admit things, but he wasn’t ready to admit that just yet.

- the end -

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

[itadoraki]

Cotton-Colored Shrimpy

—————————————————————————

Floyd Leech x R.femele. ( Extremely kind and sweet )

—————————————————————————

.

.

The soft noise of the waves of the NRC lake echoed between Octavinelle's stone arches. It was late afternoon, and the orange sky was reflected in the waters like dyed glass. Azul had already closed the Monster Lounge, and Jade had disappeared with some weird plan to pick mushrooms. The dormitory was silent. Almost calm.

Floyd? He was lying on his stomach on the couch in the lobby, throwing a basketball up and taking it back... until he felt the presence.

"Hmm~ that sweet smell... Shrimpy~?"

You were there - long hair falling down your back, bright eyes and a smile so soft that it could heal a war. His presence was like a sun-filled candy: impossible to ignore.

- Hi, Floyd~! I brought melon juice! I made it for you, with a lot of ice, okay? - you offered the glass with enthusiasm, with flushed cheeks.

He smiled. Slow. Predatory. And he dropped the ball.

"Hee~? Are you trying to please me today, Shrimpy Cotton Color?"

"Tsc, now I'm going to have to squeeze you, right?"

You laughed, and he went to you in three wide steps, grabbing you by the waist with long arms and turning you in the air with ease. You screamed, laughing, hitting his back lightly.

- Floyd!! Put me on the floor, otherwise I'll... I'll... give you a forced kiss!

"Hi~? How scary you are, Shrimpy!" - he teased, eyes shining.

And then you really kissed him - a sweet and unexpected kiss, but so warm that it made Floyd literally stop moving for a few seconds.

"...Heh."

"You're so sweet today that I'm even going to get sick~"

But the truth? He had hot skin. Red ears. Look slightly lost. He didn't understand how someone could be so kind to him, so loving, without being afraid. He was unpredictable, intense, weird - and you... just smiled. You cried easily, praised everything about him, even when he was in a bad mood.

It was strange. And it was addictive.

————

That day, you walked around the campus. He held your hand tightly, his fingers intertwined, while you told about a student who praised your outfit.

"Who? Who was the funny guy?" - he asked, stopping walking.

"I'm kidding~... or not."

You laughed, stopping in front of him, and with that exaggerated affection that only you knew how to do, you touched his face with both hands.

- Floyd... I just look at you. I only have eyes for my Floydzão! Even when you have a sullen face and want to crush the world!

"...Shrimpy..."

"You're not afraid of me, are you?"

You denied with your head, firm, still with a smile on your lips.

- Never. I see your scary side, but also your affectionate side. You protect me, listen to me... And even when you pretend not to call, I know you care.

Floyd was silent for a few seconds. A rare silence. His look softened. The shoulders relaxed. And for the first time that day, he pulled you close, but not violently. It was careful.

"...Today I don't want to crush you."

"I just want to stay here... with you."

You laughed, moved, and hugged him tightly, head on his chest.

- So stay. Do you promise that you will always stay, even when I'm too silly?

"I promise, if you promise to keep calling me beautiful when I'm grumpy."

- Beautiful, cute, strong, smelly... - you answered quickly, like a machine gun of compliments.

Floyd laughed loudly, happy. It was the kind of laugh that only you could get from him.

————

Later, he took you to a secret place at the bottom of the Monster Lounge, where the light was blue, and the decorative corals seemed to float. He lay on the couch, with his head on your lap, watching you touch his hair with affection.

"You're strong like me, Shrimpy. But inside, it's like jelly... full of emotion."

- And you are like a deep sea: mysterious, dangerous... but full of beautiful life inside.

He closed his eyes. I was... at peace.

And for the first time, Floyd murmured softly:

"If you leave someday... I swear I'll get really mad."

You smiled, kissing his forehead sweetly.

- I'll never leave, Floyd. Even if you try to crush me.

"Heh~ so you'll have to put up with a sticky boyfriend forever, Cotton Color."

———— That night

The blue half-light of the secret aquarium in Octavinelle reflected on the curved walls, creating a slow dance of liquid shadows. It was almost dawn, and the world seemed to be suspended.

Floyd still had his head on his lap, but now, his eyes were fixed on his chest.

You wore a light shirt, open at the top, and your generous breasts seemed even more inviting to that magical light. The fabric barely disguised the high and firm curve that went up and down according to his calm breathing. They pressed against the fabric, heavy and sensitive, too hot for that cold place.

"...Heeeeeeh."

"Shrimpy... you're trying to provoke me, aren't you?"

Floyd's eyes, usually playful, were slow and dark now. He got up slowly, with his hands going directly to his waist. I need it. As if he was playing something that he believed belonged only to him.

You smiled, a little shy.

- Provoke you? Never... although you seem very interested in mine... - his voice decreased when he ran a slow finger through the curve of the neckline.

"They're so big... how do you walk with all this in your chest, huh, Shrimpy?"

"It's distracting me... I can't even think straight..."

He lowered his face until he almost touched his nose at you. The warm breath on the skin of your collarbone made you shudder. The breasts weighed so much that they seemed to pulsate, swollen with silent desire, almost painful with the slow attention he gave.

"They're so soft..." - he murmured, pressing one of them with one of his big hands, over the clothes.

"So... flashy. I think I'm going to bite."

- Floyd...!

But the sound of his voice failed when he slowly licked his skin just above the curve of a breast, his eyes fixed on his own like a predator.

You tried to laugh, but got goosebumps all over.

- You're a perverted eel...

"Heeh~? Did you just find out now?"

He pulled you to sit on his lap, with ease. The breasts were crushed against his chest, and Floyd let out a guttural sigh, his fingers running down his back.

"You know what's more fun, Shrimpy...?"

"It's just that you have such an indecent body, and yet you look at me with those innocent eyes..."

He lightly bit the exposed shoulder, and then pressed his lips on one of the soft mounds, right over the clothes, making a deep sound in the throat.

"I could spend hours just touching you here..."

"Squeezing, sucking, leaving your skin all marked just for no one else to dare to look..."

You gasped, holding his shoulders tightly. The heat rose from her womb to her breasts, which seemed to throb under the fabric.

Floyd was smiling, but it wasn't the joke smile. It was the smile of someone hungry for affection, for desire, and for total control over that body that he thought was too perfect to be real.

"You're going to let me play more, right?" - he asked with a deep voice, brushing his lips in the middle of his breasts.

"Will you let me prove you... everything?"

You nodded, red, shaking between his arms.

And Floyd, with pleasure and fascination, took you to the bottom of the secret room, where no one else would hear your low moans, or the wet sound of his hands loving every curve of yours - especially that part of your body

—————————————————————————

[brandoscomet]

Jasper reacting to her S/O running their fingers through her hair?

I’ll do you one better! Here’s an entire fic. Keep the Jasper requests coming guys 😝😝

Intertwined — Jasper x Reader

————————————

You and Jasper were on the couch together after you’d both had a particularly long day. She’d been out running errands (and consequently dealing with a lot of people she deemed “stupid” or “infuriating”) all day, and you’d just gotten off of a nine hour shift.

You were sitting on one end, nearly smooshed against the arm, and your rather large girlfriend was stretched along the length of the couch, face-down, with her face in your lap.

Your hands had just been wandering. You were just looking for something to keep your brain busy. Unconsciously, naturally even, your fingers found their way into her off-white mane of hair.

For a split second, her whole body tensed. Her fists clenched and her arms flinched upwards as if she were about to push herself off of you and jump up. You gently laid your hand on the back of her head, stroking the length of her hair softly. You interlaced your fingers in it, running them from her scalp all the way down to the ends, and then working your digits through the next little section.

She let out a long, deep sigh. The kind that relaxes every muscle you have and reminds you just how deeply you can breathe.

You continued for quite a while. She let out a contented hum when you reached the spots right above her neck or when you got a particularly bad knot out.

She shifted slightly, wrapping her huge arms around your waist and adjusting herself to be more comfortable. Your mind had started to wander, and the realization that she was letting you do this hit you. She’d glare at or threaten other people for getting too close to her— and yet, here she was, clinging to you and enjoying intimate moments like this together.

You thought about how much she must trust you. Of course, she trusted you a lot, and you knew that, but you’d never really realized just how much that meant to her. Nobody had ever loved her so quietly or so gently (or maybe even any way at all) before, and she was allowing you to show her what it was like. The genuine, loving way you treated her told her things she never thought she’d know.

That she’s worthy of being anything other than just a machine of war, an expendable asset to a bloodthirsty empire. That the “love” humans speak so fondly of is a real thing— and that it was beautiful. That she was beautiful. That life, without all of the fighting, vengeance, and conquest, was beautiful.

While you were lost in thought, your hands had paused. Jasper grumbled and said your name a few times to get your attention, her voice muffled by your thighs. You didn’t hear her, though. Her arms fell from your sides and she flipped over, facing upwards at you.

For someone who doesn’t get tired, she was sure acting like she’d been woken up from a nap prematurely. You chuckled to yourself for a second at how pouty she seemed.

“What’s so funny?” She asked sarcastically, her rough voice bringing you to attention.

“Nothing, nothing, Jasp…. I just find it kinda funny how comfortable you get when you’re with me.”

She seemed confused, her banded face scrunching up.

“What’s funny about that? We’re…. whadd’ya call ‘em…. ‘Partners’ now. I’m s’posed to be comfortable with you.”

“It’s not funny in a ‘ha ha’ kind of way— it’s funny in a way that, like, you don’t usually act like this. It’s funny because it’s not expected. Does that make sense?” You explained.

“Oh. Yeah, it does.” She said slowly. You weren’t entirely sure she’d even been listening. Her heavy-lidded eyes had been wandering your face the entire time you were speaking to her.

You two sat in silence for a minute.

“Keep doing whatever you were doing. It felt… nice.” She half-whispered.

“Please.”

You smiled and leaned down, pushing some of her hair aside and planting a kiss on her gem.

“Of course, since you asked so politely.” You teased. Jasper simply flipped back over and let you do your thing.

“You should do this more often.” She mumbled. “I don’t know what effect you have on me, Y/N, but it makes me feel…. Good.”

You knew that was the most sentimental thing you were going to get out of her, and you were sure she meant it a lot more deeply than she could express.

“Definitely noted.” You responded softly. “I’m glad I make you feel that way.”

Jasper hummed in agreement, most likely half-asleep and not fully listening. You placed another kiss on the back of her head and continued running your fingers through her hair until you two were ready to haul yourselves off to bed.

————————————

[bloodmoonmuses]

mediocre party crashers: the x-mas special! | mark lee

read part one here! genre: mark lee x reader, fluff

summary: Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. You hope the tide wasn’t too bad. or You and Mark are reunited at a corporate holiday party.

Crashing parties has now become a hobby of yours. A real, habitual thing with methods and strategies and memories… From galas, to masquerade balls, frat parties and the occasional wedding, it’s safe to say you’re a pro. 

Your identity is something you’ve made malleable and mutable. Everchanging and morphing. Slowly shifting like a mood ring. You’re everyone and no one at the same time. You’re a paradox. And even in all the grandiose you’ve experienced, your absolute favorite type of party to crash was corporate holiday parties. They’re no-man’s land, really. The gaudy festiveness of them coupled with hollow smiles. The hum of a near broken radiator and a shitty karaoke machine. Lukewarm instant hot cocoa made with water instead of milk. 

The atmosphere is electric in the weirdest way- so palpable to be shrouded in such greyish mundanity. 

Tonight is no more different than many of your other outings. You and your partner in crime, Ningning, lock elbows as you wander around an office building. You had fought for an hour about what’s appropriate to wear to an office party (which resulted in you having to unpack Ningning’s understanding of an office siren. “-I wanna look hot!” she had said. To which you replied, “Time and place. We’re not amateurs anymore.”)

And so here you are, clad in an itchy sweater and pencil skirt, scouting out the scenery of some podunk town’s marketing firm. The manager has seemingly insisted on not updating any of the technology, filing cabinets lining the walls and chunky monitors on the cubicle desks. Tinsel has been strewn gingerly on a real fir tree, and plastic tablecloths cover foldable tables. Wrapping paper has been taped along the back of the cubicle walls to give the office a festive feeling. 

“Ugh,” says Ningning, as the two of you load up paper plates with homemade desserts. (Banana pudding for you. Caramel cake for Ningning.) “Fluorescent lighting.” Then, as if on cue, the bulb above her begins to flicker. Then she says, “Let’s mingle.”

You sidle up to a sharply dressed man, who you assume is the owner of the firm based on the wayward glances of the other attendees. He introduces himself as Doyoung and eyes you curiously. “Do I know you?”

“A friend of a friend… of a friend,” you say. “Here for moral support. How were the quarter four stats?” A classic diversion.

“Good enough for Christmas bonuses for the first time in three years. Finally bounced back from Covid.” Greyish mundanity, but the most beautiful variation of it. Will persevering through catastrophe. The human tendency to endure and endure together.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” you say. And you mean it.

“Cheers to the new year?” says Doyoung, extending a paper cup with snowflakes on it in your direction.

“Cheers indeed.” 

The night progresses with twinkling optimism. You like intertwining yourself in people’s life stories. Hearing about their kids, the new boutique that’s opening on the square, or how some of the upper management can be real assholes. Small talk and human connection. Contentedness wafting off warm bodies. 

“We were nearly snowed out,” says an older gentleman, who you’d think were cute if not for the hideous mustache adorning his face. He had just regaled you with the details of planning this highbrow shindig. “And who are you again?”

However, you’re too distracted to answer him, having now noticed a suspiciously young-looking guy assembling a cup of cocoa. As you walk up to the table, he shifts to the left, giving you access to the other side of it. Through your periphery, he seems familiar, but you can’t seem to place him.

“This might sound weird-”

“Do I know you? -” You begin speaking at the same time. When the two of you make eye contact, both of you are stricken with recognition. Mark Lee.

“No way. Preppie!” he exclaims, putting his cup down and scooping you into an embrace.

“Preppie? That’s what you remember me as?”

He pulls back from the hug and scans your features, almost as if to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him. “From that yacht party, like, a year ago. You never texted me back!”

“I didn’t text you back? You never texted me!” you counter.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Mark takes out his phone, scrolls for a bit, then shows you an unanswered text message from a year ago. 

July 25, 2023

Mark: Sooo…. How about that rodeo party? [unopened]

Upon closer inspection, however, you see your number is incorrect.

“It’s an 8 at the end, not a 9.” you respond, taking his phone and updating your contact without question.

“I thought you got creeped out or something,” Mark says, sighing in relief as enter the number. When you’re done, he asks, “How have you been? What are you doing here?”

“Fine. Good. Ning and I have basically hit up all the companies in the city this year, so we figured we’d try the ‘burbs. Gotta love a company Christmas Party.” He nods in agreement. “You look dapper,” you add. 

He’s wearing a slate gray suit and a holly-printed tie.

“A little overdressed. It’s my wedding suit,” says Mark. “You look…”

“Like a middle-aged salary worker?”

“I was gonna say cozy.”

“Right.”

Suddenly, Ningning walks up from behind, poking your ribs with her fingers. “ Hey, nerd, they’re gonna play Pin the Nose on the Reindeer! First place gets a $20 Target gift card!” Then, when she notices Mark, she says, “Oh! Hey, Bottle Boy.”

You glare at her. How does she even remember him?

Mark’s face twists in confusion as he asks, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing!” you shout. Mark shrugs and shuffles off to join the festivities. Before she can walk away, you yank Ningning by the elbow and whisper into her ear. “Ningning, you did read my journal!?”

“Perhaps I’ve been a part of one of his lifetimes- a message in a bottle finally surfacing on a beach’s shore. I believed in the existence of fate, but only for a night..” she says, mocking you as she recites lines from your diary like a monologue.

“You’re the worst,” you sigh, facepalming. You remind yourself to change the hiding spot for your journal…

“What happened with that whole situation, anyway? Hasn’t it been over a year?” asks Ningning.

“Gave him the wrong number, apparently.”

She scoffs, taking your elbow in hers once more. “You idiot.”

“I know.”

When you walk into the conference room where the game is being held, you notice Mark lingering in the doorway at the back of it. You make your way to him slowly, trying not to look too excited when you catch his eye and he promptly smiles.

“I’m dyingggg to see them play this game,” says Mark, watching as Doyoung gets a blindfold tied over his eyes.

Then, again, Ningning appears out of nowhere. “Don’t look up!” she exclaims to the both of you.

And, of course, the two of you do. Placed squarely above the door frame is a mistletoe, now glaringly obvious as you look at it with your neck craned. Mark stifles a cough and you feel the back of your neck heat up.

Mark looks at you nervously. “Uh, are you a mistletoe observer?”

“‘Mistletoe Observer’? Why are you asking like it’s a religious practice?” you ask.

Mark shrugs and says, “I dunno, man! Just trying to be respectful!”

“Respectful? It’s an arbitrary tradition. Are you a mistletoe observer?” you retort, half-joking. But Mark looks at you with such intensity, if only for half a second, that it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“I mean," he starts, already regretting his words and looking at his feet, “I’m not not a mistletoe observer…”

“You can’t keep saying ‘mistletoe observer’ and acting like it’s a thing.”

Mark pouts. “So we’re not about to kiss right now?”

You grab Mark’s stupid tie and pull him closer, giggling as the smirk is wiped off his face. 

Then you kiss him, melting into it like snow in the morning sun. Mark’s hands come up to grasp your face, deepening the fervor of the display of affection. You’re awestruck. Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. 

You hope the tide wasn’t too bad.

When the kiss comes to an end and you open your eyes, you see and hear the rest of the partygoers cheering you on. Ningning has snapped a photo with her digital camera. Doyoung pipes up, still blindfolded and ready for the game.  “What’s happening? Are we playing the game or not?”

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays! hope you enjoyed!

[lucytara]

peter/olivia fic: other lives and dimensions and finally a love poem

Peter steps into the Machine and sees every life he's ever lived. From a distance, it's obvious the way they’re drawn together, like watching waves align on a monitor. Sometimes it takes awhile; sometimes it’s instantaneous. He sees her as the sun to his gravity, inescapable and unrelenting. It’s beautiful, he wants to tell her, wants to get out of the Machine and rave about it. We are so beautiful together. Our atoms are intertwined. I met you during the Big Bang, I think, like we were made of the same star.

[for @mermaidandthedrunks, a delayed secret santa fic that spun wildly out of control. 34k words, rated e. aus on aus; vampires, chefs, firefighters, oh my.]

[copinghex]

Deus ex machina | A.S

Summary: When three armed men broke into yours and Arthur's house, you knew you were doomed. You locked your newborn into a room and prayed he'd be spared. When Arthur told you to hide and got rid of the invaders, you didn't believe it. It felt like an unrealistic, badly written book. But life isn't a book and if Arthur had such skills, there clearly was much about his past you didn't know.

Even with shaky, sweating hands, you protectively stood in front of your baby's crib. The stiletto you held was the only weapon you believed to have in the house. The room's door was locked and it was the only barrier between you and the war zone outside.

The shadows of three men behind the front door was all you saw before Arthur told you to hide. Then, all you could do was listen, the men's heavy steps, what you assumed was them going through the drawers, how they broke every porcelain decoration and how they knocked down your beloved bookshelf.

If this was a book maybe you wouldn't be so scared, you'd be sure if they got to the room you'd be able to fight, finding strength in the darkest side of motherhood, staining your hands with blood for the baby's sake. However, it wasn't, and even if you'd kill for your child if needed, you knew the chances of getting out alive were few.

To complete the disturbing scenario, you could barely hear Arthur's steps, as if he was gone from the house, abandoning you and the child for his own survival.

Walking closer to the door, you pressed your ear to the wood surface, holding your breath to hear clearly.

“Where's the bastard?” one of the men said.

The dialog continued in a foreign language and suddenly, you jumped away from the door, holding the stiletto in the direction of the noise. Your chest moved up and down worryingly fast as you heard what you assumed a machine gun sounded like.

Shouts were heard followed by strong stumbles. Everything went silent. Looking back to the crib, you wondered if you should unlock the door, all the diverse possibilities of what could've happened messed up your mind but eventually, when no other sounds were heard, you knew there was no other option.

Walking out the room as silently as possible, you had to stop the urge of vomiting at the scenario in the living room. 

Two men's dark blood covered your beautiful mat, their eyes were still open, glassy and lifeless, not matching the surprised expression on their faces. In the hallway to the kitchen, laid another one, with a knife wound in the ribs and another in his throat.

Before you could call for your husband, water sounds attracted you to the bathroom. There he was, breathing heavily, frenetically washing his hands with a gun near his feet.

“It wasn't supposed to happen,” he drawled, looking at you through the mirror.

You immediately teared up, not sure of how to proceed from there, he had just risked his life to keep you safe but also, he kept this side of him hidden for years. Whoever this man was, it wasn't the Arthur you married. Only when his hand washing got too aggressive, you snapped out of trance.

“It's okay,” you whispered, taking his hands on yours, you washed the blood away while he rested his head on your shoulder.

He brushed his face against your cheek, his mustache scratching your sensitive skin. Intertwining your fingers with his now clean ones, you squeezed his hand tightly.

“What the fuck was that, Arthur?” you got courage to ask.

“I had to do it,”

“But what-” you looked at the gun at your feet, “What the hell is that?”

Staring at it, the world got quiet for a minute, Arthur's blue eyes burnt on you as yours saw nothing but the gun, as if it had come out from a trench itself. To be honest, you wouldn't know how to accurately describe a weapon that was used at war, perhaps it'd be rusty and permanently damaged like the soldiers to handle it.

Or perhaps it wouldn't, so trying to keep the mess your life had just become the clearest as possible, it'd be fairer to say the gun came out from one of the books in the living room, brutality ripped from the pages when the invaders knocked the shelf down.

And of course, as if in the last chapter of a book, the hero Arthur Shelby remembers the gun he conveniently had at home, a little souvenir from his years as a soldier that now would be used to save everyone. What a beautiful, extremely unrealistic ending.

Except that your life wasn't a book and if your husband had reason to keep a machine gun in the house, then he wasn't who you thought he was.

His wet hands gently wrapped around your arms, “It's alright now, love, I'll just call Tommy and we'll know what was that about, eh?” 

“Tommy? There are three dead men in my living room and you want to call Tommy?” you scoffed, “Call the police!”

“We can't do that,” 

“What?! Are you serious?!” 

“Love, I-” he gulped, “I can explain, alright? Come to the kitchen with me and I'll explain everything, we'll have a nice cup of tea and I'll explain,” 

“I'm not going out there,” you argued, surely the bathroom wasn't proper to have such a conversation, but you didn't think seeing those corpses again for a single cup of tea was a nice exchange.

“Stay here then, I'll come back in a second,” he walked to the door, looking back at you with apologetic eyes before adding, “I'll be back, alright?” 

He was away for only a few seconds, returning with an old newspaper in hand.

“Remember when we just moved and you read the newspaper every day? Remember a Thursday morning you thought it was weird they didn't deliver any?” 

He handed it to you, the headline talked about a club being invaded and a man being murdered, below there was a blurry picture of Arthur and John, they looked much younger than the publication date and the journalist explained local gangs were always prime suspects, but were never caught due police bribery.

“All this time I've been hoping you wouldn't recognize me,” he explained.

You gulped, leaning on the sink and putting the newspaper down. How should you even feel about this? Disappointed? Angry? Fooled? Your stomach sank as you squeezed your eyes shut and when you opened it again, Arthur was right in front of you, cupping your face between his calloused hands.

“I never meant to lie to you, I didn't know how to tell and- You'd leave me if I-”

He stopped talking as you pushed his hands away. This time you leaned on the wall a few steps away from him, you touched the gun with your bare feet, even with Arthur's explanation it still didn't make any sense to you.

“Forgive me, love,” he pleaded.

Any answer you could think of was silenced by the baby's cries upstairs. Your throat tightened and you sighed, “Clean this mess, I'll tend the baby.”

“So am I-”

“When you know what this was all about, we'll talk again.”

[judeval]

I don't know if the rest of y'all have seen the movie Sinners yet (although if you haven't I would heavily advise that you do go and see it because it's really fucking good) but there's something about the fact that Stack, despite being right fucking in front of Sammy at the end, doesn't kill him.

Like he is physically capable of it, and the only other person in the room with them is Mary, and yet, he doesn't, all because of the promise that he made to Smoke sixty years prior. Like, despite losing so much of his humanity the second that Mary's teeth sank into his neck, and despite being fully willing to kill both Smoke and Annie and everyone else in the barn in order to force them to join his coven (or whatever term is most appropriate), the promise that he made to his brother stands.

Smoke will always be the most important thing in Stack's life and afterlife, and even though vampires are supposed to be these demonic, bloodthirsty, killing machines, Stack will never forget that. He may want nothing more than to feast on Sammy right then and there, and wherever else he was for sixty years (since we know that the power of Sammy's music attracts vampires), but he won't.

I don't know, it just seemed beautiful and poetic to me. Stack will never see the sun again, never see his brother again, and will never regain his humanity, but did he ever really lose it? If he can keep his promise to Smoke all these years, who's to say that Remmick wasn't just led astray, a product of a worse time.

All in all I know that so much of Sinners is so completely intertwined with black culture and history, and that portion of the story is so important, but I can't help but wonder if Stack's continued dedication to his brother is another element all on its own. We think of the vampires as monstrous, as inherently predatory and dangerous, and yet, Stack has his face right on Sammy's neck at the end of the movie, and he does nothing. He's not necessarily the monster that Remmick wanted to turn him into, and he never will be.

Maybe that's just a rambling from a random white kid and everyone else was already aware of that though. Either way, just a thought I was thinking.