#out of deductions ( ooc. )

[kthologue]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. two weeks have slipped by since you disappeared from the emperor’s life. the palace whispers of his unraveling, but no one dares to name the madness consuming him.

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. not proofread once again, but at least all 8k words are finally done. until the epilogue!

series masterlist | chapter 2/2

It has been two weeks since your disappearance. 

Nobody knows where you’ve gone to. Or why. 

Synchronously, the palace had fallen into a hush. The kind that stretched beyond walls and courtyards, embedding itself in the bones of the imperial court. Servants whispered behind their sleeves. Nobles watched the throne with cautious eyes. The emperor, Japan’s strongest man, was unraveling. And nobody knew why.

The stench of alcohol clung to Gojo Satoru. Expensive sake pooled in ceramic cups, the scent sharp and sickly, mixing with the musk of sweat and silk. The chamber was a mess, toppled dishes, shattered glass, the remnants of a feast he hadn’t touched. A single candle flickered on the lacquered table, its wax melting into a slow, steady pool. The shadows cast by the flame twisted along the walls, stretching long and jagged, like ghosts reaching for him.

Gojo slumped against his seat, his white hair, usually snowy white, now fell in wild, overgrown tufts, obscuring his vision in uneven strands. His ceremonial robes, woven in silk and embroidered with the insignia of the Gojo Clan, hung loose around his frame. His fingers twitched over the rim of an empty goblet, a silent tremor betraying the rage simmering beneath his skin.

His breath was slow, methodical. 

Himiko entered without announcement, the sound of her embroidered slippers tapping against the floor. Her robes shimmered under the candlelight, crimson and gold, a deliberate echo of the imperial crest. She was the picture of regality: poised, calculating, her scent perfumed with jasmine.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she observed, her voice smooth yet edged with unspoken frustration.

Gojo didn’t bother lifting his head. Instead, he chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. He tipped his goblet back, only to find it empty. A scowl twisted his lips as he tossed it aside. The metal clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against shattered glass.

“Would you like a prize for your deduction?” His voice was hoarse, his throat burned raw from drink.

She ignored his bitterness and stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lacquered table, grazing over his discarded robes. The action was slow, deliberate.

“Tell me, Satoru…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, as sharp as a blade. “Why do you waste yourself like this?”

His fingers curled into a fist.

Himiko’s eyes flickered, catching the movement. She stepped closer, her presence heavy in the candlelit chamber. “You were born to rule,” she continued, her words laced with honey and venom alike. “And yet, you let yourself fall into ruin over a woman who no longer wants you. A personal servant, much less.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“She has severed all ties with you,” Himiko pressed, her tone almost pitying. “After your stunt in the ceremonial hall she will never bat an eyelash at you again. And now, her clan whispers of rebellion in the capital. The elders demand retribution.”

Gojo’s breath was slow, methodical.

“The Gojo and Zenin clans must unite,” Himiko continued, watching him carefully. “For the first time in history, we will restore order. We will fulfill your destiny.”

She leaned in, her touch featherlight as her fingers trailed down his chest, the brush of her nails just barely felt through his robes.

“And,” she whispered, voice dipping lower, “you will have me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The candle’s flame flickered, the shadows shifting along the walls.

Gojo let out a slow, shaky breath. His head tilted back against the chair, his gaze hooded, unreadable. The weight of something unseen pressed against him, pushing him deeper into his own destruction.

Finally, he spoke.

“Fine.”

A victorious smile curled on Himiko’s lips.

But then, the doors burst open.

The impact sent a gust of air through the chamber, causing the candle to flicker wildly.

A new presence entered, stepping through the threshold like ink spilling across the pristine floors. Dark robes trailed behind him, blending into the shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes gleamed with something knowing.

“Your Majesty,” Geto drawled, his voice smooth, stepping forward. “You called.”

Gojo frowned, his gaze shifting. “Suguru.”

Geto gave a short, practiced bow, the movement fluid. 

The Emperor stares at him, “You are my most trusted ally.”

“A honor that I hold dear, yes.” Suguru’s head is still ducked, waiting for permission to be lifted.

A strange tension filled the air. The kind that was razor-thin, ready to snap.

Gojo’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, the sound slow, calculated. Then, his foot lifted, pressing beneath Suguru’s chin, forcing his head up until their gazes met.

A pair of icy cerulean orbs bore into plum ones.

“You would never do anything to betray my trust, no?”

The room turned frigid.

Suguru’s entire body tensed, though his face remained still. The weight of those words pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The deadly tone, Gojo’s battle tone, was one Suguru had only ever heard on the battlefield, when his friend was overtaken with bloodlust.

He felt his blood go cold.

“No, of course not.” His head remained low, eyes staring at the spilled wine pooling along the floor, the blood-red liquid almost taunting him. A warning.

“Then tell me that the rumors are false, dear friend.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered.

Gojo pressed harder with his foot. “Tell me that you did not let my [Name] leave.” His voice trembled, cold and sharp. “Tell me that you did not send her a carriage.”

Silence.

“Tell me that you did not leave her in the hands of another man after I had worked so hard to bring her back.”

Suguru said nothing.

And that was the confirmation Gojo needed.

His hands clenched. His chest heaved.

And then,

“I TRUSTED YOU!”

The chamber shook as Gojo kicked Suguru back, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Artifacts shattered, glass shards scattering across the floor.

Himiko shrieked at the violent display.

Suguru groaned, coughing as the pain tore through his ribs. He barely flinched at the glass buried in his side. Instead, he tilted his head, wiping the blood from his lip.

“She made her choice.” His voice was eerily calm.

Gojo froze.

His breath hitched, stomach twisting

“You don’t know that.” His voice was hoarse, cracking beneath the weight of his own grief. The emperor grabbed a dagger, well hidden in his garments and held it in Suguru’s direction.

Himiko scoffed.

“Why does it matter?” she demanded, stepping between them, fury flashing in her gaze. “She is nothing now! She abandoned you. She left you for another man–”

“Shut your mouth,” Gojo snapped.

Himiko stiffened, stunned by the venom in his voice.

“You chose me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You made your decision.”

“Because I had no choice!” His roar was thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the palace. His breath was ragged, vision tunneled. “But if I did,” He swallowed hard, the taste of regret thick in his throat.

His voice wavered, quieter now.

“If I did… it would have never been you.”

Silence.

Suguru exhaled, tilting his head. “I told you,” he murmured, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. “You should have let her go when she asked.”

But Gojo Satoru, Emperor of Japan, the strongest man alive, had never known how to let go.

“If you want to live, you will follow my next command carefully.”

The village was quiet in the way only forgotten places could be, tucked away between rolling green fields and a quiet forest.

Unlike the grand palaces and bustling cities, this place moved at its own pace, undisturbed by the heavy weight of politics and war. Here, the air smelled of damn earth and fresh rice paddies, of firewood burning in stone hearths, of crisp morning dew that clung to thatched roofs, mingling with the distant sound of laughter from children playing. The dirt paths were lined with modest homes, their roofs sagging under years of wear. 

It had been two weeks since your disappearance. Two weeks of living as someone else.

Gone were the weight of expectations heavy upon your shoulders. Your hands, once unblemished and soft, now bored faint callouses from work you were never meant to do. And you didn’t mind.

“[Name].”

A familiar voice, steady and unmistakable cut through the quiet morning. You turned, catching sight of Nanami standing near the well, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A basket of vegetables hung from his grasp, the crisp greens contrasting against his neutral-toned kimono. His expression, as always, was measured.

A quiet sigh left your lips, “You’re back early.”

Nanami stepped forward, his glaze flickering down to your hands, observing the red marks on your palms from the rough mortar and pestle. He frowned.

“You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’ll only injure yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced. But instead of arguing, Nanami placed the basket down and gestured for you to follow him back towards the small house you shared. The villagers were already accustomed to seeing the two of you together, and while they didn’t openly question your presence, there was an unspoken distance between you and them.

As you walked beside him, you caught glimpses of their gazes, wary, guarded.

You  adjusted the strap of your bag, “They won’t even look at me in the eye,” you muttered as the other villagers brushed past you without a second thought. “Why?”

Nanami didn’t look at you immediately, instead adjusting his grip on the basket. “They don’t know who you are.”

“That’s exactly why they don’t trust me.” You exhaled sharply. “I don’t blame them.”

A pause.

Then, Nanami glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s not just that.”

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

His steps slowed as the two of you reached the wooden house, a modest structure, small but well-kept. He set the basket down on the porch, and after a beat of silence, he gestured to you.

“Look at yourself.”

You frowned but obeyed, glancing down at your clothes. “And what of it?” You eyes trail down to the garments. The robes you worn, though simple, were still of a higher quality than the villagers. The stitching, the cut, the deep indigo dye that refused to fade even after days of wear. The silk made you stick out like a sore thumb, but surely it was not envy that caused the entire village avoid you like the plague. These fabrics were a gift from your former mentor Yaga, after all. You couldn’t simply dispose of them.

“The embroidery on your robes, the color… no one other than those of the Imperial Royal Family may be adorned in it.” He exhaled, voice lowering. “It all says one thing: you belong to the emperor.”

A chill ran down your spine.

You swallowed.

Nanami studied your reaction before exhaling, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It was always him,” he murmured.

You looked up. “What?”

“He never let you out of his grasp.” His voice was quiet but weighted. “Even now, when you’re here… Gojo still lingers.”

The name alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your robes, suddenly feeling suffocated by it. You had spent so long trying to distance yourself from him, from the golden cage he had kept you in. And yet, here you were.

Still marked by him.

“Well then I need to get myself new clothes,” your hands fidgeting with the rich fibers of your clothing.

“No need,” Nanami pauses his ministrations to look at you. “I’ve already talked to the local seamstress and requested a much more appropriate wardrobe for you.”

For the first time in weeks, you feel a smile form on your face, “Just what would I do without you, Nanami?”

“I wonder the same thing,” he mutters, but you can hear the jest in his voice. He turns away to hide the small smile on his lips.

“Oh, you!” You point straight at the curve of his lips, disregarding the dirt on your hands. He tries to wave them away. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you are an eunuch you would make a damn good husband.”

“That’s… highly inappropriate for you to say,” a flush of pink makes its way to his face.

“Loosen up,” you shrug. “We’re not in the palace anymore.”

“There could be listening ears.”

“Here?” You scoff. “No way. They’ll never find us.”

A gust of wind passed through, rustling the trees. The scent of rain hung in the air, thick and heavy.

You followed him onto the porch, sinking down onto the wooden steps. A comfortable silence stretched between you both.

Nanami turned his head slightly. “Did you ever love him?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. But the answer…

Your hands tightened in your lap. Your chest ached.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”

Nanami hummed, as if he already knew.

You bit your lip, gaze distant. “And that’s what makes it so hard.”

Nanami nodded, his usual sharp demeanor softening. “Love is never simple.”

You turned your head, looking at him with something close to curiosity. “Have you ever been in love, Nanami?”

For the first time that morning, you saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in something resembling amusement.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raised a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

Nanami exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. “An unfortunate attachment.”

That made you laugh, genuinely. The sound was warm, familiar, a reminder of a life before everything unraveled.

The tension in your chest eased, just slightly.

The wind blew again, carrying with it the distant laughter of children, the sound of a woman calling her husband home, the rustling of bamboo trees swaying in the breeze.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this could last.

That this small, quiet life could be yours.

The village was peaceful that evening.

The last remnants of sunlight bled into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep amber and violet. The rice paddies stretched far into the distance, their golden stalks swaying gently with the breeze. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs of houses, the scent of simmering miso and fresh grain filling the air. Children ran through the dirt paths, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes, their innocence untouched by the quiet storm that lurked on the horizon.

You stood at the entrance of your small home, eyes trained on the fading sun. A cool wind brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. Something about the stillness of the evening set you on edge, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Behind you, Nanami finished setting the table, his movements practiced and efficient. “Come inside,” he called, his voice steady as ever. “It’s getting cold.”

You hesitated, something in your gut twisting.

You had felt this before. A warning. A shift.

Slowly, you stepped inside, closing the wooden door behind you. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows against the walls. Nanami had prepared a modest meal, steamed rice, pickled vegetables, miso soup with tofu. You sat across from him, but the unease in your chest remained.

Nanami noticed. He always did.

His gaze flickered up, studying your expression. “You’re unsettled.”

You exhaled, pressing your palms against the warm ceramic of your bowl, seeking comfort in its heat. “It’s… too quiet.”

“The village is always quiet at this hour,” he pointed out.

You shook your head. “Not like this.”

A pause. Then, Nanami set down his chopsticks. “You sense something.”

You swallowed. “Don’t you?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden table in thought. Finally, he spoke.

“There have been whispers.”

Your breath hitched. “What kind of whispers?”

He looked at you then, and something in his gaze was heavier than before.

“The kind that don’t reach villages like this unless they are meant to be heard.”

The food in your mouth suddenly tasted like dust.

Nanami continued, voice even but firm. “Travelers passing through have spoken of movement in the capital. The Zenin and Gojo clans are consolidating their forces after rumors of resistance in this region.”

Your stomach twisted.

The Gojo and Zenin clans consolidating must only mean one thing. 

Your fists clenched beneath the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? He married Himiko—and now they’re coming for us, calling it treason.” No matter how powerful Suguru was, you knew his silver tongue and lofty rank could only shield you for so long.

Nanami studied you for a moment. “There’s no confirmation.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t need confirmation.”

Because of course it would be him.

Who else could unite the two most powerful clans in Japan? Who else had the power to move an entire army without resistance? Who else had enough obsession to still chase you after all this time?

Nanami sighed, his expression unreadable. “If it is him… then this village may not be safe much longer.”

The air around you grew suffocating.

He was coming.

The weight of that realization settled deep into your bones, into the very marrow of your being. The small, fleeting life you had begun to carve out here, the quiet mornings, the warmth of the village, the laughter of children, the routine of simple tasks. It was all temporary.

Because Gojo Satoru was coming.

And he would burn the world to the ground to take you back. Out of cruelty. 

You pushed your bowl aside, suddenly losing your appetite. “We should leave.”

Nanami’s gaze darkened. “Not yet.”

Your brows furrowed. “Nanami–”

“If we leave now, we confirm the suspicions of anyone watching,” he said, voice low, calculated. “We need to be smart. We need time.”

You hated that he was right.

Silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

Then, Nanami did something unexpected.

He reached across the table, placing a hand over yours.

The touch was brief, steady, grounding. “We will figure this out.”

You stared at him, at the sharp angles of his face, at the unwavering certainty in his gaze. And for the first time since the unease settled into your chest, you believed him.

But still, deep in the back of your mind, you knew this was only the calm before the storm.

The night, you dreamt of him. 

Not the kind of fleeting, disjointed dream that dissolves like mist upon waking, but the kind that wraps around your very soul, warm and golden, refusing to let go. It was the kind of dream that felt real, so heartbreakingly vivid that, for a moment, you were no longer lying in a modest village home with the scent of burning wood creeping in from the outside world, no longer burdened by the weight of the choices you had made. You were home.

Not the home you had made for yourself in exile, but the home of your past, a home gilded with silken screens and quiet whispers, with polished floors that gleamed beneath lantern light, and with delicate tapestries woven with the history of an empire you had once believed could be yours. The place where you had once walked with the quiet assurance of someone who belonged, where your voice had been heard, where your name had been spoken with reverence rather than secrecy.

It was spring. The season of renewal, of beginnings, of hope.

You found yourself beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the air thick with the heady perfume of blooming wisteria and the faint, refreshing scent of the nearby stream that wound through the imperial gardens. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their pale petals drifting lazily through the air like whispered promises, catching in your hair and dusting the ground in a carpet of soft pink. The wind carried the sound of distant laughter, the gentle rustling of leaves.

And above you–

Satoru.

His silhouette was bathed in the afternoon light, the golden hues catching in his white hair, making him look almost otherworldly. He leaned over you, one arm braced against the soft grass, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, the other resting lightly beside your shoulder. His robes, though still of the finest silk, were simple today, stripped of the heavy embroidery and rigid embellishments that marked him as the heir to the most powerful clan in the land. The imperial crest was absent from his attire, and for once, he was just Satoru.

And his eyes.

Brilliant, piercing cerulean, sharp and knowing yet warm in a way that only he could be. You had spent so much of your life searching for the ocean’s reflection in them, for the endless sky in the depths of that unrelenting blue, and now, after all this time, they looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re staring,” he mused, his voice smooth as silk, his amusement evident in the lazy drawl of his words.

You huffed softly, turning onto your side, the grass cool beneath your palms. “I’m admiring,” you corrected, your tone just as light.

Satoru chuckled, his laughter as rich and effortless as it had always been, a sound that made the world feel lighter, that made you feel lighter. “Is there a difference?” he asked, feigning innocence, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him.

You sighed, exasperated but fond. “One makes you sound less arrogant.”

He grinned at that, finally shifting to lie beside you, stretching out as if the entire world belonged to him. And in a way, it did.

But in this moment, he belonged to you.

“Pft,” he blows a raspberry into the air. “Let me bask in it, will you? You never give me this kind of attention.”

The wind stirred the branches above, sending another cascade of petals drifting down around you, a few landing in the silver strands of his hair. Without thinking, you reached out, brushing them away, your fingertips barely skimming the silk of his robes as you did. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that same unwavering gaze, as if he were committing you to memory, as if he were terrified you might disappear before his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though he, too, did not want to shatter the fragile peace between you, “I wish we could stay like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Because so did you.

More than anything, you wished for a world in which this moment, this feeling, this love could exist without consequence.

But you were not foolish. You had always known the truth.

This was never a love that could be without suffering. You were only a concubine, after all. A spoil of war. Not fit to be made an empress. 

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. “We can’t,” you said, though you hated the way the words tasted on your tongue.

Satoru turned his head to face you more fully, his expression unreadable at first, before something flickered across his features, something softer, something pleading.

“Who says?” he asked, and his tone was so quiet, so unlike the brash, overconfident man you had known, that it made your heart ache. “Tell me who says we can’t, and I’ll destroy them.”

You laughed then, a small, sad sound, because you knew he meant it.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand coming to rest just beside your wrist, close enough that you could feel his warmth but far enough that he wasn’t touching you. “What’s stopping us? The court? The elders? The weight of the empire? Let them have it all. I don’t need any of it.”

You turned to look at him fully now, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his face, the way he looked at you as if you were his entire world.

And maybe, once upon a time, you had been.

But the world did not belong to you and Satoru alone.

You reached out, letting your fingers trail lightly over his knuckles before pulling away. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, though a part of you desperately wanted to believe that he did.

Satoru’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab your hand and never let go. “I do.”

And maybe, for that moment, he truly believed it.

But deep down, you both knew better.

The empire would never let him go.

Just as it would never let you be his.

The breeze picked up again, scattering more petals through the air, the scent of cherry blossoms thick and sweet, overwhelming. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, forever. You wanted to pretend that this could last, that you could stay in his arms and never worry about what came next.

But the moment began to waver, the edges of the dream blurring, the sunlight dimming.

And then, suddenly, the gardens were gone.

The warmth, the laughter, the scent of cherry blossoms… all of it melted away into smoke.

Your dream had shifted to another scene.

It was of the familiar scene of the bustling city just outside of the Outer Palace. The capital city had always been lively, but today it seemed to hum with an extra spark. The streets bustled with merchants peddling fragrant spices and embroidered silks, laughter echoed from the open-air teahouses, and the golden rooftops of the imperial palace gleamed under the afternoon sun like something out of a story.

You had just returned from your weekly errand, fetching a fresh batch of pastries from the emperor’s favorite bakery. The baker’s son had been in high spirits as usual, teasing you for being the only person in the city who could make the imperial kitchens jealous with how often you snuck in outside food.

But it wasn’t just the pastries you carried today.

A tiny, delicate flower rested in the palm of your hand, given to you by a child, a sweet little girl who had tugged on your sleeve just as you were leaving the marketplace.

"For you, miss!" she had chirped, eyes bright with admiration.

You had accepted it with a beaming smile, ruffling her hair before she scurried back to her group of friends, giggling and chattering about how pretty the imperial concubine was.

The city loved you.

Perhaps it was because you were one of them, despite the palace silks and the golden embroidery of the Gojo clan stitched into your robes, you had never let your status turn you into something untouchable.

So there you were, practically glowing, a flower twirling between your fingers as you strolled through the palace gardens, utterly unaware that your mere existence was about to ruin the emperor’s evening.

Because at that very moment, Satoru Gojo was staring at you with the expression of a man moments away from declaring war. He had been waiting at the gates of his own palace unceremoniously, counting down the seconds until you made it back, only for his bright spirits to be crushed.

By a flower.

A single, wretched flower.

In your hand.

And you were smiling.

Satoru didn’t even realize he had stopped in his tracks. His mind, sharp and dangerously quick, was already cycling through the list of punishments he could bestow upon the unfortunate soul who had given it to you.

Banishment? Too lenient. Public humiliation? Getting warmer. Immediate execution? …No, too messy. Forced labor in the outer provinces? Perfect.

His hands flexed at his sides. His jaw ticked. His vision tunneled.

He was going to make an example out of whoever had dared…

And then, you turned, your eyes meeting his.

And you smiled even brighter.

"Your Majesty!" you called, voice light with amusement, as if he weren’t currently five seconds away from storming the dungeons and demanding names.

You all but skipped toward him, the flower still twirling between your fingers, completely unaware of the absolute existential crisis you had just caused.

Gojo’s icy blue gaze flickered between your face and the flower, as if trying to determine which offended him more.

"What," he began, his tone deceptively casual, "is that?"

You blinked. "A flower?"

His eye twitched.

"I can see that," he muttered, before stepping closer—close enough that the sheer heat of his presence sent a shiver down your spine. "I meant, who gave it to you?"

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Why do you assume someone gave it to me? Maybe I plucked it from the fields myself."

Satoru let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Ha." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Try again, sweetheart."

Your lips twitched, but before you could answer, a voice piped up–

"It was me!"

Both of you turned to find a child, the same little girl from earlier, standing at the edge of the gates of the Outer Palace, her face alight with pride.

"I gave her the flower!" she repeated, puffing out her chest. "Because she’s the prettiest lady in the whole city!"

Silence. A long, long silence.

Gojo stared. You suppressed laughter.

His entire body visibly relaxed.

The tension in his jaw disappeared, the storm in his eyes cleared, and for a single, fleeting moment, the Emperor of Japan looked genuinely speechless.

And then, he scoffed.

"Well, I suppose I can’t punish a child," he muttered, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh. "What a shame."

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head as you knelt beside the girl. "Thank you, little one," you whispered, tucking the flower into your sleeve.

The girl giggled before scurrying away, leaving just the two of you standing in the palace once more.

Satoru watched you carefully, his arms still crossed, his signature smirk just barely returning to his lips.

"You looked like you were five seconds away from passing a death sentence," you teased, eyeing him with amusement.

His expression didn’t waver.

"Oh, I was."

You rolled your eyes. "And what would you have done if it wasn’t a child?"

Gojo hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "Well…" His smirk sharpened. "Let’s just say the baker’s son would have found himself mysteriously exiled to the coldest province in the empire."

You froze.

Your stomach dropped.

Because oh– oh no.

He knew.

Satoru watched, relishing in the way your posture stiffened, the way your gaze flickered just slightly, as if calculating whether it was worth denying it.

"Your Majesty, I–"

"You what?" He raised a brow, leaning in once more, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet.

"You think I wouldn’t hear about the little romance rumors floating around the palace?" He chuckled, voice laced with something possessive, something undeniably jealous. "You think I wouldn’t know about the way the baker’s son looks at you?"

You swallowed. "It’s just gossip."

"Is it?"

Gojo’s voice was far too amused, far too smug, because he already knew the answer.

And then, just because he could, he lowered his voice even further, leaning in until his lips were barely a breath away from your ear.

"Promise me you won’t leave me."

Your heart stopped.

You turned to him, but the moment you did, he pulled back, flashing you a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

"Don’t look so surprised," he mused, turning on his heel and walking away, hands tucked into his sleeves.

Then, over his shoulder.

"After all, I won’t let anyone take you away."

And then you’re awaken.

Your chest heaved, your skin damp with sweat, your heart pounding so violently against your ribs that for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

The room was dark. Cold.

How cruel your mind was to remind you of such warm times.

The early morning light filtered through the wooden shutters, casting long golden streaks across the small room. Outside, the village was already stirring with women gathering water from the well, the rhythmic pounding of rice in wooden mortars, the occasional laugh of a child running past. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling.

Inside, you sat on the floor, weaving together dried reeds into a basket, fingers moving deftly despite the lingering morning chill. Across from you, Nanami was sharpening a knife, the slow, deliberate drag of steel against stone filling the quiet space between you.

It was a comfortable silence, one that had settled between you both over the past two weeks, a rhythm that neither of you spoke of, yet understood nonetheless.

“You’re getting better at that,” Nanami remarked, not looking up from his work.

You snorted softly, twisting another reed into place. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

You tossed a loose strand of reed at him. He caught it midair without even glancing, setting it aside with a faint huff of amusement.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, observing you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

You blinked, realizing you had been staring. “Nothing.”

His brow arched slightly, but he let it go, returning to his blade. The light glinted off the edge, sharp and lethal. You watched the way his hands moved steady.

Something in your chest tightened.

“You don’t think this is going to last, do you?” you asked suddenly.

Nanami paused.

The scrape of the whetstone against steel stopped, leaving only the distant sounds of the village outside. Slowly, he set the blade down, his gaze meeting yours, level and unreadable.

“…No.”

A lump formed in your throat. You nodded, looking away. “Neither do I.”

Silence.

Then, a sound.

Distant, almost imperceptible. A strange sort of rumbling.

Your fingers stopped weaving.

Nanami was already rising to his feet, his entire body going rigid. His hand went to the knife on the table. His sharp gaze flickered toward the window, toward the thin slit between the shutters. His breath was slow, measured, but you could feel the shift in his presence, the quiet kind of alertness that came before a storm.

And then a scream erupted.

Distant. But close enough.

Your blood ran cold.

Nanami moved.

He crossed the room in two strides, yanking the shutters open. And what you saw fire.

Distant but spreading.

Smoke rising in thick columns from the edge of the village, black against the early morning sky. The distinct sound of hooves against dirt, of metal clashing, of doors being kicked in. Then, through the haze of rising flames, you saw banners. Not just any banners.

Gojo’s crest.

Your breath hitched.

Nanami didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the back entrance. “We need to move.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, feet stumbling as you let him drag you forward. This was happening.

He had found you.

Gojo had found you.

Days before the raid, the palace pulsed with restless energy. Servants flitted through the corridors, their hurried steps echoing against the lacquered floors as they fastened armor, sharpened blades, and prepared provisions. The campaign was supposed to be routine, a small raid to quell rumors of insurrection in a remote village. Yet, the Emperor himself was leading the charge.

No one questioned it aloud. But the whispers wove through the palace like smoke.

In his private chambers, Gojo stood at the window, watching the courtyard below as soldiers mounted their horses, their banners snapping in the cold wind. His reflection stared back at him in the glass. His grip tightened behind his back.

"You’re awfully tense for such a minor skirmish," Himiko mused, lounging on the divan behind him. The golden silk of her robes pooled around her like a shimmering snare. She lifted a cup to her lips, watching him over the rim, her gaze sharp. "One might think there’s more at stake here than a simple village purge."

Gojo didn’t turn.

"One might."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Himiko hummed, setting her cup down with a delicate clink. "You’ve always been so stubborn. So unwilling to accept the order of things." She rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. "It’s a shame, really. You could’ve been content. You could’ve let go."

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. A touch meant to soothe. To remind.

His hand snapped up, catching her wrist before she could go any further.

Himiko stilled, lips parting in the slightest gasp. Not from pain, he wasn’t squeezing hard enough for that. But his grip was firm, unyielding. The weight of it said more than any words could.

A muscle flickered in Gojo’s jaw. "Do you think this is forever?" His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made the candlelight tremble.

Himiko’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shifted. "I think," she murmured, tilting her head, "that you’re still bound by the same chains as always. No matter how strong you are, some things can’t be undone."

Gojo released her. The moment stretched, brittle as ice. Then he turned, striding toward the door, his long robes whispering against the floor.

Outside, his men were waiting. His horse was waiting.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, the one thing he had ever truly wanted was waiting.

He had wasted enough time.

The streets were already chaos. Villagers running, shrieking, clutching their children as armed soldiers stormed through the narrow paths. Houses were being torn apart, doors broken down. Soldiers clad in imperial armor barked orders, swords flashing as they cut down those who resisted.

Your breath came short, panic clawing at your throat.

Nanami’s grip on your wrist was firm. “Stay close.”

You barely nodded, your body moving on instinct as he guided you through the chaos. You ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing yourself against the wood as two soldiers passed by. Nanami’s body shielded yours, his presence grounding you even as your hands trembled.

A sharp whistle.

Nanami cursed, shoving you aside just as an arrow embedded itself into the wood where your head had been a moment ago.

You gasped.

Another whistle.

Nanami moved. He spun, his knife flashing, a throw, a sickening thud, a body crumpling.

Blood.

It hit the dirt in a slow, steady stream.

You stared.

Nanami grabbed your face, forcing your gaze back to him. “Focus.”

Your lips parted, breath shuddering. But you nodded.

He pulled you forward, weaving through the panicked masses. The exit. You needed to get to the forest to escape before it was too late.

A tall figure clad in white and blue, standing at the center of the destruction, untouched by the chaos.

Gojo Satoru.

Your feet froze.

His eyes locked onto yours instantly. Even from across the village square, even through the haze of smoke and bodies, you could feel the weight of his gaze. The way his body shifted the moment he saw you.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Nanami saw him at the same time. His entire body went rigid.

Gojo took a slow step forward. His imperial robes billowed slightly with the movement, the embroidery glinting under the firelight, his armor forged from precious metals glistened in the sunlight. His sword hung at his hip, untouched, as if he hadn’t even needed to lift it.

Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened.

Gojo’s expression darkened. His gaze flickered between the two of you visibly irked by the domestic dynamic that had recently developed.

His lips parted, his voice cutting through the carnage like a blade. “Found you.”

Your stomach twisted.

Nanami moved.

But Gojo was faster.

Before either of you could react, a blur of motion, a gust of force, unstoppable. Nanami was on the ground. The blond man coughed out blood.

Your scream barely had time to leave your throat before Gojo was in front of you, too close, too fast. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. Unyielding.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the distant wails of the ravaged village melding into the wind. Your hands trembled as you clenched them at your sides, willing yourself to remain still. The weight of the past, of every wound he had inflicted upon you, settled deep in your bones.

“Running from me again?” His voice was a whisper of thunder, low and dangerous. “I thought we were past that.”

You had been running for so long, but had you ever truly escaped him? Every step you took away from him, every sleepless night, every whispered prayer for his absence, and yet here he was, a specter that refused to fade.

Your heart leapt to your throat as his fingers clamped around your wrist, tightening as you attempted to yank yourself free. His other hand rose, tracing the curve of your cheek with deceptive gentleness, the callouses rough against your skin.

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t come for you?”

Your breath came shallow. “Gojo–”

His fingers curled against your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his unrelenting grip told a different story. He had always been relentless, hadn’t he? No matter how much you tried to pull away, he found his way back, like a tide that refused to recede.

“Nanami,” he said coldly. “Do your job. Lead the men back.”

A moment of hesitation, a flicker of something like pity in Nanami’s eyes before he turned away. You were glad he did. Gojo had spared him enough not to strike him down on the spot. 

Soon, only the two of you remained, locked in a battle more ferocious than the ones fought with swords.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own. Your attempts to struggle were fruitless; his body caged you, muscles honed by years of war making it impossible to flee. The warmth of him, the sheer familiarity of his presence, made something inside you ache against your will.

“Why do you run?” His voice was softer now, coaxing.

Your lips curled in a bitter smile. “Are you nothing more than a brute?”

His grip faltered, a shadow of hurt flashing in his eyes. But you didn’t care. His pain was nothing compared to the agony he had inflicted upon you.

“You claim to care for me,” you spat, voice shaking with fury, “yet you cast me aside like a discarded pawn. You chose another, again and again, and then have the audacity to crawl back to me.”

Your voice cracked, but your anger did not waver.

“You humiliated me. You shattered my world and toyed with my heart like it was nothing more than a trinket. I hate you, Gojo Satoru. I hate you so much it consumes me.”

The tears spilled unchecked, your body trembling as the dam within you finally broke. You were certain you looked wretched, but dignity was a luxury you had long since abandoned.

His silence was unbearable. The weight of his guilt pressed between you, thick and suffocating, but you refused to let it soften you.

“You have hurt me beyond repair,” you whispered. “I always knew our love would bring pain, but I never thought it would be at your hands.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his large hands wiping away each tear as they fell.

“You lied to me,” you murmured, fists weakly beating against his chest. He lets you.

“I did.”

“You banished me.”

“I did.”

“You told me you loved me.”

His grip tightened. “I do.”

Your breath hitched. “I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insisted, though the conviction was waning. Did you? Did you truly?

His lips brushed against your temple, his hands cradling your face with unbearable tenderness, “Don’t you know that you’re killing me? That your words pierce me like no other blade?”

You exhaled shakily. “Then why aren’t you dead yet?”

A broken sound left his throat as he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were melded together, until his warmth became a prison of its own.

“Take it back,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

But you said nothing, staring past him to the charred ruins beyond. Nanami had rallied the men, but the damage had already been done. And so had the damage to your heart. 

“Your army is leaving,” you said numbly. “Why don’t you go join them, General?”

His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. And yet, as much as you wanted it to, the sight did not disgust you. Instead, a sick sense of satisfaction curled within you at his suffering.

“Not until you come back,” he declared. "Until you let me explain myself."

You laughed, sharp and humorless. It did not deter him.

He continues his plea, “You can humiliate me in the palace. You can strip me of every last shred of dignity. Do whatever you wish."

He pauses.

"Just come back.”

You tried to put distance between you, but his hold remained firm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Your voice wavered. “I am not yours anymore. I haven’t been yours since you chose her. Since you cast me aside for the sake of your kingdom.”

By now, Satoru’s trembling lips had given way to the relentless shaking of his entire body, “I never touched her. My hand was forced. Nothing happened.” Somewhere amid your onslaught, Satoru had forgotten how to breathe. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of words he couldn’t take back. His fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled, knuckles drained of color. He was unraveling right in front of you.

“Everyone around me speaks of my destiny, as if it were carved into the heavens themselves. They whisper that I was born to rule Japan, to claim a throne, to take a noble wife like Himiko and secure a legacy of power.” Satoru’s voice trembles, raw and desperate, as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply like he’s trying to commit you to memory. His hands clutch you tighter, as if you might slip through his fingers at any moment.

“But none of that means a damn thing to me. My destiny isn’t a kingdom—it’s you. It always has been. My place is by your side, not on a throne. I would spend a thousand lifetimes serving you, worshiping you, loving you. We were made for each other, meant to grow old together, to laugh and fight and dream until the very end. To pass down our love, our story—not to this damn empire, but to our grandchildren.”

His breath is shaky against your skin, his grip unrelenting. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking, “don’t take that from me.”

You wanted to. Wanted to reach for him, to piece him back together, but the raw ache in your chest held you still.

How many times have you stood here, waiting for him to say something, anything, that would make the hurt go away? How many times have you let yourself believe that his silence wasn’t a choice?

You swallowed hard, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

His head jerked up, eyes wide, pleading.

“You don’t get to shake and break down and expect me to forget everything,” you continued, voice cracking. “You left me. You let me believe I didn’t matter.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, like the words had physically struck him. “I never–”

“Don’t.” You shook your head, stepping back when he tried to move closer. “Just don’t.”

The silence between them was thick, heavy with unsaid things. Satoru’s breaths came fast and shallow, his entire body vibrating with something between anguish and regret.

Still, you held on to the hurt. Let it press against your ribs, let it remind you that you weren’t just here to be broken all over again. You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. But damn it, you wanted to.

“If it will ease your doubts, I’ll have her head in glass by morning.”

You shuddered. “I don’t want her dead.”

“Then she lives to see another day.”

“And the Zenins?” Your teeth clenched, voice shaking with restrained fury. “I tried to warn you about them, tried to protect you, but you chose to humiliate me instead.”

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, deliberate and lingering, as if etching you into his memory. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now, edged with regret. “It was a foolish attempt to keep you safe from those damn elders. I may be the ceremonial head of this country, but their power is undeniable. Your banishment was my own foolish doing to protect you after my mistress was forced upon me. I knew I was lost when I couldn’t breathe without your presence in the palace. The days blurred together, and my duties felt like nothing but a slow death. So, I tried to bring you back as my servant. It was safer that way. You were close, within reach, but still out of grasp. At least you were there. But then... I ruined it all. ”

You hadn’t tried to bite his finger off yet. He took it as an unspoken truce, leaning in, his presence overwhelming, his warmth sinking into your skin. “Not that it matters though. I'm going to kill those geezers and have their heads strung in front of the palace.” A flicker of a smirk ghosted his lips, but his eyes held something far more dangerous.

“I may be a fool,” he admitted, his breath brushing against you, “but I am not weak. So don’t waste a single thought on them.” His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward his. “No one, not them, not fate itself, will take you from me.”

A cruel part of you savored the power you held over him. But you wanted him to suffer longer before you gave the satisfaction of knowing that your heart had softened. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

His hands trembled. “We have a lifetime for that.”

"How arrogant of you to assume I’d ever choose to spend a lifetime with you." Your voice was quiet, but the weight of your words struck like a blade.

You shouldn't feel as satisfied as you did when you watched Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive crumpled. His breath hitched, his knees buckling beneath him as if the sheer force of your rejection had stolen the ground from under him.

Still, he reached for you. Desperation bled into his touch, fingers digging into your sleeves as though letting go would mean losing you forever. His voice, usually laced with arrogance and ease, was stripped raw.

“Then I don’t see a point in living.”

The weight of his confession clung to the air, thick and suffocating, and yet he only looked at you, as if the universe itself had been reduced to the space between his hands and your skin.

“And what of your crown?” you finally whispered.

His laugh was hollow, almost broken. “I’d throw it away if it meant keeping you. If it meant you will let me be yours.”

Then, as if surrendering himself entirely, both knees met the dirt. His hands, once accustomed to wielding absolute power, clung to your waist, not as an emperor, not as the strongest, but as a man begging to be allowed to stay.

His eyes burned into yours, pleading, unraveling.

And for the first time, you let him hold you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

A shuddering breath left his lips against your skin, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he feared you might slip away the moment he let go. His grip tightened, not in possession, but in reverence.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, of earth, of something on the verge of breaking.

"I expect you to kneel at my feet and beg for years to come." You murmured, fingers brushing against the strands of his silver hair. A handful of hair is gripped tightly, fingers digging in with purpose. "Perhaps then, I might even consider you once more."

His throat bobbed. "If that is what it takes."

This was not just an apology, nor was it a confession. It was surrender in the purest sense. The weight of his kingdom, his sins, his power. All of it, cast aside for you. It was the justice you deserved after all the pain you endured.

reblogs and comments are appreciated mwah!

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[bakerstreetdetective]

//Kinda surprised Holmes open….who ready for Traum 2: ELECTRIC Bugallo?

[op1umeyes]

Hi! Firstly, I wanted to say that I adore your imagines! Secondly , I was hoping you’d agree to write an imagine based on s3 e7. Specifically the end of it when he’s sitting on his couch rubbing his fingers the baby touched. Maybe that makes him realize he wants a baby of his own with you? Thanks in advance!!!🩵

what i want ✩ gregory house

🫀- synopsis. Greg knows what he wants, but he needs to know that you want the same thing.

🫀 - warnings. I got a little carried away… SLIGHT impregnation kink. OOC House but i dont care. i hope you enjoyed this, anon!! 🤍

Greg’s mind had been bizarrely silent.

Instead of the regular influx of thoughts that flooded his brain, Greg just heard his heartbeat and his breathing. Well, the T.V. too, but the point is that something was off.

The face of House’s watch read fifteen minutes before eleven o’clock at night, and Greg hadn’t thought if a single thing since the surgery.

The case was an unusual one- as always- consisting of a pregnant photographer who had a stroke. After fainting, House and the team had deducted that the baby (House consistently reffered to it as ‘the fetus’) was killing the mother. Eventually, her organs started to shut down so a surgery was needed to fix the baby to fix Emma.

During the surgery, the unborn child had reached out and clasped it’s tiny hand around Greg’s pointer finger. The baby’s arm wasn’t even the length of Greg’s finger, House noticed. Truly, Greg hadn’t realized how long he had been staring at the baby’s fingers until Cuddy had called his name twice.

Now House thought of that moment in the operating room. He pressed his thumb down lightly to match the amount of pressure Greg felt when the baby held onto him.

Kids were a nuisance. A waste of money, the reason why so many people had heart attacks, and disrespectful. But… they were also cute sometimes and, apparently, wanted nothing more than to make their mommy and daddy proud of them. Well, that’s what Wilson had said when Greg had asked why people wanted kids so badly.

Greg didn’t know if you wanted kids.

You were great with them at any age- infant, toddler, and even those devilish pre-teens. In fact, you seemed to glow whenever someone trusted you to hold their baby. You made sure to look up and find Greg: watching you like he always does. He can’t help but feel a wry smile pull at his lips when he pictures you, your own finger being clutched by your own baby.

Greg was torn; he didn’t know what he wanted.

“I think I’m going to blow up,” you sang as you closed the door behind you. Greg stays still, thumb still pressing on his pointer finger.

You toe off your shoes and start to unbuckle your jeans as you head for your shared room. Greg doesn’t look up when you eventually traipse back out wearing Greg’s sweatpants and and old shirt Greg didn’t know he had. You navigate yourself under his arms and carefully over his leg to lay carefully on him. Greg feels the slow puff of your breath on his neck as you exhale. “Did you eat already, love?”

Greg lets out his own sigh and he let’s his hands rest on your back. “No. Expired lasagna didn’t really sound too appealing to my refined taste,” he replies.

“What’s wrong?” You ask looking up at him.

Greg blinks at you. As he slowly meets your eyes, he starts to feel you hand gently raking his hair back and running your thumb over his prickly facial hair. Just like you always do.

And then it comes to him.

“Do you… want kids?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “I… don’t think so. I don’t- well, you don’t want kids, do you?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Greg chided, squeezing your ass. “Do you want kids?”

It takes you a ling moment to answer. So long, in fact, that Greg thinks you may have fallen asleep with your eyes open. “Probably not. I don’t think you want kids so I haven’t really thought about it. Why?”

Greg keeps going. “Would you want kids? With me?”

You lay your head back down on his chest. “Yeah. If you wanted them too.”

House doesn’t really know how to proceed with the conversation, so he lets you play with his fingers as you watch the baseball game Greg put on. “I want one.”

Your movements stop. Yet again, you peer up at Greg. This time with unhealthily furrowed eyebrows. One of your hands comes up to check your boyfriend’s temperature. “Are you okay? Do I need to call Wilson?”

Greg looks pained as his hands slide up your body to rest at your face. His thumbs rest on your cheekbones. “I want a baby with you, y/n,” he tells you, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips. “I want- I want your womb to swell with our kid. I want a little extension of you to put up with when you’re working late. I want you to marry me and I want you to be the mother of my child.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s- wow.”

“Wow,” Greg repeats with an unsure smile.

“I’m not going to lie,” you say, cracking a smile. “I’m pretty turned on right now. I’m just really surprised that you have baby fever.”

Greg groans. “Tell me what you want, woman! I just rather uncharacteristically spilled my guts and you say ‘wow’!”

You snicker and support Greg’s neck with your hand as you lean up to kiss him. As expected, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and reciprocates your passion tenfold.

“We could practice the baby-making for the honeymoon,” you whisper after pulling away from his lips.

Greg’s eyes flutter closed and you chuckle. “I would say ‘race you to the bedroom’, but I think you’re going to beat me anyway,” he rasps. You exhale a laugh through your nose as you start to press kisses from his lips hown to his neck. “Let’s go to the bedroom, yeah?” Greg asks, humping you pathetically as you kiss him.

“Fuck yeah,” you respond lowly, a dangerous smile in your face.

[wyyvoren]

omegaverse au where everyone immediately knows SQQ is different because his scent is suddenly much lighter than its ever been. no one ever realized how unhappy and stressed the peak lord smelled until all of the sudden it became neutral or even at times.. HAPPY? because SY took over. SY ofc doesn’t notice this, and SQH holds it over his head eventually, like bro you were NOT slick.

maybe like half of why everyone was so mean to SJ was because his panic pheromones put them on edge but it was so constant they didn’t realize he was in fight or flight lol. SJ definitely had some kind of pheromone disorder after all the trauma he went through, maybe unable to control them very well. once SY took over, he was never able to hide how excited he was at seeing binghe or some cool monsters or whatever. He would get OOC point deductions out of nowhere and wouldn’t understand why!

[infin1ty-garden]

── .✦ 𝔪𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ৎ˚ summary ‣ soulmate au! a misunderstanding leads to you rejecting brant

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ৎ˚ pairing ‣ brant x fem! reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ৎ˚ warnings ‣ none

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ৎ˚ word count ‣ 665

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ৎ˚ author's note ‣ maybe a bit ooc as I have not yet played brant's story

masterlist!

Your soulmate's name only appears on your skin after your 18th birthday. You have known your soulmate's name for a while. The word 'Tern' is written on your chest, right over your heart. You have yet to meet someone with that name. Brant has been even more present in your life since his 18th birthday. You've asked him to reveal the name written on his skin but he declined. Saying, "If you didn't want to show me yours, I won't show you mine."

That's how it went. You were left wondering who Brant's soulmate was. He didn't seem to be preoccupied finding them which shocked you. Everybody around you was anxious to meet theirs. Why was Brant so nonchalant? He was spending more and more time with you when he should be looking for his soulmate. Just as you are. Today for example he could be out in town meeting new people one of which could be his soulmate, instead he asked you to hang out.

"I like being with you that's why?" He had picked out a nice restaurant for your night out. It was more like a date. You didn't mind going out on a date with him. It just kind of felt pointless. Brant was a nice guy but you knew he'd be happier with his soulmate. Tons of people date before meeting the one, some only meet them later in life. You never choose when or how it happens. For you it still felt weird.

Brant couldn't be happier if that wasn't already obvious by the smile never leaving his face. He had planned the perfect date from the moment your name appeared on his chest. This was it, the day he had been waiting for. He tried to look his best and he even wrote a whole speech. You didn't seem too thrilled to be there, that made him more nervous. Had he misread the name? No, there's no way that happened.

The dinner went by smoothly or so Brant thought. As he was getting ready to spill his feelings you interrupted him. "Brant, you're a great guy but I don't think this will work out. We should just stay friends." You quickly left paying for your part of the meal. Brant was stunned, his soulmate rejected him. Was he that unloveable, that his soulmate didn't love him. The one person meant to love him no matter what just left him.

What is he to do? He didn't do anything. He knows it's petty to avoid you like he has been. It just hurts too much. He doesn't think he could stay friends. Roccia noticed how the Captain of the Fools Troup had been quite mopy recently, deciding to ask him what happened. The captain wouldn't reveal any details. Based on deduction it had something to do with his date. She went to you in order to find out what happened.

You told her everything that went down during the date. "Why did you reject him? Aren't you soulmates?" You looked at her weirdly. "What? No, the name written on me is 'Tern' and not Brant." Roccia just stared at you before continuing. "Tern was Brant's name before he changed it." You froze that explains all these feelings you've been having for him. You thought they were irrational as he wasn't your soulmate. Now you know the truth. He is and you messed up big time.

"I need to see him." Roccia quickly led you to him. "I said no visitors," his back was turned to the door. "I came to say I'm sorry," he stood up heading for the door. "I don't want to see you right now."

"I was an idiot for ignoring what my heart was telling me, all because of a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?"

"Tern is the name written on my skin." Brant started laughing. Holding his stomach and doubling over. "I'm so relieved. I was worried my soulmate didn't love me."

"I do. I always will."

Thanks for reading!

[patheticpeoplesupreme]

Au where SQH messes up a little too much during their head disciple days and System punishes him not with death, but by ripping him of his personality and memories, leaving him a husk of his former self. For years, the mountain has tried to fix him but to no avail, Mobei—Jun kidnapped him and forced his underlings to fix SQH but

Nothing worked. Eventually, An Ding Peak worked without a Peak Lord, and they all mourned for SQH’s technical death/disappearance.

When SY appeared as a disciple of SQQ and helped to fix his relationships with everyone, aka SQQ and LQG become bffs, YQY reconciles with SQQ

And SQQ started to treat LBH better, he still calls him little beast though, but anyway,

Despite that, the cliff scene still happens because the system wants tragedy, and now SY stresses out alone for the next few years, vaguely remembering the plant body

The plot still continues, meanwhile while they’re both dead for a while, when the peak lords found out SQH’s body was in Mobei—Jun’s palace, they tried for years to get both SQH’s and SQQ’s body

And more of the plot happens

And eventually, SY and LBH get together and there’s a happy ending for them, until SY remembers that he’s never once seen the An Ding peak lord,

He’d felt unnerved when MBJ was the one who invaded instead of the rhino, but he didn’t have time to question it

He asks YQY about which leads him to asking LBH to asking MBJ if he would let SY to talk to SQH’s body. MBJ only lets him go inside because LBH mentioned how knowledgeable SY was about various things.

MBJ protectively stays in the room, LBH stays to protect SY

—

“Shang Qinghua?” He says aloud, staring at the traitor spy cautiously. He didn’t really understand why MBJ was protective of the man, though he supposed it’s because SQH couldn’t have betrayed him in this timeline if he was just a husk.

Still, he wondered, what changed? Why had SQH lost his soul? Was it like… Him? Was the system preparing for another transmigrator? But YQY said that he’d been in a sort f a coma for years! Why would the system wait this long?

Suddenly, the system beeped

[Would User 02 like to free User 01 from his punishment?]

!!!

User 01?? What!? System!??? You can’t use spring that up on him without context??!?

[Would User 02 like context?]

YES PLEASE??

[User 01 transmigrated here as a baby! Unfortunately, User 01 lost too many points! Too much OOC! So the System has inflicted punishment on User 01!]

This is… so severe! Shen Yuan frowned and kneeled down to his level. His heart churned for the former user, he didn’t think there could have been such a severe punishment.

“Who was he…?” He murmured, not noticing that the two demons in the room was heard. MBJ restrained himself from responding, it hurt to remember the small little human that vowed to follow him for all his like.

[User 01’s USER ID is Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky!]

“…”

“You..” MBJ gritted out after a long silence of SY staring at the body, it was getting irritating. It also unnerved him. He wasn’t doing anything, but he seemed to reach a level of understanding that no one else could.

Still, LBH gave him a look, even if he was also doubting SY’s actions a little, “Have patience.”

This time, SY took care to say it in his head.

‘Can’t you free him from his punishment?? It’s been years! The plot is practically over now! Just—! He doesn’t deserve this suffering!’

[The System thought User 02 hated User 01 for writing Proud Immortal Demon Way OwO]

‘That doesn’t mean I want him to live as a husk of his former self! He had a life! The peak lords never described him as a bad person! What would it take for you to give his life back!?]

[Hm…]

What do you mean HMM?!?!?

[Analysing.]

[Analysing.]

[Analysing.]

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Due to User 02 managing to complete the plot, the System will reward User 02 by freeing User 01 for free! No points will be deducted! The data of User 01 ; Shang Qinghua will be transferred slowly!]

Shen Yuan only sighed in relief and stepped back when he spotted Airplane’s soul flowing back into his body.

He didn’t wake immediately, it’s been far too long for that, but he saw two light streams of tears running down his cheeks, barely breathing as his body worked up to becoming functional.

Mobei Jun gasped and rushed to his side, his cold hands freezing the tears, but he never stopped holding SQH’s body closely.

[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!”

[igotusernamecrisis]

my favourite thing about 'Dracula' is how Mina Harker is the cleverest strongest icon out there: girly can write shorthand, learn train timetables by heart, keep a diary daily (my procrastinating arse could never), retype and organise a ton of written information AND a literal audio diary in like a day (????), and deduct the randomest niche stuff like it's nothing?? QUEEN behaviour period. Which is why, while I definitely love the cinematography and the cast in the 1992 film adaptation, the plot absolutely pissed me off. Of course the og misogyny in the novel was very unnerving and impossible to ignore (for me personally) but I bet even Mr Stoker himself would have had a stroke if he'd seen the way they reduced Mina's character to a mindless girl obsessing over the count. Tbh some ooc fanfiction I've read had more 'in character' figures than whatever the hell happened to Mina. Which is fine as an artistic interpretation of the og material I guess but explicitly calling the film 'Bram Stoker's Dracula'-- the audacity lol. The vibes were on point though very reminiscent of the book

[cumplane-forever]

okay i just deleted a multiple paragraph post detailing this premise but-

what if aeroplane decided to create a romance otome game but kind of like doki doki literature club? except that idea gets scrapped in the first week after he writes out what yue qingyuan's and shen jiu's routes might look like.

yue qingyuan's is honestly fucking pathetic, like the entire time his affection points CANNOT go up and he would only take the player as a replacement .. for somebody . . .

and shen jiu's route? acceptable, actually- except that aeroplane knows that even the most casual pidw enjoyer will come up in arms if he ever releases such a thing! no way ever!

so in the final game 10 peak lords out of 12 are romanceable along with the most popular wives.

anyways someone does some hackery and flippery on the game, basically trying to figure out it's weird point system(not the one where you get points deducted for acting 'inconsistent'or ooc which is honestly bad writing but the one where different scenes and dialouges glitch and can appear at the same time if you pick choices too fast) and finds. . .yue qingyuan's route?

pidw forums explode. a lot of readers who wanted to romance yue qingyuan bought the game and opened his route . . which was dramatically starightforward and really disappointing, because he IGNORES YOU?? for someone named Xiao Jiu. WTF?

so then someone else fucks around and finds out Shen qingqiu's route. which has two branches- cold and warm(basically how much can you change him)

like aeroplane predicted, pidw fans are really feeling terrible about this- but since the same glitch system bought them a yue qingyuan route the internet decides to collectively ignore it. then-

@ peerlesscucumber tweeted:

AEROPLANE YOU FUCKING HACK WHY IS SHEN QINGQIU'S PERSONAL NAME JIU. LIKE XIAO JIU. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU PLAYING AT??!

@ aeroplaneshootingtowardsthesky replied:

it means you romanced xiao jiu for 15 dollars cucumber-bro. thanks for the support! 人´∀｀)

@ peerless cucumber replied:

[REDACTED but let it be known that even aeroplanes dubiously negligent bloodline did not go unscathed]

haha can you tell i just finished reading a yqy focused fic. can you. anyways it was forgiveness is beyond our reach and does not fit the vibe of this post at all (it's angst) but anyways ty for reading this. Th games in my brain now btw

[moldychefboyardeecan]

"Stop Saving Me, Just Love Me."

(side note: I think this banner is perfect for this series.)

Chapter 2

tag list: @one-sunny , please dont hesitate to ask for tags!

thank you @hannahbarberra162 for beta-ing, commenting and suggesting edits

a/n: I think her thing is going to be hands and necks. It’ll make sense guys please. uhh- i think im finding my "format" per se

cw : vomit, hangovers, smut, beginning of mania, sanji might be ooc?

wc: 1.4k

previous chapter (1) | next chapter (3)

To be fair, you did forget the night. Mostly? Thankfully?. You groan and wake up easily. No you didn’t, that was a fucking lie. Your head was pounding, the room spinning. Everything felt tight, your body as if it was being compressed. Holy shit, you’ve never felt this bad before. Maybe you had. Probably. You lay your head down onto your pillow. You’ll just grab onto the other one..the other pillow, where the fuc- You found it. But on someone’s head. You live alone. 

Halfway into your sleep-dazed shock, you try to process the information given your circumstances.

Now wait a damn minute..this isn’t even my bedroom. You lift your hands away from the mystery head and just rub your eyes. You must be hallucinating. You have to. You have to be! If you stay still, it’ll go away. It’ll go away, eventually. Oh, but the sun feels too bright, too real.  “Fuuuck” you groan. To your surprise, you hear shuffling from the other pillow. You weren’t hallucinating. Just what the hell did you get up to last night? Your fifth ignored call from your publisher. “Romance sells,” he’d said. “Give us something real.”

Right—the fucking bar. Then… what’s-his-face. Your thoughts stuttered. There was someone else—his hands, calloused, smelling of bourbon and cigarettes. This was no time to over think. You’re just going to get up, and you’ll wake up. Deep breaths, deep breaths. In, out. In, out. You could smell far more right now than you wanted to - some scents were unfamiliar but coming through was the same smells of cigarettes from the night before. Cigarettes. 

Any movement sent waves of nausea rolling through you—your head throbbed in time with your pulse, your core ached with the kind of soreness that screamed enthusiastic mistakes.

You glanced down.

Where the fuck—

Your clothes were gone. Just the lace of your bra digging angry red lines into your skin. The bedsheets—too crisp, too clean—itched against your thighs. Everything was too much: the stale taste of liquor, the sweat-slick press of your own palms against your face, the way your exhales bounced back hot and claustrophobic against your cupped hands.

A rustle of fabric behind you.

The mattress dipped.

“Bonjour, chérie.” You looked back and saw who was smiling at you, his cock hanging in the air.

It was at that moment you realized you were going to be sick. 

It all made sense now. He was the missing piece, and he fit the whole puzzle. And with your deduction, he fit into you too. 

Last night flooded back into your mind, your face frozen to him like a deer in headlights.

Your laugh. Your hands,his calloused hands tracing the rim of his bourbon glass. Two taps. Pause, no that’s wrong. It has to be prime numbers!. Three taps. A rhythm that matched the restless drum of your fingers on the sticky countertop.

Your laugh—too loud, too sharp. "Fuuuuuck mojitos," you’d slurred, slamming back his bourbon like a shot. The burn had been glorious,phenomenal. Four glasses in, and the world had finally softened at the edges.

He’d watched you over his third drink, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "You drink like you’re trying to drown something, mademoiselle."

You’d leaned in, close enough to taste the tobacco on his breath. "Maybe I am."

And then—Hands. 

His hands, rough and sure, sliding up your thighs. Your own fingers fumbling with his cufflinks. You jumped to him. You were tired of the games. The way he’d muttered "Doucement" against your neck when you got impatient—

The memory seared through you, white-hot and humiliating.

God. You really were going to be sick.

 They were calloused, but they felt so smooth against your collarbone. He worshiped you with just one hand on your body, while the second one was curled inside you, hitting you in ways never felt possible. His thumb circled your clit oh so heavenly. His lips tasted like money, good liquor and cigarettes. His cock felt amazing in your hands, and when he went in you, mumbling beautiful nothings while you sped up and let your libido take the lead. You came with a shout, but it wasn’t enough—you needed his hands, his mouth, the entire city at your feet. This is what he wanted. This is what your publisher needs! Yes, yes!

The night was a strobe light—flashes of his mouth, your nails in his back, a laugh that might’ve been yours or a stranger’s.

The heat you felt. His face. You held on to him and grabbed his neck like a damn cowboy riding his horse. You didn’t ride him—you claimed him. His gasp was your trophy. “Come for me cowboy.. come in me.” 

You slurred and slipped between breaths. His body was shuddering and his cock twitching in your walls. 

He took your hair and neck in return, never parting from your gaze. Christ, you begged for him. How fucking pathetic. You fell on to him, panting. 

Before that..before all that, you couldn’t even stand up. He was holding your waist out of the bar, trying to get you a taxi.

"Mademoiselle," Sanji exhaled a plume of smoke."That taxi isn't calling itself."

You waved a hand, the motion sending the room tilting. "I can walk! Very... sturdy. Like trees. With words."

He let you go and you fell onto him. You grabbed him, a mess already, and kissed him, grinding against his length in front of the bar parking lot. Right. He took you to his place. 

He rode you. He took you in, and every inch of him never went to waste. He let you use him. He made sure you were prayed to last night. Every thrust was a victory, every gasp proof you were divine.

Shit. Shit!

“y/n..?” somewhere faded in the background. “Hello..?” “Chérie, you’re with us”? The voice got louder and louder, till you met the face saying it. The present came flooding back, your eyes still pierced onto him. He was squatting down in front of you, where you still sat on the edge of his bed. It wasn’t a dream. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! The room still spins like a top, but you can tell he has underwear on now. He 's still there. He looks concerned. He— has.. your vomit all over him.

“Mon dieu. You really are a handful, huh?” He smiled, taking a drag of his cigarette, seemingly superglued to his hand. “I’ll make us some coffee.” You nodded. What could you say at the moment? Something to lighten the mood.

“Th-thanks. For last night. The..drinks. Thanks.”

His attitude was intoxicating. He got up and headed to the bathroom. “Allow me to clean myself first.”

“Uh..yeah- sounds great.” What the fuck where you saying?! ‘Sounds great??

you moron!  You try to get up before he tuts you.

“Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that just yet. I’ll bring you a fresh change from my closet. Lay down, allow Sanji to care for you.”

That was his name! You knew you were whimpering a name last night. Sounds about right. You flushed. “Alright then, Casanova,” ou replied with what little dignity you had left.

It didn’t take long for everything to come back to you again, harder like a truck. Shameful. Slut. You put yourself on him. You did that to him. You vomited. You spent his money. You fucked him. 

You put your hands onto your head, letting your fingers tap on your forehead. tap-tap-tap. 3. Odd. Maybe the fling wasn’t a bad idea. tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. 5. Prime. My publisher said he wanted more romance in my book. tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. 8. Fibonacci. I’ll write this. This’ll save my manuscript. This’ll save my career. This. this. THIS. tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-ta- Someone cut you off.

“Brought this for you.” He was wrapped into a towel, clean from your vomit. He handed you a white button down, a pair of jeans,and a belt. “The bathroom is on your right once you leave the bedroom.”

You got up, stumbling on the first three steps. On the right.. In the bathroom, you decide to take a look at what you became. Instead, the paintings elegantly hung on his bathroom would distort into darkness, and words hanging over you, like a tightening noose. Slut. Whore. Failure. Alchie. Maniac. Crazy. Crazy. The word slithered in. You laughed—crazy like a fox, crazy like a wildfire. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. 

You’ll write him a fucking masterpiece.

It felt like a nightmare. But oh fuck, you felt so alive.

[inkformyblood]

dare you to try (SVSSS)

Pre-relationship BingQiu / LuoShen

Shen Yuan had never thought much about the mechanics of rhythm games before now. Sure, he’s played a few and knows the common broad strokes between them. The release event for ‘Super Extreme Dance Moves with Miku(™)’ wasn’t something he would have allowed himself to miss, the weird twinge between his knuckles and the bruised fingertips aside. The headache lasted a few days, and the backache almost disappeared by the time his commemorative figure arrived.

He hums the opening notes to himself, tapping his fingers against the strings of the qinqin he holds. A finger pressed here, pluck like that, no, like this. 

It isn’t quite right, like he’s trying to boil water in a thunderstorm with heavy gloves on. His body knows the correct motions but his thoughts catch on them, searching for any hidden secrets. There’s a scar on this body’s, no, on his hip, twisted and knotted like he’d ripped himself away from whatever caused the injury and Shen Yuan doesn’t know how it got there. 

“You won’t tell me, will you?” he snaps towards the glowing blue box hovering off to one side. “No unlockable backstory when I reach a certain level, no collectables so I can get some lore?”

The System bounces once, twice, before it circles into a buffering circle. Shen Yuan hums another note, his lip beginning to curl and oh, he hadn’t fully appreciated his older brothers’ complaints about their board meetings and the endless waste of time as older systems and colleagues alike fumbled through their thoughts. This is agony of an entirely fresh kind that he cannot escape from. 

✧˖°No✧˖° User knowledge is sufficient. Reminder, OOC lock is still in place until story mission completion. 

“I remember.” Shen Yuan sighs, rounding his shoulders away from his perfect posture that his body holds with a death grip. “You’ve only reminded me morning, noon, and night since I woke up here.”

Reminder, OOC lock—

“—will remain in place until this promised story mission. I know.” Shen Yuan abandons the rest of his tightly held caution and throws himself backwards onto the bed. The qinqin comes with him, cradled to his chest like an infant, a few notes humming out as he strums his fingers across them. There’s something hollow about it, butter scraped over too much bread, a spoonful of broth to flavour too many noodles, a missing richness to it. 

Someone knocks on his door. Light, delicate, undeniably terrified but doing it anyway. “Shizun?”

Shen Yuan sits up, his heartbeat too loud for his chest. His shoulders snap back into place, his back straight, and he settles his hands over the strings once more. “What?” Shen Qingqiu snaps, his gaze locked onto the System box, daring it to even try to deduct his points. 

He’s going to change his fate in this story. He has to. And if he has to dance around this OOC lock, then so be it. 

Luo Binghe nudges the door to the Bamboo House open, his hands full with a tray, balancing a selection of small dishes. Shen Yuan’s stomach twists. Yet more hollowness to carve through his bones from the inside out. It should be packed with flavour, the meat tender, the desserts sweet and velvet with indulgence, but it’s just fine. 

Bland.

“Begging Shizun’s pardon.” Luo Binghe speaks to the floor between them, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping the tray aloft. His previous bruises were healing well enough, pale yellow at the corner of his mouth, peeking out the edge of his collar. “This student was instructed by his shixiong to bring this tray to Shizun.”

Ming Fan’s doing, sending his shidi to his more-recovered Shizun’s doorstep so the world will right itself in his eyes. 

“Set it down there.” Shen Qingqiu doesn’t look at Luo Binghe, and continues running his fingers over the strings. A bead of sweat runs down his scalp, his focus locked on the boy’s movements. 

The dishes rattle as Luo Binghe does as instructed, his gaze downcast as he attends to his work. In the past, a staggering few days ago, everything about this situation would play out differently, a slap, a harsh insult meant to tear out any self-esteem by the roots, and Shen Yuan is constrained by that framework still.

Fuck it. He’s not that hungry.

“Wait.”

Luo Binghe freezes, a bowl clutched between his fingers. It’s meat with sauce, the thin ribbons of cream just catching the low light spilling through the windows, and Shen Qingqiu holds out his hand for it. Luo Binghe’s face falls, cold dread condensing over fragile hope, but he moves forward, bowing as he places the bowl in Shen Qingqiu’s outstretched hand.

Laying the qinqin across his lap, Shen Qingqiu brings the bowl to his lips. The sauce barely touches his tongue before he recoils, only mostly for show. It is crafted to be a perfect mouthful for his convalescence, what should be velvety sauce and tender meat is bland to the point of boredom. 

“Disgusting.” Shen Yuan doesn’t look away from the System as he shoves the bowl back into Luo Binghe’s hands. It isn’t as hard as Shen Qingqiu would—pointless to inflict injuries that have no purpose, he argues at the box preempting a warning beep—but the child still staggers, shit.

Shen Yuan can’t reach for him, so he forces his fingers down to the strings, plucks a few more notes. “Take it away. This master doesn’t wish for it to remain in his presence.”

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe looks down at the bowl, his fingers pressing against the slight smudge where Shen Qingqiu’s mouth had been.

Shen Qinqiu plucks a note sharply and Luo Binghe flinches as effectively as if he’d slapped him.

“This student will take the food away, Shizun.”

It would be amusing to a scum villain to imagine Luo Binghe picking through his leftovers, Shen Yuan argues. 

He’s argued tougher opponents into submission through a comment thread, fucking come at me, bro. 

[bitemevanitas]

Hello, there! If the request is open I would like to request you some imagines about Vanitas x masculine-dressed f!reader.

So, the f!reader wasn't really a completely normal woman. She was someone who liked to wear masculine/male clothing for the majority of the time—outdoors and indoors for entertainment by fooling others into believing she was a man when actuality she wasn't.

She was a fellow human, by the way.

PS: I really like your writing and I hope to see more.

Hi, and thank you for your request!

Honestly, I liked the idea a lot, and I went to start writing the moment I saw it (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

About some things I wrote I was honestly not exactly sure, but I hope you like what I came up with! <3

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ❦︎

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing: Vanitas x Masculine!Female!Reader

TW: possibly ooc Vanitas, NOT beta read (might be edited later), grammatical errors as english is not my first language

Themes: Romantic/Implied Romantic, Platonic

• their first meeting is entirely accidental, likely in Paris

• Vanitas mistakes her for another man at first glance

• reader, fully committed to her masculine appearance, plays along when Vanitas assumes she was male

• if the encounter happens at a café or maybe a social gathering, she might lean into the illusion more

• e.g. by speaking in a lower tone or adapting traditionally "masculine" mannerisms

• Vanitas thinks she is an unusually competent and sharp-witted human—someone he could both mock and banter with

• her ability to blend into male-dominated spaces without hesitation intrigues him

• though in the beginning he assumes she is simply a man with refined taste and confidence

• Noé, despite not necessarily being the more perceptive one, might sense something "different" but wouldn’t immediately figure it out

• Vanitas, being as arrogant as ever, likely tries roping her into his schemes

• he would assume she is just another human who could be useful to him

• he finds her slightly amusing, especially since she doesn’t react to his flirtatious behavior the way many others would

• the ultimate reveal would be a mix of accident and deduction

• perhaps he notices something off about her voice, or she slips up when speaking

• A confrontation where he backs her into a corner, thinking she is hiding something more sinister, only to discover her actual identity

• Noé would probably be the one to blurt out, “Wait—! You’re a woman?!” in shock

• at first, Vanitas would be surprised—but that shock would quickly turn into amusement

• his immediate reaction would be teasing

“Well, I must admit, you had me fooled. Are you sure you’re not actually a vampire with how well you hide your secrets?”

• Noé, meanwhile, would feel guilty for never realizing, but he would respect her choice to dress as she does

• Vanitas would probe her for answers

• why does she dress this way?

• is it a disguise?

• simply a preference?

• does she find it entertaining?

• he wouldn’t be upset; if anything, he’d find her more fascinating than before

• given that the story takes place in the 19th-century, most people likely assume she is either a particularly handsome young man or a strange, eccentric individual

• those who know her identity might whisper about her behind closed doors

• however, her confidence and self-assuredness prevent people from confronting her outright

• aristocrats and nobles likely raise eyebrows at her fashion, but she carries herself well enough that no one dares say anything directly

• ordinary citizens might think of her as a traveling scholar, a wayward noble, or even a rogue from the underbelly of Paris

• does Vanitas care about her choice of clothing?

• nah, not at all

• clothes are just clothes, and he’s the last person to care about societal norms

• in fact, he might find it rather attractive

• especially so, if she wears well-tailored suits that accentuate her figure despite the masculine design

• he may even encourage her by offering accessories—because if she’s going to dress like a gentleman, she might as well look dashing

• if anything, he respects her ability to manipulate society’s perception for her own amusement and survival

• all in all, their relationship would be very banter-heavy

• Vanitas finds endless joy in teasing her about her disguise, while she counters with her own sharp wit

• he flirts often, but with an extra layer of intrigue now that he knows the truth

• if she lets her guard down around him, he’s one of the few people who sees her when she isn’t playing a role

• their relationship is based on mutual understanding, and there’s an unspoken respect between them

• they both know what it’s like to wear a mask in public, albeit in different ways

• if romance does bloom, it’s gradual

• it would be filled with stolen moments and quiet gestures rather than overt declarations

• Noé finds their dynamic amusing but occasionally scolds Vanitas for teasing her too much

• Dominique, upon finding out, would likely be very entertained and supportive of the dynamic

• Jeanne might not fully understand why reader dresses as a man, but she wouldn’t ever judge her for it

• if anyone dared to insult her appearance or choices, Vanitas would shut them down immediately

• only he is allowed to mess with her

BONUS

Moments That Define Their Connection

• late-night conversations

• maybe discussing philosophy, the nature of humanity, and their own pasts

• dancing (???)

• where Vanitas insists on leading (although we all know he has two left feet bffr man), only for her to take the lead instead

• a situation where she’s in genuine danger, and Vanitas momentarily drops his smug persona to ensure her safety

• her fixing his coat or tie absentmindedly while he watches her with an unreadable expression

My final thoughts

• Vanitas doesn’t love easily, but he does hold onto those he finds truly captivating

• which s definitely the case here

Paris, late evening. The candlelight flickered against the old, red-wallpapered walls of Hôtel Chouchou, casting long, dancing shadows.

Inside, the faintest scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the traces of cologne that clung to the dark green coat now draped over your shoulders.

The coat in question was a deep forest-green frock coat, meticulously tailored, but undeniably worn. It was heavy, designed for warmth, with a thick, quilted silk lining in a shade of deep bronze. The coat had belonged to Vanitas' father once. Nowadays, it was simply a forgotten piece of his past.

The lapels were wide and peaked, folded sharply over the chest, lending an air of authority and refinement. A row of finely cast brass buttons, each embossed with a delicate swirling motif, ran down the front, gleaming against the dark green fabric.

Intricate vine-like embroidery in muted gold thread winded subtly along the cuffs and lapel edges.

Expensive expert craftsmanship—ornamental, yet not really ostentatious.

You adjusted the high collar, turning in front of the full-length mirror, one hand smoothing down the fabric, the other striking a dramatic pose.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle,” you drawled in an almost uncanny imitation of Vanitas’ usual cadence. “I’m a terribly brilliant doctor, you see—charming, handsome, insufferable beyond measure.” You turned, flicking the coat tails behind yourself with unnecessary flair. “Ah, but don’t let that frighten you! It’s only natural to be so enamored with me.”

From his place sprawled on the bed, Vanitas arched an eyebrow, lazily twirling a silver coin between his fingers. “Flawless impression,” he mused, voice dead-pan. “Though I believe you’re missing the je ne sais quoi of my effortless charisma.”

You turned on your heel, hand over your heart as though wounded. “Effortless? No, if I recall correctly, it takes you a full ten minutes to style your hair into that ‘I just woke up like this’ mess.”

Vanitas sat up at that, tossing the coin aside. “Ten minutes well spent,” he countered.

His eyes flicked over you with deliberate slowness, assessing how the coat—his coat—sat on your frame. The fabric was a touch too large, sleeves brushing against your knuckles, but instead of looking ill-fitted, it suited you in a way he wasn’t quite prepared to acknowledge.

“..It looks good on you,” he admitted, expression unreadable.

“Oh?” You pivoted slightly, studying yourself in the mirror, adjusting the way the coat sat on your shoulders. “Better than on you?”

Vanitas was on his feet in an instant, closing the distance between the two of you in a few leisurely steps.

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

You didn’t move away. Instead, you tilted your chin up, an infuriating smirk mirroring his own signature one.

“What’s wrong? You’re not feeling threatened, are you?”

His hands ghosted over the lapels of the coat, toying with the buttons as if adjusting them. But there was an undeniable weight to his touch, something lingering in the way his fingers brushed against yours.

Vanitas chuckled, low and warm. “Hardly,” he murmured, fingers finally leaving the fabric. “It’s just that if you insist on borrowing my clothes, you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “And what exactly are—”

But you never got to finish the sentence.

In a single swift motion, Vanitas closed the distance between, hands gripping the edges of the coat as he pulled you forward. His lips crashed against yours, stealing whatever quip you had been about to throw his way.

It wasn’t a teasing brush of lips, nor a fleeting, uncertain thing—it was deep, insistent, full of the very arrogance he carried in every step he took.

For once, you found yourself caught off guard. The playful tension that had always danced between you too had finally snapped, tipping over into something more raw, more undeniable. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric, as if anchoring himself there.

The moment stretched, your initial surprise melting into something else entirely. You could still taste a hint of wine on his lips, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours as he pressed impossibly closer.

When he finally pulled away, his smirk had returned—but there was something else in his expression now, something darker, more intent. His thumb brushed absently over your jaw, as if savoring the moment.

You exhaled, lips still tingling from the force of the kiss, before a slow smile spread across your face.

“Well,” you murmured, regaining your composure. “Can’t say I wasn’t warned.”

Vanitas huffed a laugh, brushing his nose against yours, his grip on your waist lingering. “Oh, mon bijou,” he purred. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

The night, it seemed, was far from over.

.

.

.

[amutamika]

Everyone is like "Shen Yuan is so relatable", "He is seriously like us"... And like yes, a 100% yes... but no?

I would have be so unhinged. I would die because of the OOC deductions in the first 2 weeks.

If I were transmigrated into SVSSS you bet I'd be stalking Moshang, fucking standing in bushes of unknown origins and straight out stare at these two.

The point deductions wouldn't be able to kill me as fast as one of these two would because I'd be sus as fuck. If they don't get me than probably those damn bushes that are linked to some wife plot.

[yuzepi]

assorted Elias thoughts

- alternative fix it for tma is that lonelyeyes sex tape gets leaked and somehow this makes everything work out. even if it doesn’t fix anything it’s really funny to bully old men

- I think there should be a lot more drawbacks to him being an eyeball monster. give him sensory overload or something when he bodyhops bc it’s not used to the beholdings power. Or maybe just give him eyeballs at the palms of his hands. hitting him with the migraine beam

- he’s at menopause age

- he’s old enough to be my mother

- obviously I feel like if they had an office cat elias would be substantially more distracted. 1) becoming a cat person makes it your entire personality 2) it would just plop down on his schedules and start purring and there would literally be nothing he could do about it 3) all of his nice furniture and clothing stands no chance against the beast

- really funny to also think about if he just spies on people with an army of stray cats. or is so pretentious he owns like an owl or something.

- u take a pic of him or jon with flash on and you get highbeamed. notice how many of these revolve around cats

- this convo I had with nini ok I don’t really care if these end up being horrendously ooc im having fun

- poorly drawn phone doodle debating how to visually represent elias pov beholding deductive pseudomindreading powers. beyond just having him respond to thought bubbles although that’s good too

[11queensupreme11]

So all the Cú talk reminds of the fact of in ireland irish (Gaelige) is a mandatory subject. Like you there's no way of getting out of it UNLESS you have something like dyslexia, ADHD or something of the sorts

Just cos the language is super old (pretty sure it's one of the oldest actually but I'm not sure) and really difficult to learn , cos ot follows it's own rules

So I just had the mental image of Cú bullying Percy by speaking in irish and since she has both dyslexia and adhd, will absolutely not be able to make heads or tails of what is going on and has zero chance of understanding it

Also I noticed how you said Anubis hates the English and I honestly feel like Cú would too.

I'm not gonna get into Irish history, cos it's long but as an example of how badly we were treated. During the times were Africans were slaves IF they had Irish blood in them they were immediately cheaper or even free because they're seen as tainted with barbarian blood, cos we were also bot consider white too lol

But ye , considering the English made us speaking our native language, celebrating our culture and also lead to a MASSIVE population decrease (8m to 4m) I feel like he'd hate them. I'm saying this cos I can imagine them bonding over how to traumatise the Brits

ALSO I AM NOT ASKING YOU TO SUDDENLY HAVE CÚ SPEAKING IRISH TOO PERCY. like unless it's a nickname or something or maybe curses I feel like that's pointless and kinda ooc, so obviously I'm not telling you to make Cú's whole personality be irish lol

I just thought of it in irish class yesterday and thought it was funny

Anyway love ya x

THIS WHOLE THING JUST REMINDED ME OF MY ISSUES WITH CÚ CHULAINN'S AGE (tho either way, he'd still hate the english LMAO, but my question is whether he was actually alive to witness the shit england was putting ireland through)

the thing about the ulster cycle is that it's not very... cohesively written?? idk if that's the right word for it, but basically it's not written by the same author, but many authors over generations. so a lot of the dates and real-life historical events being talked about in there contradict each other

some sources deducted that he was born in 200 BCE, but king fachtna, cú chulainn's grandpa, dies in 94 BCE.

then another deduced that he was born between 13-28 BCE

then another at around 1 CE

etc. etc. 😅😅😅 however, most of the answers do seem to agree it was at least in first century BCE and not CE, which makes him 2000+ years old.

i think back then ireland and britain (not yet england at the time) interacted, but idk much about conflicts so that's why i was wondering if cú chulainn was around to personally witness/experience it before going to valhalla

but yeah, regardless, he'd absolutely HATE THEM. cuz even if there was nothing really going while he was alive, he definitely experienced some shit while he was traveling around valhalla's many irelands as the years went and learned what the english have been doing and how they continued to shit on the irish even after death 💀 probably killed many of them cuz they pissed him off so bad too 💀

ALSO I'M PLANNING ON HAVING HIM SPEAK IRISH TO PERCY, BUT LIKE... PET NAMES LOL. but actually very cute and loving ones solely because he knows she won't understand it, meanwhile he calls her insults in english 😂😂

cú chulainn speaking to percy in english: 👹🖕

cú chulainn speaking to percy in irish: 💖🫶

[zz0nie]

Genshin Hcs, Women EDITION.

Furina, Navia & Clorinde.

notes; im not the most familiar with the girls, ESPECIALLY clorinde, imo she's just not have enough screentime to deduct enough things out of her. :( Sorry if shes ooc

Furina

You definitely need to have high patience for Furina, as her outgoing performances of being Fontaine's Archon, she must act the part! Holding your hand - basically dragging you - across Fontaine. "Oh this would look AMAZING on you, simply amazing!" She would announce to the world as she is holding a piece of extravagant clothing against you. Maybe it was on purpose to let people know you were close, as it comes with a little matching trinket she also coincidentally owns. She wouldn't admit it to your face though.

Like previously; she would LOVE to take you places, whether it be sweet treat testing, clothes shopping or just being in awe at the scenery around you, for Furina would frequently be looking back to make sure you are enjoying yourself. If you point it out to her, she will - much to her dismay - refuse to admit she was looking at you and would in fact try change the subject to a cat she saw walking on the roof of a building behind you.

Would 100% LOVE to be fed cakes she enjoys, something humane and sweet while you are sat in her room together, as a recorder you were suggesting for Furina to listen to for a while runs quietly in the background. As much as she loves to be fed, she would tell you to open up and go "Ahh" as she gently places a small piece of a cake in your mouth.

She will talk a bunch on the return after watching a "performance", If you just admire her she will either become more flustered or will feel more entitled to keep on talking, you wouldn't mind either way. While she talks she uses her hands to communicate with gestures, as you sit across from her, head resting in your palm as you listen. Maybe take note on any if they have any romantic drama, she might be hinting at you that she wants something.

Will force you to come to meetings with her, and if it is with someone who makes her anxious, expect her to hold your hand and play with your fingers cautiously.

Has 0 shame in PDA, however, would prefer to keep it to a minimal of hand holding or hugs in public, she prefers to verbally tell the world you are hers and she is yours.

Navia

Many many Baking dates! If you can't bake, that's okay! Stir something for her! Or help her by cleaning something up. Just you being there makes her so happy you want to enjoy something she does.

Definitely goes and buys matching pendants for you, if you aren't that sort of person she will find an object that you can both hold dear to you. Such as matching teacups! She is a very flexible person when it comes to gifts. She loves buying you whatever she can, however she does prefer to stick to sweet goods.

Dancing in her kitchen together, or if you're alone any make-shift kitchen she creates in the moment. While waiting for the macarons to bake, you gently place your hand on her hip and lift her arm up, swaying slowly as she giggles and places her hands on you in return, gliding around as you twirl with her.

Loves it if you ask her for anything, any help, you two are there for each other so why not make use of it? She can become a very busy woman though, so don't go over boarding the requests!

She plays with her hair when she is nervous, just grabs a strand and twirls it in her fingers. If she doesn't want to be as obvious, the hem of her dressing will become her new best friend. Gently twisting the fabric on her hands, rubbing it together as unease sets over her. Hold her hand - give it a soft squeeze - let her know she is okay and you are there.

Clorinde

(once again, i apologise if this is ooc)

If anything does ever happen she's quick to find out and come to your aid, you are her priority. If you're clumsy she'll keep a box of aid on her at all times, due to this while you walk she will have an arm hovering around your side, as she isn't a fan of PDA herself, she will keep a distance between the two of you.

Practically acting as a bodyguard as most people assume when you are first spotted while walking together in the streets. No one will confront you or try straggle for higher prices around the two of you. It’s like walking a doberman, you have big scary dog privileges.

She will refuse to teach you her sword art. However, she will be 100% on teaching you how to defend yourself - if you don’t know how to - coming close and personal to you if you posture is off, standing right behind you as she helps you position yourself for defence or attack. She just wants to make sure you’re safe when she can’t be there to help you. Though, while you two are together, she's soft like putty, completely melts in your arms and just wants to relax. You are her safeguard at home when you are alone.

Clorinde is serious and always ready to take things head-on. This does not involve a private life full of fun and puns. She may be slow to catch onto sarcasm too, taking everything you say seriously - she wants the best for you - even if you made it rather obvious that you were joking. She, was not - which may have causes a couple small arguments or surprises.

She loves animals as much as she may not admit it. She’s probably had a few pets in her lifetime, so when she comes to you and you’re holding a stray kitten, she can’t say no to you when you both send pleading eyes her way. You didn’t think it would be that easy, but it was all worth it when you see the two of them on your sofa, sleeping together, Clorinde holding a protective hold against the kitten who’s snuggled into her neck as she’s on her side. Gently pulling a blanket and kissing her forehead gently you wish her a good sleep.

When Clorinde has to go for duty for longer than usual, you’ll see her gazing out into the window or door as she is in her office. She looks up expectantly as her door opens, however to her dismay it wasn’t you. Wow, how she missed you so much. When the person leaves her office she pulls out a picture you took of the two of you for her, with a small note on the back, “Miss you so much, remember to take care of yourself!” She looks, smiling at the picture before swiftly place bc it back in her pocket. Another person came in.