#or enduring punishments for their actions

[dustisus]

I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again:

Jean doing things for himself is what healing would look like for him.

He should be able to make his own choices, even if those choices are stupid or thought to be the wrong ones. He gets to mess up, and not be punished for it. He should get carded and no one makes too much of a fuss about it. He should be allowed to eat what he wants, when he wants, whether it’s the healthy things he’s used to or an unfamiliar treat, and it’s a balance he should be allowed to control. He should say no to things. Anything. Just because he needs to know that nothing bad will happen when he does so. He should be allowed to break off all contact with Kevin if he wants to, or try to rebuild whatever they had on a more even ground. But his relationship with Kevin is not be what saves or dooms him anymore, and that is what matters. He should be violent, because it is all that he knows, and not be met with violence in turn, but instead some softness he can learn from.

Jeremy, Cat, and the rest of the Trojans are a safety net where he can observe and learn that he has choices, and that he is safe, but I don’t think they should be making choices for him. I understand that they want to protect him, but did it to Jean not seem like the Ravens’ actions were well-meant, or at least deserved, as well? Jean has been beaten into not standing up for himself, put on a tight leash and starved for agency. Why would a softer hand acting from love feel any different, when it is still not his own hand? Would that hand not do better in leading Jean to freedom? The beaten dog cowers for the fist and the hand that wishes to pet all the same. Jean has never gotten indepence. He has always been reliant on someone else’s decisions, someone else’s mercy, someone else’s reign. He should not be put in a situation where he feels dependent on someone else’s strength, or kindness, or pity in turn.

Jean Moreau will endure. Jean Moreau will endure, but he should not only have to endure the situations he is put in. He should get to be the subject, and not the subjected, in the story about him.

[saritamanyalu]

Sentinel tells the Primes about his upbringing and they are so horrified with what he had to endure.

Sentinel nervously clenches his hands, the truth has been revealed, his creation.. His purpose for being there.. He knows he could be killed by the Primes or worse.. Brutally punished by the High Commander if he returned, for betraying what he considered his own kind. Looking down as his teeth nibbled at his lips to the point of almost hurting them..

Zeta Prime: I can't believe it.. Commented the same incredulously, he looked around and saw his other fellow Primes whispering among themselves and turned his optics to Sentinel, the mech didn't dare to look up, afraid of seeing the angry faces.

Sentinel: A-all of that.. It's true.. Their plan was to send someone to gain the Primes' trust to.. Eliminate them. I'm nothing.. But a weapon.

In the midst of the uproar of murmurs, the noise was silenced by heavy footsteps approaching the mech. Sentinel slowly raised his head to observe Zeta Prime in front of him. The prime's serious expression made him shudder. It didn't take long for him to lower himself and close his optics as soon as he saw one of Zeta's arms rise. Fearing the worst…

Sentinel was lifted off the ground in an impulse, being surprised to feel the arms wrap around his body. A sudden hug made the blue mech open his eyes to spy Zeta's helmet on his shoulder. Surprising the other primes by such an action.

Zeta Prime: I'm sorry for what you went through, little one.. You'll be fine now, I promise.

Upon hearing these words, emotion grew in Sentinel's spark, tears began to run down his faceplate, returning the hug, sobbing as he said.

Sentinel: T-thank you..

[antirepurp]

"i want to write a stone ocean fic where kakyoin and jolyne get to interact :)" you have planned them three interactions out of the 12 chapters you've outlined so far and your current ideas involve kakyoin not meeting up with jolyne again until cape fucking canaveral

[novelconcepts]

A thing I find really important about the way Kevin Can Fuck Himself goes about its job: Allison is kind of a mess. She’s self-centered, she doesn’t put other people’s needs first, she makes reckless choices that endanger herself and others. And the show says: yes. Right. She’s flawed as fuck. And she still does not deserve any of what’s happening to her. It could be argued that she is, in fact, this flawed as a direct product of her trauma. Her self-absorption, unlike Kevin’s, is actually self-preservation. It puts Patty in danger. It tunes out Diane’s pain. It capitalizes on Sam’s relationship problems. And still, the show says: yes. Right. She’s going about this in fumbling, worrying ways. And she still does not deserve any of what’s happening to her.

Know how we know this? How we really know this, outside of our own objectivity, our own awareness of the abuse she’s enduring even to the soundtrack of laughter?

Because Tammy is the one to find her. Because Tammy is the one holding the cards at the end of the game. Tammy, who does not like Allison. Who sees so clearly the complicated, messy, dangerous person Allison can be. The mistakes she is prone to making in the name of desperation. How imperfect she is at every level. And Tammy, who is the character most explicitly set to call Allison on all of her shit, to drag her before a court of law, to lean on that hot-button of whether or not she’s a “good person” until it breaks—lets her go. Folds the cards up, puts them in her pocket, and leaves.

Because Tammy, like the show, like the thesis statement of abuse is never earned, never deserved, never warranted, understands. This is a world that so often sanitizes women after it’s too late to save them. A world that insists she should have done more to get out. A world that insists you should be kind and moral and perfect, or maybe you got what was coming to you. This is a world that sees fighting back as an equally heinous crime. As punishable, if not more so, than the actions of the instigator.

But this show doesn’t want to play that game. This show doesn’t want to fuck with it at all. Allison doesn’t have to be perfect and moral and above reproach. Allison has blood on her hands, and a DUI neatly ignored, and knowingly has an affair with her married boss. Allison hurts her friends sometimes, and she makes awful decisions out of desperation, and she doesn’t always pay attention to other people’s plotlines. And the show says: yes. Right. She’s making choices you probably should not agree with.

And she still does not deserve any of what is happening to her.

[euphemiaamillais]

money, power, glory - coriolanus snow

on the night of your victory party, president snow decides that he wants a little more than a kiss from his victor—after all, don’t you ought to show your president just how patriotic you are?

cw: 18+//dub-con//age gap (reader is 18+)//abuse of power//mentions of exploitation//objectification//blowjobs//piv sex//coercion//loss of virginity//creampie//district 7 victor!reader and president!coryo

the party is all for you; the gaud and festivity, the fountains of alcohol, the ridiculously clad guests. you won, they tell you—but it’s a reminder of the children you killed as you fought tooth and claw in that arena. it feels wrong, to be put on display like this when twenty-three children lay dead in their districts. the celebration of murder—it’s as if you’re the prize animal at the circus.

you had been primped and preened by your stylist drusilla all afternoon, gritting your teeth as every part of your body was plucked and waxed, as she pulled your hair back into some elaborate hairstyle, the pins now digging into your scalp. that pain—the dull ache of it—ironically served as a reminder of the pain you had to endure in the games. you only survived because you slit the throat of that boy from two, watching the blood trickle out of his neck as you practically limped away.

you’d since been repaired, though many a time you felt that familiar ache in your ankle—the one that had been broken—and supposed it was punishment for the cruelty of your actions. but put twenty-four helpless children in an arena and ask them to fight to the death, and you learn that the ‘inherent goodness’ in human beings is nothing but a thin veil maintained by law and order.

‘enjoying the show?’ you hear the familiar, cut-glass voice of drusilla, who’s currently festooned in a garish purple gown covered in feathers—with a hairpiece to match.

you shrug, taking a sip of the expensive champagne, feeling the bubbles fizz down your throat as you swallow. it’s all so much, the noise, the people—as if you’re being smothered.

‘you’re being awfully quiet,’ she sighs, brushing your shoulder with her perfectly manicured hand. ‘isn’t there anything to tempt you?’

drusilla is more sympathetic than most in the capitol; she’d listened as you’d told her about your family back in seven, the trees that spanned for miles, how you often lay under their green blanket and daydreamed of a world beyond this one. but still, she would never understand what being a victor was like, there were scarce few in panem who did. many turned to morphling or alcohol upon their return home, and you’d heard horror stories whispered about victor’s being sold for certain services.

‘i’m just tired, that’s all,’ you murmur, reaching for another glass of champagne as a waiter walks past.

drusilla cocks a thin brow, a suspicious look glittering in her eyes. the throng of people is dizzying as you down your second champagne, but you feel your nerves ease, and pray that this night will become more bearable.

‘come, they all want to see you—their victor,’ she grins, pearly white teeth glistening under the golden light of the strings of lanterns.

you take her hand, and she pulls you through the crowd. it’s a vertigo-inducing sea of rainbow; hands clasping together in applause, rich cheers from their panted mouths. you feel your own lips twitch into a smile, but your eyes are somewhere else; far away from this. you can smell the soil back home, see the larks that fly through the trees that reach to the heavens. there’s a dreadful pang of homesickness thrumming in your heart.

and yet you cannot return home, not when they’re all watching you, waiting for the pretty victor to make a witty remark, or to make bids on who will get to have her first. you’re acutely aware that your pink dress is practically see-though, it’s gauzy fabric not leaving much to the eye. your feet ache from the heels they’ve put you in, and you know no matter how much they primp and preen at you, you’ll always be district. an outsider among those in wealthy excess.

among the throngs of people, you spot him—president snow. your breath catches between your lips. you’ve seen him before, obviously. his touch has always strayed a little too much when he’s been around you, but of course, you’d never say anything. you wonder how such a young man—he’s only 24 after all—rose to such power. nobody can deny how attractive he is, piercing blue eyes and platinum blonde curls. if he hadn’t put you in these games, maybe you’d even be persuaded to like him.

drusilla pushes you to him, and you stumble a little, the champagne causing a heady, floaty feeling in your body as you make an attempt to make yourself presentable. you hadn’t expect to be thrust towards him so soon, but the way he’s staring at you is as if he’s been expecting this.

‘don’t be so nervous, you look gorgeous,’ drusilla reminds you as you come to a halt before president snow.

he’s wearing one of his finely tailored suits; this one the crimson shade of red you’ve so often seen him wearing. you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and feel the absence of drusilla’s hand from your back. when you crane your neck—only slightly, so as not to seem rude—she’s disappeared into the throng of brightly clad partygoers.

‘my favourite victor,’ president snow reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to it. his lips are strangely cold. not that you knew what to expect, but somehow it makes sense. his demeanour is like ice.

‘president snow,’ you lean back into curtsy, your bad ankle aching as you do so.

he smiles, icy eyes flickering over your form. he can practically make out your undergarments in that dress; they’re a shade of peach and of such a sheer satin that you can nearly see right through, but it leaves enough for the onlooker to be left wondering what lies underneath. your eyes follow him, and you clutch at your arms shyly, as if half of the capitol hasn’t seen you dressed so scantly.

‘shy tonight, are we?’ he inquires, edging close enough to you that you can make out the slight five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

‘i’m tired, that’s all,’ you mutter, flinching as one of his hands grips at your waist.

‘i would’ve thought you’d enjoy this spectacle, seeing as you made quite the circus out of the arena,’ he leaned in close to your ear, in what you assumed was an intimidation tactic. in spite of being hardened by the arena, deep down, president snow terrified you. ‘the way you killed that boy from two—brutal. but you made yourself the star of the capitol…’

his touch strays further, grasping at the thin fabric that surrounds your ass. one blonde brow arches in surprise, and his lips flicker into what you assume to be a smirk. if he was anyone else, you would’ve pushed him away, but he’s your president. one word and you’d be good as dead; and after enduring the games, you’d rather not come face-to-face with that sort of confrontation again.

‘how pretty,’ he muses, fingers tracing lightly against your form. ‘did you wear this just for me?’

your lips purse, but your body propels you to give a swift nod of your head. ‘do you like it?’

president snow smiles, eyes dancing at your quick wittedness. the girls he has are usually stupid whores who he pays to suck his cock—you, on the other hand, are a precious prize. intelligent, obviously, and startlingly beautiful. and you’re the first female victor since mags flannagan, not that he has any say over her because he was still crawling his way up under dr. gaul then.

‘oh yes, i think you know why,’ he drops the fabric, and takes a few steps away, a blasé look crossing his features.

he watches as your cheeks turn a pretty pink, and you cast your gaze to the ground. how charming; you feigning bashfulness. he’d seen you at your most primal, knife dragging along the jugular of that boy. you couldn’t charm your way out of this one.

the silence pierces the air, and you are prompted to speak—anything to change the topic. the stagnancy between you two has wrapped it’s suffocating arms around you—and you don’t want to choke.

‘i must thank you, president snow, for the festivities,’ you gesture to the ridiculous amount of decorations; the blaring music and the light show.

‘i’m glad you like it,’ he remarks, but his eyes are still trained on you. he wants something from you, and you’re not sure what. ‘i had to celebrate my favourite victor, after all.’

you stifle a scoff; his flattery is sickening. he’s never this charming among company. he’s cold, calculating—you can see it in his eyes, still, but he so obviously needs you wrapped around his little finger. and of course, you can’t resist. who would disobey their president, after all?

‘you flatter me, sir,’ he swallows thickly at the appellation. god, he’d love to hear you call him that as he bends you over one of his expensive armchairs. he wonders if you’d beg him to stop, or if you’d take it. he can’t figure out which type you are, just yet.

‘there’s nothing wrong with flattery, don’t you think?’ he is close to you again, breath fanning your cheek. ‘especially when it comes from your president.’

you feel your body freeze up. there’s something so intimidating about him, and although you want to outsmart him, the way he makes your knees buckle turns you into another one of those bumbling capitol fools.

‘now, if you’ll excuse me, sweetheart. i’ve got a few matters to attend to,’ he backs away, leaving in a flourish of red.

you have to blink a few times to register his absence, and reach for another glass of champagne as a waiter holds out a decadent tray to you. why not? you think, taking time to sip elegantly at this one. there’s no harm in imbibing if you have to make it through this hellish night.

—

drusilla taps you on the back as you’re shoving an expensive vol-au-vent past your painted lips. when you turn around, she’s shocked to see your mouth full of the pastry, cheeks rounded out as you attempt to swallow it. the hunger pangs had grown considerably, and when you finally gulped it down, the effects of the champagne made you giggle.

‘oh honey,’ she shakes her head, reaching for a pristine napkin to wipe at the flakes of pastry by your lips.

the night had drawn on, and you’d been left with an anxious feeling after your encounter with president snow. everytime somebody so much as brushes against you, your head had whipped around as you searched for a head of perfectly-set blonde curls and a crimson coat. to your luck, it had only ever been waiters, carting more champagne. you reckoned you were drunk enough now that you didn’t care how you acted.

let them think you were a fool, you’d be heading home tomorrow anyways.

‘how much have you had to drink?’ she inquires, and watches as you furrow your brows in thought.

‘six, no—seven glasses,’ you admit, and drusilla scolds you with a clucking tongue, her pink curls bobbing as she shakes her head.

‘president snow won’t be very happy with that,’ she remarks.

your mouth turns into a curious pout, watching as her face falters into some sort of cryptic, far-away look. you run the soft fabric of your dress through your fingers as you let the words settle. no, it doesn’t make sense.

‘why would he care?’ you asked, a little piqued by the thought that he’d even be remotely interested in whether you were sober or not.

drusilla’s purple lips are drawn into a thin line, and she bends in close as if she’s ready to tell you a secret. your throat’s gone dry, the anxiety prying at you with it’s cold hands.

‘look, sweetie,’ her golden tone is laced with a little condescension. ‘president snow won’t like that you’re drunk. it won’t make the situation ideal for him.’

your brows quirk into a look of confusion. situation? drusilla sees your loss of words and takes it upon herself to inform you of the events. how naive you are, that you’ve got no idea just what he wants with you.

‘you’ve been asked to stay the night at the mansion,’ her eyes flicker to search for any eavesdroppers, and then she continues. ‘look, i’m sorry if i didn’t tell you earlier, but he’s asked to keep quiet about it. what with the others being jealous—’

‘others?’ your voice falters.

‘well, sweetie, you know how desirable victors are. president snow just wants to make sure nobody else gets their hands on you. that’s why he’s keeping you here, under close guard.’ drusilla bites her lip, revealing that she’s worried for you. she didn’t have much of a choice in your fate, but if she could forewarn you, she would.

you understood now why he’d been so touchy before—clearly he was jealous that somebody was trying to get their hands on his precious victor.

you lose all your words, mouth opening, nothing spilling out. it feels like it’s been filled up with dirt; you can hardly speak. drusilla goes to strike your arm, but is prevented from doing so as she’s whisked away by some blue-haired man harping on about her latest designs. once again, you feel the pangs of loneliness.

you had to reconcile yourself to the fact that the rest of your life—however long that may be—would be a lonely existence. you’d spent the better part of the month on the train, zigzagging back and forth between the districts, reading off prewritten speeches as you had to face the families of the fallen. all those children—their children—dead.

every night, you’d taken those pills prescribed by the doctors, the ones that stopped you from waking up with your hand around your throat as you screamed. you slept a dreamless sleep, but it became hard to not depend on them. what would you do without them tonight?

—

the party draws on long into the night, and you grow bored and overwhelmed. as per drusilla’s advice, and also not wanting to wake up with a throbbing headache tomorrow morning, you resorted to drinking the assorted non-alcoholic beverages.

your head is pounding by one am, but the party doesn’t seem to cease by any means. deciding you’ve had enough, and that nobody would really miss you—after all, nobody’s even talked to you for at least two hours—you stumble your way across the marble steps of the mansion. you hazily remember drusilla telling you what door you were meant to enter by, and you find it manned by a singular avox.

without a word, they let you inside, and you trail tipsily after them up a velvet staircase. your ankles roll as you climb the steps, head spinning, but it doesn’t take long to reach your room. your feet are aching, and when the avox leaves you to your own company, you practically tear the shoes off your feet.

you lay back against the white sheets, revelling in the feeling of the thousand-count cotton brushing against your skin. you’d never felt anything like it, and could feel your eyes shutting as you relax into the plush sheets.

you awaken what seems like hours later, but only twenty minutes have passed on the alarm clock by the bed. the sound of footsteps can be heard outside your door, and you’re surprised you can make it out as the party still booms outside the vast windows of the mansion.

you sit up, heart racing, and head throbbing slightly. you’re groggy from the champagne, and the bubbly tipsiness has given way to the absolute misery of sobering up.

the door opens, a small sliver of light giving way to the shadowy figure that progresses into the room. you squint, unable to make out a face, but pray it’s not one of the men you’ve heard were making bids for the victor.

you sigh a breath of relief when you see president snow, not a hair out of place as he stands beside your bed. your dress is up around your thighs, and you can see his blue eyes dancing across your frame.

‘president snow,’ you murmur into the darkness.

you wondered who had turned off the light in the first place—your memory is hazy at best but you don’t remember flicking the switch. an avox must have come past while you were sleeping.

‘i see my favourite victor has taken some respite,’ he muses, one cold hand reaching out to stroke your thigh.

you flinch back reflexively, not used to the icy feeling against your skin. nor are you used to the prying hands of men. the most you’d ever done was kiss a boy, and even then, that was years ago, you weren’t even sure it counted.

‘sorry,’ you spit out, lips trembling with apology. he only laughs, hand still tracing your smooth skin.

‘no need to apologise. i’d rather you doze here than fall asleep on a bench where any of those men could lay a hand on you,’ he makes a sound of disgust, shaking his head at the thought. ‘i couldn’t let them spoil my pretty victor.’

you feel your cheeks warm—did he really think you were pretty? but you remembered who he was; in fact he was the very reason there were even any games at all. he could put a stop to all this if he wanted, and yet he didn’t. you couldn’t let him fool you with his charm.

‘it’s very thoughtful of you, president snow,’ you offer, not wanting to raise suspicion in him.

in the moonlight, you can see a smile flicker across his lips. his hand moved further up to the apex of your thigh, and your breath hitches. what was he doing?

‘do you like that?’ he murmurs, leaning in against your ear, breath hot.

you can’t think of what to say. your thighs tingle a little with the touch, but you don’t want him there. it’s wrong. he’s the president though, and how can you tell him no when he could have you killed?

‘you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?’ he mutters, but wanting to rouse a sound out of you, he moves his hand to press flush against your panties, thumb stroking the area where your clit is.

you let out a breathy gasp; the pleasant warmth flooding your belly. his brows quirk up at your quick response—you’re so willing. he wonders how far he can push you; of course he wants to have you no matter what, after all, it’s his right as president—but he wants to know how much of a whore you are under those pretty clothes.

he knew what district girls were like. lucy gray—though that name made him shudder—bent easily under his guidance. he hoped you’d do the same; obey him. he had more power now, six years after his stint as a mentor and then peacekeeper. he kept that to himself; everybody else simply thought he’d been struck down with a bad bout of the flu, when really he’d been uncovering rebel plots by day and by night was burying his cock deep inside of whatever district slut would have him.

‘please, president snow,’ you beg, head spinning as he rubs at your sensitive nub.

‘please what?’ he inquires, an undercurrent of menace in his voice.

‘i mean—are you sure we should be doing this?’ you furrow your brows with anxiety. ‘aren’t there men who want to pay you good money for this?’

you squeeze your legs together in the hopes that he’ll stop, but this only angers him and he uses his muscular hands to pry your thighs apart. you can’t deny him this; he wants it, and he’ll have it.

‘oh, they’re not going to get you. no, you’re far too precious for the likes of them,’ he shook his head in disbelief. ‘when i realised you were going to be sold to some scumbag who’s been divorced three times, well, i couldn’t let that happen.’

your mouth stretches into a perplexed pout, and you let out another soft moan as he rubs diligently at your clit. his other fingers brush over your red lace panties, and he sucks in a breath as he feels how soaked you are. surely you cannot deny him when you’re practically begging for it?

‘but…’ your lips tremble and you are almost deterred from saying what you want to by the scornful look painted across his noble features.

‘surely you don’t want me,’ you scramble to find an excuse.

‘why wouldn’t i? it’s not like you’re a girl anymore, hm? you’re nineteen, and ever so pretty,’ his other hand thumbs your cheek. you didn’t feel it, but you’d been crying. his thumb presses against a droplet.

‘please,’ you plead. ‘you wouldn’t enjoy it—i’m a virgin.’

he laughs, shaking his head at your stupidity. he hasn’t suspected it, what with the way you were dressed; the gown revealing far too much of your body to him—he could see the top of your nipples sticking out of the neckline.

‘oh no,’ he clucked his tongue. ‘then i simply must have you. how could let you i waste your virginity on any of those men when i could have you?’

you shake your head, body trembling as you feel yourself give way to his fingers, which were slowly bringing you to your pleasure. you clutch at the plush sheets and feel yourself gush, your panties growing even more damp.

he can’t believe it, how quickly you came. he wonders if you’d ever even touched yourself before. sure, you’d killed a boy, but you really knew very little about the world, and even less of men. it enthralled him.

his cock strained in his suit pants, and he let out a low grunt. you responded with a shocked look, but sighed as he stood up, letting go of your thighs. the way he’d touched you—it was scandalous. surely he’d be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out?

but your heart fell when you remembered that he was president. it’s not as if you were anything more than a hired whore who had to do her duty by him.

‘you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ he called out, combing a hand over his perfectly styled hair.

your mouth went dry, but you stood up, wanting to be defiant, clawing for anything to make you seem like you had some sense of autonomy. it was a lost cause, however. you forgot how he towered over you now that your heels were discarded. you couldn’t face up against him.

‘i said, you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ his voice was wrought with ire this time, and you nodded.

‘yes sir,’ you respond with a clear tone. you’re surprised you even managed it.

he reaches out to stroke your face again, sighing as your warm cheeks meet the cold pads of his fingers. you tremble a little, knees buckling in fear. anything could happen.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl and show your president how patriotic you are?’ he asks.

‘yes, mr president,’ you reply blankly. the name sends the blood straight to his cock.

‘then get on your fucking knees,’ he commands.

your head is spinning, but you somehow find your way to the ground, knees aching as you press them into the wooden floorboards. you hear the sound of something unzipping, and when you glance up, you come face to face with his cock.

he’s hard, and huge—not that you’ve ever seen one before—and he lets out a heavy grunt as he sees how pliant you are. he wants nothing more than to fuck that pretty little face of yours and watch how you gag around his length. he hasn’t known he was so big until he’d gotten to district 12 and the stupid district sluts kept choking on his cock. when he’d dressed in academy rouge he’d only ever known his own hand. but now, he knew what power he could exert with all eight inches of himself.

‘good girl,’ he strokes your chin, and when you open your mouth, he slides his thumb over your bottom lip.

your saliva coats his thumb, and you gag a little as he slides it to the back of your mouth. a small grin flickers across his lips; if you’re choking on his thumb, just imagine how bleary-eyed you’ll be as you gag around his cock.

‘god, i don’t want to think about what i would be missing out on if you’d died in that arena,’ he tuts at the thought, and slides his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own saliva at the corner of your lips.

your lipstick is smudged now, and he’s determined to ruin it even more; perhaps even have your mascara running down your cheeks as you take his cock in your mouth.

‘when i’d heard that the victor was to be the eighteen year old girl from district 7, well, i knew i’d be able to have you. especially once i got a look at you, in your victory dress. did they make it that short on purpose? to make my cock hard?’ he laughs, reminiscing how he’d taken a whore that night that looked just like you, pretending it was you that he was fucking from behind.

you shiver, terrified by him, his words. they’re disgusting. the way he viewed you as something to exploit—and it can’t even be considered taboo because you’re nineteen, after all. if the president wants you, he’ll get you.

‘answer me!’ he scowls, tugging at your intricate hairstyle, which hurts because the pins holding it together were already poking at your scalp.

‘no,’ you murmur, because it’s the truth. you wore what they told you to, you didn’t think it was supposed to be for him.

‘no?’ he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘well then, tonight at least—they must’ve known i wanted to have you. wasn’t going to let you get away from me this time.’

you swallow thickly, mouth agape in terror, knees trembling against the cool floor. you can feel the bruises forming on them; the dull ache of kneeling is humiliating.

finally, he presses his cock against your open mouth, a little pleased that it was hanging agape in shock, making it easier for him to slide it right in. you freeze, blinking back tears of mortification, but you can't say no, not when he's your president, not when there's that nagging ache in your core that makes you yearn for his fingers back against you.

you open wider, and he slides himself in, cock hitting the back of your throat instantly. you gag, the tears now dribbling foolishly down your cheeks, and president snow just laughs, the sound mottled with undertones of a soft groan. you wrap your lips around him, and move to bob your head up and down, but he grabs your hair and tugs it towards him.

you cry out, scalp stinging and mouth stuffed full to the brim with his cock. his grip tightens as he begins to thrust into your mouth, grunting as feels your saliva coat his length. he can't even fit himself all in, it's pathetic, but he'll help you learn in time how to deepthroat, so he can watch as your mascara runs while you beg him to push himself further down your throat. you'll become his personal fuckdoll.

'teeth,' he winces as he feels your top teeth make contact with the skin of his cock, and embarrassed, you make sure to push your top lip around them.

his lips stretch around a groan, forcing your nose to meet his pubic bone—the sound of your gags are delightful, and when his eyes flutter shut, you know he's enjoying it. he tosses his head back, cock throbbing as he forces it back and forth in your mouth. when his eyes open again, it's to the sight of your mascara running, thick black streaks painting your cheeks as you choke around him.

'so pretty,' he strokes your cheek, smearing the mascara even more. he wonders if you'll still be crying as he stretches you out, filling your cunt with his big cock. probably; he's forgotten how much whining virgins do.

feeling himself close, his thrusts grow more haggard, and you feel his balls slap against your chin as you attempt to breathe—through your nose, of course. his movements are suffocating, you're grasping at his hips, praying for it to be over—and then it is.

hot sticky spurts of cum slide right down your throat as he gives a loud moan, crying your name in praise. part of you—the part you revile—reddens at his praises, you want nothing more than to please your president. the other part of you tries not to gag as the pearly ropes of his cum slither achingly slow down your throat.

'good girl, swallowing it all—you'd do anything for your president, wouldn't you?' he coos, pulling his cock out of your mouth.

your lips ache, and you're sure the back of your throat is blooming purple with a bruise; but you nod, eyes all fucked out because your cunt is dripping wet, all for him.

'well, i really only want one more thing from my victor...' his voice trails off, lips pursing. you can see the desire in his eyes, icy gaze dripping with lecherous intent.

and yet, you cannot deny the fact that he had already made you cum once, that your body is begging for him. you hate it. you want to scream—if only you weren't so tired and your mouth didn't ache so sorely.

'how about you lay back in the bed, hm?' his voice is soft, laced now with the sweet tone he uses to charm the wives of senators and the little girls that give him roses.

you oblige blindly, and rise, knees black and blue, legs trembling, but somehow you find yourself laid back against the plush sheets once again.

‘can’t believe nobody else has had you,’ he murmurs, removing his shoes carefully, and then undoing his suit. it’s brand new, and he doesn’t want to spoil it.

when he’s undressed to his boxers, you can’t help but admire his form. he’s well-toned, biceps muscular, the slight formation of abs on his stomach, and you can see his cock has once again hardened. you press your thighs together in want, and he watches as you gaze at him, half-terrified, eyes blown wide, and yet half-wanton, body beckoning him to take you and make you his.

‘god, you’re so pretty,’ he muses, crawling across the bed and placing his arms either side of you.

you shiver, suddenly feeling brushed with cold, perhaps it’s from him. how fitting, you think, that his name and touch are both reminiscent of the cold. you can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, a reminder of your helplessness in this situation. the way he’s going to do whatever he wants with you.

he slides his fingers under the straps of your dress, forcing it down your arms. you lie still as a stone, letting him slide the dress down your body, exposing your breasts, watching him sigh as your nipples respond to the frigid temperature radiating from his body.

he takes one breast in his mouth, laving at your nipple until it hardens under his tongue. your hands are urging you to clutch at his perfectly styled hair, but you cannot move; the tears are brimming in your eyes and you’re not sure if they’re out of shame that he’s touching you, or shame that your body is so pliant to his touch.

he pushes the dress down further, and gets on his knees until he’s completely stripped you of it. there you lay, among the pristinely white sheets, the party alive outside of your window; completely bare besides your panties. your skin is pocked with goosebumps as he runs his hands over your bare stomach, fingers latching at the waistband of your panties.

‘god, are you wet for me?’ he chuckled as he removes your soaked panties—still evidence that he’d managed to make you cum.

you are unresponsive until he gives your skin a pinch between his slender fingers, and a soft yelp escapes your lips.

‘talk to me,’ he commands, though there’s an undertone of begging. not that the president should ever have to beg. ‘i can’t have my pretty victor keeping silent, especially not while i fuck her. i want to hear the sweet sounds that are going to come from your lips.’

you give a nod, eyes flickering to glance at the ceiling, watching as the hazy lights from outside dance upon the ornate eaves. one of his hands touches your cheek, the chill bringing you back to meet his gaze.

‘gonna make you mine,’ he groans, reaching down to palm at his cock through his boxers.

you push away the tears at your eyes, and your hands go down to clutch at the sheets. you’re still a little floaty from the champagne, but it can’t seem to take you away from what is occurring right before your eyes.

'look at me!' he snaps, hard cock now pressing against the inside of your thighs.

'sorry,' you manage to get out, lips trembling as you brace yourself—he's big... too big.

'fuck, can't believe i get to have you all for myself...but i suppose it's the least i deserve as president,' a soft laugh plays upon his lips, the sound soon mottled by a low moan.

he eases the tip into your hole, sighing at your tightness. your eyes flutter shut, but strangely, your core only tingles as he slides himself into you. it's the ultimate betrayal—your body is yielding to him, growing wetter as he sheathes himself completely inside of you; at least, most of his eight inches.

'so fucking wet,' he grins devilishly, beginning to buck his hips gently.

you look so angelic, hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo, the soft lights from the party glowing against your skin. coriolanus wants to take it slow, in spite of how much his cock is throbbing, because you are his prize—he must relish you. he can't let your virginity go to waste, after all. half the capitol has been vying for it, and now he is the one to take it. he imagines the disgruntled looks on the faces of the men who had bid for you when he informs them that you've been spoiled—and if any of them complained, well, he's the president. he could see to their... accidental deaths.

as he stretches out your tight walls, a pretty moan escapes your lips, by accident, but he takes this as a sign that you are surrendering yourself to him. coriolanus smiles a little to himself, and fastens the pace slightly, grunting as your body opens itself to his caresses.

‘you like that, hm?’ he inquires, one cold hand moving down to rub your clitoris.

you let out another gasp, this time of shock and pleasure, as his thumb presses against your sensitive nub. his eyes dance with delight as you come apart under him, your cunt growing slicker by the second. you’re so beautiful, and he glances down at the part where you two meet—his big cock stretching out your tight walls. a milky ring of your arousal coats his shaft, only driving him more lustful as he fucks you.

‘president snow…’ you cry out, trying to shove his hand away.

you can see the ire returning to his eyes, and when he presses down on your clit harder you stop and allow your body to relax. you realise it’s fruitless to try and fend him off anymore—he’s making you feel good, after all. but that’s the terrible part of it, the fact that you can feel waves of pleasure washing over you again. he’s smiling sickly, groaning as he ruts into you with grunts.

‘you're so fucking tight,’ he moans, watching you moan with pleasure as his fingers bring you to climax.

‘so good…’ you say, barely above a whisper, but the knowing look he cast you makes you admit it—after all, perhaps he’ll be kinder next time. let you decide when you want it.

‘yeah? you like the way my big cock is filling you out? how your president is reminding you who you belong to?’ he grunts, and you give a lazy nod.

the coil in your stomach comes unbound slowly as the combination of his cock stretching you out and his thumb rubbing diligent circles around your clit drives you over the edge. your toes curl sightly, arms moving up to grip at his back. you find the smooth, cold skin is surprisingly toned; hard muscles prominent under your touch.

you feel your pleasure peaking, body dancing with warmth and want. you try to stifle your moan by turning your head into the pillow, but his hand grasps your chin and pulls you back to meet his gaze.

‘don’t turn away from me!’ he scolds, brows knitting into a pained expression.

‘i’m sorry…’ you murmur, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body as his thumb coaxes another orgasm out of you—your second one for the evening. your cheeks fill with warmth as your arousal coats his cock, causing coriolanus to let out a breathy groan.

you pray that it ends soon, but your body continues to dance with pleasure and satisfaction, giving into him, allowing him to make his stake in you. his pretty little victor that he was deflowering—and she came around his cock and everything!

‘fuck,’ coriolanus grunts, hands travelling down to grab at the soft skin of your hips as he pounds into you. ‘all fucking mine. taking me so well…’

when you clench around him, he feels his balls tighten, and cock still for a moment as he reaches his own climax. you’re mewling so prettily—half-begging for him to stop by the way your head roles about in a dissociative reverie shows him that if your heart cannot be persuaded to take him, your body will.

‘shit,’ he spits as he slows his pace, dragging in and out of you at a painfully still speed.

he doesn’t want to finish so quickly, but you’re so fucking tight and your slick coating his cock has set his nerves on fire—his tip is throbbing with desire. coriolanus’ fingers are plunged into the supple skin of your hips, digging far enough that you feel a few bruises forming under the skin.

'so fucking tight,' he curses, sliding himself all the way out before filling you up to the hilt again. the sound of your wet cunt squelching around his big cock reverberates against the walls.

another moan escapes your plump lips, egging coriolanus on—clearly you're enjoying this to some extent; you've come twice tonight. next time he might not be so kind, after all, he's only being so sweet because you're a virgin—you're more like a prize to enjoy than anything else.

'gonna fill you up with my cum,' he sneers, eyes rolling shut as he pushes himself against your g-spot. you contract around him in response. 'you'd like that, wouldn't you? taking your president's cum? so patriotic, aren't you?'

the way he's still squeezing and pinching at your hips urges you to respond, so you cast a groggy nod—the champagne is still making your head swim.

'good girl,' he praises, and you respond with a genuine smile.

coriolanus grunts heavily, his balls tightening, and he feels hot spurts of cum spurt out from the tip of his cock. the relief that washes over him is blissful; watching you take every last drop of him makes him sigh deeply. you can't help but squirm at the sticky feeling as he thrusts his cum back up into you. you're trying not to lurch away in disgust—his hands, now clamping down on your shoulders, are keeping you there, close to him.

when he pulls out, he gazes at your weeping cunt in awe as his cum trickles down your thighs. you’ll always be his—he can see that by the tiny smudge of blood that also coats your inner thigh on one side. he doesn’t know if he can bear to sell you to those other men now; perhaps he’ll just have to lock you up here and keep you all to himself.

‘thank you, mr president,’ you murmur, half on the verge of sleep.

your body is humming with exhaustion, and you begin to curl up into a supine position, trying to force away the uncomfortable combination of his sticky cum and the dull ache between you thighs.

‘i’ll be back tomorrow,’ he presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing a few tendrils of hair out of your half-closed eyes. ‘don’t think you can get away from me now, my pretty victor.’

[unconventional-lawnchair]

" But daddy, I love him "

Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Potter!Reader

Masterlist

Part 2

Summary: Harry finds out his sister is dating Mattheo Riddle Ft. James, Lily, Remus, Sirius - No war au }

Wc- 5178

Cw: Use of {Y/N}, a lot of people saying a lot of mean things, sexual themes cussing}

A/n: Possible part 2 later

Mattheo Riddle had a reputation for himself. Everyone knew him bloodied before they'd seen him presentable. A Hotwire, fizzling and popping, just waiting for the next person to cross him in a way he deemed punishable, ‘the muggle way.’

He never truly had a distaste for muggles or muggleborns, but they stayed clear of him regardless. Voldemort's son was like a cautionary tale told through the halls, of just how ruthless and unhinged death eaters could be. His mother, Beatrix Lestrange, in Azkaban for life for such cruelties, his father had a name no one dared to say. That left very little to the imagination, or maybe just too much? 

Another thing about Mattheo Riddle, he never said what he was thinking, he only acted. So no one knew the true boy outside of his blinding rage, insatiable flirting and the horrid legacy his parents so carefully wove for him. No one, aside from you.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, truly, it was just an assignment.

“I have a student, he is failing in my class, but I know he has so much potential to do better.” McGonagall began. “If you tutor him, I will give you credits towards one of your less favorable classes.”

Was it bribery? Yes, was it technically against school policy? Most definitely. Were you going to say no to free credits for the history of magic? Absolutely not.

You should have been clued in, when she didn't tell you who you were tutoring, but like your father and brother, your eye was on the prize. Instead of a snitch, however, yours were the new napping opportunities in your least favorite subject. 

You were told by the professor that the study sessions would take place during dinner, and you were allowed to request food from the house elves before or after the meetings. You had to wonder; why was this student getting all these special treatments? And what did you have to do with it?  Imagine your surprise when you walked into the library when dinner was taking place, only for your eyes to land on the candle lit silhouette of Mattheo Riddle himself.

You knew him, of course you did, his father had tried to kill your entire family, while you didn't endure the worst of it, Merlin, you were still in your mothers stomach at the time, your fathers horror stories of the DeathEaters and the recounting of the night was so etched into your brain you could likely recall it as if you stood in that room. The day your father saved the wizarding world, by simply, picking up his wand from the couch when he opened the door. 

Despite it all, you tried not to judge him by the actions of his father, so that the only thing you had left were the numerous bloodied fights he'd been a part of since he walked through the doors of Hogwarts. Not to mention the amount of broken hearted witches that clung to his heels.

Though, now, as you stared at him across the empty Library, he seemed so… peaceful. Calm and reserved, maybe it was the yellow light, or maybe it was the way he seemed to be genuinely enraptured by whatever he was reading. Sitting patiently, just waiting. Waiting for you. You quickly snapped out of your daze, walking forward to stand in front of him.

Mattheo lazily glanced up before his eyes widened slightly and his mouth opened a bit in slack shock. “Potter.”

“Riddle.” You acknowledged him. He didn't seem offended or bothered by your presence, more, confused. There was an easy silence between you two before you gestured to the seat beside him. “May I?”

“... be my guest.” 

That's where it all started. Mattheo was nothing like who you thought he'd be. He was respectful, kind, studious and incredibly clever. You had to admit, Minerva was right, he had incredible potential beyond what he seemed to think of himself. He just needed time to sit down and work, instead of his usual activities, and whatever impression he was trying to make for himself.

Your meetings were frequent, and his grades started to improve. As you got closer, the change in his behavior in class was the first thing you noticed. He began to actually work in potions, probably the only class you shared being a year younger and a Griffondor. You heard from Harry that he had actually scored higher than most of their shared class in Transfiguration. Though, it was a comment out of malice, you couldn't deny how it made you preen with pride.

In the halls you were strangers, but in your personal nook of the library, you were a deadly dynamic. He was a flirt, you knew that before, but he never said the raunchy things he'd say to the girls in the halls he'd flirt with, to you. The occasional comment on your eyes or your calligraphy, maybe some that toed the line of platonic study buddies. You figured that was how he showed affection, but you had no real reference point for it. 

If it was another thing that you knew about Mattheo that not many others knew, it was that he adored praise. All forms of it. He would get bashful and try to hide away from it, but you would see how much harder he tried to impress you everytime. You found it amusing, you would hear the teachers praise him and he'd simply shrug it off, trying to play it cool. But in those private moments between.. friends, when you were revising his essay, with mutters of, “That's a spectacular way to look at it, Riddle.”

And 

“That's brilliant. You're brilliant.”

He would turn as red as a tomato. It made you smile. This was the version of him no one else could or ever would have. It made you cocky, it made you want more of the secret Mattheo, the one he only showed to the closest people.

~~

You had gotten so used to Mattheo’s presence. He had stayed out of trouble, been doing wonderfully in his classes, and he still insisted on your study dates. Said they were the only thing keeping him interested in the classes he took. Ever the flirt.

You guessed being used to Mattheo Riddle of all people was the first part to an awful downward spiral. You had fallen for him. Hard. 

You first noticed when he had to cancel one of your meetings. He was passing you in the hall, two Prefects had him by his forearms, and Snape was rattling on about a proper punishment for him. He had a cut lip and a gnarly battered nose. You were on your way to the library to meet, but when you made eye contact with him you visibly deflated. He had that stupid cocky look on his face, teeth stained red as he winked at a few girls he passed, focusing on anything but Snape’s words.

When his eyes met yours, however, his lips twitched and his eyes lost their twinkle. Like a puppy being told no. Or properly, a boy ashamed. And he should feel ashamed.

You had forgotten who he was when you weren't buried in your books. So for the first time in weeks, you were at the Gryffindor dining table, across from Ginny and Seamus, poking at your food in disinterest. Surrounded by friends and family, and yet so incredibly lonely. Ginny eventually caved to your moping, looking over with a loud click of her tongue. 

“{Y/N}?” She called over and your eyes flicked up and an easy smile took over your face. “Ginny?”

“It's good to see you, you've been avoiding the dining hall for a while now.” She teased and leaned her legs forward to lock her ankles around one of yours to keep you in place. You couldn't help but give a cheeky grin at this.

“Well, I would argue anything is better than being forced to watch you make heart eyes at my brother.” You shot back and Harry looked up from his plate curious, met with the view of you being smacked in the face with a bun. 

“Hey!” You challenged and grabbed your own bun before you heard your head of house clear her throat behind you. Slowly, you set down the bread and looked back at her as she gave you a quizzing look. Clearly confused by you being there, asking with her eyes. Not even having noticed the gluten assault.

“Rain check.” You remarked and shrugged before she let out a simple ‘ah’ and walked off. This just set off Ginny’s and now Harry’s curiosity. 

“What was all that? Thought you were meeting a boy, if I'm honest, now I'm not sure.” Ron mumbled and Harry tilted his head at you. 

“Ew, don't say that, that's my baby sister.” Harry huffed and looked over at you. His expression said it all. “What have you been getting up to?”

You stared at him before slowly smirking, leaning your chin on your palm. “Huh, well, me and Ginny are the same age-”

Then, another bun, to your face, courtesy of your brother. “That's enough out of you.” He huffed.

~~

That's how you got here. Sitting in the forbidden woods, trying to demonstrate to Mattheo how to use a patronus, something your parents showed you when you were younger. Your study rendezvous has long since become time to study more than just your core classes. No one else was around, just you two, while everyone else was hidden away in the grand hall eating. 

“So, firstly, this is a spell that most wizards and witches cannot use. So don't be afraid if you never come to pass.” You explained and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“Right, if I'm not past the level you were at as a toddler, end my misery early.” He teased and you gave a playful scoff and crossed your arms. “Not a toddler, just 12.”

He rolled his eyes with his own smirk playing on his lips. You found yourself staring at the peak of his teeth, threw his lips, you felt your entire body respond in kind. “To be fair, you don't need to feel self conscious, I mean, I am leagues above you, even now.”

He gave an offended gasp and put his hand on his chest. His smirk turned wolfish as he walked up to your side. “Is that a challenge, Potter?”

“Define a challenge, I usually just call it confidence.” You quipped and he gave you a once over, you rolled your eyes fondly. 

“Okay, minx, I get three tries. If I summon my patronus, you have to go to Hogsmeade with me this Sunday.” He mused and leaned into your space. You smirked and stood taller, wetting your lips before you glanced from his eyes to his lips then back. “Let's hope you prove me wrong then, Riddle.”

He did not. Prove you wrong, that is. 

Once you told Riddle about the happy memory clause, he seemed less confident. He wasn't even able to produce sparks, and got increasingly agitated with each failure. Usually, he would pull out a smoke and take a break, and you were curious as to why he didn't.

Every other day before you grew close, you would spy him smoking with his friends in the courtyard, but when you mentioned you hated the smell in the library, he started to hold off until after to smoke.

At least, that's what he told you. He would not tell you the truth, that the moment you told him you hated the smell he chucked the last box he had into the black lake.

Mattheo went through his life without any real care. He only ever experienced fear, anger, and disappointment directed at him. He had his friends, Draco, Theodore, Pansy, even Blaise but none of them were particularly affectionate. Past his playful flirting with Pansy, that he now used as a reference for your friendship, he didn't truly have positive influences on his emotions.

Usually, that would result in him using a poor girl or two to get over whatever he was hung up on. Then, he met you. 

Out of everyone, he figured you had reason to hate him most. His father tried to kill your family, his mother killed your parents' friends, his current friends bullied your brother, and he was assumed a death eater before proven one. But that night, he was proven wrong for the first time, when you sat down next to him and smiled. He had never seen something so breathtaking, something that was meant for him.

He had felt for women before, physical and emotional, but never had he experienced you. In all honesty, he never truly looked at you before. You were Harry Potter’s sister, that was enough reason to stay away. Merlin, did he fuck up.

Being friends with you was hardly acceptable, but falling for you? It made him feel all the more pathetic. Knowing he was falling for someone who would never think of dating him. Here he was, making the worst mistakes of his life over and over again.

“Don't get in your head about it.” Your voice called him from his thoughts. He snapped out of it and looked at you. You tilted your head and smiled, hands on your hips in determination. You had taken off your robe, as if to say you meant business. Sleeves rolled up to your elbows and wand brandished. “Just think about something that makes you happy. Happy enough to smile at nothing.” 

“Smile at nothing?” He muttered in an amused tone. Breathing you in like fresh air.

“At. Nothing.” You insisted and waved your wand. “My memory is when my dad took me to visit my grandparents' graves.” You hummed and he gave a startled laugh. 

“Morbid, darling.”

“Oh, not like that.” You laughed. “I listened to my dad talk about them, like, all the time. Mum too.”

You gestured to the pond and his eyes followed yours. “My dad made it easy, it felt like I was really meeting them, ya know? He talked about me and Harry like we were the most important things in his life. I think I felt his love for them in me too, but towards him. I just felt so lucky.” 

Mattheo stared at your awe filled eyes and he gave a small sigh through his nose. It was out of fondness, of course, but he couldn't deny the bit of jealousy that perked up in his chest when she said that. “Yeah.. lucky.” He mumbled.

You looked back at him and your face fell a bit. You had just spent the last two minutes rubbing your fathers love in his face- Merlin. You slowly gave a cautious smile, considering he was still staring at you like you hung the stars. It maked your ears grow hot and your nerves light up.

You reached over to graze his hand, and he seemed to snap out of his trance, slowly, he wrapped his hand around yours, his calloused fingers covering your hand fully. You guys sat like that for a moment, before you raised your wand higher and stepped closer. Leaning your head against his chest and waving it. 

Your patronus whipped out of your wand, the fox wiggling its nose in greeting before she ran around you two in circles. You began to laugh at her enthusiasm, and Mattheo even gave a chuckle. Your eyes on your patronus, his eyes on you. How was he going to win anyway? He was making his happiest memories now.

“I think I can try again.” He whispered and you looked up at him, your patronus vanishing behind you as you lost your focus. He was giving you a look you had never seen before, it was almost dangerous, how easy it was for him to make a mess of you. 

“You think?” You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything above a whisper. He pulled you flush against him, taking the dazed look you were giving him as confirmation. You wanted him too. He could have fainted. 

“Want to help me?”

“How?” 

You got your answer, in the form of his lips pressing so gently against yours. It was electric, your entire face grew hot and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. His hands found a firmer grip on your waist and you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck. You lost yourself in the kiss, letting him lead as he clearly had more experience.

Mattheo couldn't help it, maybe this wouldn't be a mistake. Maybe it was only fair. Being with you made him feel human, like just another boy falling for just another girl. He wanted to feel like this forever. Normal, with you.

He did not try again that night, far too distracted.

~~ 

You met him like that several more times, dinner study bled into evenings, innocent touches became intimate, and bold teases became hushed whispers in his dorm room. The very dorm room you were coming back from now. Walking back just after curfew. 

When you made it back to the common room the first thing you noticed was your own reflection, your hair was frazzled and your uniform was creased. You found yourself wondering how all of that could happen from just a kiss. Followed by a few more. And then some more,, you could completely understand how it happened, actually. You’ll remember it forever.

Once you fixed your appearance, the second thing  you noticed was Harry sitting on the couch with a parchment on his lap, next to him was a nervous Ron and a shockingly ridgid Hermione. Harry’s eyes were on you, Ron’s was on his hands, and Hermione was faking reading a book. You pause before you made it to the stairs, slowly walking over to the three. “Hey you guys! What are we up to?”

“Nothing, just been waiting a few hours.” Harry snarked and you narrowed your eyes in confusion. Suddenly you remembered, you had agreed to meet the trio out for Quidditch practice, they had managed to just get enough people for two full teams, guilt filled your chest. 

“Shoot, Harry I am so-” Before you could even start to grovel he stood up and Hermione sighed, Ron quickly speaking up.

“Where were you?” Harry demanded.

“Come on, Harry.” Ron tried to interrupt. “At least not in the common room.”

“What?” You whispered and Harry shoved the parchment in your hands. It wasn't just any piece of paper, it was the map. Your fathers map. 

Your jaw went slack and you looked up at Harry, Your guilt was quickly overturned by anger. “Were you stalking me!?” You exclaimed and thanked Merlin the common room was empty this late.

“I thought something had happened! Don't deflect! Where were you?!”

“None of your business you slime!”

“You come out of the Slytherin dorms with Voldemort’s son and it's none of my business?” He whisper hissed, You scoffed. 

“Yes, none of your business!” You snapped back and threw the map on the ground. “I don't have to answer to you! And his name is Mattheo!” You hissed back and stepped on the charmed paper, dragging it under your heel. “You’d do best to remember that. I'm not a bloody kid, Harry!”

“You're my sister!” He challenged and you scoffed.

“He's a monster! A Slytherin, his parents are horrid, and our-”

“Do not say another word, Harry.” You threatened as you began to stomp off to your dorm and he huffed. Kneeling down to pick up the parchment and dust it off. 

“I’ll make it easy for you.” He called over and you turned to face him with a glare. “You break up with him, or I’ll tell father over the summer.”

Your face fell and your heart stopped. Harry had this look about him, like he didn't want to be doing this, but yet, he was. 

“You wouldn’t-” You spoke slowly and Harry sighed. 

“Two days.”

~~ 

Those two days were blissful hell. You weren't going to break up with Mattheo, there was no way in muggle hell you were going to willingly give him up.

You did try to talk to him about it, however, several times. At least to warn him why he may have a war hero Auror setting a bounty on his head soon. Your father was protective, far more than you thought was necessary, but he treated everyone as black or white. Usually, everyone was allowed his love and care, that being said, Voldemort was a sore subject.

You would say you were trying your best, but Mattheo was so… Mattheo. He was hard to talk to. A very… physical person? He would complain about how you would be leaving the school in mere days for summer, followed by you being drowned in kisses and wandering hands.

Merlin two days was not enough. Next thing you knew, you were home, in your room, counting the minutes until your mother called you down for dinner.

You began to bite your nails, scrunching up your face when you bit down too far. You sighed as you heard Lily call you and Harry down.

You walked into the hall to see Harry waiting at the top of the staircase for you. He looked regretful, but stern. “Harry-”

“I’ll give you the chance. To tell them yourself.” He mumbled before he walked down the stairs. You mentally prepared yourself and walked as slow as you could down the stairs. Not noticing as Harry glanced at your neck.  

When you walked into the dinning room, your heart dropped. Your mother, father, Uncle Moony, and Uncle Padfoot were all at the table. You cursed and clenched your jaw, Harry stared down at his plate and you sat beside him by Remus. You gave your mom a small thank you as she served you. Sirius and your father were making jokes about their Quidditch days after Harry bragged about their most recent win. You relished in the moment, before all hell broke loose.

You asked your father a question about the story, just trying to seem engaged. He lit up at your interest, turning to face you fully. “Well! When you're a beater, there is this unspoken rule that everyone follows and.. what the bloody hell is that?” 

You narrowed your eyes at his sudden tone change. “What?” You whispered as you looked around the table, all eyes were on you. You took a shaken breath and bit your cheek. “I-”

“That's a hickey, dad.” Harry muttered and took a bite of his food. Your face fell and all the blood left it.

“A what!?” He exclaimed and fixed his glasses on his face, you quickly covered your collarbone. Sirius gripped his silverware, hard, taking a steady breath. “How old are ya, hun?” He asked and you snapped your attention to him. Stuttering and stammering for a moment.

“I think the better question is, who did that? It's bloody horrific.” Remus muttered and you stared up at him with wide, horrified eyes. “U-uncle Moony!”

“Boys, calm down. She's 16, and James, we talked about this. Our kids will be dating soon, I mean, Harry has that Ginny girl and you never fuss at him.” Lily tried to defend and James scoffed. 

“This is hardly the same! I raised him! I don't know a thing about this boy!”

“Or girl.” Remus smirked and James felt his face fall in shock and you groaned, slowly covering your face.

“Remus.” Lily hissed out. “James.” She warned before Sirius spoke up. 

“Fine, fine, it's all fine. I mean, what harm could he do? We've taught her everything she needs to know about the world. Probably some Hufflepuff boy.” He tried to dismiss, and Remus, ever the instigator tonight, spoke up again.

“I'd be shocked if a Hufflepuff did that to my nieces neck.” He mumbled and James began to breathe quicker and heavier.

“Right, right, fine. You're being safe, right?” He asked bluntly and you groaned, melting into your seat. “Please, anything but this conversation right now.”

Lily gave a small fond smile and tutted at the boys. “Well honey, you should invite him over this summer break. I'd love to meet him.” She offered and then Harry gave a laugh. You shot him a look. “Don't you dare.”

“Dare. Very much dare, Harry.” Sirius quipped and Harry looked at you with a pursed lip before he sighed and spoke up. “Don't think you'd want him here is all.”

“Harry.” You warned, Lily sighing. “Harry, you stop that right now.” 

“What? I'm just being honest, dad and padfoot hate Slytherins.” He mused plainly, and James dropped his silverware. 

Sirius gave a laugh, throwing his head back before it slowly died out as he saw your red face. “No-”

“Why does his house matter?” You scoffed. “Not all Slytherins are the same.”

“Yeah, just so happens that he's just the type dad hates.” Harry muttered before he took a sip of water. “Happens to be one he particularly-”

“Harry James Potter!” Lily shouted at him and he had enough sense to seem guilty. He looked down as you tried to sink deeper into your seat. 

“I had a feeling.” Remus spoke up and you looked at him in shock. He gave you a side eyed glance. “You had a quidditch jersey in your bag. You don't play and certainly not for Slytherin.”

You looked down at your hands on your lap as your father shouted. “Why didn't you tell us, Remus!”

“This,” He gestured with his fork towards his husband and best friend. “You're terrifying the poor girl. I saw the name, I have to agree with Harry, you'd lose it.”

“What?” James snapped and Lily slammed her hands on the table. “Will you cut it out? All three of you! Do you want her to hide things from us forever? She'll tell us in her own time.”

Sirius groaned and began to pick at his food. “Whatever. As long as it isn't Malfoy.” He huffed and you shyly shook your head. Sirius gave an exaggerated groan of relief. “Thank Merlin.” 

“Who did that, sweetheart?” James prodded with a warning glare from Lily. “James.” She whispered and they locked eyes. They held that look before he clicked his tongue. 

“I asked you a question, niffler.” James prodded, and Lily slowly closed her eyes, covering her face.

“Dad, I really think-”

“Your dad asked you something.” Remus suddenly spoke up and you looked over at him to meet his eyes. Then it hit you. What he had said moments ago. He knew. 

“I-”

“Y/N.” Sirius prodded and Lily gave you a sympathetic look. She could command your father on a lot of things. But never about you and Harry.

“Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.” Harry suddenly spoke up, and your blood ran cold. You sunk as deep as you could into your seat and Lily gave a squeak of surprise, before covering her mouth. Remus thinned his lips and clenched his jaw. 

“No you aren't.” James said simply and you covered your face.

“{Y/N}. No you aren't.”

“Dad, please.” You sniffed, overwhelmed. You sat up and straightened yourself. “He isn't some, bad guy-”

Remus scoffed and Sirius slammed his fist on the table. “His father-!”

“He isn't his father!” You challenged, shooting up from your seat and glaring at your uncle. “You of all people should understand that!”

“Watch your mouth.” James hissed and stood up as well. You scoffed and threw your hands up. “I don't understand! He's done nothing wrong! Nothing to any of us! I get that he's not this image you had in your head of what you wanted for me-”

“Dorcas.. Marlene.” Your mother whispered and your body stiffened. You looked over at your mother and your heart broke at her distress. You reached out and she sniffled, dismissing herself. Your shoulders fell and you looked back to your father. 

He was staring at you with a look you've never seen.

“Dad-”

“Your room. Now.”

“Dad! That's not fair in the slightest I-”

“Room!” He boomed and you sniffled before running off. Slamming the dining room door behind you as you walked upstairs. 

It would be a long summer.

~~~

Mattheo was missing you. He had been missing you for days now. You said you would write to him, but he didn't get a single letter. He figured it was likely you were busy, you did have a family to distract you after all. 

So, he wrote you a letter instead. He didn't want to think about how desperate it sounded, how desperate he was for you. He didn't look over it more than once before he sent it.

Little did he know, the second James heard an owl outside, he shot to his feet and hurried to intercept it. You were ever oblivious, in your parents room as you and Lily shared one of many heartfelt conversations over the brief summer. Your mother was doing her best to understand, but it was trouble, trying to believe he wasn't doing this for some master plan down the line. You both went quiet when you heard your father call you both.

When you walked into the parlor room, you sat down on the couch, You looked at the table in front of you and grimaced, You'd know that parchment anywhere. 

There was a long pause, before James spoke up. “The last time I saw this parchment, it was a letter Beatrix Lestrange sent us in our third safe house. Telling us she knew where we were, and that she was coming. Coming to kill your family, {Y/N}.” He leaned forward and picked up the letter and you refused to look him in the eyes.

“It’s nostalgic, really. But these words? ‘I yearn for you. I look at my textbooks from over the years and I wonder what it would be like to have you read them to me’.” He declared. “ ‘You made even the most complex of spells doable. You made things doable’.”

Your mother couldnt help but smile a bit at his words. You grimaced.

“Charming, isnt it? If only the rest of the letter wasnt riddled with innuendo of what this fuck wants to do to my daughter.”

You winced and sighed, the grimace not leaving your face. Mattheo that.. Idiot.

Then,, your mother began to laugh, and James looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “What? Is this funny?”

“Quite.” She smirked. “Sounds like the letters you would send me in school. I used to burn them.” 

He scoffed and leaned back in his seat. “That makes me feel fantastic. He’s a bastard like I was in school.”

“Well.” Lily spoke slowly. “Look at us now.” 

Lily looked over at you just in time for you to glance up and meet her eyes. She smiled sweetly before she continued. “I think its sweet.”

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere Wild West Outlaw!'s Reaction to You Trying to Escape

Warnings: Slight Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Thoughts, Dominant Outlaw Confirmed, Kidnapping, Restraining/Binding, Binding Kink ( 👀), Punishment, Outlaw having Intrusive Thoughts, Forced Proximity (And They Were Roommates), No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

♡ He has you tied down to a chair so quickly you don’t even get the chance to feel the wind being knocked out of you.

♡ Yandere Outlaw hasn’t survived this long by letting pretty little things like you turn the tables on him. And if his unwavering strength and endurance aren’t enough to confirm that, his knotting skills are.

♡ “Thought ya could pull the wool over my eyes, didn’tya,” the Outlaw drawls, pulling the rope tight over your wrists, panting, recovering from your frolic with freedom.

♡ He leans in, close enough that you can smell the rock-beaten freshness of his shirt, can feel the warmth of his anger radiating against your skin.

♡ “Suppose I’ll just have to discipline ya. Make ya nice and obedient.”

♡ Despite the low, husking tone of his voice, the quiet promise of promiscuity in his drawl, Outlaw’s rendition of punishment comes as… solitude.

♡ He leaves you tied to that chair for hours, riding off into the desert, leaving you with nothing to entertain you save for your thoughts and the wonderings of what he’d do to you when he returned.

♡ You might view this as a cold, calloused method of behavioural conditioning. Starving you, not letting you stretch your legs or go to the bathroom.

♡ Of course, the punishment is still horrific. But, rather unintentionally so.

♡ You see, in the moments between Outlaw’s two-minute tango between you, himself and his rope, something in his brain had switched. Snapped.

♡ Having you look up at him with wide eyes as you writhed beneath his touch, the burn of the rope, the pleas starting to fall from between your lips for him to let you go, stirred something in him. A primal frenzy. A dark need.

♡ Yandere Outlaw can’t think straight, his mind flooding with involuntary ideas, notions of what he could do with – to – you while you’re bound and at his mercy.

♡ He doesn’t know what happened; why having your body pressed so closely to him in such a thrashing, violent, desperate encounter has left him with a heavy burden in his heart and in…other places.

♡ He’s wrangled captives before and they’ve never had the same licentious effect as you did. Then again, he’s never kept a captive for this long, either. And certainly not willingly.

♡ Yandere Outlaw eventually returns, the thought of you helpless in that chair weighing heavy on his mind all day, taking him down avenues and annals of thought he’d only have the opportunity to explore under the cover of darkness.

♡ Of course, he was concerned that you must be hungry by now. Thirsty, too.

♡ That, and…

♡ How there’d be nothing to stop him from having his way with you.

♡ Yandere Outlaw shakes his head, his horse letting out a puff, as if she could read his mind. Don’t, she told him.

♡ “Don’t worry,” he said, voice quiet. He patted her mane, rubbed the space between her ears. “I won’t.”

♡ Upon Yandere Outlaw’s return, he cuts you loose. He doesn’t apologise, but his silence is thick enough with the accent of shame that you can tell he regrets, in whatever slim capacity, what he’s done.

♡ He puts together a simple meal tonight, either for a lack of trusting that you won’t spike his meal with one of the earth’s thousand natural poisons, or as an apology for his actions.

♡ That night, as you lay next to the Outlaw in bed, your hands and legs bound to the bedposts, the Outlaw looks over you. Watches you.

♡ He doesn’t know why the image of you being tied up hadn’t aroused him as much as it had earlier. Especially now, of all times, with you sleeping beside him, entirely incapable of defending yourself if he acted on his primal desires.

♡ Perhaps it was the thrill of the prospect of having everything on the line, of losing you. Perhaps it was the display of his strength, his ability to make you do whatever he pleased through physical force alone.

♡ Yandere Outlaw tried to dampen his thoughts by placing his hat over his face; to stop the heat he was certain made his cheeks glow in the pitch blackness of the cabin. 

♡ And to stop the onslaught of another issue. 

♡ Taking a dip in the cold waters of the river this time of night didn’t much appeal to him. Especially when he could indulge himself a little longer in the image of you gagged, bound and entirely his.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

AO3 Wattpad

[jymwahuwu]

cw: non-consensual spanking, humiliation, hairbrush spanking, reader has hair

This took me hours😭💀💔... I just wanted an excuse to get spanked, thought about it for a long time and decided to write humiliation + spanking for arrogant reader. That's my favorite type, enjoy!

-

Capitano has his own standards for justice, morality, and honor. Punish others…in a special way. Doesn't sound ethical, does it? But what if there is a valid reason? Correct others and stop them from going further down the wrong path. Especially, you. You are young and energetic, have outstanding strength, and respect the Queen. The Queen cherishes and favors you for this reason, and bestows you with status. But- you always disrespected him, crossing your arms over your chest, mocking him. The other Fatui are shocked by your boldness.

Being spoiled. He doesn't want to argue with you at all. Just pat you on the head and leave. You looked even more annoyed, frowning. Damselette was amused and covered her mouth. She also added fuel to the fire by taking you and Dottore for afternoon tea, secretly gossiping about Capitano while the restaurant singer sang. You are filled with indignation. Dottore nodded in agreement, tapping notes on the table with his fingers and raising his lips at the same time. Capitano can take action immediately when facing an enemy, but for you… what should he do? He needs to think about it carefully. He didn't want to crush the Queen's hopes and burn out her remaining love and kindness.

And you are not a cruel enemy. You're just…too naive. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, your face will appear. You weren't so rude to him back then…

The turning point was that special mission. Capitano needs to work with you. You reluctantly responded, but you ignored his orders and were caught by the enemy. He had to get you back. Those enemies were reduced to ashes.

Capitano snapped at you. Past experience is the basis for you to underestimate him. You wanted to apologize, but you felt embarrassed. You met his gaze defiantly, but this time…no one was spoiling you anymore. He took off his gloves, then forcibly grabbed the glowing vision around your waist and threw it aside. "What are you doing! You scoundrel!" Scoundrel. You have to learn manners and respect from now on. The world was spinning, and the next second you were thrown into his lap, with a buzzing in your ears. The buttocks touch the cold air. He-he took off your clothes? "What do you want to do!? I will report you!"

An unexpected slap. Intense pain. Your pupils constricted and you clenched your hands on his pants, the muscles in your calves tensing. Spanking? How dare he spank you? You are an adult! You struggled, but Capitano's palms pressed against your waist. Just that is enough to render you completely immobile. Uninterrupted and brutal slaps landed on your buttocks, leaving traces of the slaps.

"Stop…ah…stop this!" Twenty, twenty-one, thirty. He alternates smacking you left and right, never sparing either side. It hurts so much. The curses faded into messy sobs and whimper.

Your tears were shining, and your hands were helplessly wiping away the tears, but you always endured the impact of those slaps and stopped yourself from begging for forgiveness. The Queen was right in telling you to listen to Capitano. You really can't resist him. "…I-I…you…bad guy…"

Then the slaps just… stopped like this. Your eyelashes with teardrops were still trembling, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Is the torture over? You didn't ask for mercy. Did you win? you win-

"Do you need a paddle?" the deep voice asked with authority. You are petrified. Paddle? Thick paddle? You shook your head and sniffled again, shame burning your cheeks. "Good, then apologize for your arrogance and rudeness."

You grit your teeth. "I'm not going to-" You're not going to lose.

"Um, use your hairbrush then." Capitano pulled open your bedside table and searched for it for a few seconds before finding it. He looked at you with some condescension and adjusted your position so that your swollen butt was facing upwards towards the ceiling. Hairbrush? You didn’t even know that a hairbrush has such uses…

The impact of a hairbrush is special. Screams left your throat, tears welling up in your eyes and you started kicking your legs to relieve the pain. Eight, nine, ten…fifteen. Especially since it was your hairbrush, the thing you used to brush your hair every morning, it added a layer of humiliation. You taste the regret and tears, how could there be such an evil thug like him who keeps spanking you!

"You get what you deserve…" he responded. "Maybe I should have done that from the beginning, when you first talked back to me."

"Apologise. Maybe I'll forgive you," he warned. "Or you get spanked every day. Your choice."

Eighteen, Nineteen-

Twenty.

There seemed to be no end to the punishment, and you burst into tears and broke down. "Sorry, I'm sorry for everything!"

The hairbrush threatened to drop again, but didn't. As always, Capitano never tortured any of his enemies who surrendered. He carefully lifted you up and placed you on his legs. You lowered your head, whimpering, and snuggled into his arms weakly, listening to the vivid heartbeat. His arms crossed your armpits, maintaining the hugging position.

You really didn’t want to admit it… you didn’t hate Capitano, you could even say you admired him. It's just that one day, you find out that he treats other members the same way, or even treats others better. He is always upright and courageous. You wonder if he'll react differently, if he'll look irritated…but then, you're just seeking his attention. Your acting skills deceived yourself.

And now are the consequences. You were actually humiliated, completely. Humiliated by the one who is always righteous.

"But if it's up to me…" You suggested to the Queen, but felt the warning gaze behind you and shuddered. "…I'm sorry, Your Majesty. Maybe I am not capable of such a task."

Tsaritsa narrowed her eyes, her icy eyes scanning you and Capitano back and forth, but her smile was as warm as the sunshine in winter. "You've grown a lot in just a few days. You two work well together."

"Yes, this is your Majesty's kindness." You bowed your head and complimented.

After leaving the palace, you snorted and crossed your arms, deliberately irritating him. "Don't think I'm afraid of you now. I just...oh, I remembered my date with Tartaglia. I'm going now, bye."

You trotted towards the orange-haired harbinger, and he greeted you with a smile and silly jokes. Capitano stares at you without saying a word.

[rainylana]

“It’s just a cut.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: too many times had eddie tended to your wounds and broken heart. he’s had enough.

a potential series if you guys want it! let me know!

warnings: extremely angsty and not for everyone! i tried to make this as real as possible for both sides and it’s not an easy read. please tread with caution. therefore warnings are: physical and emotional abuse by readers mother, wounds and blood, mentions of weighed and irregular eating habits, low confidence and self esteem mentions, language, very angsty fight between reader and eddie, broken nose, lots of tears, reader still loves her mother very much despite her actions. eddie isn’t a jerk, i didn’t try to convey him that way, but this is a heavy subject and it needed to feel real. i dated a jerk and know what some of this can be like. requested by @h-ness1944 i hope you like this dear! i hope i did it justice to what you wanted!

Was he mad? You couldn’t tell. He hadn’t said anything in almost twenty minutes. Your heart was racing. The last thing you wanted was to loose him. You knew it was getting to him, seeing you all cut up and beaten on, but what else was there to do?

Your shirt was off, sitting on the couch in your bra and jeans as you sniffled, tears that had long since dried and left a sticky residue on your cheeks, mascara dark and streaked. Your mom had thrown a beer bottle at you again, a normal occurrence, they just didn’t usually hit you. It had sliced the skin on your back open. Luckily, it wasn’t bad enough to need stitches, but that didn’t matter to Eddie.

You regretted coming over. You shouldn’t have bothered him with it. You could feel the anger and hurt radiating off of him. You had sworn him to secrecy, and you could see the toll it took on him.

Your mom had increasingly got more creative when it came to dealing out punishments. She had ever since she started heavily drinking, when your dad had left her. You loved your dad and missed him dearly, but you didn’t blame him for leaving her. He had to take care of himself too. If he knew what your mom did, he’d surely come back to stop her. You couldn’t do that to him. At the end of the day, you could endure it, you just weren’t sure if Eddie could anymore.

“Please say something.” Your voice was hoarse.

You had your back to him, wincing slightly as he dapped a pad of alcohol on your cut, trying to make sure it didn’t get caught with an infection.

“What do you want me to say?” His voice barely conveyed any emotion.

When you had showed up, blood seeping through your shirt, he’d done what he did every time, debated taking you to the hospital, but your panicked state always talked him out of it. He’d sunk into protective mode, guiding you to the couch and pulling your shirt off, shushing you gently and telling you he’d get you fixed up. That was twenty five minutes ago. He was too quiet now.

His voice brought fresh tears to your eyes. “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

He sighed heavily, cursing himself. There was no need to be cold toward you. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He squeezed your shoulder. “I’m almost finished.”

He wiped your wound dry, covering it with a gauze and bandage. He’d stocked up on medical supplies a few months ago. One night he had cried when he realized just how quickly it was going. He was terrified for you, afraid one day, you wouldn’t walk through the door needing aid from your wounds. One day it would be Hopper, hat in his hands and offering his condolences. He had thought about going to the police so many times behind your back, but he’d loose you then. Was he being selfish?

“Please don’t hate me.” You cried emotionally, looking down to your shoes.

“Y/n,” He turned you gently, grabbing your chin. “I do not hate you.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, watching as you sniffled and cried, his other hand swiping away some tears that fell down your cheek. “Just calm down, honey.” He raised his chin to you, instructing softly. He didn’t want you to get yourself worked up like you usually did.

You breathed in the hands that held you upright, face beat red and blotchy. You body ached with pain and guilt. You wanted nothing more to curl up in his chest, but you fought the urge. He might not have wanted you too.

“What happened this time?” He said, reaching to the floor to hand you your shirt. “Was she drinking?”

You told him what happened, or lack of what happened. It was never really much of anything. She’d scream at you, call you names that you couldn’t repeat. Throw things and hit you. You said, nothing really, shrugging your shoulders. There was a time where Eddie would have demanded more of an answer, but he grew to realize that sometimes it never really was anything. That’s just how your mother was.

Eddie bit down hard on his lip, looking away from you to the kitchen. “Spend the weekend here with me. I don’t want you going back tonight.” He’d wanted you to move in with him for so long, but you never could leave your mother. He didn’t understand that, and your fought about it several times.

“Eddie?” You grabbed at his knee, eyes fearful and wide. “I really am sorry.”

He grabbed your hand and kissed it, but said nothing as he got up and disappeared into the bathroom. He couldn’t help it. With each time you came barging in during the night, day, whatever, it chipped away at his heart. He’d watched you change over the last year as your mother’s words became more harsh. You accepted the beatings more easily, but the way she spoke to you had taken it’s toll. He could see that clear as a bell.

Your self confidence had plummeted. You didn’t like to reveal any of your skin that you didn’t have to. You were much quieter than you used to be, only really speaking to him or some of the members of hellfire. Wayne, too, of course.

He was washing his hands, trying his best to not smash the mirror in front of him. He was being distant and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. How much longer until you’d have to undergo surgery? How much longer until the words hurt so bad you’d kill yourself just to get away from it? How much longer until he’d be standing by your grave?

He looked up to find tour reflection, tearful and afraid. He knew what you were thinking. You knew what he was thinking. Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his torso, pressing your lips to his back to hold him. He relaxed into your touch, hands still slightly wet from the sink.

“Don’t worry about me, Ed’.” You whispered. “I’ll be okay.”

His hands held yours above his stomach, staring at your sad reflection. “No, you won’t.” He answers honestly, a small shake of his head that you barely miss. “Don’t lie to yourself.”

You were always crying. You were always sad. You were always so heartbroken, a shell of what you once used to be.

“It’s just a cut.” You defended, causing him to shrivel under your touch and pull away, quickly drying his hands with a towel and leaving the bathroom.

“Don’t start that shit.” He said lowly, entering your bedroom. “It’s not a cut. It’s never just a cut. It’s so much more than that.”

“Okay, okay, well-” You started to rant, mouth opening but falling closed at a loss of words.

He waited for you to speak.

“I don’t know what to say.” You cross your arms defensively. “I just- I don’t want you to worry. I’m sorry I came here. I shouldn’t have.”

No. That’s the last thing he wanted you to think. You were always welcome and he would always look after you. He cursed under his breath, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Baby, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” He comes to you, grabbing your shoulders.

He pulls you into his chest, you’re a blubbering, whimpering mess. He’s careful to not touch your bandage. “I can’t not worry about you, angel.” His voice is full and close to breaking.

“You don’t understand how hard it is for me to watch you suffer like this. I can’t stand to see you wither away.” His eyes tear up, holding the back of your head. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep quiet, sweetheart.”

You’re sobs increase and you’re grasping on to him for dear life.

“I know you love her, baby, but she’s not good for you.” His voice shakes and so does his bottom lip. “God, I wish I could just take you away.”

You’re too distraught to say anything. You hold him and he holds you.

•

“I’m done, y/n.” Eddie’s got angry tears falling down his face, voice filled with a rage full venom he was dying to take out on something, anything. “I’m done with this shit. Either you go to the police or I will.”

“Eddie, please!” You’re begging him, practically on your knees as you sob hysterically. “Please, don’t! I’m sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it!”

“You say that every time!” He says incredulously, flaying his arms about like you’d gone mad. “And every time nothing changes!”

It had been bad this time. Your mom had said absolutely disgusting things to you, taking about your weight, making remarks about the way you talked and how Eddie was crazy for being with you. You’d made the mistake of trying to stand up to her. Your nose was most likely broken from being shoved into the wall, the crunch still loud in your ears that made you cringe from the memory. The blood had dried, but it hurt to breath. Your tears caused you immense pain from the weight of your cries, the heaves from your chest making your face ache.

Eddie stepped back and sobbed softly, holding his head with a hand and cursed. “Fuck.” He couldn’t hold back his emotions this time.

You brought up your hand to your mouth, trying your best to calm down, but it wasn’t doing much good. “Eddie, please!” You whimpered. “You can’t say anything. You swore!”

“I know I did!” He snapped, throwing down his arm. “You swore me to something that you shouldn’t have! Now I’m stuck watching you get beat on every day! Do you know what the hell that does to me?” He was shouting now, tears boiling down your face. You turned away from him and bawled.

In the moment, he wondered if he was any better than your mother, yelling at you and making you cry. Maybe later, he’d hate himself for it, but he couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“Look at this picture.” He tore out his wallet and flipped it open, taking out the polaroid of you that he kept in the first sleeve. “Look at how happy you were there.” It was only a few years ago, back when the antics of your mother began. You were smiling with full teeth, wearing a pretty pink dress and face decorated with happiness and joy.

“You see how different you look?” He held the picture to your face. “You’re too thin. You don’t eat. You’ve got bruises all over you. I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”

Your nose started bleeding again, you could feel the cool, metallic taste of blood on your upper lip. Eddie watched it drop down, his tear falling in sync with your blood.

“You can’t make me keep doing this, y/n.” He said your, shaking his head and grasping at the picture. “I love you too much to watch you get hurt. I’m giving you a choice, darlin’. It’s either you or me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “She won’t survive in jail, Eddie! She needs me to take care of her!” Your chest heaves through tears, a panicked anxiety making you hysterical. “Please, Eddie, please!” You fall to the floor at his feet, grasping at his knees, begging him to forget it all. You had snot and blood, hot tears falling down your face, making your skin red and blotchy.

You pulled at him and sobbed, and Eddie just didn’t know what to do. Both of your hearts were breaking. He held his hands at your head, and he slowly looked up at the ceiling and cried with you. “I can’t do it anymore, baby.” He whimpered. “I need you safe. I can’t wait until it’s too late. I won’t have you dying on me.”

“Eddie, please!” You’re hysterical, squeezing his legs.

“If you hate me it’s okay.” He sniffles, wiping a hand over his face. “I just need you safe. That’s all I need.”

You grow angry at his defiance, pushing yourself off the ground. “I said no, Eddie! She’s my mother, not yours!” You spat, a sudden change of emotion that had him reeling back.

“Y/n, please.” He begged, closing his eyes. “I- I can’t. I just..I just can’t anymore. You’re asking me to do the impossible. Do I have to watch you be killed!” He shouts at the end, eyes burning red with angry, hurt tears.

“I’ll break up with you!” You scream, the ache in your nose making you groan. “I swear to god, Eddie, if you tell anyone we’re done!”

It all went silent. Eddie cried. You cried. Hearts were racing and limbs were trembling. He took a slow, deep breath. “I have to.” It was all he said, keeping his eye on you, but it was enough.

With a cold glare, you were slamming the door on the way out.

[goodolreliablejake]

Fantasy races are an uncomfortable concept, because they present a world that literally works the way racists think that it works. The attempts to mitigate this problem often fail to address the core concern, merely making the idea more palatable.

A big example is trying to correct by changing the language from "races" to "species." This attempt fails for two reasons:

1) Exactly! Racists think that people of other races are a different species. That's the foundation of "race science," phrenology, all of it.

2) Are demihumans different species, though? Like, the interactions between elves and dwarves don't resemble the interactions between different species in our world. They don't act like snakes and lemurs, or whales and krill, or even cats and dogs. More often we've got different groups of people, who may speak different languages and have different cultural practices, engaging in diplomacy or war and struggling to coexist. In practice, they are treated as nations: ethnicities. Except they're ethnicities who are biologically distinct enough to have objective differences in ability.

This is something that puts me on edge in Mass Effect, otherwise one of my favorite games. True, the game ultimately lands on condemning the genophage, and it's not subtle about that. I mean just look at the name... But it's still considered debatable, morally grey, and Mordin Solus remains one of the most charming and enduring heroes of the series. The setting has bent over backwards to make every racist stereotype and talking point as legitimate as possible. In this setting, it is objectively true, scientifically proven that it is in the DNA of Krogans to naturally be violent, warmongering killing machines whose explosively rapid breeding poses an existential threat to the galaxy. That in turn is meant to make us think that maybe forced sterilization is something worth considering. It's hard to ignore the parallels to real life racist propaganda. I don't think it's malicious, just ungrounded and thoughtless; the result of creators to whom these ideals are abstract thought experiments, rather than reflections of real history.

Another big example is Dark Elves. They try to make it okay, to mitigate the message by fleshing them out as characters, by scapegoating an abusive deity rather than an ingrained nature, by erasing the monster manual description that reads "Always Chaotic Evil," by trending skin tone away from black and towards purple, or gray, even pale white. But none of it really changes the core issue, does it? The idea of drow is to equate dark skin with evil, to fetishize that idea, and to tell a story about a subsect of people cast into darkness as a result of sin in a direct parallel to racist Christian beliefs about dark skin being a curse or punishment from God.

So, do I think we need to cancel Mass Effect and stop playing D&D or telling stories about drow? No, not really. I mean... I do all these things. Truth is, I don't have an actionable solution, for myself or anyone. But the dynamic is clearly present and worth describing. And the attempts to challenge it are often insufficient, more about making ourselves feel better about what we're already doing than enacting real change.

[yourfatherjustinmcelroy]

"She will not let you slide farther away from the person you want to be."

Thinking about how Evan, even while experiencing one of the most intimate exchanges that could possibly exist still tries to put distance between himself and the people that love him, and instead of enduring the cruel consequence of the narrative punishing him for his inability to give himself over fully, he is instead held fast and loved nonetheless by his friend who will not let him slip into obscurity despite his own self destructive actions.

Like wow that really is what friendship is about isn't it. Even when I am not myself, when I fear everything about me has no use, when all the things I pride myself on being able to provide for you are gone, and every action I take should further my descent into the horrible creature I already believe I am- you hold me tight and you say no, you will not do this, I will not allow it.

You will stay here with me because I love you even now when there is nothing left of you.

[goldenmorningglory]

realised that edwin forgave simon before he left which freed simon and death came for him. edwin, who will never really be free of hell's shadow, who is out on technicalities and luck, freed the guy who put him there.

and it's just. simon whose insecurity and fear made him lash out on edwin, who stayed in hell with a punishment that may not have tormented him as much as edwin's, but who was there for all the while. who never really thought of leaving. whose salvation was edwin's words. who was punished and justly deserved to move on.

and there's edwin who despite having done nothing to deserve hell, lands up there on a technicality that makes him endure 70 years of, well, hell. whose first act after escaping it is to extend the kindness of companionship to another boy he knows will die like him. who never expected said boy to actually stick with him. who isn't really free of the fear of hell. who will never be sure his afterlife isn't hell because the bureaucracy of afterlife refuses to acknowledge their mistake or the unfairness of his death.

who despite it all, finds it in himself to understand and immediate apologise to simon, the one who inadvertently sentenced him to this. who knows simon must have endured suffering of his own and so extends his heartfelt solidarity. who knows that simon's feelings for him must have been his personal hell even before he died. who understands and forgives. and thus sets his killer free.

just. like with every individual character arc in the show I hope the goodness of his actions comes back to edwin. edwin who remains kind and good, no, makes the active effort to be kind and good. who may think he's doing all of that to gain brownie points and not get hell, as if he'd ever done anything to deserve it in the first place, but that's not the case. because he didn't have to be kind to simon. he didn't have to say he's sorry or say that simon's feelings were wrong. but he did. because he is kind and good. technically destined to hell or not.

[divorceblogger]

I think the most difficult thing that armand struggles to come to terms with (re: his feelings about marius) is very much that marius seemingly steps into his life and performs actions that are, at a superficial glance, meant to be liberatory or empowering but are unequivocally very predatory if you start to dig into the meat of their relationship.

Marius rescues armand from starvation and sexual slavery at a point in his life when armand is actively entertaining thoughts of suicide. marius sweeps in, purchases him, and transfers him from abhorrent conditions of existence to a life of material comfort, although it’s not really a safe one, but at this point armand doesn’t necessarily have the ability to have a critical dialogue about safety with himself because he’s so glad to be rescued from slavery that he ascribes divinity to marius. he also receives an allowance and he’s taught swordplay. he’s taught swordplay. but what kind of harm could a child ever cause to a 1500 year old vampire?

And the material reality is that marius is not really interested in empowering armand at all. he actively fosters an unhealthy codependency between them, he withholds information about his nature, he performs sexual acts on him even when armand doesn’t necessarily comprehend that these acts are sexual in nature. he also strategises methods that he reasons are supposed to sexually liberate armand but these instances just contribute to the overall conversation on how he grooms him. armand is 15 years old when marius sends him out to brothels “to learn how to couple properly”. do you remember that he was supposed to be forced into prostitution. marius now offers him the illusion of sexual power by allowing him to experience sexual pleasure instead of offering it to predatory customers instead. but armand also says that he doesn’t enjoy the experiences at the brothels because he craves sexual relations with marius solely, to a point where he feels resentful about being asked to participate in these acts even when he derives sexual pleasure from them. he endures the experiences because his master gives him no other choice, but it’s also in these brothels that he discovers that sex doesn’t have to be associated with pain as it often tends to be with marius.

When he returns ‘home’ from the brothels he’s perceptive enough to understand that marius really sent him to receive a sexual education on marius’s behalf and attempts to replicate these acts on him. he unconsciously takes up the role of a sex worker, but again he’s a child, and it’s horrifying that he thinks he’s harassing marius by initiating sexual relations with him. it’s also not very surprising that when he does display sexual interest in other people marius emotionally shuts him off (because these experiences were never instituted with armand’s interest in mind) and these moments shape up to be very harrowing experiences for armand - he’s been taught to crave marius’s affection and never do anything that might displease him. armand often has to beg his way back into marius’s good graces and allow himself to be subjected to corporal punishment to achieve this. it’s terrifying that one of the first ideas the boys in the villa convey to armand despite the language barrier is that their master will never hurt him.

And the alarming fact about armand’s transformation is that vampirism serves to just further reinforce this abuse, even though, once again, it might seem like an empowering act. his newly acquired powers don’t change his reality - he’s still under marius’s control the whole time. he’s also further isolated from boys his age who share his interests, and his nights with marius are insular and suffocating. the corporal punishments continue. they’re now adjusted to account for his vampirism. “usual brain jarring blow” is a term floated in the book. marius calls armand’s coffin a “crib”. he very seriously asks armand if he’s ever been cruel to him soon after he transforms him. armand’s codependency with marius is in fact further reinforced by the vampiric transformation that marius carries out. so much of armand’s initiation into vampirsm is once again rooted in sexual instruction, once again evoking patterns of behaviour that are associated with grooming. it’s very in-character for marius to teach him the fundamental principles of seducing his victims before killing them. he also advices him to develop emotionally frigid relationships and never reveal his true self to the people he cares for, further establishing marius as the most significant figure in his life, as the person he constructs his entire identity around. how was he ever supposed to turn out well-adjusted?

[edenesth]

The Way to His Heart [17]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

Warning: eMoTiOnAl DaMaGe

Part 16 | Fic Masterlist | Part 18

How dare he—

Jongho gritted his teeth, his fists tightening at the despicable tactics the fourth prince employed to disrupt your relationship with the general. Usually composed, the assistant struggled to contain his rising anger, feeling an overwhelming urge to resort to violence.

Meanwhile, all Eunsook cared about was your well-being. She empathised with your past, knowing all too well the horrors you endured in your old home. The idea of being married to someone potentially more ruthless than your previous abusers must have been terrifying. Despite understanding the reasons behind her master's actions, she acknowledged his moral ambiguity.

Her only wish was for you to accept that he would never hurt you.

Despite the whirlwind of emotions stirred by the revelation that Seonghwa might have been involved in more than just supervising your father's punishments, your expression remained unreadable. Yeosang held his breath, watching you intently, half-expecting a reaction of terror or betrayal. Whether it was shock, anger, or disbelief, he anticipated something negative.

Desperation clawed at the prince's heart as he clung to his last resort, willing it to work. Foolish as it might seem, the truth was he had no prior experience in wooing anyone, let alone a married woman committed to another. He fumbled in the dark, unsure of the right ways to win your heart, driven only by the conviction that he could be a better husband than General Park.

In his mind, he painted a picture of himself as the ideal partner for you, one who would treat you with the care and affection he believed you deserved. He saw himself as the only one who could truly understand the pain etched into your body, just as you might understand his. And so, he resolved to pursue you relentlessly, even if it meant resorting to drastic measures that could potentially cause you further trauma.

For the fourth prince, the ends justified the means. If it meant having you by his side, it would all be worth it. He vowed to spend the rest of his days showering you with nothing but love and kindness to make up for what he put you through today.

It's time you come to me now, darling.

However, he was in for a rude awakening if he believed you would run into his arms seeking comfort after learning the terrifying truth about the monster your husband turned out to be.

Instead, after a moment of collecting yourself, you lifted your head to meet his eyes, a newfound intensity burning within your gaze, "I'm sorry if this offends you, Your Highness, but what exactly do you hope to achieve by showing and telling me all of this? My husband acted as he did because those people deserved it. As for my father, if you could even call him that, he abused me all my life and killed my mother; he deserved whatever my husband gave him and more."

Though the revelations about the general's potential actions during those extra hours unsettled you, your anger shifted towards Yeosang for bringing them to light in such a manner. Clenching your fists to conceal your trembling hands, you remained resolute. Even if you didn't condone Seonghwa's actions, he was still your husband, and your love for him remained unchanged.

As you stood there, the annoyance toward the fourth prince simmered within you, each word he uttered adding fuel to the fire. From the very beginning, he had refused to acknowledge your new title as Lady Park, a small but significant act of disrespect. Then, he persisted in bringing up topics from your past, despite your obvious discomfort and desire to move on. Now, his deliberate attempts to tarnish the general's image felt almost like a personal attack.

The sarcasm laced in his words when speaking of your husband grated on your nerves. Seonghwa had sacrificed so much for the country, and the least he deserved was respect. It dawned on you now what San had meant about Yeosang's difficult nature. You finally understood why the prince's behaviour could be infuriating.

Jongho and Eunsook exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from concern to awe as they watched you stand your ground against the fourth prince's attempts to undermine your husband. At that moment, it became clear to them that perhaps their worries had been for nothing all along. They should have had more faith in your unwavering love and loyalty to their master.

Yeosang's confidence faltered as he observed your stern expression and heard the firmness in your voice. This was not the reaction he had anticipated from you. Perhaps he had underestimated the depth of your love and loyalty to General Park.

Could the Queen have been right all along?

Feeling a sense of urgency and realising he had no other viable option, His Highness took a deep breath and decided to come clean about his intentions once and for all. He couldn't risk angering you any further than he already had. It was time to be honest, even if it meant facing the consequences of his actions.

The smugness that had once characterised his demeanour now vanished, replaced by a palpable sense of shame as he lowered his head slightly, "I... gosh, I am sorry, my lady. I acknowledge that it was wrong of me to manipulate the situation like that. I'll be honest with you. There was no actual banquet planned. In truth, I haven't celebrated my birthday in years. It only serves as a painful reminder of my existence."

Your brows furrowed in apprehension as you listened, allowing him to continue with his explanation, "I take it you're wondering why I despise my own existence. You're likely unaware of my reputation, unlike others. You may have noticed the birthmark here," he gestured to the red mark on the side of his face, prompting a nod from you.

He offered a faint smile, "Throughout my life, I've been treated like a freak because of this mark. As a member of the royal family, I'm sure you're aware there's an expectation of flawless appearance. So, imagine the shock when they saw the fourth prince with such a conspicuous blemish, my parents included. Both within and beyond the palace walls, people have whispered about my birth, deeming it a curse, questioning if I should have even been born at all."

"Since reaching adulthood, I've rejected numerous marriage proposals. Every woman presented to me has regarded me with disdain in their eyes. But then I met you, my lady, that day in the cherry blossom garden. You were the first person to wear your own mark proudly, without a trace of revulsion. It was as if you saw beyond my appearance. I suppose you could say it was love at first sight for me. I'm in love with you, Miss Jang, and that's why I've brought you here today—to propose to you."

Everything suddenly fell into place.

The puzzle pieces of his behaviour over the past days and weeks finally clicked together, forming a clear picture. Empathy flooded your heart as you realised the depth of his struggles. You knew all too well what it felt like to be singled out, treated like an outsider even by those closest to you, and shown no respect despite your status.

However, you felt a pang of shock upon learning about his feelings for you and his pursuit. It was unexpected, to say the least. You hadn't imagined that he harboured such emotions, especially considering the complexities of your respective situations.

Observing your softened demeanour while listening to the prince's confession, Jongho and Eunsook felt a resurgence of worry. They understood Yeosang's struggles and empathised with his difficult life. Despite that, they couldn't ignore the fact that you were a married woman. Regardless of what His Highness may have gone through, pursuing someone who was already committed was inherently wrong.

The two of them exchanged a concerned glance, silently acknowledging the complexity of the situation. While they sympathised with the prince, they couldn't condone his actions, especially his attempt to come between you and your husband using such underhanded tactics.

Your chaperones would soon find reassurance in your response after a moment of contemplative silence. With a deep inhale, you attempted to offer Yeosang a smile, despite the earlier anger you felt towards him, "Look, Your Highness, I understand the hardships you've endured, and probably continue to endure. I genuinely empathise with you. I'm also truly grateful to have met you. I've never had any friends before, so meeting someone who shares similar interests means a lot to me."

His Highness grinned sadly, "Ah yes, I'm sensing a 'but' there."

With a light chuckle, you nodded, "But it's precisely because I see you as a friend and care about you that I want you to understand that whatever you think you might feel for me isn't love."

He stared at you with wide eyes, but you halted him before he could protest, "Perhaps you've mistaken the feelings of gratitude and joy from finally meeting someone who treats you sincerely for love," You gently explained, "My prince, love doesn't simply happen at first sight like that. It requires much more than that; two people must go through so much together before they truly understand their feelings. I've been through it myself, and I can assure you that what you're feeling is definitely not love."

"Lastly, please address me as Lady Park. I haven't gone by Miss Jang for a while now. While we can remain friends, I must insist that you respect my marriage and abandon any plans you may have. My heart belongs solely to the general, and that won't change."

You sighed at the pleading look in the prince's eyes, understanding that convincing him wouldn't be easy. But you had said your piece, and the rest was up to him to realise. Feeling the onset of a headache from everything, you bowed one final time, saying, "If there's to be no banquet as you've mentioned, we'll be taking our leave then. Thank you for having us today, Your Highness. I wish you happiness."

I'm almost there, my love.

Nearly two days had passed when Seonghwa finally arrived back in the city and approached his own estate. The journey had been one of the most challenging he had ever undertaken. He cursed his injury for slowing him down, as he had to make several stops to rest and change his bandages, mimicking the actions of the medical team soldiers who had tended to him. Despite his urgency to leave camp, he had taken care to pack enough supplies to last the trip back.

Regardless of the constant yearning to be with you again, he felt a twinge of guilt for leaving his army behind abruptly due to such personal matters. If his soldiers knew about his absence, some might consider him irresponsible for his actions.

Shaking his head, he recalled how he used to criticise some of his men distracted by thoughts of their loved ones during battles, viewing them as foolish for letting such distractions affect them. If someone had told him he would act similarly in the future, he wouldn't have believed them for a moment.

The things you do to me, my wife.

The mere thought of seeing and being near you again made his heart flutter. He admitted to himself that he had become one of those fools he once criticised, but he wouldn't change a thing. Experiencing love had shifted his perspective entirely, compelling him to do whatever it took to keep you by his side forever. Having saved you from a life of suffering, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving you alone again. He was determined to be the one to bring you joy, protect you, and stay with you for the rest of your days.

Or... was he really?

His conviction would soon waver as the ominous sensation in the pit of his stomach intensified with each step closer to his home. Alongside it, the pain in his abdomen escalated steadily. What should have been a mere graze now felt like something far more serious. In truth, the discomfort in his insides was becoming unbearable.

Seonghwa gritted his teeth as he clutched the area of his wound one last time, his breath catching in his throat as a sudden wave of pain coursed through him. With a determined exhale, he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to endure the agony that surged within him.

At the entrance of his estate, the staff responsible for guarding widened their eyes in recognition of their master's arrival. He quickly straightened his posture, putting on a facade of strength to conceal any signs of his injury, "Master, you're back!" One of the staff members exclaimed, their surprise evident as they rushed forward to assist him down from his horse.

Within moments, Jongho emerged from the estate, his expression a mix of concern and relief as he hurried to the general's side, "Sir, I assume you've received my letter?"

Your husband nodded, "I did. His Highness also sent me one, mentioning his intention to propose to your mistress."

The assistant's eyes rounded in surprise, realising the extent of the fourth prince's confidence to openly declare his intentions to pursue you to the general, "Well, he certainly made the attempt."

Seonghwa's steps faltered at this revelation, and he turned to face Jongho, who seemed equally uneasy, "So, it's already happened?"

Nodding, the younger man blinked anxiously, "S-sir, it's not good. The mistress knows," The general felt his blood run cold at that, but he pressed on, "Please, be more specific."

Jongho swallowed hard, bowing his head apologetically, "She learned about the Jang family's punishments and what you've done to the former minister. The prince took us to the palace torture chambers as part of his scheme. While she stood her ground there, she demanded that I tell her everything that happened as soon as we got back."

Suddenly, Seonghwa understood the source of his ominous feeling. He should have known better than to believe he could keep the truth hidden from you forever. Surely, your compassionate heart would struggle to accept what he did. Taking a shaky breath, he asked, "Where is she now?"

"She's in the House of Lotus, sir. She hasn't left since we returned from the palace two days ago. But don't worry, Eunsook has been making sure she eats her meals." Jongho reassured him.

With a nod of gratitude towards the assistant, your husband made his way towards your quarters, passing by the head maid who was taken aback by his sudden appearance. She knew he should have still been at the warzone. However, a quick glance from Jongho conveyed that the master had returned because of their letter. Understanding dawned on her, and she could only hope for the best.

The general's breath hitched as he laid eyes on you again after so long. There you sat in the pavilion, your attention fixed on the lotus pond before you. You appeared just as radiant as the last time he had seen you. However, this time, instead of your usual lady etiquette books laid open, his heart lurched at the reports detailing your father's latest status beside you. These confidential documents, presented to Seonghwa monthly, tracked the former minister's movements. Biting back the wince that threatened to escape him, he ignored the increasing pain in his abdomen and called out your name.

As your head snapped up at the familiar voice, you gasped at the sight of your husband at the entrance of your quarters. Slowly rising from your seat, you cautiously approached him, unsure if this was a hallucination. For so long, you had imagined him here, in this very spot, so many times that you couldn't count. You hoped it was not your mind playing tricks on you again.

This isn't another dream, is it?

You didn't understand why he was back; there was no news about the war being over yet. It's not that you didn't want him here, you just didn't expect him to be here all of a sudden. Standing before him, you felt your eyes water and your heart pound from seeing him again. It took you a moment to process his presence before you whispered, "S-Seonghwa... what are you doing here?" When he did not respond, you noticed his gaze staring past you at the reports Jongho was forced to hand over to you.

Despite the intense urge to pull you into his arms and never let go, all he manages is to harden his expression, "So, I see you've found out." He said, his voice strained.

This wasn't how either of you had imagined your reunion after the tearful goodbye. With a deep sigh, you nodded grimly, your mind flashing with reminders of your family's physical punishments and the gruesome things he'd done to your father, momentarily shattering the loving image in your eyes, "Yes, I did. And if I hadn't, were you planning never to tell me? What happened to not keeping secrets between us, hm?"

Truth be told, you found yourself no longer harbouring anger towards him for this matter. Over the past two days, you'd taken time to reflect, understanding his perspective and somewhat rationalising his actions. While you weren't exactly upset, you simply desired to hear the whole truth from him directly and perhaps receive a plea for forgiveness. In any case, you were prepared to run into his embrace.

Your words to the prince in the palace were sincere. Your heart belonged only to Seonghwa, and that wouldn't change. You firmly believed in the strength of your love, likening it to the resilience of your lotus flowers, enduring despite the obstacles. This situation, you believed, was just one more challenge to overcome together.

But instead of giving you the response you expected, your heart sank at the cold smirk he wore before speaking, "That's right, I never would have told you the truth if it were up to me. You women are so troublesome; it was stupid of me to think I could actually handle one for the rest of my life. Besides, what difference would it have made? This is who I am, and you knew about my reputation from the moment you were promised to me. So, are you really that surprised?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, he turned away from you, adding, "You've seen the reports. Now that you know what I'm capable of, I won't bother hiding anything from you any longer."

His words pierced your heart like daggers, leaving you reeling in disbelief. Shaking your head in denial, you whimpered his name, hoping for some semblance of the man you loved to emerge from behind that cold facade. This wasn't what you wanted from him. You wanted him to fight for you, to reassure you of his love, just as you had done for him. Confusion gnawed at your insides.

Why wasn't he fighting for you?

What was going on?

"Seonghwa, I-I don't understand—"

Before you could finish, he cut you off abruptly, his words laced with finality, "Yes, it was me. I did all those horrible things to your family. That's the kind of monster I am. But now, you're free. Your family is gone, and no one can dictate your choices anymore. You're your own person. You can do whatever you want and love whoever you want. If it's the fourth prince you wish to be with, you have my blessing. Maybe he's the one who can give you the companionship you desire."

With that, he turned and stormed out of your quarters, leaving you alone and bewildered, with no assurance of his return.

Once out of your sight, he released a shaky breath and clutched his wound, feeling the fabric already soaked with blood seeping through his bandage. Despite his blurring vision, he stumbled through the estate, desperate to depart before anyone noticed his condition. Seonghwa wasn't oblivious; he knew he must have been poisoned when the pain of his injury became too unbearable.

With a sinking feeling, he realised he didn't have much time left, and perhaps Prince Yeosang was right. Maybe what you truly needed was a husband who would consistently stay by your side and not cause you the worry he did.

I'm sorry, my love. This is for the best.

« Preview of Part 18 »

"Physician Jung, there's a letter for you."

Yunho furrowed his brows, pausing his work on his latest concoction aimed at alleviating all of your scars. Despite the challenges he faced in this endeavour, he remained steadfast in his commitment to helping you restore your skin to its original state.

Setting aside the herbs he was working with, he approached the entrance of his quarters to accept the letter from Jongho, "For me?"

The younger man nodded in confirmation, "Yes, oddly enough, it arrived via a military messenger. Initially, I assumed it was intended for the general, but it's specifically addressed to you. General Officer Song requests your urgent attention."

Blinking, the doctor processed the information, "Wait, do you mean General Park has returned to the estate?"

Jongho smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck, "Oh, yeah. He arrived unannounced just a while ago, thanks to our letter. I suppose the situation at the warzone must have calmed down if he's able to return so quickly. He's with the mistress now. Let's hope things will improve with him here."

Relieved, Yunho nodded and quickly unfolded the letter. His stomach dropped, and his eyes widened at the hastily scribbled words, "H-he's with the mistress, you say?"

"Yes, what about it?" The assistant furrowed his brows in confusion as he watched Yunho shove the letter back into his hands before bolting out. Reading the letter himself, he soon found himself rushing in the same direction, dread filling his being.

No, this can't be.

I was so excited that I got to writing this as soon as I completed all the assignments for the first half of my semester! Only three parts until the end of this story, how we feeling out there?🤧

Holy crap, thank you so much for 1.4k followers! As always, thank you so much for reading and please let me know your thoughts! <3

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[nyctoaerah]

TWTWTWTWTWTW: GORE TWTWTWTWTW

Hi, I love the Yandere Gojo series! I'd like to make a request. My request: Yandere Gojo gives his non-sorcerer lover the worst punishment he's ever seen in his life because she keeps trying to run away… he makes her unable to move or run again. either amputation or broken bones. But in the end, he regrets it very much.

⋆♱⋆REMINISCENT

⋆♱⋆SYPNOSIS: Satoru loves Suguru deeply and he misses the latter so much, so how could he let go off you? How could he let a pretty little thing like you slip through his fingers when you’re literally just like suguru?

⋆♱⋆WARNINGS: Yandere (duh) bone breaking, Surgery stuff, Satoru himself is already a warning, Satoru has Capgras delusion disorder, Both Reader and Satoru ended up having shared psychosis disorder. Satosugu.

⋆♱⋆PAIRINGS: Yandere! Gojo Satoru x Fem! Non-sorcerer reader. Satosugu.

⋆♱⋆NOTE: okokok, i know that you didn’t requested satosugu anon, but there’s a reason why there’s satosugu in here, and it’s important in the plot. Hope you understand<3. Broken bones is already a bad punishment, but i’ll add a twist on it;) Hearts and Reblogs are greatly appreciated<3. Please do support me in wattpad and quotev too<3 i suck at doing angst, sooo.... Idk.. might make a part 2 though.

MASTERLIST

HE WASN’T THE MAN that you once knew, no longer the gentle soul who showered you with affection. The bond you shared over four years had been pure, filled with love and warmth, until that cursed night , Twenty fourth of December in 2017.

Satoru’s mental state appeared to deteriorate drastically ever since that day. The once warm and affectionate gaze he used to cast on you had now transformed into a cold and distant stare, devoid of any tender emotions.   

Sometimes he would blame non-sorcerers like yourself too, grumbling things under his breath like

“You non-sorcerers are the reason why suguru went spiraling”

You didn’t grasp the true meaning of this statement until you did a little digging into Satoru’s past. It was then that you realized you had been living in a state of blissful ignorance.

And after learning about his troubles, instead of scolding him for his erratic behavior and pushing him away, you chose to approach him with kindness and understanding—You felt bad, for you would mostly just yell at him for acting like that, when you didn’t knew the reason why he was like that.

You made every effort to comfort him and show him that you cared deeply for him, to show him how apologetic you are for being so ignorant. However, at times, you also confronted him with harsh truths in order to bring him back to reality. 

In these moments of brutal honesty, Satoru took notice of the uncanny similarities between you and Suguru. From the way you conducted yourself to the gestures you made, tie your hair up, everything seemed to echo Suguru’s presence.

The way you spoke, moved, the way your lips would curl up into a smile, the way you would laugh and interacted with others all carried a trace of Suguru’s aura.

And your voice, fuck, the softness of your voice was reminiscent of the way suguru’s voice would soften whenever he talks to satoru.

Despite lacking a clear physical resemblance, the essence of Suguru seemed to radiate from you in all aspects of your actions.

And perhaps, it’s the way that you managed to make him see suguru in you was what made him so obsessed with you. He saw echoes of his beloved friend in your every gesture, your every word. Sometimes, in a strange mixture of jest and earnestness, he would playfully dub you and Suguru, as if to merge the two of you into one entity. Sometimes he would joke about you being suguru’s genderbend.

You found it peculiar yet endearing at first, dismissing it as a harmless quirk borne from grief, as you had always seen it as his coping mechanism. Little did you know, this oversight would prove to be your gravest mistake.

Despite the warning signs he showed, his redflags, you somehow chose to endure it all.

And that was your biggest mistake.

His once-charming gestures now morphed into suffocating constraints, possessiveness, obsessiveness. Slowly but surely, he isolated you from the outside world, severing even the most basic ties of communication with your own family.

Your past talking stage and lovers would be either found dead or missing without any trace. The friends who once stood by your side now regarded you with wary glances, distancing themselves.

Of course, you felt a deep sense of sadness, believing there was a flaw within yourself. And seeking solace and understanding, you opened up to Satoru, shedding tears as you shared the studf that you were facing in your life. In your moments of vulnerability, he offered you comfort, reassuring you that he was all you needed and that you should distance yourself from other individuals. He warned you that these individuals posed a threat to your well-being, emphasizing that their intentions were harmful—and insisting that he was the only one that you need.

As much as you wanted to believe Satoru and trust him completely, your innate intuition stopped you from fully buying into his facade. Because despite his convincing demeanor, a lingering sense of unease tugged at the back of your mind, suggesting that something wasn’t quite right.

Moreover, Satoru showed a tendency to involve himself in even the most mundane of tasks, such as brushing your hair, typically tasks you would manage alone. It seemed as though he viewed you as some kind of doll, someone he could manipulate and control at his own whim. He made sure to always be in close proximity to you, refusing to give you any moments of solitude. The only instances where he allowed you some privacy were during bathing or changing, and even then, he seemed reluctant to leave your side.

His obsession became so intense that he became insistent on your constant presence by his side, whether he was on a mission, teaching, or interacting with colleagues. His students and coworkers all recognized the unhealthy attachment, with Shoko and even Megumi expressing pity towards you for being caught in Satoru’s suffocating love. Despite the visible discomfort from all parties involved, Satoru remained unmoved, justifying his actions to keep you close at all times.

Even when Shoko attempted to reason with him and knock some sense into his fucked up mind, Satoru would manipulate the situation to shift blame onto them, for separating him with suguru—and that they’re the reason why he only has you now.

Nanami also tried to intervene by trying to convince the higher ups to arrange dangerous solo missions for Satoru in hopes of separating you two, but his stubbornness prevailed.

Maki and Nobara also attempted to intervene, even organizing girls’ nights as a means of providing you with a break from Satoru, yet their efforts were futile. 

Ultimately, the support from those aware of the situation—Nanami, Megumi, Nobara, Shoko, Maki, and others—proved futile in alleviating the troubling dynamic with Satoru. Despite their best intentions and efforts, your circumstances remained unchanged due to Satoru's unyielding obsession on keeping you with him.

Everyone knew how fucked up he was, but what can they do?

Satoru is the strongest after all.

Your parents weren’t even aware of your situation, as you were not allowed to talk or visit them.

One instance stands out in your memory, when you attempted to say that you want to speak with your parents, and he adamantly refused, claiming it was too perilous. Despite feeling frustrated at the time, you ultimately acquiesced to his wishes. The following day though, a horrifying discovery awaited you— the lifeless bodies of your parents. It was at this moment that you began connecting the dots, reflecting on the untimely death and murder of your previous partners, the gradual alienation of your friends, the look of pity his students and colleagues gives you, the persistent reasoning of people trying to separate you from satoru, his increasing control over your actions, and the coincidental deaths of those you sought to interact with. 

The realization dawned on you that all of these  events were orchestrated by Satoru himself, with the sole intention of keeping you entirely under his influence. And an overwhelming sense of fear crept into your chest, prompting you to devise a plan to escape while he was on a mission. 

----𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆

Your entire body was engulfed in pain and weariness, each muscles contracting in pain, your breaths labored and shallow as if your lungs were about to give out—About to rupture, and a searing sensation in your chest as it tightens, heaving with each labored breath you took.

Your feet were raw and bloody, multiple cuts on it from the jagged edges of rocks you have stepped on, perspiration was all over your body in rivulets, and a dry, scratchy feeling in your throat due to lack of moisture and oxygen.

Everything burned, yet you persisted in moving forward, walking a fine line between imminent collapse and the urgent need to evade getting caught by Satoru—your boyfriend.

Rather than face capture, you were willing to risk death in your desperate attempt to escape.

You’d rather die trying to escape than live without trying to fight for your freedom.

The exhaustion consuming you mattered little, all that occupied your mind was the need to break free from his grasp and his control over you.

The passage of time was a blur, perhaps an hour had passed since you began running, your energy waning as your vision blurred with fatigue. 

Lost in the vast unknown surroundings, it seemed as though you were trapped in a never-ending loop. Uncertain of your location in Japan, the isolated landscape consisted only of a sprawling mansion, trees, and barren land devoid of any signs of human life. It felt as though you had been completely cut off from civilization.

As you continued running, tears streaming down your face, your mind were spinning and every hair on your body stood on end at the sound of his voice suddenly booming.

“Hm? Is that you that i see there, [Name]?”

You froze.

“What have I told you about leaving without my permission?”

The sound of Satoru's voice sent a shiver down your spine, freezing you in your tracks. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to keep moving, to escape his reach, but the fear of his wrath paralyzed you in place.

“S-satoru.. what are you doing here...?” 

You couldn’t comprehend how he had managed to be here when he was supposed to be on a mission. Your mind raced with confusion and disbelief.

“No, what are you doing here?” He asks, staring down at you coldly.

“Are you.. trying to run away?” He questioned you as he stepped closer to you.

Your breath hitched, throat constricting as you looked up at him with wide eyes, not knowing what to say.

“I-i..”

“I-i wasn’t i swear—”

You were left speechless as you were suddenly shoved you down, causing your head to hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood trickled down your forehead as a cry of pain escaped your throat. 

His gaze bore down on you with a chilling intensity, sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re trying to leave me..”

“I trusted you,” he whispered shakily.

“How could you? I made sure to go back as soon as possible after my mission was finished so that you won’t be in danger... And now you’re running away and putting yourself in danger?”

Out of nowhere, his hand tightly gripped your throat, squeezing with such force that it became difficult to breathe, leading to a sensation of suffocation and a blurred vision.

“S-satoru n-nnh! L-let go!”

Struggling to break free, you frantically attempted to pry his fingers off your neck, letting out choked screams in the process. Your body thrashed around violently, desperately trying to fend him off by kicking in all directions. 

“You’re really just like suguru... always trying to resist..” 

“I trusted you,” he whispered unsteadily, his voice cracking.

“But what have you done?” he asked shakily.

His pupils trembled like leaves in a fierce wind, his entire frame quivering with an unsettling intensity. Those piercing sapphire eyes bore into you, sending shivers down your spine in the dim, eerie stillness of the forest.

“L-let go p-please satoru!” You begged.

“P-please. A-ahn.. let g-go, ‘Toru, please,”

“T-toru, haaah, i-i c-can’t breathe”

He seemed to pause at that when you called him “Toru.” 

And slowly, his grasp slackened, leaving you gasping for precious breath as your lungs desperately clawed for every molecule of air.

You coughed, again and again and again, and he just watched you.

When you finally managed to catch your breath, you turned to look at him, your face contorted in anger abd fear.

“Y-you’re crazy satoru,” Your voice emerged hoarse and jagged.

“You’re crazy, i swear” You rasped as you dragged yourself away from him, only for him to close the distance.

 “Crazy?” he repeated.

“Yes, crazy for love.” His fervor seemed to border on mania.

“Yes I’m Enamored, Suguru.” he professed with an almost unsettling zeal, his voice now carrying a hauntingly romantic lilt as though the torment he inflicted on you was an act of devotion.

Your breath hitched.

“What...?” your eyes widened.

“I’m not... Suguru...” Your voice faltered, delicate lips quivering. Pain pulsed through every fiber of your being, urging you to run away, yet how could you escape from one so consumed by his own distorted reality? Satoru appeared to be in a haze, his eyes vacant and unseeing—He was in his delusional state.

“Suguru, let’s go home..” Satoru mumbled.

You swallowed thickly. You were about to make a dumb move, but fuck, he really needed to snap out of it.

Gently, you cupped his face between trembling hands, hoping your tender touch might pierce the delirium and make him snap out of it.

“Please, ‘Toru, focus on the sound of my voice. It’s not suguru, it’s me”

But he remained ensnared in his twisted visions, oblivious to reality.

“...Satoru... ‘Toru, listen to me. I’m not suguru.”

“I’m not him. I’m [Name], your girlfriend...”

Again, and again and again, you tried to convince him that you’re not suguru.

“I’m [Name], the one that you met at the bakery that you liked so much... And i’m not suguru ”

You phrased it in different words.

And yet...

He was still lost in it.

“What are you saying suguru?”

Dread constricted your heart, each moment bringing you closer to the brink. To flee would surely send him into a frenzy but to stay would probably result in suffering. 

“Don’t say things like that... Suguru”

he whispered.

“I still haven’t forgave you for running away.” He uttered, and a pit formed on your stomach.

“I’m [Name], not suguru—Toru... Please, fuck, snap out of it”

He ignored you as he gently caressed your cheek before guiding your head towards his for a kiss. Your heart pounded as your lips met, the sharp sting of his teeth on yours making you whimper.

“S’toru... Stop...”

When he didn’t stop, you reacted by biting his tongue hard, making it bleed. Surprisingly, this did not deter him; instead, he released a soft moan of pleasure. 

“Oh fuck... You’re still the same as always, suguru.”

You gasped as he finally pulled away from the kiss.

“Sa-Satoru... What the fuck..?” You shrieked. Why the hell did he said that? Does this meant that... He was in a previous relationship with Suguru? Did he used you as a rebound? No, fuck, he sees suguru in you.

You understand it now.

“I’ll make sure you don’t do it again,” He whispered.

“Huh?”

“Make sure that you don’t massacre a whole ass village again so that they won’t separate you from me...”

Slowly, deliberately, his other hand drifted downward toward your ankle. Your heart drops as you felt him do that.

Oh fuck, he’s not planning on snapping your ankles, is he?

“Satoru, no, no, no, no, no!”

You strained against his crushing hold, but could only witness in horror as his fist closed around the delicate bones.

“If you do that, i’ll never forgive you— AHHH!”

A strangled scream caught in your throat as you felt the unmistakable snap of your ankle splintering beneath his strength.

White-hot pain lanced up your leg and your vision blurred with tears of misery. Before you could process the pain of the first break, his hand was upon your other ankle. You knew what was coming yet were powerless to prevent it. Another sickening crack reverberated through your shattered nerves as satoru callously contorted the joint beyond its limits. Bone fragmented, muscle tore, and ligaments ripped apart, leaving your legs crippled and limp.

----𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍

His fingers pressed insistently beneath your chin, a mixture of gentle caress and firm control as he meticulously groomed your hair, each stroke designed to emulate the exact style of Suguru’s locks.

Tying it back partially, he sought to replicate every minute detail, ensuring you bore an eerie resemblance to his obsession—Suguru. But the true horror lay in his pervasive fixation upon you as Suguru incarnate. He paid face surgeons to sculpt and mold  your face until the reflection in the mirror bore a warped semblance to Suguru’s features, he would drape you in Suguru’s attire and bestowing upon you the very essence of his fucking bestfriend.

And the worst of it all? he managed to find suguru’s daughters and practically forced you to take care of them—like the way suguru would take care of them. Even suguru’s daughters were horrified — yet they were too scared to even refuse.

All of the horrors that he had made you go through broke you completely.

“Perfect,” he murmured with a self-satisfied hum, stepping back to survey his handiwork.

You just sat there, disoriented, and feeling hollow as an empty shell.

Stripped of your true identity and coerced into being someone else you weren’t. The drugs he administered clouded your mind, the brainwashing eroding your sense of self until you could no longer discern who you are. The only thing you knew is that you’re suguru.

It was a bad punishment, real, real bad punishment.

Your identity was snatched, and you were no longer yourself.

He furrows his brow, observing the silence that hangs between you.

“C’mon speak, suguru.” he urges, his gaze piercing into yours.

“Isn’t it perfect?”

Suddenly, a flicker of realization dances in his eyes as they narrow, scrutinizing the subtle yet noticable difference between your eyes and suguru. The shift is imperceptible to most, but to him, it is a glaring anomaly that demands attention.

A smirk curls onto his lips

“Seems like we need to adjust those eyes of yours as well, huh? Don’t you agree, suguru ?” 

Satoru sighed as his calloused fingers tangled themselves in thick ebony locks, pulling your motionless form taut against his chest. An ichor-cold sense of wrongness had settled itself deep in his marrow, its barbs tearing at his insides. 

His beloved Suguru was already here... But... Where is his [Name]?

“Nanako and Mimiko would be upset to see you like this suguru...”

​​​​​RING

RING

Satoru blinked at the sudden shrill clamor emanating from his phone—and he realized that someone was calling him, still cradling your form  against his chest with a singular hand. He took the device from his trousers one-handed, calloused fingers opening his phone.

When at last the lock screen dissolved into view, an icy shiver seized his marrowed bones. 

It was you—in your normal self, kissing him in the cheek, and you two looked very happy.

Why did suddenly felt wrong?

...

... It felt wrong...

So, so wrong.

Why did nostalgia for your genuine self now claw so vehemently at the fissures in his heart, when only Suguru had the right to reside there?  

[hanibalistic]

#946C47 | SUN WUKONG.

genre | fluff & angst

word count | 9192

warning | violence, blood, death / potential ooc + not accurate to jttw​

note | thank you for reading!!!

part |one, two, three

Opening your eyes from death was like coming to the surface after being underwater for too long. 

Contrary to popular belief, or at least the way different forms of media presented it, death didn’t feel like anything. 

There was no black space with your floating body or a separate plane of existence where you could walk on shallow water toward an afterlife. There was simply nothing, and that 'nothing' lacked nothingness. It was blank. It was a time skip.

The last thing you remember was closing your eyes on the ground, and the first thing you remember was that you died. Nothing happened in between the two memory spots. Your mind and body were dormant, like a computer shut off. 

The first sign of life from death was obnoxious and demanding.

Your ears cleared, but every sound around you fought to be noticed by your newly awakened brain that hearing immediately became an overwhelming action. 

Your eyes regained sight, but they hurt to use, like the permanent feeling of the sun in your eyes or an invisible eyelash falling inside. 

Your limbs moved regularly when you didn't think about it and stopped when you did, which you figured made sense. You never thought long and hard about moving your body parts before you died. When you walk, you walk.

Your breathing—the worst was retaking your first breath. Your body has been rid of everything human during your death. The motion to return those characteristics, such as blood flow and the traveling of air, was as uncomfortable as breaking out of a life-threateningly bad habit, as claustrophobic as suffocating yourself with a pillow.

But mostly, it was painful. It reminded you of being impaled by Wukong's staff; the jolt of pain and the sharp gasps were familiar. 

“Woah! Easy there, mortal!” 

Bajie stood up, his rake supporting his weight as he grabbed the gourd by his hooves.

Your eyes rolled up and down, opened and closed without a recognizable pattern. Your mouth remained open since your mind was forcing you to suck in big gulps of oxygen as if it was trying to nail into your body that it was alive and functioning again.

Drool dripped down the corner of your lips as a result, and you whined through each agonizing inhale, which lasted much shorter than your exhales because you were desperate to leave the pain where it resided in your lungs.

Resurrection gripped you by the neck and took you for a fly. Bajie didn't need to see the repercussions to know your mortal soul rejected being brought back from the dead. He figured it would happen before you even woke up. It was punishing you, and your body couldn't fight back. Unfortunately, he has no spell powerful enough to elevate your humanity to the point of enduring celestial phenomena. 

“Here, drink some water,” Bajie urged by shoving the gourd at your chin. “It’ll clear your senses.” 

He stepped closer to you and tipped the gourd up, letting the water pour inside your mouth. You angled your head upward to swallow the fresh liquid better, relishing the much-needed hydration. Peering at Bajie's familiar face, relieved tears welled in your eyes before you closed them to focus on chugging the fresh river water. 

He noticed them and chose to remain silent. Dying was never a trivial matter, and neither was resurrection. It was a destined matter, but nonetheless significant and, to some, traumatic.

Although he would have never cried, whined, or writhed, he understood why you did, and that was no insult to your humanity. It was a deduction made based on the experience of a mortal. 

Not a mere mortal, just a mortal. 

"Thank you," you managed after you finished panting from the massive water intake. 

“You’re welcome.” Bajie sat down with a sigh. “I have to say, it is nice to hear your voice again after so long.”

You looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

"You have been dead for more than five weeks. We tried to keep your body within the incense veil of the Keeper's Shrine to accelerate the process, but that was proven unsuccessful. We thought you were gone for good, kid!" he explained. 

Brows slightly raised with intrigue, you nodded. You haven't the faintest idea how these things work in their reality, so you've got nothing worthwhile to say. "How long does it usually take someone to return from the dead?"

"Resurrection usually doesn't take this long. Not even for the mortals of this world," he said. 

“As I suspected,” you muttered before letting a groan escape. “I need the immortality to get out of my body now!”

Bajie snickered. “That’s a wish I don’t hear often!”

“Yeah, well, I am not fond of living for a long time,” you said. “Life is hard enough as it is. There is no point in extending the suffering.” 

You looked down at your hands. A flicker of your home sped before your eyes, and you sighed gently, squeezing and releasing the tension in your fingers. You wondered how much time you’ve lost over there, if you’ve missed any holidays, or important notices from your professors or employers. Were your friends worried? You hoped they didn’t think you’d ghosted them.

“I just want to live a good life. A normal one,” you said. “I don’t want anything grand. Food on the table, a roof over my head, enough clothes…” You leisurely looked up at the trees. “I can learn how to find the tiny things in life enjoyable. That’s not a problem for me.”

Bajie’s smile was arched downward, almost as if he thought you were disagreeable. But there was one thing he knew for sure: he was right. You were no mere mortal. There was nothing mere about you.

“I’m curious,” you started suddenly. “How fast is resurrection for someone who’s not a human?”

"If Wukong were to lose one of his seventy-two lives, he'd return in the blink of an eye,” he explained. “That's the only reason why I haven't tried to kill him to cease his chatterbox of a mouth!"

“Are you sure it’s not because you can’t kill him?” you chuckled airily, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your arms on top. “He is stronger than you.”

"Facts do not equal the truth," he said. "He is stronger than me, but that does not make my inability to defeat him the truth." 

“I just woke up, Bajie.” You pressed a hand to your eyes and rubbed them. “Must you speak so strangely?”

“You should learn how to speak more eloquently.”

"If I talked like that in my world, people would make fun of me." 

"Gah! Your world is full of dimwits," he scoffed. "I care not for their opinion."

You stared at him with a smirk, then nodded in agreement. You thought the same at some point, so you've decided not to argue with him. 

"Where is everyone?" You looked around. The Keeper's Shrine was full of incense, and the forest remained as you last saw it. 

“Wukong went on a walk if he’s who you’re looking for.”

You pursed your lips, feeling heat rush to the bottom of your neck at his assumption. He wasn’t entirely wrong, though. You wanted to know where Wukong was—you wanted to see him, especially after the incident that caused your death. It was his weapon that killed you, but you wanted him to know you didn’t blame him for it. 

“I was asking about everybody.” 

“There is no need to deceive me,” Bajie snorted. “He told us what happened the night you died.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?” you muttered, dipping your chin into your forearm. You remembered what happened, so you could still recall when Wukong fell to his knees from the headache Sanzang caused. 

"My Master considers you a hindrance to our journey to retrieve the scriptures. We've had to diverge from the original path to seek hidden temples, and you weren't exactly handling the soul-sucking process well. It was time-consuming, and he thought we had set aside our primary goal of obtaining the scriptures.

Although, make no mistake, my Master is virtuous, especially to humans. But pinning the scriptures against you, he prioritizes the scriptures. 

“He thought when the opportunity presents itself, we should not save you from yaoguais. That isn’t to say we cannot protect you from them, only that we should ease off on trying to keep you from dying.”

You rolled your teeth over your bottom lip, the stinging pain in your eyes conjured by your focused stare on the floor. 

Bajie provided you with the clarity you have been asking for. A question regarding whether Sanzang has changed his mind due to what happened fell silent on your tongue once your mind realized its obvious answer—no, he has not changed his opinion about you. 

As a monk with values, who is true to his religion, he cannot change his opinion about you so long as you continue to hinder their journey. 

You weren't so much angry at Sanzang for what he did than you were conflicted. He wasn't off your hook, obviously. There would be undeniable caution toward him from now on.

However, you understood his choices. He has principles that he stood by, and you respected him for that, even though, at times, you thought he was more of a slave than a follower of those rules.

“I just wish he came clean with how he felt about me instead of avoiding it,” you said. “We could have worked something out. I am willing to make accommodations.”

“I don’t believe he thought you strong enough.”

“Must I be?” 

Bajie was taken aback. His eyes gave him away, as did the clearing of his throat. He never thought about that. "Well, I–"

“It doesn’t matter," you cut off.

“If something has to happen–for the greater good, I suppose–then it shall happen regardless of my ability. I will always be human, and I will always be unlikely to defeat a monster ten times my size. That is it. My weakness is a factual statement. But… people will always suffer under the hands of destiny. What must happen can't not just because I'm too ill to handle it.

"I will continue to not be strong enough, and I will fulfill my goal while so.”

"Hmph," Bajie scoffed after a moment. There was a hint of laughter in it. He realized that you’ve forgotten an important lesson he taught you: fact does not make truth. But, he supposed there was value in your humble ignorance. “That’s the most grown-up thing I've ever heard you say."

“Thanks,” you laughed. “I learn from the best.”

"Flattery doesn't work on me, kid!" he exclaimed dismissively. "Now go find your monkey! He should be with Sanzang, taking a stroll somewhere. He'll be glad to see you!"

“Who? The monk or the monkey?”

“You know who!”

You carefully got up from the ground. Bajie watched your legs wobble briefly as you rekindled your motor functions. Slowly and steadily, you stepped away from the protection of the Keeper's Shrine, and you halfheartedly threw a peace sign in response to Bajie warning you to be aware of yaoguais.

You tried to be more aware of your surroundings as you traveled through the forest, but the sun was warm on your face, and the ground was solid beneath your feet. 

You never thought you would think this, but you were happy to feel alive again. 

It felt like summer. Your bloodied sweater was likely abandoned at the place of your death. You didn’t mind that; it wasn’t expensive, and the weather didn’t call for it. 

Every heavy step involved planning a proper reaction to finding Wukong and Sanzang. You would be glad to see them again, but you weren't sure if they felt the same. Sanzang probably wouldn't, and the last time you checked, Wukong wasn't happy about your confrontations.

It’d be best to eliminate any possible instances of awkwardness. 

After what felt like a half an hour's walk, you stopped moving forward to rest your legs. Bajie said they shouldn't be far, yet you haven't heard a trace of motion anywhere near. 

Brows furrowed, with sweat stuck to your skin, you looked around at the trees and bushes littered everywhere in the forest. None have defining features that help you determine where or how far you've gone. You stepped to the side, the friction between the ground and the bottom of your shoes ridiculously vibrant in your ear. 

Perking your head down at your feet, your gaze hardened as your ears zeroed in on the environment. Nothing. The cicadas have vanished, the leaves were not blowing, the bushes ceased their rustles, and there was no dancing breeze.

This part of the forest has become silent, and you've learned that it means a predator is lurking. 

Pinching the hem of your shirt, you held your breath in your throat as a wavering fear crept around your head like a shadow phasing in and out of sunlight—there was no way. You couldn’t be fooled twice by a yaoguai, could you? The forest housed a variety of creatures and animals. It could just be a grizzly bear! 

“Tang Sanzang!”

You flinched at the piercing holler, your hands flying up to your head to take cover until you recognized it screamed a familiar name. With bated breath, your arms fell to your sides, and you spun toward the voice. It sounded everywhere around you, an echo throughout the forest, but you recalled seeing where the birds flew from where they were hiding in the trees. 

They wouldn't fly toward the sound of danger, so you should go in the opposite direction. 

You jogged, ignoring each stumble at uneven grounds until you eventually came across a spacious field. 

An abandoned building stood destroyed as if a terrible storm had blown a hole through it. It had collapsed into itself, leaving no room to check for its interior. In front of the house was an unkept grass field flattened and charred haphazardly by what you could only assume was a forest fire. 

The sun shone down like a spotlight at the one you’ve been looking for—Sun Wukong, in the flesh, standing with his waist slightly bent and a desperate expression on his face.

You opened your mouth as you walked forward. You stopped when you almost tripped on something soft, your feet flying up and stomping on the ground behind you to catch yourself.

Instinctively glancing at the blockage, you gasped aloud when you saw the one-eyed yaoguai at your feet. Its mouth opened with an unreleased scream, and blood stained like tears down its eye.

The sunlight panned across the grass field at your attention, an example of your mind clearing out spaces for other things besides Wukong. That was when you finally saw them—the dead bodies. Multiple lifeless bodies were lit atop the bladed grass—your eyes widened at the soaking red grass tips, and then you glanced up at Wukong.

"Why can't you just do this one thing for me!" Wukong screamed at his Master. He pressed a hand to his chest, willing his nails to cut through his body into his heart. "I killed all these yaoguais! I'm going rogue again! I'm becoming a hindrance! You have to punish me. It's your responsibility!"

Sanzang stared woefully at Wukong’s desperation. His hand remained under his chin in preparation, but he did not grant Wukong’s masochistic wish. 

Sensing the monk's unwillingness to cast the spell, Wukong bit his lower lip, a frustrated redness doubling across his face. He gritted his teeth and pressed his nails to his head, digging into the flesh enough to draw blood. He hooked his fingers around the gold fillet and didn't try to take it off. He only pretended to because he knew he needed it now more than ever. 

"Master, please!" he begged through a hoarse scream. "You were willing! When [Name] was–"he gasped through an irritated growl– "when they were dying! You were willing to let them suffer! You chose to punish them because you thought them an obstacle! I've become one, too, yet you won't punish me! How dare you!"

“You let me kill them! You left that on my conscience!” Wukong accused, but his finger pointed at himself more times than it did Sanzang. 

This wasn’t the outcome Sanzang desired when he let you die. 

Wukong hadn't been impatient about your resurrection; he was hopeless. If he were told how long it'd take for your body to return, he would have waited earnestly by your side, holding your shell close and keeping it warm. But he wasn't warned about the unpredictable duration, and you never woke up. 

He thought you were gone and spiraled back into his beastly nature.

However, Sanzang knew very quickly that the descension to madness was deliberate. Wukong was still clever and disciplined. He still retained what was taught throughout the journey before your sudden emergence. 

This murderous spree was not a marker of his return to how he used to be—the supremely arrogant and destructive monkey who nobody trusted or liked. It was a cry for condemnation, a plead to be retributed.

Wukong killed you, so someone else should kill him, too. He can suffer no pain but yours.

Sanzang read him like an open book. Unfortunately, giving in to what he wanted would only reinforce the behavior, so he stepped back and refused to spell, no matter how much bloodshed he caused.

"Wukong..."

"No! You're not listening to me!" The monkey groaned into his hands before harshly rubbing his palm down his face. "What more must I destroy? When will you be satisfied, Master?" 

"I am not satisfied by your behavior, Wukong. Understand me," Sanzang said. "I simply will not stand to let you guilt me into hurting you."

"You've already done that," Wukong spat.

"You cannot truly be bothered by this, can you?" Sanzang questioned. "The immortal peach has been consumed. Trust nothing else but the product of the celestial garden. Their death is not definitive."

"They're still dead!"

"Then I suppose they are."

A fiery sensation burned behind Wukong's eyes and painted Sanzang red. The staff appeared in his hand, still uncleaned with the scent of your blood, and he abruptly lunged at the monk, who took the unplanned bait and immediately began to chant the fillet-tightening spell.

Wukong fell to the ground but didn't squirm or writhe as much as usual. Exhausted pants escaped his lips, and he drilled his head against the floor, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned his senses into the agony. When he looked up at Sanzang again, his body barely able to move at his will, he managed a triumphant smirk.

"Is this what... I must do...?" he gritted out, "I... I have to perform the bottom of the barrel... for you... my Master... to grant me just a little mercy!" 

Sanzang pursed his lips in disdain. "You push the limits of my tolerance, you blasted monkey."

Your gaze hardened at the familiar insult you remembered reading in the book. Their conversation didn't provide any context to the argument, but you could tell Wukong had done something forbidden, and Sanzang was punishing him. 

After Sanzang's voice fell, Wukong finally started to exhibit signs of discomfort as he scratched at his fillet. You never knew if the spell could adjust the tightness of the fillet, but it seemed Wukong couldn't handle the pain quietly anymore. 

His cries filled your ears, making you wince. It wasn’t that the novel didn’t describe it well enough or the actors had lousy acting. The reality of the band-tightening spell was simply much more painstaking.

You quickly stepped over the dead yaoguai to run toward him. Your knees gave out when you were near Wukong, and you fell, your palms scraping the dirt. You ignored the mild pain and scrambled over. You grabbed onto him and pulled him to your chest, a hand over his shoulder and the other at his hand, and then you snapped up at Sanzang, your brows furrowed with anger.

"That's enough! Stop hurting him!" you shouted, tears rolling down your face uncontrollably. You didn't think you were particularly upset, only that Wukong's cries affected you like most people's agony. Or, perhaps you were just afraid you couldn't convince Sanzang to stop.

"He understands. He won't do it again, whatever it is. He gets it, so just stop!"

Sanzang looked at you, his voice trailing off to a pause. You gulped nervously, your hands squeezing Wukong closer to your side as if that was any help. You looked at Sanzang like he's a cautionary tale, eyes cowering but gaze unwavering—confronting him bravely and silently, watching him like he's a demon but cradling Wukong like the opposite. 

"You're back." He glimpsed at Wukong, whose ear pressed against your chest. "Please return to the Keeper's Shrine by sundown. The night is dangerous."

Walking away from your fallen figures, he untied his horse by the tree and left, holding on to the rope, slowly strolling further away from the bloodbath on the floor. 

You gritted your teeth into a frown as a hand clumsily wiped at your wet eye. Confusion tinkered above your head like floating question marks at Sanzang's attitude. Undoubtedly, he wouldn't express much excitement considering his present grudge, but you thought he almost looked relieved. Not because you resurrected but because Wukong has finally calmed down. 

He stared at the grass with his arms around your waist, silently waiting as the world calmed around you. His hands no longer trembled as they did—an initial reaction to your sudden presence. Dry eyes made wet by trapped tears and bare neck made hot from a veiny and sour sensation, he relished even the fabric of your shirt against his skin. 

Your heart palpitated irregularly, and Wukong suffered gentle panic from that. Discarding the logic that your heart was responding to the worrisome event just now unfolded, your racing heartbeat filled his head with unhinged outcomes that served to take you from him again. 

There were no yaoguais around; he's murdered them all. Those who were smart had fled long before the altercation with Sanzang. The bugs whispered in their home, and nature resumed its daily wandering, moving leaves and blowing breezes. 

The longer you embraced on the floor, letting the sun kiss you warm, the more you relaxed. The world felt brighter than before, and your stillness in each other conveyed feelings hidden snuggly within the thousand words your exhausted bodies couldn't express. 

Your heart began to slow down to how a human heart was meant to beat: soft and steady. Alive. He wasn't entirely human, but Wukong thought his heart moved in identical shapes. He measured yours and matched it with his own, his senses isolating and gathering to hear inside your chest and his body, an overdramatic calculation to further prove to himself that you were alive. 

But his relief traversed your aliveness. It was a much-needed release from remorse. It was vindication. You being here was permission for him to stop physically and emotionally tormenting himself. You being here, hugging him so gently, unlike his feared expectations, where you'd flinch away because your memories wrote that he was your killer—your endearing hands spoke: you can stop punishing yourself. You no longer have to pay for a sin you thought you committed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry it went down like that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” You shook your head. “I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t think I blame Sanzang either.”

Perhaps nobody is the problem. One thing merely led to another. If one backtracks too much, one would end up at the wall of God's home, and it just wasn't possible for him to take the fall for everything. 

“How do you feel?” he asked. 

“Hm?” You glanced at him, the gaps of your fingers decorated with the rough fur atop his head. “What?”

“Are you well?” he rephrased. 

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” It was barely audible.

“What about you?” you asked. “Are you okay?”

Wukong felt the shape of your waist on his palm. Solid, pudgy, human. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m okay.”

Wukong joked that you should exercise more, and you reluctantly agreed. 

Instead of using the Nimbus cloud for faster travel, you and Wukong decided to walk back to Keeper’s Shrine together. It was an opportunity to reconcile, and since there wasn’t much to catch up on about you being stuck in a void, you gave him space to discuss the recent downward spiral of his mentality. 

He tip-toed around the notion that he descended into total abandon after your death. A core part of himself that was so carefully nurtured by years of religious practices and those around him was gone just from you closing your eyes. Even someone like him could understand the significance of that, the significance of you. 

You read between the lines and didn't say anything. Instead, you changed the topic. You shifted to talking about trees, specifically about climbing them. 

“I want to say–“ you paused briefly to reach a hand up for the tree branch above your head– “you are part monkey, so climbing a tree is an ability built into you at birth.” 

"It remains that I can climb a tree with ease, and you cannot," he retorted, peering down at you leisurely from above, where he laid cross-armed on the tree branch you were trying (and failing) to get to.

His snarky remark didn't motivate you. It wasn't his intention to anyway, as he flashed you a mischievous grin when you clicked your tongue and glared at him. His tail danced below the branch, taunting you by curling and uncurling, creating the illusion of a support hook and taking it away. You heaved a sigh; you wouldn't have grabbed his tail to pull yourself up anyway.

"You know–"He sat up, his legs dangling over and his waist bent down to lean toward you. "You really need to train the muscles in your arms."

"Tsk. I bet you don't even know the anatomically accurate terms for the muscles," you muttered and then peeked away when you realized neither did you know them. "Shut up if you're not going to help me!"

Wukong laughed, but it sounded like a holler. Slapping a hand to his knee and staring at you with a gaze you shouldn’t trust, he pursed his lips and agreed. He extended his arm out for you to hold.

Brief words of encouragement (to receive his help, not to climb the tree) had to file out of his mouth for a few seconds before you decided he was trustworthy enough.

You sucked in a deep breath in preparation. Gripping the tree branch extra tightly with one hand, you let go of the other hand and pulled yourself up with all your might to grab onto Wukong. But he retracted his arm abruptly, leaving you to scramble the air with your fingertips.

You gasped, your forearm clumsily curling around the branch for your safety, your brows furrowing, and a string of scolding words ready at your opened mouth.

“Sun Wukong!” His shameless laughter drowned out your words. “I could have died!”

He paused immediately. The speed of the emotional shift was eerie. You awkwardly folded your upper lip between your teeth and shrunk your head between your shoulders at his widened, disbelieving eyes. You hadn't meant to say that. It wasn't retaliation. You said it because it made sense—if you fall from the height of this tree, you'll die. 

“How could you joke about that?” Wukong whispered, and then he turned away dramatically, with the back of his palm against his forehead and the other wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “I told you how much I went through when I thought you were dead. You know how much you mean to me!”

It took you a moment. When you realized he was fooling around—still—you rolled your eyes. 

“Haha, very funny.” You blew a large knot of air out of your mouth. “Help me up, damn it! Stop being annoying!”

He jolted at your shrill voice. A sneer crept onto his face, but when he reached for you again, he held your arm and swiftly hoisted you upward into the empty spot beside him. His hand hovered before your body as you adjusted to the seat.

"See? That wasn't so hard," you mused when you were done.

"You're being dramatic."

You chuckled through pursed lips, which made you sound triumphant. Looking over at him, your eyes squinted knowingly, you pointed out, "You remember what happened the last time you told me I was being dramatic, right?"

"Oh dear," he groaned, closing his eyes tightly and facing skyward with his hands on his head as if he were airing out his grievances to Heaven. "I'm never going to live that down, will I?”

"Not until I leave this place."

Wukong opened his eyes slowly. 

Sky blue is a blinding color, or perhaps the Sun. He never cared to know. He didn't look up too much because of all the enemies who lived there. But he became curious recently. You made him curious. He wondered if your sky was as difficult to observe as his.

“What do you plan to do when you go back?” he asked.

It wasn’t something you thought about until he asked. Everyone was working to find a way to bring you home. Erlang Shen has, surprisingly, sent you a few update letters on his progress, occasionally requesting a written reply to gather more information.

You never thought it was an impossible feat; if there’s a way for you to arrive here, there’s a way for you to leave. But the operation completely slipped your mind these days. 

"Eat an actual meal?" you slurred from a pout. "Sandwiches, french fries, ice cream…" A faux, tearful sob choked up your throat as your eyes squeezed, and you covered your head with your hands. "I'll kill for a can of Pringles even."

“It sounds like you miss home a lot,” he commented. 

“Not really.” A disagreeing scrunch showed up briefly on your face as you shrugged. “Outside of the food, a select group of people… and the internet, I guess. I don’t think I miss it that much.”

Wukong nodded. Unlike you, he’s obsessively thought about your departure since Erlang Shen began sending letters to you through any form of a flight animal. He understood there wasn’t anything more to think about. Any emotional obstacles he encountered have been dissected and analyzed so thoroughly that, at this point, he was merely recycling his thoughts and worrying himself. 

How wonderful would it be if you decided not to leave? If there wasn't anything you missed, why couldn't you stay? But he knew better than to ask you of such a huge favor—abandoning your life, leaving all that you've built behind, discarding your potential to be greater over there than here. For him or not, he couldn't ask you to do that, and he wouldn't. 

His head was lowered, and his eyes fixated on his lap to avoid showing the microchanges in his expressions. But you weren't looking at him. When he discreetly turned to you, you were staring at the sky.

Contentment filled the air around you; you seemed to enjoy the view as if you never got to properly look at the blueness back where you came from. He smiled to himself and faced forward. 

Whatever time you’ve got left with each other. Months, weeks, days, or even just hours—Wukong considers all seconds of it destiny. 

He understood if something has to happen, then it shall.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. 

You widened your eyes faintly and turned to him. 

His confession was unexpected. It was well-received because you somewhat returned the sentiment. When you leave, Wukong's world, full of magic and adventures, won't remind him of you. But your world full of stories and sculptures would always remind you of him. Rather than missing him, you supposed you would think of him a lot. 

“I’m going to think of you,” you returned.

He smirked briefly and fiddled with his thumbs, letting the silence eat away at the end of that conversation before he opened his mouth to speak again. 

“I’m still sorry,” he muttered, “about everything.”

It wasn't lost on you how groundbreaking it was that a character designed to be as arrogant as Wukong opened his mouth to apologize to you. You honestly didn't think you cared too much about what happened. The void didn't make you suffer. You fell asleep and then woke up—the process of them was painful but not enough to justify a grudge. 

“过去已成往事,” you said. “Water under the bridge.”

Wukong raised a brow, a somewhat impressed hum sounding from his throat. “How many idioms did that pig teach you?”

"He didn't teach me. He just says it a lot."

"He does. Sometimes, I pretend I understand what he's saying, not to give him satisfaction. Wukong scoffed, the hair on his body almost trembling in distaste. "Oh, by the way," he said through a sharp inhale and sat up. "What is Pringles?"

“Oh! Uh, it’s a brand of chips, but you don’t know that.” You held up your hand and pressed your fingers into a thin line. “It’s about this big. Depending on the flavor, it can be salty, spicy, or even sweet–“ you inhaled before returning to your previous mourning position– “Oh my god, I might actually kill for a single Pringles chip.”

Wukong scoffed and crossed his arms. “You can’t even climb a tree.”

“Hey, strength is not the only factor that makes up a killer,” you argued. “There’s motivation. There’s, uh, cleverness, calmness, wit–“

“Out of all four of them, you only have one,” he mused, leaning toward your face. “And it’s none of the latter ones.”

You smiled sarcastically before abruptly slapping a hand to his shoulder, surprisingly shoving him off the tree branch. A gasp ripped through your mouth, and you covered it. Carefully but quickly, you leaned your torso forward to glance at the ground. 

There wasn't a shadow of Wukong anywhere, which didn't make sense. The tree was tall, but it wasn't giant. You were still able to get a clear view of the ground! Either he has a secret hidden power of teleportation that he never told you about, even though it might have been handy in furthering the process of finding your way home, or he whisked himself away at the last second and went into hiding to prank you.

Couldn't say you missed those pranks, really.

"I know you better than believing you would fall to your death, Wukong, so come out–gasp!”

A sharp wind cut over your hair as the Ryui Jingu Bang extended in length at lightning speed. The leaves around you shifted, opening doors to let the sun in. 

Wukong, crouching on the top of his weapon with impeccable balance, was elevated to your face level. He grinned with amusement as he waited for you to slowly reveal yourself from your forearms, which covered your face from the gusts of wind just now. You opened your eyes to see him; under the sunlight, he thought they looked whimsical like water. 

"Hey," he greeted, bringing a hand off his knee to softly flick the tip of your nose with his fingers. "You know, I wish you would still worry about me a little, even though you know I'm competent."

"I do worry," you said. "I'll worry about you for a long time."

He whistled playfully. "For a long time?"

When you leave, there is no knowing how much chaos he'll cause and how much he'll suffer from it. You never wanted him to suffer, so you worry—you worry a great deal. 

You worry about him, and you are afraid for him. You grieve for him, and you cheer for him. Here or there, together or separate, it'll all be for him.

"Yes," you confirmed.

Wukong grinned. It was silly, but his heart knocked with an irregular rhythm, and he was both flustered and bitter. 

“Come on,” he reached a hand out, “let’s head back.”

You stared at him dubiously before taking his invite. He carefully tugged at your arm, and you let him, maneuvering your body to allow him more accessible access to pull you to his chest. His hand went under your knees, holding you sturdy, and you didn't bother to hold onto him for extra stability.

“Hey, you know–“ you looked up at his chin–“the last time you held me like this, I asked about those dreams you had of me. You still haven’t told me anything about that.”

He grimaced. He still didn’t plan to. 

Wukong didn't want to leave you alone with Sanzang, but under Bajie's physically violent persuasion (repeatedly knocking his back with a rake), he caved and went with everyone else to the nearby river for some water.

You weren't nervous because you knew it wasn't a confrontation. There was nothing serious the monk had to confront you with; you didn't count his opinion of you being incompetent and weak as a subject of a confrontation. His problem with you being a hindrance to their journey was but his speculation.

His feelings were valid, but they were also of his own making.

Sitting across from him by the fireplace, you remained silent and waited for him to speak. He didn't look at you. Either he didn't want to, or he felt too awkward. You didn't mind. His white horse, all curled up a few feet behind him, was a sight for sore eyes.

"Erlang Shen sent us a letter."

"Oh?" You perked up. It has been a while since you last received news from him.

"They think they've found a way to bring you home, and he has requested that you go back to test the method."

Jaw dropping slowly at the surprising news, you managed a few absentminded nods before looking down at the ground. 

Your shoes weren't new anymore. They were stained with dirt, dried petals, blood, and barely scraped-off substances. The bottom of it felt thin because of all the walking you've done. Perhaps you were wrong. The first thing you'd do when you return should be to get a new pair of shoes.

"I've been here long enough," you said. It was a thought that resulted from your shoes, perhaps. "They're bound to figure something out one of these days."

"I agree." Sanzang nodded. "Except, there is a problem."

You squinted your eyes and squeezed your hands together. It felt like your heart should beat faster, in rage, disappointment, or dissatisfaction, but you were steady as a log and calm as the mountain.

It didn't take him too long to reveal his intention, and you caught on immediately. No wonder he shooed everyone away and requested to speak to you privately. This wasn't a confrontation. This was a request, a shameful request. 

It has been cleared up whether Sanzang hates you, but the solved mystery merely turned into a problem that could only be solved by your departure, which cannot happen until you lose the remainder of your lives.

Sanzang wanted you to deal with your immortality faster.

"I heard from Bajie that you find me bothersome," you said.

His face was still like a rock. He didn't so much as twitch a muscle. If the tension weren't evident, you'd find the time to admire the stoicism.

"How surprising that you didn't figure that out from my actions alone," he said. "But he tells the truth. I do find you bothersome to our original journey."

"You must understand I cannot be faulted."

He paused for a prolonged second, his fixated eyes a loose image of gears turning in his head.

You were correct—to some level, at least. You never asked to be here; teleportation was beyond your control. You never asked to consume the immortal peach; even he cannot blame you for falling for that insolent monkey's many tricks. You never asked to undergo excruciating pain; your human body would never be fit for magical trials.

Nothing was your fault, except everything was because you're here. Everything happened because you're here. It may not be your intention to be here, but you were—results trump intentions. That has always been the curse. 

"You are not at fault, yes," Sanzang said. "But I blame you still. Just for being here, for being the clog that springs it all to life."

“But… that is not the only problem," Sanzang said.

You rolled your eyes and groaned, giving him a pointed raise of your brows to continue.

"You distract Wukong."

"That–" You poked your tongue at your inner cheek and squinted curiously. With an acknowledging hum and a sudden position that expressed intrigue in the conversation, you nodded at Sanzang. "Do you know about his dreams?"

It was the first time Sanzang's features ever shifted. He leaned back at your abrupt interest and frowned. "I don't know what you're speaking of."

"Really?" Your voice was low and dubious, but then you remembered Sanzang would, at any given chance, snitch on the blasted monkey he spoke so lowly of, and all your doubts vanished. He would have told you to embarrass the monkey. If he didn't, it was either he really disliked you or was telling the truth.

"He is distracted around you. Less cautious, more naive, and making careless mistakes. It’s as if he's lost his head.”

"Doesn't he always act like that?" you questioned. Walls of texts—blurred texts—from their novel flashed slowly before your eyes, and you faintly shook your head. "Actually… no. Wukong doesn't act like that. You…” The minor accusation fell weakly on your tongue. Your unwillingness to stir trouble made you backtrack, and you sighed. "Never mind."

“He enjoys your presence,” Sanzang said. “Surely, you’ve noticed that.”

"You don't think I got the memo when he fed me the immortal peach?" you grumbled through a sardonic chuckle. "I'm leaving, Sanzang. I shouldn't feed into it."

“How do you feel about him, then?”

Arching your neck to stare him down, you wondered why the monk would be interested in how you felt outside of hoping he'd find leverage against Wukong. It felt like a trap. A normal conversation with him about potentially romantic feelings felt like a trap. But, more importantly, you weren't sure how you felt about him, so you got the perfect excuse not to answer the question. 

“I’m not telling you that,” you replied monotonously. 

“That’s fair.” 

"I also won't force myself to do what you want," you added firmly. "I will try my best at the temples, but if it's physically impossible to continue, I will stop whenever I want. I do not care about your peace. I won't push my limits for you. You'll just have to wait it out."

Silence engulfed the air.

“That’s fair, too,” he replied. 

You have been here long enough to watch the seasons change. 

If you had the exact date, you could tell if Winter already arrived or if it was still late Autumn. To combat the cold, they had brought you to a town mid-journey and bought you a thin cloak. White fur was sewn to the collar to form a makeshift scarf. Those were the only options; you'd rather not freeze in the occasional snow. 

It kept you warm, and it kept you safe. You had pulled it closer around yourself when the Buddha you met this morning notified you that you were rid of your immortality. 

“Can’t sleep?”

You peered up at Wukong, who sat beside you with one leg propped up.

"No," you replied.

"Me neither." He tapped his index finger against his knee. "Oh, by the way, it's not real fur."

"Huh?"

He turned to you and pointed at your cloak, which you then wrapped tighter around yourself.

"I went back to the store to ask. It wasn't the best idea. I nearly scared that old man half to death showing up at his home," he snickered faintly and rubbed the back of his head. He stared at the floor almost bashfully. "I noticed you were doubtful when we got you the cloak. That was the only problem I could think of, so I had to go back and make sure. I just kept forgetting to let you know."

You stared at him, subconsciously reaching up to touch the warm softness around your neck. A smirk played on your face, and you turned away to hide it. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No problem," he muttered. "So! Tomorrow, early in the morning, you and I will head back to see that third-eyed freak! I can't say I'm excited to see him ever again! 

You pressed your legs closer to your chest and pursed your lips. Wukong was trying too hard to fill the awkward silence that wasn't meant to be awkward. It was an anxious sadness—the anxiety of experiencing an impending sadness—bottled and replaced by awkwardness. It was a facade. You two just didn't know what to say to each other before the eternal separation. 

A bitter taste developed around your mouth, forcing you to salivate uncomfortably. You swallowed the knots, feeling them drop past your throat and bounce on your heart to make it beat irregularly. 

You enjoyed being around Wukong. If you allowed it, you might even let your feelings for him develop and eventually admit that you liked him. But you didn't allow that, as you've decided to prioritize returning home. 

Nobody accused you of making that choice, not even Wukong. He would never. It was you who felt guilty for choosing to leave, and that still plagued you to this day. 

"I'm so sorry," you said suddenly.

Wukong slowly met your eyes. The confusion initially sitting in them vanished when he saw your furrowed brows and tearful eyes—whimsical like water. He wasn't wrong about that. Panicked, his hands hovered around your face, and he wiggled about, unsure what to do.

"What happened? What did you do?" he asked. "I'm sure you didn't do anything bad. Don't worry, I'll help you, okay? I promise."

You closed your eyes and cried quietly to yourself; flat whimpers, breathy hiccups, tears that were too cold against your cheeks, and comically placed hiccups. Wukong raised his brows, amusement bubbling at the brim of his quirked-up lips upon realizing how ridiculous (just a little!) you appeared. 

"Wukong, I wanna go home, but... but I–I don't want to leave. I don't–gasp, I don't want to leave you." You closed your eyes to squeeze more tears out. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should... I should just stay. I should stay here with you."

"Now, what about your Pringles chip?"

He chuckled when you cried harder at the mention of a past conversation. Putting his hand flat on the ground, he pulled himself closer to you and leaned his torso forward. His free hand gingerly wiped at your face, being extra aware of his sharp nails. You kept crying, and he didn’t feel like he could say anything to make you feel better besides agreeing to your sudden change of decision, but he couldn’t.

"Don't be silly," he said. 

He would be happy to have you stay with him forever, but you didn't want that. You were doubting your decision now because of him because you didn't want to leave him. But Wukong understood more than anyone else that he wasn't the significant marker that made up who you were. 

Your home, your school, your hobbies, your friends, your family, your potential career choice—those things made you who you were. Besides not wanting to be the reason for you making a spur-of-the-moment choice, he also wanted you to be surrounded by what you knew. 

You wouldn't achieve anything great in his world, but you would in yours. You deserve that chance.

"You have to go home," he whispered. "You can finally eat a proper meal. I want you to eat well."

You sniffed. "But I'm never going to see you again.”

His hand paused and hovered around your face. The established consequence felt much more threatening when you said it out loud. He calmed his nerves, pressed his palm against your face, and then urged you to move toward him. You did. Releasing the cloak on your shoulder, you climbed onto his lap and lay on his chest, snuggling close for warmth.

“Yeah, I guess we won’t see each other again,” he muttered, looking ahead at the forest. He tilted his head, inhaling thoughtfully. “I’m okay with that.”

“You are?” Your brows furrowed.

“Not the way you’re thinking!” he exclaimed. “I just… we can’t change that. No matter how much we beg or–“ he looked down at you– “cry, that’s never gonna change. We live in different worlds. We probably weren’t even meant to know each other.”

You threw your head back on his arm and groaned lowly. “Why are you saying all of this now?”

“What? No! I just meant–“ He laughed and pushed your head up so you’d look at him. “You’re going home. You have to go home. If we can’t change the fact that we’ll never see each other again, I guess I’d rather you never forget me.”

“That…” You rolled your eyes. “That won’t be an issue for me, but you!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! 可以不爱我 但绝不可以忘记我," you said. "You don't have to love me, but don't you dare forget me."

He cracked a smirk. "I do love you." 

"It's for the later future!" you gently exclaimed as your head went slack against his shoulder. “Please don’t get in trouble, Wukong. Don’t get hurt, don’t do anything bad. I want you to live.”

“Oh, I’ll live,” he mused. “Not sure about the other ones, though.”

You knew those were wishful thinking. If his journey went the way the novels detailed, you also knew he would be okay. You weren't sure why you said those things—perhaps you wished him a smooth journey, but that wasn't why people admired him so much. Looking at him, you figured it's okay for him to get hurt occasionally. Hell, he might even deserve it once in a while, but you didn't say that out loud. 

Wukong stared down at your suppressed grin, his hands soft around your limbs to remember their shape.

You didn't know that he would love you for far longer than you'd be here with him.

The Tanghulu almost fell apart when you bit into the strawberry on top. You caught the sugar pieces with your free hand. 

The line leading toward an opened temple continued to move. It was mainly occupied by tourists, at least you believed so. There was hardly any reason for a local to be at a tourist attraction on a regular weekday except for you. You had a reason. 

Taking a broad sweep across the crowded area, you arched your neck to look above the sea of heads at the food stands lined up in a row at the back. You chewed on the cold fruit as you debated what to eat next. There was a stall selling Liu Sha Baos, and next to it had an array of condiments set out for bagged Lou Meins. Humming in agreement, you decided to hit those stalls first after visiting the temple. 

Erlang Shen’s method worked. He had suggested going back home the same way you came, which would be through turbulence on an airplane. Creating a makeshift turbulence was easy for just about anybody there, and you remembered Wukong waving goodbye at you a second before the clouds, picked up by the wind, covered your sight. And then you were gone—you suddenly woke up in the emergency room, startling a nurse. 

Time barely passed when you were there. You slept through the rest of the flight after the turbulence, possibly causing inconvenience to the passengers seated by the window whenever they needed to use the restroom. They probably noticed something was wrong when you didn’t wake up even after the plane landed. They called an ambulance, and you had only just arrived at the hospital not too long ago. 

You didn’t turn back. You visited your family and stayed with them for however long you had previously planned. It was a great way to distract yourself from the out-of-world experience. But nothing quite pulled Wukong off your mind. 

You went hiking with your mother for the first time. The mountain reminded you of him. Heading to the supermarket and seeing the fruit section made you think of him. The way your grandpa talks reminded you of Bajie a little! And there was a newly released game about Wukong himself! You haven’t bought it yet. Maybe you would sooner or later. 

“Hey! Can you walk?”

You jumped at the voice behind you and instinctively bowed in response, an apology leaving you like a ghost. Seeing that you were next ahead to admire the statue, you put the Tanghulu on the paper plate and back inside the plastic bag it came from. As you walked ahead, you dusted your hands on your jacket and stopped at the center of the opened temple. Looking up, you bit your lower lip to avoid laughing.

The Sun Wukong statue looked nothing like Sun Wukong. 

But your memory made it look every bit like him. 

“I found you,” you said. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was out of the country with my family. But I went to many places and ate a lot of good food.”

He stared back at you, unmoving. Your eyes softened at the replacement in your head—you wondered what he was doing now. 

Subconsciously walking forward, your heart beating gently at your ear as you ignored the unnoticeable ‘Do Not Touch’ sign, you placed a hand on the statue’s feet and smiled. 

“I remember you,” you whispered. “I love you.”

“Hey! Please don’t touch the statue!”

You turned your head at the warning. A strong breeze blew toward the direction of the voice just as you turned, enough to knock the security storming at you to the ground. You slowly released your hand from the statue, mouth slightly agape as you watched passersby help the security stand up. Pulling at the strap of your bag, you glanced at Wukong one last time, the weird coincidence lingering in your mind, and then you went to apologize. 

Before you could walk out of earshot, you faintly heard a little boy speak to his mother behind you.

“Mom! Did you see that? The words on his staff lit up just now!”